Monster [Jean K. x Reader]

Your body quaked in your bed. The Recon Corps proudly accepted you, but your mental state was fried. Every murder you'd seen, every broken bone that healed, what had it really been for? No one saw you like this because you didn't allow anyone to see you like this. There was a part of you on the inside that didn't die; it felt like it was still in Trost, it tore up every cell of your being upon encounter. Tonight it had finally reached your brain.

An inhuman growl escaped your lips as you remembered one of your fellow cadets had her head pulled straight from her body, like a top from a bottle. You remembered every cut, slice, and tear into the nape of so many necks. The pounds of your ever-faster beating heart echoed louder inside of your head. Screams emitted from everywhere around you. So many people were dying all around you. What did you do?

"That's a good question!" You scolded yourself out loud at the thought of your now most embarrassing moment in history. Because your whole squad was wiped out in the field, you took off. Sometimes you wished that you would have made it to the wall or got killed. Nothing, no one, was waiting for you anywhere. No one of those assholes expected you to come back. They left you without fuel, without blades, without hope.

For two days you stayed curled into the corner of a building, dry sobbing. They racked your body, pulling the life from you. Every second that passed took more of your conscience with it. Your eyes would immediately glaze over at the mere thought of those haunting times. You truly felt what loneliness was in the world. No one was there for you, not a single soul other than the titans. For you it felt like two years in complete solitude. Before the invasion, you might have welcomed it, but in your most desperate need of human involvement, not one was found. After those two long days, you were found by the clean-up crew.

You wouldn't have wished that situation upon anyone. Now you were reliving it though. The thoughts left you alone for a good while, had been repressed while you were involved into other activities. You didn't train well enough for the MP, and being in the Garrison wasn't an option for you. The only other choice left had been the Recon Corps. From the moment your hand hit your chest—swearing on paying the ultimate price for the human race to Erwin Smith—you hadn't felt the same as a few days before. Then you had been content and swore on being a lazy dolt for the Garrison, but now, after Trost things had changed.

The Corps were your only chance at redemption. You let everyone around you die, and then took off believing that a cowardly escape was better than a noble death. Maybe you wouldn't have lived if you helped them, but they might have. It wouldn't be you here dying in your own guilt. The lungs in your chest pressed desperately for air, but so many sobs were shaking your body, the air was coming to your lungs in small quantities.

Shivers ran throughout your skin constantly. Crunch, pop, crunch, smash, crunch. The repeating sounds of those few hours held strong as frail hands clenched at your bed sheet.

The soft pounding of feet stiffened your posture. Quick as lighting, you rolled onto your side. The only chance you had was pretending to be asleep, eyes closed tightly and murmuring a soft song to relax the shakes. They were almost so compulsive now that the bed moved with them.

A soft knock rattled the door. Somehow the door was already unlocked. The person sneaked in, careful not to wake you at first. You listened eagerly, hoping like hell that it wasn't Sasha who loved to jump on you while you were sleeping. The person seemed to have stopped moving and was watching your figure. Knowing that the shaking was still too frequent to surpass, you could only think that they would pass for rhythmic breathing. If anyone saw you looking like such a troll...

"I know you’re awake," a deep sound arose from the middle of the room, "I heard you moving around {Last}."

The voice sounded familiar, but you couldn't put a finger on who it was. Their footsteps indicated that they were advancing closer. "Pl-leas-se," you choked out, wanting the solitary room for yourself.

"It's not uncommon to hear cries come from rooms." Had you been crying aloud? "I don't know you well, but I knew that most, if not all, of your friends aren't around now."

Who was this asshole that was being so upfront? Every word he breathed out agitated you. The boy had sat on the end of your bed, where it sunk down by your feet. Silently you waited with your eyes shut tight. "Don't want to talk about it? Figures. At least you had some friends to lose, I only had one person. He's gone now. I know how it feels {Last}."

The sadness that clung to every word out of the boy’s mouth was heartbreaking. You could feel the sting, the heart ache. "Then again, I don't know why I even tried. It's just I wish someone would do it for me maybe. Heh to bad I'm an ass. Just, if you ever need anyone… I always need someone."

Those last words made you sit up, only to be face-to-face with Jean Kirschtein.

He gave a wispy smile. Where the white should have been in your eyes, red took its place. With bloodshot eyes and matted hair, you stared into the boy's eyes angrily. Your friends were all dead, but what gave him such right? The breath caught in your throat, preventing you from speaking.

"I knew you were awake," Jean whispered.

You pinched your face together into a furious glare. It just amused him. Jean mocked you, scrunching up his nose and puckering his lips. A hum of laughter resonated from his lungs at your disgust. "Don't feel too bad, most people don't have the same ideals as mine. I guess the truth is good for something after all." He held his posture, trying desperately to avoid grimacing at the remembrance of his buddy Marco.

The body-shaking sobs died down with the rising anger. Jean's eyebrow shot up questioningly. At first, your voice was barely a whisper, "Get out,"—but it got more dominate—"before I kill you. Because I should."

Jean licked his raw top lip where he had chewed the skin off not hours ago. So far in his time here, he hadn't met one person who could be more mentally screwed over than himself. You've just changed things. Your mood swings were more violent than his, you lost more people than him. You seemed like an utter wreck. It was odd to Jean, considering that he would have noticed if you caused a ruckus very often. Did you control it? Jean looked into your eyes with curiosity.

All he could see in them was the vast emptiness of your emotion and his reflection. Something about your anguish hurt him. Like Jean was experiencing the dead expression of Marco again. Your enraged features glared into the male with a particular fierceness.

With new compassion, Jean slowly moved his hand to your cheek. He felt like he was given a second chance, a chance to protect someone. Even if it was from themselves. He feared you would act with violence, but instead you accepted his touch, not quite welcoming it. He gave a shaky smile to that.

"What the hell are you doing, Kirschtein?" you questioned with uninterested eye contact.

Jean continued his feeble smiling and drummed his fingers lightly across your cheek bone. Your face twisted into confusion as Jean hummed out a content sound. "You aren't mad anymore. It might haunt you forever, but you don't have to let it." Jean continued the awkward touch.

"Jean," you grabbed his wrist, "get off of my bed. Get out off my room. Leave..." You just couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The last thing you wanted was to be alone.

The male sighed. He was going to protect you if it was the last thing he did. Maybe it was the emptiness in your eyes, but Jean saw something in you that reminded him of Marco. All he wanted to do was desperately try his best to help you in any way possible. With the failed effort of his last attempt, he pulled his hand forward, reluctantly pulling you forward as well. Before you could scurry back into your comfort zone, Jean forced you into a demanding hug. The embrace urged you to be soothed with the comfort of another person. Jean mumbled into your hair, "You have no idea how long I've wanted one of these."

His voice broke the simulation of comfort. You pushed at him with teary eyes. An unsteady voice cracked from your throat, "I don't even know you, dammit! You don't know me either! Quit acting, Jean! I don't want you here!"

Jean inhaled deeply with you struggling to get him away. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he can't do it. He let his hold on you drop. You messily propelled yourself backwards to the end of the bed where two of the walls met. You hugged into the dark corner, greedily and selfishly needing it.

"Fine. Cry your damn self to sleep." Jean got up, agitated at your rejection, and stomped towards the door. But he couldn't leave. He couldn't even bring himself to open the door.

Instead he huffed and ruefully trotted back to your bedside. "But if you need me... I'll be right here."