Ok, so this is my first fanfiction ever so please go easy. Starts a little slow, I know but it is just the first chapter. Con-Crit is very very very welcome. If anyone has suggestions please let me know. Thanks so much for your time.

Thanks to everyone who has put in the time to read through with edits in mind! This is surely a learning experience for me since I have not written in quite a while and I am having trouble getting back into the swing of things! I have made small edits to this piece as of 10-6-13 10:00 Eastern standard time.

Please bare with me and do not hesitate to send me feedback. I write for you guys! 3 Thank you so much.

Lights Out

Chapter One

The world swam in Jean's vision for a moment. A pair of brown eyes shivered into existence and instantly his body shuddered to life beneath him. Dark lashes framed the small ponds of the warmest honey brown that he could have dredged up from the bottom of his imagination. He wanted to crawl into them and stay forever. Another ripple in the existence around him enveloped him in warmth. The kind of warmth you get on a cold winter morning while nestled deep beneath the covers. The kind that makes you wish you never had to move from its comfort. In all of this he was vaguely aware of the tightness growing just below his stomach. A subtle tension that seemed to gently overtake and envelope him in something Jean could only think of as ecstasy. He reveled in it as his body felt like it burned from some kind of odd inner fire that he assumed to originate somewhere behind his navel and radiate out to his finger tips, the back of his neck, his lower back, his toes, his-

Jean sat straight up in bed, sweat pouring down his face, panic sliding off of him like water, as his alarm screeched 7:00 am. It took Jean a few minutes to establish where he was, his eyes scanning the messy room. His jeans from yesterday sat on the floor next to the blue striped comforter that was only half way on the bed at this point. Not far from that was his favorite shirt. It was a red and grey crew neck that was vintage soft. The hem was nearly worn out of the bottom and it had a few blood stains near the neck line but he refused to give it up. The clothing was nestled among bits and pieces of paper and other trash. Action figures and collectible figurines lined shelves that were shoved full with comic books and notebooks. His walls were covered in posters of several different kinds, mostly of punk bands. He had gone through a phase several years ago and had never bothered removing them once his tastes had changed. He merely covered up the old with the new leaving the walls more messy than they truly should have been.

His desk was in equal disarray. His current notebook, a black and white composition book covered in sharpie and rock band stickers was left open revealing his chicken scratch to the dusty ceiling above. His plate and cup from last night's dinner sat not far from that in the midst of his scattered pile of differently colored ink pens and markers. He had been doing what he always did before bed. Journaling. Jean had always had a problem controlling his temper and it had not gotten any better when he entered middle school and met the most annoying kid of all time. He and Eren Jaeger had fought more times than he could count before his mother insisted on him going to counseling. The talking sessions helped little but when the counselor suggested writing, he found he honestly liked it. Venting with no one to ever judge him. No one to take someone elses side. Jean was now starting his senior year of high school and he had yet to leave his composition book at home for a single day since he had started. Last night, he had been in the middle of a big rant on how much Eren really, truly sucked when he had suddenly become overwhelmed with fatigue, crawled into bed, set his alarm, and... and...

And fallen into that weird dream that always made him wake up with the biggest boner. It was the most annoying thing in the entire world, even worse than Eren. "Fucking seriously? What the hell is wrong with me?" He ran a hand through his bleached hair, pushing it back and away from his sweat drenched forehead and laid back on the sheets, his hand instinctively sliding down his stomach to attempt to relieve the discomfort. His fingers slid past the elastic waistband of his black boxers as he slung his left arm over his eyes and he bit his lower lip, that pair of welcoming brown eyes swimming into his field of vision again just for a moment.

This had become a morning routine for the last few weeks. Nothing had ever been this persistent. Without fail, he woke up in the same predicament. What was more annoying is that he had no idea what had triggered the strange dream and why he ended up jacking off thinking about those damn eyes every morning. It was maddening. He just couldn't place them.

"JEAN! YOU ARE GOING TO BE LATE!" The yell pulled Jean from his reverie. "GET UP, NOW! DO NOT MAKE ME COME UP THERE!"

"JESUS, MOM! FINE! I'M UP!" He grumbled as he reluctantly tugged his hand back out of the band and slid from the bed finding his legs less than stable. This was not the first time he had been interrupted, of course. He shuffled through the littered floor, kicking a dirty shirt and a pair of basketball shorts out of the way and into the bathroom where he cringed as he flipped on the light. He took one look at himself in the mirror and cringed. The dark circles under his eyes weren't too deep, but he still hated seeing them. Not to mention the obvious tent in his boxers. He groaned quietly to himself, stripping off what little clothing he had on and dropped it on the ground as he turned on the water for his shower.

It only took him a few moments to fumble around, awkwardly washing all the important bits and dousing himself in icy water. He shambled back out, grabbing the previously used towel from the rack and rubbing himself dry. A short time later, he was dressed and brushing out his hair, which really just did what it wanted to anyway. When he felt that he was done he took another look at himself in the mirror, studying his reflection. His black shirt was a simple cut, without any logos. It sported several small holes in the left sleeve, probably from hitting the ground during a fight. His jeans were medium wash and pretty torn up, not to mention just a little too loose. He had owned them for a while now, so when he had slimmed a little in the last year or so, gaining more muscle as he grew, they had began to slide down more and more. His leather studded belt was essential in keeping them in place now. He hated the feeling that his pants could slide off at any moment. He just couldn't understand walking around perpetually asking to be pantsed. He wouldn't put anything past the practical jokers at school, especially not Connie and Sasha. They were famous for making everyone into an ass with little to no effort, themselves included. His ears had several piercings, the bottommost having a slight gauge. He could not quite remember how big, but he was pretty sure the last size he remembered buying were sixes. They were just small white tigers eye plugs, nothing fancy or flashy. The others were normal studs, with the exception of the industrial on his left side. His parents had not been pleased about that one at all. Deeming himself presentable after a few more minutes of scrutiny he stepped back into his room to tug on his nearly worn out red converse, that were now more brown than red. He had just grabbed his journal and stuffed it into his bag when his mother called up the stairs again.

"JEAN!"

"CHILL OUT, MOM! I AM COMING!" Hastily sweeping a handful of pens and markers into his bag, he slung it onto his back and jogged out his room and down the stairs just in time for his mother to thrust a brown bag at his head and hurry him out the front door as the bus turned around the corner. He cursed under his breath at seeing the big yellow-orange behemoth. He swore there was not another senior in the whole damned school who had to ride the fucking bus. His Mom said he wasn't responsible enough to drive to school yet. With a regretful look over his shoulder at the black and chrome '67 T-top corvette sitting in the driveway that would be his after graduation, he hurried to the end of his driveway, not willing to deal with the rage his mother would spit at him if he missed the cheesewagon again.