originally posted on the ao3 (forgot to post it here)
my darling misaya had the amazing idea of writing a fic incorporating the Hysterical Literature series, a video art series in which women's faces are filmed as they're brought to orgasm by someone under a table, all the while reading a piece of literature. it's a beautiful series honestly and you should totes check it out. but anyway I turned that into some jeaneren porn :)
the story Jean is reading is Emergency Contact by Michael Christie, something I was made to read in a 1st year English course I took… (I hope my prof is happy with what I've done with it.) & thanks to twistedkit for the mono no aware rec!
He really hadn't expected to go through with it.
When Jean had first seen the advert in the library where he'd been studying for midterms, he'd chortled at it. Art project, his ass. It was nothing more than a glorified porn shoot, and they expected students from his university to sign up? Ha.
But something had intrigued him. Something about the idea of porn being art, or maybe it was the idea of being jerked off by a stranger while someone else watched. Uh, the former.
Either way, he'd taken one of the contact strips in a moment of spontaneity (likely fueled by all-nighters and venti coffees), hiding it quickly in his pocket. When he'd finished exams he'd visited the website to find it was a project run by two visual media students, Arlert and Jaeger, as an extension of an existing series, Hysterical Literature.
Contrary to his initial expectation of it being a trashy porn shoot, after watching a couple of the black-and-white videos, he'd actually bought into the purport that this was really art, something that captured the true sensuality of human sexuality. Especially after he'd watched the video titled Mikasa reads "Mono no aware" by Ken Liu.
He hadn't expected to go through with it. Really, Mom.
It was in a small building to the side of the art school attached to the university. Much to Jean's relief, Armin Arlert and Eren Jaeger turned out to be college-age guys, not leering fifty-year-olds with cigars in hand. Armin wore a dress shirt and slacks, looking rather professional, while Eren was dressed in sweatpants and a sleeveless tee. He supposed Eren was more the classic artist-type.
After a few words of pleasantries with Armin (while Eren lounged on a sofa, yawning), Armin handed Jean some forms to sign. There was a small stack of them—Jean wondered how this project had gotten through the university's boards.
"Great, that's the last one!" Armin said as he took the media consent form from Jean. Then, continuing, "So as your sort-of scene partner, Eren's going to be—"
"Wait. What?" Armin inclined his head. Jean clarified, kind of: "Eren's gonna… he's the one who's—?"
The couch creaked as Eren rose to his feet. "Yeah," he drawled, looking Jean up and down, like a fucking challenge. Jean felt his blood boil, but wasn't exactly sure about the reason. "Is there a problem?"
Jean stared at him, meeting vibrant green eyes and a cocksure smile, rich-chocolate hair and quirked lips. Then he looked away.
"No," he said to Armin, and he saw in his periphery as Eren smirked. Okay, here was the plan: he was gonna have to last at least twenty minutes. Fuck that guy, seriously. Jean hoped he got carpal tunnel from jerking guys off all the time.
"As I was saying, Eren's going to pleasure you, but only using manual stimulation. However, we won't tell you exactly what we're going to use, alright? For the element of surprise."
Jean nodded tightly, mouth dry as Eren stretched, shirt rising to reveal a strip of tight, tanned skin. He yawned again, and Jean could see the pink curl of his tongue as his jaw cracked.
"All you have to do is read the excerpt you've chosen," Armin gave him a warm smile. It would have seemed innocent in any other situation. "And just a reminder, at the very end, say your name and the name of the book you're reading. At the end we'll be giving you a gift card from our sponsors. I'm sure you read that in the email though."
Jean coughed. "Yeah. The email." He got into the seat—padded cushions, nice—and his fingers played idly with the cover of the book while Armin readied the camera. He refused to call it fidgeting.
Waiting, he couldn't help but watch the easy grace with which Eren walked; then the boy crawled under the table, and Jean followed that motion with his eyes in helpless mild fascination.
"Ready?" Eren asked as he crossed his legs, grinning up at him inches from his groin.
"The hell do you think?" Jean snapped. Not at fucking all.
Eren's smile widened.
"'They sent the wrong paramedic, one I'd never met before,'" Jean began, settling on a low register. When he'd been in middle school, this was the voice he'd used to read out loud to the class, the voice that had gotten him his first kiss with the prettiest girl in the class.
A warm hand, surprisingly gentle, caressed his inner thighs, travelled upwards to the fold of the elastic waistband of his boxers, leaving a trail of goosebumps. For the most part, he found that he could forget about Armin's presence, the guy was so quiet behind the camera.
"'He had sideburns sculpted into hockey sticks and stunk of canola oil.'" Deft fingers undid the button at his crotch, reaching in.
First contact—his breath caught. Eren's hands were warm. Really warm. In fact Jean wondered if the guy had a fever, the way he was burning up like a furnace. Not that it was bad—oh no. The heat of his hands had Jean's blood rushing downwards to meet it.
"'When I stood, my hamstrings went pins and needles and I steadied myself on the towel bar before…'"
Jesus fuck. A slight jolt of cold on the underside of his hardening prick before the hand circled around him more firmly. He struggled to keep his voice even. The slickness—felt like lube, or maybe lotion—warmed with each stroke until they were back to the temperature of Eren's hands, and god, Eren wasn't bad at that, with just a little bit of a twist on the upstroke—yeah, just like that—
"'Is the patient inside? Sideburns said, looking primed, as though he'd been about to force the door—'"
He barely had time to register a low hum before the thing settled just above his sac, in the juncture where his cock started. He could almost taste Eren's smirk, self-satisfied and vindictive as could be; he hadn't expected it—a fucking vibrator, and he felt himself shudder like a live wire. He'd never used one of those before, hadn't known how fucking good—
He forced himself to continue.
"'No, I said. Oh, sorry, he said, deflating. Then he sent a confused glance down the hallway…'" Eren's other hand, the one that wasn't dragging the vibrator up and down Jean's dick, came to cradle his balls, thumb and index circling at the base firmly and pulling. Jean exhaled harshly, fingers tightening on the book until the tips were white. "'I'm the patient, I said.'"
The vibrator was at his balls now. Eren was running the vibrator back and forth as his other hand held his balls there. His dick twitched at the feeling, desperate for touch again, and Eren obliged with long strokes from base to tip, long strokes that made Jean stutter embarrassingly.
"'B-Breathing? someone said, and someone said, Good. I p-prided myself on my good breathing as I felt the sleeve of my housecoat roll up.'" As for Jean's breathing patterns, well, he wouldn't be getting any standing ovations anytime soon. "'Something squeezed my arm like a tiny, forceful hug—ah—'"
There was a sudden sharp pressure at the tip of his cock, a fucking good one. Jean's voice hiked up a couple keys. That was Eren's mouth. That was the only explanation. He could still feel the vibrator—somewhere near his perineum now—and the other hand, holding him firmly at the base of his prick, but hadn't Armin only said manual stimulation? What the fuck was this? The dickwad probably hadn't been happy enough with Jean's responses, had wanted more desperate noises out of him—the fucking prick—
Jean's leg jolted of its own accord, his foot coming in contact with something hard. Eren's shin. A low grunt, and Eren pulled off.
Fuck. No, Jean hadn't wanted it to stop. That wasn't what he'd meant to express. God no, that was the farthest thing from what he wanted right now—
He reached down with one hand with what he hoped was a placating gesture, hoped to hell that Eren understood—oh, thank fuck, he was back, this time with a vengeance—
"'Cold metal went on my chest.'" A hard suck, noise almost escaping hollowed cheeks. Jean wondered what he looked like—if he was the type to gaze down, lashes lowered in concentration, or if those green eyes would be watching his every facial expression. Until this point he'd been following along with the story, but now—just words, strung together with nothing but the finest threads of his control. "'With someone listening to it, my breath sounded louder to me in my head. I felt like an instrument valuable enough to be measured and checked…'"
Eren was running his lips back and forth along the shaft, the motion almost kittenish with its seeming affection. His tongue flicked across the slit, and Jean's legs shook. When his lower teeth grazed the frenulum, Jean hissed on the word rules; quickly, Eren chased the sharpness away with a gentle lick, silver tongued.
With Eren under the table like this, he couldn't see or anticipate anything that was about the happen, and every movement resulted in amplified sensation for the lack of predictability. Twenty minutes was starting to sound like a bit too much—surely fifteen was enough to prove his point…
"'…like little stones trapped in his chest, and I worried about him then figured if he keeled over—'"
Sudden heat. Jean's hand flew up to his mouth, and his voice cracked on the last word. Eren had taken him fully into his mouth, the vibrator dropping altogether with a muted thump onto the carpet; Eren's fingers pressed bruises into the underside of Jean's thighs as he took him deep, throat working around him, pushing deeper, deeper—
"Oh, fuck," he bit out, teeth chafing the back of his hand, lips pulling back into a half-grimace, half-smile, and the words blurred. The book dropped, the hard spine hitting the table with a loud clatter before he picked it up again, hand shaking.
It occurred to him the ridiculousness of the situation, the utter ludicrousness. How fucking undone he was already—had it even been five minutes? And what was more: he'd gotten enough blowjobs in his life to be able to tell this was a good one. He hated to admit it, but it was probably the best he'd ever gotten.
He couldn't help it. He needed to see. Lifting the book ever-so-slightly to cover the trajectory of his gaze, he snuck a peek under the table.
It was only for a second, but he regretted it immediately as the image seared into his retinas; his dick twitched desperately at the sight: Eren, with his pupils blown, sucking him off with swollen lips wrapped tightly around the head of Jean's cock. And god, was he palming at himself through his sweats? Those green eyes were wide in surprise—he was a watcher, that one—rimmed with long dark lashes that clumped together as a result of—oh, he was really forcing himself onto Jean's cock, wasn't he? Shoving it down his throat, over and over—no wonder it'd felt so good—
"Keep reading, babe," he heard uttered softly, just for his ears—a cocksucker's rasp of a voice, and a jolt went up his spine at the sound.
Fuck you, he wanted to say, but all his body wanted to do was oblige. Air left him in a shaky exhale, and he continued.
"'To be honest, I was surprised the fire department hadn't come. Usually…'"
Eren had pulled off, and was now giving him lazy, long strokes, fist loose. Jean breathed through his nose between phrases, grateful for the reprieve as he tried to focus on the words once more. Then—a gentle suction at first, but growing stronger. Eren was sucking him again, quiet but intense, hand and mouth moving in tandem, rhythm regular, predictable.
The pressure grew, pushing him towards the edge. He could feel the familiar warmth starting at his toes, the inevitability of it. The words on the page were ants, scrambling from his focus, and he fought to regain it.
"'…bidding each other gruff goodnights, dr-dreaming collectively of their most secret desire, the great inferno worthy of their c-courage…'"
It shouldn't have been the most erotic thing, but when Eren's hand ran all the way from his mid-thigh to his hipbone under the loose material of his boxers, Jean shook, the second half of that sentence coming out in a harsh jumble of words, and with the next stroke he came down Eren's throat, hips jackknifing upwards with a strangled noise in his throat.
Eren choked at first, but took the unexpected turn in stride, swallowing around him, throat moving and sending aftershocks into Jean's groin. His toes curled in their cheap supermarket-brand socks. There was a hand around his base, rubbing gently.
When Jean's vision finally cleared, he realized he'd made a tear halfway down the page. He followed his trembling finger to the last line. "'To be honest, I prefer the paramedics,'" he finished, breathing heavily. "I'm Jean, and that was Emergency Contact by Michael Christie."
He felt Eren kiss the tip of his cock, imagined him smiling with come-stained lips, and he shuddered.
"And that's a wrap," Armin called. "Great job, Jean! That was perfect."
"Hey!"
Jean turned back to see Eren walking out from the building after him, an easy smile across his lips.
—lips that were just around his dick fifteen minutes ago—
He pushed the thought away. The guy was just doing his job. Wasn't he?
"What is it?" he said, feigning disinterest.
"You left a bit quick. And you came a bit qu—" Eren broke off with a laugh at his own wit. Jean glared at him. "Whoa, whoa, just a joke."
"That's what you came out here to say? Fuck you," Jean said, unreasonably angry. What else had he expected? But the way Eren looked at him—
"Might just let you," Eren replied casually, and Jean's eyes widened. Had he heard that right? Green eyes flicked down. "But here—your gift card. Did you forget?"
Oh. Right, the $25 gift card. Jean's lips tightened. "Thanks," he said curtly, and Eren looked as if he was about to say something, but stopped himself.
"See you around, Jean." He waved as he jogged back inside.
It wasn't until two weeks later (because he was both a bitter asshole and a lazy one) until Jean realized that inside the envelope that held the gift card, there was a small scrap of paper with a scrawled number and a messy note:
Call me.
P.S. u have a nice 8===D
.
...fin
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