#aot ff

"Come on, babe." Pieck rolls her eyes, the exasperation clear in her voice. "You have every right to go out and have a good time. Quit letting that asshole ruin your life!"

You huff, sinking deeper into the couch and wrapping your arms around your knees like it'll somehow shield you from Pieck's relentless determination. "I'm not letting him ruin my life. I just—don't feel like going out, okay?"

"It's been weeks." Pieck narrows her eyes, folding her arms over her chest. "You've barely left your apartment since the breakup. When was the last time you even showered, let alone had a decent meal?"

"I showered yesterday," you mumble, but it's a weak defense, and you both know it.

Pieck arches a brow, her unimpressed expression doing nothing to ease the knot in your stomach. "Look, I get it. Breakups suck. Especially when the guy's a manipulative, egotistical, emotionally-stunted dickbag like Porco."

You flinch at his name, the sound of it dragging old wounds to the surface. Porco fucking Galliard. The man who once had you wrapped around his finger so tightly, you didn't even realize you were suffocating. And by the time you did, it was already too late.

He made you feel wanted, needed, like you were something precious he couldn't bear to lose. Until he wasn't getting his way. Then he'd twist your words, guilt-trip you into thinking you were the problem. That you were the one always overreacting, always messing things up.

But the worst part? You believed him. For far too long, you believed him.

"Which is exactly why you need to get out and have some fun," Pieck continues, her tone softening but not losing its edge. "You deserve a break. Something that reminds you you're more than just 'Porco's ex.'"

"I know I'm more than that," you mutter, but it sounds hollow even to your own ears.

Pieck lets out a sigh and drops onto the couch beside you, her head resting against your shoulder. "I miss my friend. The one who used to laugh and actually have a life outside of that asshole. So let me do this for you, okay? Just one night. We'll grab drinks, listen to some decent music, and if it sucks, we can leave and trash-talk everyone we saw on the way home. Deal?"

You hesitate, the excuses already building up in your mind. But Pieck's gaze is unwavering, her concern obvious beneath the playful exasperation. And as much as you want to argue, you're tired of feeling like this. Tired of feeling like he still has his claws in you, even when he's not around.

"Fine," you sigh. "But I'm not dressing up. If you're dragging me out, I'm wearing whatever I damn well want."

Pieck's eyes light up with victory. "Fair enough. Just don't complain when all the girls are hitting on me instead of you."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

You manage a weak smile, the first genuine one you've felt in days.

Pieck had tried to convince you to wear something "hot enough to make your ex cry," but you weren't in the mood for tight dresses and flashy makeup. You settled on something simple, something that felt more like you.

The dark, high-waisted jeans hug your hips snugly, the denim worn and soft from years of use. They're ripped at the knees—more from actual wear than style—and they mold to your legs in a way that feels comfortably familiar. Paired with them is a fitted black tank top, the fabric clinging to your torso just enough to hint at your curves without making you feel exposed.

A cropped leather jacket hangs loosely over your shoulders, its weight comforting as you tug it tighter around yourself. It's the one thing you couldn't let go of during the breakup—something you bought just to spite Porco's complaints about how "you weren't edgy enough to pull off that look."

Your shoes are nothing special, just a pair of old combat boots that add a little height and a lot of attitude. They make you feel grounded, like you can stand your ground even if the world around you feels like it's falling apart.

Your other friends had at least convinced you to wear some makeup—a little eyeliner smudged around your eyes and a swipe of tinted lip balm. Just enough to avoid their disappointed looks without making you feel like you were trying too hard. They'd spent the better part of an hour trying to talk you into something more dramatic, something that would make you feel "hot and irresistible" rather than "a sulking wreck."

You shut them down at every turn, insisting you weren't trying to impress anyone tonight. But the pitying looks they kept throwing your way wore you down until you finally agreed to at least put on the bare minimum of effort. If only to get them off your back.

But now, standing in the middle of the packed bar with Pieck on one side and your other friends scattered somewhere in the crowd, you can feel their good intentions pressing down on you like a weight. The music thrums through your chest, too loud and too aggressive for your already frazzled nerves.

You should've known better than to let them drag you out tonight. After weeks of moping in your apartment, they were determined to get you out and "remind you what fun feels like."

But fun feels impossible. Like something that exists just outside your reach, taunting you with memories of nights that used to be carefree and easy.

You've been here less than an hour, and you already want to leave.

But you promised them you'd try. So, you cling to your drink like a lifeline, pretending the alcohol is doing something—anything—to dull the raw ache still lodged deep in your chest. The kind of ache that doesn't fade no matter how many times your friends tell you you're better off without him.

Because how do you just move on from someone like him?

Your ex. Your manipulative, arrogant, infuriating ex.

Porco fucking Galliard.

The thought of him alone is enough to sour your mood all over again, but it's nothing compared to the shock of hearing his voice.

That voice, too familiar and too sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade. Your body goes rigid, your fingers tightening around your glass until your knuckles ache.

No. There's no way.

You whip around, eyes scanning the small stage at the other end of the bar. And there he is. Front and center, microphone gripped loosely in one hand as he belts out the lyrics like the crowd is there solely to worship him.

You feel sick. Actually, physically sick.

"Shit," you breathe, the word lost under the booming bassline.

Of course. Of course, he would be here. The universe loves playing cruel little jokes on you.

He looks good—because of course, he fucking does. Messy blonde hair, cocky grin, confidence oozing from every smug line of his body. He's always had that magnetic, infuriating charm that makes people's eyes stick to him like he's the only one in the room worth paying attention to. The kind of charisma that drew you in from the start, sparking something reckless and stupid inside you the moment he turned that grin your way.

You'd never been the type to fall for arrogance. You used to scoff at guys like him, rolling your eyes at their entitled swagger and shameless flirtations. But Porco was different. There was something about the way he looked at you, like you were a challenge he was just dying to conquer. And when he finally had you, the attention was intoxicating. Overwhelming.

He made you feel seen. Like every other guy who'd brushed you off or passed you over was just a mistake waiting to be corrected by him. Porco knew how to make you feel wanted, needed, like you were something precious he couldn't bear to lose.

But that same charm was a weapon he wielded just as easily to cut you down. When things were good, it was all heated touches, addictive smiles, and whispered promises that you swore you could believe in. But when things were bad—when you dared to push back, to argue, to stand your ground—his affection twisted into something else entirely.

He'd call you dramatic. Accuse you of overreacting. Make you feel like every doubt you had was something you needed to apologize for. Every argument ended the same way: him making you feel like you were the problem. Like your emotions were something to be fixed, silenced, dismissed.

You lost count of how many times you caved. How many times you swallowed your own hurt and guilt just to keep the peace, to convince yourself he really did care about you even when his words sliced through you like glass. Because when he wanted to, Porco could make you feel invincible. Like nothing else mattered but the way his eyes burned into yours and his hands pulled you closer.

He kept you burning for him until there was nothing left of you but ash. And when you finally found the strength to walk away, you'd barely been able to recognize yourself.

But standing here now, seeing him back on stage with that same fucking grin plastered across his face, you feel it all over again. That stupid, reckless pull. The anger tangled up with something darker and infinitely more pathetic.

Because no matter how much you hate him, some part of you still wants him.

That's the worst part, isn't it? The part that keeps you awake at night, replaying every fight, every gaslighting comment, every moment he twisted your own emotions against you until you weren't sure which way was up. And yet, buried beneath all that hurt, there's still this sick, shameful ache that craves his attention. That wants him to look at you the way he used to—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But it's all a lie. It always was.

You feel the panic building in your chest, a rising tide of anger and disgust you can't keep down. The room feels smaller, the air thick and cloying as his voice crashes over you like a taunt, dragging you right back to the worst parts of yourself. The parts he twisted and broke and left scattered like debris.

You can't be here. Not with him so close. Not with the memories clawing their way up your throat like poison.

Your breathing quickens, hands trembling around your drink as you force yourself to tear your eyes away from the stage. You need to get out. You need air, distance, anything to stop the world from spinning around you like this.

You barely register Pieck's concerned voice calling your name, her hand brushing your arm as you stumble to your feet. You mumble something that's probably meant to sound reassuring, but you can't even hear yourself over the pounding in your ears.

You're already halfway out of your seat before your friends even notice. Someone says your name, but you don't stop to look back. You're pushing through the crowded room, desperate for air, desperate to get away before he notices you.

You can still hear his voice tearing through the speakers, smooth and cocky, sending every nerve in your body into overdrive. But you don't look back. You shove past strangers, ignoring the annoyed grumbles and glares thrown your way. All you can think about is getting outside. Getting as far away from him as possible.

The hallway leading toward the bathrooms is quieter, the pounding music muffled by the thick walls. You force yourself to breathe, your lungs heaving like you just ran a mile instead of stumbling twenty feet.

But just as you reach the end of the hallway, the music cuts off mid-song. Confused murmurs and a few frustrated shouts from the crowd filter through the air, but you barely notice. All you care about is that the sound of his voice is finally gone.

And that's when you hear it—footsteps pounding against the floor, purposeful and unrelenting. Heading straight for you.

You should've known better than to think you could escape him.

You barely have time to process the dread pooling in your stomach before a hand clamps around your wrist.

"Well, well, well. Thought that was you sulking in the back." Porco's voice is low, smug as ever, each word a deliberate scrape against your already raw nerves.

"Let me go," you snap, jerking your arm free and taking a step back. But of course, there's nowhere to go. Just a narrow, dimly lit hallway and him standing between you and your only exit.

He looks you over, a slow, mocking grin spreading across his face. "Didn't realize you were so desperate for me that you'd actually show up at my show."

"Don't flatter yourself. I didn't even know you'd be here."

He laughs, the sound cruel and dripping with condescension. "Sure you didn't. And I'm supposed to believe you just happened to end up here, out of all the bars in town? Give me a fucking break."

Your hands clench into fists at your sides. "My friends brought me here. Believe what you want, but I'm not pathetic enough to come crawling after you."

He arches an eyebrow, eyes glinting with twisted amusement. "No? Could've fooled me. Showing up here looking like you just rolled out of bed, all sad and desperate. Like you couldn't even bother trying to look good because you were too busy sulking over me."

You can feel your cheeks burn, anger curling hot and volatile in your chest. "You're unbelievable."

"Unbelievable?" Porco steps closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours. "Funny. That's exactly what you used to call me when you were begging me to fuck you."

The words punch the air from your lungs. Every ounce of logic is screaming at you to walk away, to shove him aside and leave him choking on his own ego. But there's something about his tone, that condescending lilt in his voice, that's dragging you right back into the mess you swore you'd never touch again.

"What's the matter?" he taunts, eyes narrowing as he watches the conflict war across your face. "Too embarrassed to admit you missed me? That you've been moping around wishing you could feel me ruining you all over again?"

"Shut up," you snap, but the words are weak, shaky. And he knows it.

Porco's smile widens, all sharp edges and vicious intent. "Come on, sweetheart. We both know how this ends. You acting all pissed off and indignant like I'm the worst thing that ever happened to you, when really? You fucking loved it."

You hate that his words make your skin prickle, that his presence alone is enough to drag your pulse into a reckless sprint. You hate that even now, after everything he put you through, there's still some part of you that craves the destructive heat only he's ever managed to spark.

His hand comes up to grip your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "You look like shit, by the way. Like you've been crying over me for weeks. Pathetic."

You should slap him. You should knee him in the groin and leave him writhing on the filthy floor of this shitty bar.

But instead, you glare at him, refusing to back down. "You're such a piece of shit."

"And yet, here you are," he counters smoothly. "Practically drooling over me like you haven't been getting off to the thought of me every night since you left."

Your nails bite into your palms, but you don't deny it. You can't.

Because he's right.

"Why don't you just admit it?" he continues, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Admit that you missed me. Admit that you came here hoping I'd wreck you all over again."

"Fuck you."

He laughs again, the sound dark and mocking. "Oh, I can’t wait."

And when his mouth crashes against yours, all teeth and hunger and cruelty, you don't stop him. You don't even try.

His lips are rough against yours, all force and arrogance, like he's claiming something that still belongs to him. You hate him for it. Hate him even more for the way your body responds, heat pooling low in your stomach despite every rational thought telling you to push him away.

But you don't. Instead, you kiss him back with just as much venom, teeth nipping at his bottom lip hard enough to draw a low growl from his throat.

"Still a feisty little bitch, huh?" Porco sneers, his hands finding your waist and shoving you backward until your spine hits the cold, sticky wall. "Guess some things never change."

You glare at him, your breathing already uneven. "You really think I'm doing this because I missed you?"

"Oh, I know you missed me." He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "I can practically feel you shaking for it. What was it you always used to say? That no one fucked you like I did?"

Your nails dig into his shoulders, but the pressure only makes his smirk grow. He likes it when you fight back. Hell, he's counting on it.

"Go to hell."

I'm already there, sweetheart. Just waiting for you to catch up."

His knee shoves between your thighs, forcing your legs apart until his thigh presses firmly against you. The contact is sudden, rough, and your body reacts before your brain can catch up. A shiver rolls down your spine, heat pooling low in your stomach even as you try to twist away.

But his hands are already on your hips, fingers digging into your sides to keep you exactly where he wants you. And despite every ounce of fury still burning in your veins, your hips twitch against his thigh, a pathetic little grind that makes his grin stretch wider.

"See? Fucking pathetic," he sneers, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "Your body's already begging for it, and I've barely even touched you. Guess leaving me didn't fix you as much as you thought, huh?"

"Shut up," you snap, but the words are a broken rasp, your voice trembling even as you try to force steel into it.

He laughs, the sound low and mocking. "You can say that all you want, but we both know you're just a needy little slut. Rubbing yourself on my thigh like you've been waiting for this. Just admit it—you missed me. Missed the way I wreck you."

Your hips betray you again, the pressure against his thigh sending a shameful rush of heat through your body. You try to hold yourself still, to stop giving him exactly what he wants, but the need is already clawing at you, vicious and relentless.

And Porco knows it. He feels it. And he's not about to let you forget it.

“Pathetic," Porco spits, his hands tightening on your hips as he leans in, his mouth brushing your ear. "You act so tough, but you're nothing without me. Just a desperate little mess who can't even pretend she doesn't want me to fuck her."

You feel his fingers trail down your sides before he's yanking you forward, your body stumbling against his chest with a startled gasp. His arm hooks around your waist, his grip possessive and unyielding as he starts walking, practically dragging you down the narrow hallway.

"W-What the hell are you doing?" you sputter, your hands instinctively shoving at his chest even as your body struggles to keep up with his brutal pace.

"Taking you somewhere a little more private," he says, his voice dripping with smug assurance. "Unless you want me to make you come just by grinding on my thigh right here in the hallway. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Your face burns with humiliation, the memory of just how easily he's torn you apart in the past flashing behind your eyes. But you can't find your voice, your throat clamped tight around whatever protest you're desperately trying to force out.

Porco's grip never loosens, his fingers digging painfully into your hip as he shoves open the first door he comes across—a dimly lit storage room littered with stacked chairs and boxes of cheap bar merchandise.

"Perfect," he mutters, kicking the door shut behind him and shoving you back until your shoulders hit the wall. "Now, where were we?"

His knee forces its way between your thighs again, pressing up against you until your legs are trembling.

"Oh, right," he sneers. "You were making a fool of yourself by humping my thigh like a bitch in heat."

"Fuck you," you snap, your voice splintering under the weight of your own anger and shame.

His thigh grinds against you, relentless and unforgiving. The pressure against your core has your body twitching helplessly, heat pooling low in your stomach despite every furious thought screaming at you to shove him away.

But Porco knows how to keep you frozen. How to tear your defenses down until you're nothing but a wreck at his feet.

"You should see yourself right now," he sneers, his voice thick with twisted amusement. "Acting like you hate me when you're two seconds away from dripping all over my leg. Maybe I should drag you back out there, let everyone see how desperate you really are."

Your fists clench at his chest, but it's a weak, half-hearted effort. Your body's already betraying you, your hips rolling against his thigh like you can't even help yourself. Like the humiliation only makes you need him more.

"You're disgusting," you spit, but the words tremble on your tongue, the shame burning through your veins like acid.

"Maybe," he shrugs, eyes blazing with arrogant delight. "But at least I'm not the one getting off on it." His fingers curl around your chin, forcing your head up until you're staring straight into his merciless gaze. "Admit it. You fucking love this. Being treated like the worthless little slut you are."

"I—" Your voice cracks, your body fighting against itself. Everything feels too hot, too sharp, his words digging under your skin and making something dark and desperate unravel inside you.

"Can't even deny it, can you?" Porco laughs, the sound cutting and cruel. "You act all pissed off and righteous, but we both know the truth. You fucking need me. No one else can fuck you the way I do, and you're just pathetic enough to keep crawling back for more."

"Shut up," you whisper, the words nothing more than a broken gasp.

"Why?" His lips brush against your ear, his breath scorching your skin. "Because you know I'm right? Because you can't stand the fact that you'd let me do anything I wanted to you if it meant getting that filthy little itch of yours scratched?"

You try to shake your head, but his grip on your chin is iron. Instead, all you can do is tremble, your body's reaction making him smirk like he's already won.

"Maybe I should make you beg for it. Make you tell me how much you fucking missed me," he murmurs, his fingers slipping down to hook into your waistband. "But I think you've been pathetic enough for one night."

He yanks your jeans down to your knees, the denim scraping against your skin as he forces them out of the way. His eyes rake over you with that same condescending delight, like you're nothing more than his personal plaything put on this earth for him to ruin.

"I should make you say thank you," Porco continues, his fingers finding their way between your thighs, rough and unkind. "Because let's be honest—you'd let me do anything to you right now, wouldn't you? Just so you can feel something other than how fucking worthless you are."

The words hit like a slap, but the sting only makes you gasp, your body clenching around nothing as he drags his fingers against you with bruising force.

And then he feels it. How soaked you are, how your body's already betraying you before he's even really started. His fingers slide along your slit, slick and shamefully wet, the evidence of your own pathetic desire coating his skin.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," he laughs, the sound dripping with contempt. "You're already dripping for me. Didn't even take much, either. Just a few insults and a little attention, and you're fucking gushing like the desperate slut you are."

You bite down on your lip, hard enough to taste copper. You want to shove him away, scream at him, claw his eyes out for the way he's looking at you. Like he owns you. Like he's already won.

But you can't move. Not when his fingers press against your entrance, circling slowly, deliberately, like he's giving you a chance to stop him. To tell him no.

You don't. You can’t.

You know just as well as he does that your body is craving his touch.

"Pathetic," Porco spits, his voice a low, vicious rumble. "Your body's just begging for me, isn't it? Bet you touch yourself every night thinking about me, wishing someone else could fuck you even half as good. But no one else even comes close, do they?"

"Shut up," you whisper, but it's barely more than a whimper. Because he's right, and you both know it.

"Can't even deny it," he sneers. "Go on. Say it. Tell me how much you fucking missed this."

"No," you rasp, but your voice is weak, trembling. And when his fingers finally push inside you, the sound that escapes your throat is nothing but pure, humiliating need.

"Fuck," he breathes, his smirk growing even more wicked. "You're soaking my fingers already. Bet you're so fucking tight just from me talking down to you. Because you love it, don't you? Love being reminded how useless and broken you are."

You want to deny it, want to scream at him to go to hell again, but the pleasure twisting through your body is impossible to ignore — and the shame only seems to make it worse.

Porco's fingers pump into you, rough and unyielding, dragging along your walls with such force. Your hips jerk against his hand, your body's reactions spiraling out of your control as he continues to tear you down with every filthy word. The sounds of your panting breathing fills the air, your cunt squeezing his fingers tight with every curl he gives you.

"See? That's all you're good for," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "Taking whatever I give you like a needy little slut. Doesn't matter how much you hate me—you'll still let me fuck you whenever I want, won't you?"

You choke out something between a sob and a moan, your body clenching around his fingers as if trying to draw him in deeper. The humiliation only sharpens the pleasure, making you tremble against him as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans against your neck, his teeth biting down into your flesh. “Your pussy has missed my fucking fingers, hasn’t it? It’s practically sucking them in all by myself.”

His fingers curl inside of you, finding the spongy part that he knows will break you every single time.

"Come on," Porco taunts, his thumb pressing down harshly against your clit. "Show me how much of a fucking mess you are. Make a mess all over my hand like the worthless little whore you are."

His words dig into you, sharp and cutting, but the heat coiling low in your stomach only tightens in response. It's twisted and pathetic and you hate yourself for wanting this, for craving the very thing that made you walk away from him in the first place.

But you can't help it. Because even though you know he's just getting off on humiliating you, some sick part of you likes it. The way his cruelty makes everything feel sharp and immediate, tearing down every rational thought until there's nothing left but raw, reckless need.

Your hips jerk against his hand, chasing the pressure of his fingers like you've already given up on fighting him. And maybe you have. Because nothing else feels this good. Nothing else drowns out the ache of losing him the way his touch does.

"See?" he sneers, his breath hot against your ear. " You can act like you hate me all you want, but your body's telling me everything I need to know. You fucking missed this. Missed being put in your place."

He pulls his fingers out of you quickly, a loud whine escaping your lips at the loss. His thumb continues to press hard circles into your clit instead, keeping you right on the edge of your release.

"Fuck you," you rasp, but there's no heat behind the words. Just desperation.

He laughs, the sound thick with cruel satisfaction. "You wish. But I think you've got something else to take care of first." His fingers plunge into you harder, rough and unyielding, dragging another broken gasp from your throat. "So go on. Come all over my hand like the desperate little slut you are."

Your body obeys before your pride can stop it, your orgasm crashing over you with brutal intensity. You bite down on your lip to muffle the pathetic moan that slips out, but the damage is already done.

Porco feels it. He loves it.

"That's what I thought." He doesn't stop, his fingers still working you over, prolonging your orgasm until your thighs tremble and your vision blurs. "Fucking knew you'd fall apart the second I touched you. Just like always."

Your breaths come in ragged, shallow pants, the aftershocks of pleasure still thrumming through you even as his taunts sink in like poison. You should be pushing him away, telling him to get the hell out of your life for good. But instead, your arms are wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like he's the only solid thing left in your crumbling world.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice thick with condescension. "Still holding onto me like you're scared I'll leave you here all needy and wrecked. Guess you really are more pathetic than I thought."

"I hate you," you choke out, but even to your own ears, it sounds like a lie.

"Yeah?" He finally pulls his hand away, his fingers glistening with everything you hate about yourself. "Funny, because your cunt is telling me something completely different."

He brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste your essence all over them. The action makes your stomach twist, shame burning hot under your skin. Your body continues to cling to him though, knowing damn well he’s far from stopping.

And even if he was, you wouldn’t want him to stop.

Porco fucking knows it.

"Look at you," he laughs, the sound thick with derision. One of his hands works into the back of your hair, pulling it tightly to bring your face to his. "Fucking pathetic. You should be thanking me for even touching you after the way you fucked everything up."

Your jaw clenches, fury sparking bright and blinding behind your eyes. But your body won't listen to your mind. It craves the friction, the anger, the desperate, hateful need that only Porco seems capable of yanking out of you.

"Shut up," you choke out, but the tremor in your voice only makes his grin widen.

"Nah. I don't think I will." His mouth crushes against yours again, swallowing whatever feeble protest you try to make. The kiss is all teeth and cruelty, the kind of kiss meant to punish rather than pleasure.

It's rough. It's ugly. It's exactly what you wanted.

You hate him for that, too.

By the time he finally yanks his pants down just far enough to press himself against you, your mind is a chaotic mess of fury and heat. Your body practically arches toward him even as your brain screams at you to stop, to push him away before you let him ruin you all over again.

His cock rubs against your pussy in the best way, your wetness coating it. He grinds it against you, groans falling from his mouth as whimpers escape yours.

Fuck. You’ve never wanted someone so fucking bad like you do right now. And it had to be him of all people.

"Tell me you don't fucking want this, baby," he says, his forehead pressed against yours. It sounds so soft that you almost forget about the monster standing in front of you.

The pet name he rarely called you slipped from his lips with ease. That name that he used to reel you in every goddamned time.

Not a single argument falls from your mouth. It would be useless. Both of you know that you would do anything for him to be inside of you right now.

You fucking hate yourself for it.

His mouth finds your neck again, giving it bruising kisses as he sinks himself inside of you. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from crying out, the sharp sting of pain mingling with something far more shameful.

"Still take me so fucking well," he grunts, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Like you were made for this. Made for me."

"Just—shut up," you rasp, the words broken and desperate.

"Why?" he sneers. "Because you can't handle the truth? That no matter how hard you try to convince yourself you hate me, your body still knows it belongs to me? That only my cock could fuck your tight little pussy like this?”

His words twists inside you, equal parts fury and need, your nails raking down his back hard enough to draw a hiss from him. But he just laughs, the sound vicious and triumphant.

"Come on, sweetheart. Admit it. You missed this. Missed me."

You shake your head, but the movement is weak, your body trembling with each brutal thrust. And Porco sees it. He fucking sees it and relishes in it.

"Pathetic," he spits. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but your cunt still knows exactly who it fucking belongs to."

You can feel yourself unraveling, the heat building until it's almost unbearable. Your body responds to him like it's been trained. Your hips move in rhythm with his, trying to get you closer to your release - closer to getting yourself the fuck away from him.

"Porco," you cry out, that familiar knot growing deep inside of you, begging to let go.

Porco can feel your cunt clenching around him, and fuck if it doesn’t take everything he has to not cum inside of you right then and there.

"Fuck yeah, sweetheart," he groans. "That's it. Cum all over my fucking cock like the slut you are for it."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as your hips move faster, his cock hitting that sensitive spot repeatedly with every thrust. A loud moan rips from your throat as you finally let go.

“Fuck, Porco!” you scream out as you come all over him, your pussy sucking his cock in greedily for more.

He gives you just that, fucking you through your release as he follows behind you. His cock unloads inside of you, filling you up just how you used to beg him to every time he fucked you.

Your forehead slumps against his shoulder as you come down from your high, and it takes everything in you not to wrap your arms around him and pull him closely like you used to.

For a moment, the world is nothing but harsh breathing and the distant thump of the music beyond the hallway.

Then the silence comes, and with it, the crushing weight of everything you just let him do.

After a moment, Porco pulls out of you, setting your wobbly feet back on the ground. He pulls his pants back on and buttons them with that same smug grin that he wore on stage plastered across his face. "Guess I was right. You really are just a desperate little slut."

"Go to hell," you whisper, your voice shredded and raw. Your hands pulls your pants back up around your waist as you fight the tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

"Already told you, baby," He whispers as he brings his lips down to your forehead, kissing it softly. "I'm waiting for you to catch up."

And then he's gone, slamming the door closed behind him, leaving you slumped against the wall—breathless, your heart pounding with a mix of anger, shame, and something you can't even name. You hate how easily he got to you. How quickly you let him drag you back into the same toxic, addictive mess you swore you'd never touch again.

But most of all, you hate yourself for still wanting him.

You quickly averted your gaze, ashamed for noticing such peculiar details about this man. You didn’t want to admit it, but somewhere deep inside your chest, you knew he made you flustered.

“Captain Levi?” You mumbled, questioning his motives.

From spending years training beside him, you knew Levi Ackerman was a man with purpose. Every action of his carried meaning-which was also why his leadership skills were unrivalled. The squad blindly followed his plan because in hindsight, everything he did proved effective.

“I’m bored.”

What?

Your brain relapsed, attempting to reevaluate his words. Your eyes narrowed suspiciously to understand the meaning behind them. Dumbfounded, you could only ask again.

“What?” You voiced out and you realised you sounded more stupid than in your head.

He turned to look at you, his crescent shaped eyes blank, filled with disinterest. “I am bored,” he reemphasised, louder than before, maybe to further embarrass you.

“Okay…” you surrendered.

You wanted to ask more. What did he mean by ‘I’m bored’? Why was he here to tell you about his boredom? How did he even find you? You had so many questions, but your panicked nerves overpowered the impending curiosity.

Unintentionally, you began drawing small circles against your wrist with the pad of your thumb as you tried to look away from the captain. The blue skies and streams were supposed to be your focus of attention but for some reason, you couldn’t go back to admiring them. It was like his presence obstructed your train of thought, making you feel like a feeble girl with a foolish mind instead of a viciously-trained titan killer. He had that effect of standing out, blurring out the whole world.

“Why’re you nervous?” He rasped, his gaze growing softer as he stared into your pair of eyes.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, unsure what gave it away. You weren’t exactly like an open book, easy to read; instead, many claimed you were a difficult person, reserved and disconsolate.

As if he read your mind, he spoke up. “Those circles you keep drawing give it away.” Your breathing deterred as his hand suddenly grabbed your clenched wrist. Wide eyed, your skin reddened upon his touch as if it scalded your flesh.

You wriggled your hand free, dropping it to your lap. “How- do you know that?” You mumbled, surveying the warmth in his eyes.

His peach lips were pressed in a thin line, as if he was thinking about his response carefully. It seemed to take him a moment before he answered. “As a Captain, I have to pay attention.”

Right.

You didn’t want to admit it but you couldn’t ignore the pang of disappointment course through your veins upon hearing his reason. You were hoping that maybe- he remembered such an insignificant habit just because it was yours. How stupid of you to assume that?

It was just good captaincy.

“Why do you sit around here every night?”

Catching you off guard yet again, your lips parted in surprise. He kept on pushing you to an edge and you were afraid of breaking down your walls to show him your true feelings. If he kept on saying things, you would most likely combust.

“Captain, I wasn’t aware you paid such close attention to everyone around you,” you huffed, but immediately regretted it as the words had come out harsher than you had expected. You didn’t want him to know the impact he had over you.

“I mean- how do you know about this place?” You quickly asked, glossing over the anger in your tone from a moment ago.

He turned to look at you, his teeth grazing his lips. “I don’t have much to do at night so I tend to walk around.” His eyes were like steel, cold and inexpressive like he was hiding his real self.

“What, do you not sleep?” You laughed, unsure of what he meant. Your laugher died down soon enough as you watched his firm gaze unchanging.

He was silently agreeing.

Your mouth ran dry. How had you not noticed it before? Now that you briefly mentioned it, you realised the grogginess of his tone. His eyes were wet, stinging as if he had rubbed them several times and blue lines of exhaustion carved down his pale skin.

How long had this been going on?

How did he function flawlessly throughout the training sessions? He had never let himself slip.

Your chest felt congested, throat tightening with concern for the captain. Clearly, he hadn’t slept a wink in a while and you had no fucking clue.

“Since when have you not slept?” Your voice was laced with fury. You maintained eye contact, staring into the depths, searching for his worn out soul.

As if breaking a trance, he looked away at the river.

“You know there used to be double the amount of trees, older than both of us, around the river.”

You stared back, dumbfounded.

River? Trees? What was he saying?

“Some were cut down for timber, some for infrastructure and some to enhance the land’s beauty- bullshit reasons like that,” he rasped, eyeing the landscape with darkness embedded in his irises.

Blatant frustration kept building inside your chest as you watched him ignore the elephant in the room. Why was he talking about the goddamn trees? “That’s not the answer to my question,” you spat acrimoniously, glaring at him.

Your words went unheard. “Now we complain about deforestation and its long-term effects. We self destruct and then seek resolutions. Aren’t humans one of a kind?” He continued like a broken record, chuckling bitterly.

“If you don’t think I’m worthy of hearing your troubles, why exactly are you here?” You harshly cut to the chase, suddenly bold enough to put him on the spot.

His head jerked to look at you, eyes wide, exposing the redness in his sclerae. Your hands itched to reach out and forcefully shut his lids, so he could finally get some rest but you didn’t have the guts. His thin lips then curved into a lazy smile which made your heart stutter, forming a knot inside your chest. “Do you want to hear about them?” His husky voice made the knot tighten, clasping your heart.

You nodded. “I don’t have much to do either,” you quickly added.

He looked down at his fingers and you heard muffled counting. Curiously, you watched him count his fingers and mutter something incoherent, his brows furrowed as if he was concentrating deeply. Then he finally reached a conclusion, looking up with a satisfied glint in his tired eyes.

“3.4 weeks.”

“What?” You staggered.

“I haven’t slept properly in 3.4 weeks and counting.”

Your blood ran cold.

As if your body malfunctioned, coherent thoughts flew out of your mind, that moment. Your mouth parted, attempting to speak but your brain couldn’t form any sound words. You heard the pounding of your heart so clear, as if someone had tore it out of your chest and held it right next to your eardrums.

Disbelief and horror kept your heart thudding against your rib cage, wanting to break free. You were at a loss for words.

“You- you haven’t- 3 weeks?” Even when you eventually spoke, your words were still stupidly incoherent.

He chuckled. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I’ve heard it’s humanly impossible,” he rasped as if he was cracking the funniest joke. Your head felt like it was going to explode while he currently found it humorous.

“I mean- to be fair, I do think I sleep for a few minutes sometimes but…” his voice faltered, pupils darkened like the midnight sky as if he was reliving an agonising memory.

“But- what?” You breathed, desperate to know his inner turmoils.

“I hear them,” he started, his voice monotonous, awakening goosebumps over your skin. “I hear the buffering of their ODM gears as it runs out of gas and their horrified chuckles as a titan approaches their helpless body; the cracking of their bones as they aren’t quick enough when the buildings collapse; their wails for mercy as a beast ingests them, leaving not even remains of the person behind.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you watched the man slowly dismantle, emptying his heart off its agonising pain. As he spoke, his eyes were on you yet he seemed faraway. Pain mirrored in his irises, his emotions unstable as if he had been inside a bubbling pot of water, which heatedly rose to surface every now and then yet never fully erupted.

Your mind connected the dots. Three weeks ago, the Survey Corps had returned from the recent mission outside the walls. The number of casualties had skyrocketed since many ODM gears had malfunctioned during vital parts of the mission.

“Captain Levi,” you stuttered, heart in your throat.

He finally came back. Relief washed over your body as you watched his eyes regain color and the agonised expression dilute into a blank one.

You decided to expose your secret, so that maybe he might trust you more. “I come here every night because it relieves me to know that this sky is endlessly filled,” you told him, eyes skimming over your surroundings. “There’s clouds, stars and the moon, black, white and blue. It’s never lonely,” you muttered, fumbling with your fingers, staring at the broad sky.

The sky was your company.

“I don’t have anyone but when I come here, I feel like I have someone by my side,” you stated, your eyes gleaming as you surveyed the night.

“Look, isn’t it so lovely?” Your eyes traced the faraway glinting lights, wishing you were lucky enough to be the one shining the brightest.

You heard him inhale deeply, his breath shaky.

The following moment passed by in serene silence. None of you moved a muscle. Peaceful crashing of waves against the walls of the river prolonged in the air, making your heart rest at ease.

“It is,” you heard him whisper and you turned to face him.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

His chiselled features held you spellbound. You saw the reflection of the crescent moon, gleaming in his eyes, complementing his already silver orbs. For the first time, you noticed the perfect angular cut of his cheekbones, his jaw clenched as if he was putting all his attention into the task given like the determined captain everyone knew him as, who never finished something half heartedly.

This was a man who threw away his whole life, serving humanity, who lived life consumed with anguish and irreversible regrets. Levi Ackerman, the one who spent his nights wandering like a lifeless corpse, haunted by his reality. Where does one run when your demons are within your own soul?

“I wish I could take away your nightmares.” Your voice was hoarse as you spoke up.

This instantly brought Levi’s gaze towards you. A foreign emotion ignited inside his moonlike eyes and you heard him gulp. Without a warning, he scurried close and dropped his head on your lap, laying down like you were his pillow. Your body clenched, surprised at the contact. His brown hair brushed against your knees, making your body tingle. His eyes didn’t leave yours, above him. The sudden proximity felt rapturously intimate.

You were sharing a moment with the captain. Your mouth ran dry as you looked anywhere but into his eyes, knowing you were a weak-minded fool for him.

“Touch me,” he plead.

Electricity rushed through your veins. Your head felt numb like you were drunk on him. You didn’t know what exactly he meant by ‘touch me’ but you didn’t want to burst the bubble. Instead of remaining still, you moved to run your fingers through his brown hair. As soon as your fingers grazed his scalp, his eyes screwed shut, a breathy sigh escaping his lips. His impulsive reaction to your touch was so intimidatingly sinful, causing heat to spread through your entire frame.

“Your eyes remind me of the sky, so- full of color and life.” He was watching you again. His husky voice made your toes curl, your heart palpitating as you watched his lips part.

His gentle tone made you feel whole, like you were everything when you were beside him.

Short strands fell out from spaces between your fingers as you massaged your way through them. The more gentle your touch, the more he would twitch with pleasure.

“You know, there used to be more red oak trees before these green ones…” his voice deepened, becoming lower, almost inaudible. His eyes were turning hazy, growing smaller.

“I lied,” he murmured. His eyes were now shut.

“About what?” You breathed.

“-the captain bull crap.”

Your heartbeat escalated.

“I notice you. Only you-”

He interrupted himself with light snores wracking his frame. His eyes were completely shut, soft mumbles dissolving into nothingness as he finally fell into heavy slumber. Your heart was already drumming against your ribs, hearing him confess the truth and you wished he had said something more. However, Levi finally falling asleep made your heart warmer, happiness embedding in your chest.

That night, Levi slept like a baby, embracing your torso, drooling over your pants for fifteen hours straight on your stiff legs-which you didn’t dare move until he had slept all his tiredness away.

-

it would be cool to know what y’all thought of this.

“Yes, there is.” 

“Why?”

“Connie told me Eren got a goat—from Mikasa, okay? And apparently, this asshole’s going around, telling people that you aren’t a considerate lover—because you won’t buy me a goat. So I need this goat to prove to him—“ 

Rubbing your temple with your hand, you sighed again. “Connie said this?” 

He nodded his head.

Connie was most definitely screwing with him. You knew that there was no way in hell Eren had gotten a goat—and that Mikasa willingly gifted it to him.

You reached for your phone, dialing his number. 

“Babe?” Jean whined, staring at you with confused eyes.

The call was accepted—and you heard Connie’s voice, putting him on speaker. “Yo?” 

“Did you tell Jean that Eren got a goat?” 

You heard loud laughing and snorting erupt from the phone—and it wasn’t just Connie, either.

“Is that Sasha? Is Sasha snorting?” 

Your eardrums practically burst after you said that—because they just laughed even harder; it sounded like they were on the verge of tears.

Jean’s shoulders slumped, and he covered his face. You could still see the tip of his ears though, which were cherry red.

Hanging up the call, you turned toward your fiancé.

“Still want that goat?”