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firefly--bright · 8 days ago

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ˋ°•*⁀➷ 𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧!

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern smau.

⁀➷ episode four ; rats!

⁀➷ warnings➷ as the title suggests - rats. reader is a rat girl thru n thru so if you dont agree with those ideals....you might be in the wrong place/please sit thru this one </3 mentions of killing said rodent also. anyway! tw for VERY awkward conversation, i cant help it. youre going to get secondhand embarrassment. also connie might be a little ooc, im working on writing him better with other fics as practice :') but if you guys have any suggestions please feel free to message me about them!

➷ episode soundtrack.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

➷ Tuesday, 6:27 p.m.

there was a squeaking nearby. in the main living area, with the couches pushed against each other to create a cozy space, there was a squeaking - rustles.

you should've known. An apartment where three guys lived with each other in a somewhat cramped space, you should've known hygiene would be an issue; even with marco around. of course there was going to be a rogue rat thinking this was its home as much as it was the actual inhabitants of the place.

Connie flinched from beside you, back sitting up straight, eyes scattering across the room widely; like laser beams, scanning every wall and hinge at the sign of the noise.

“did you hear that?” he asks, making you glance over at him in half amusement and half curiosity.

“sounds like we got a rat in the walls-” “don't. no we don't what do you-” his paranoid sentence is broken up by an equally nervous laugh, more adjacent to a scoff than anything, “-what do you mean? ha. we don't….have those.” his voice diminished just as the sentence did, turning down its pitch until it was barely heard.

oh but you heard it. “are you scared of rats?” you ask, your laptop shifting from its position over the blanket that only half-covered your legs, elbow resting on the back of the couch.

his head whips around at you as if you're the culprit of the squeaks. “and you're not?”

you open your mouth, ready to defend all rodents - to become a voice of the needy - when the needy voices spoke for themselves. another squeak. a couple whimpers, really, that bled into the whimpers coming from your friend as he huddled closer to you, placing the heels of his feet on the cushions of the couch. He pulled his shirt over both his knees, wrapping his arms around them.

you try not to laugh. Really, you do, but he looks like a shiny ball with his freshly dyed grey hair as he shakes back and forth, and a snicker escapes you regardless.

fatal mistake. the bald ball - Connie - turns to face you. slowly.

your assignment is only half complete, his prop designing assignment is only in its initial experimental phase (as he likes to describe it), as Connie jumps at the sound of the door opening, his experimental prototype of what's supposed to be a half eaten sandwich made out of silicone and sponge jumps along with him, falling to the floor with a thud.

“why is Connie rolling around?” marco asks from the door frame, bag of groceries in his right hand, swinging the door wide open with the other. jean, without missing a beat or even looking at the guy, mutters in a tone loud enough, “I think it's second nature to him.” his own hands hold bags of groceries and a stack of toilet papers - the list of which had been stuck to the fridge door for the past three weeks, a pure product of its procrastination.

you sigh as you stand up, placing your laptop gently on the couch unlike connie’s project.

“he heard a rat in the walls,”

both the other men fell silent. staring at you dead in the eyes, Jean's features turned gaunt, while marco sighed heavily, eyes screwing shut in frustration.

“this happened last year too….god, it's like they migrate every single time.”

you shrug, trying hard not to find humor in the situation, but jean’s usually guarded and somewhat cocky spirit had vanished completely, replaced by a corpse. It was haunting, really; he stood as still as a statue, almost waiting for another noise to break him out of his stupor.

“maybe they like your home-” “I'll kill them.” Connie mutters, unconvincingly, his back now pressed against the bottom, cushioned legs of the couch, still rocking back and forth. marco sighed again, burden heavy on his shoulders, as he half-turned around, ready to head out of the door again,”I'm gonna go get the rat traps from the store,” he declared meekly, trying to push jean out of the way. he remained steady.

“wait, no need, I have one in my closet.” you call out, making all of them - well, marco and Connie - look at you. jean hadn't taken his eyes off of you since you'd confirmed a non-existent suspicion, and the invisible yet tangible contact made you want to squirm under his attention.

“you do?” marco asked.

“SAVIOUR. THE RAT GODDESS HAS COME UPON US,” Connie shouted, no longer rocking, head poking out of his burrow, eyes gazing up at you. was he….crying? his eyes were glassy, you noted, before jean took your attention away, no longer cosplaying as a statue of himself. “don't…call her that, it doesn't sound right.”

“why are you speaking on a woman's behalf, jean?” Connie asked, all previous anxiety replaced in favour of pure enjoyment.

“i didn't - I'm not- I just…if anything, she's, yknow,” jean says, not finishing the sentences, to which you tilt your head in question.

“i don't know, jean. I'm what, exactly?”

there was a brief silence, one in which jean stared at you, mouth gaping open and close like a bored fish, before he sucked in a breath and groaned, “mumble mumble mumble, you get it,” before moving to his room without a second glance, grocery bag and toilet paper still in hand.

“is he planning to use all of those?” you ask, marco not paying full attention as he placed all the groceries on the kitchen counter to organize, while Connie yelled, “jean kirstein, your ass is not fat enough to hoard all of those for yourself! i deserve some charmin’ love, c'mere baby boy!”

apartment 201 was never quiet. you allowed yourself to enjoy it.

➷ Sunday, 2:02 p.m.

In the bustle of jean cleaning the dishes left from lunch and connie snoring - somehow through the noise - on the undeniably comfortable couch with half his body hanging off of the furniture, it was easy to not hear the continuous squeaks.

Oh, but they were there. You knew it. Polo’s ears twitched at the sound, and marco turned around from packing the leftovers to greet his furry best friend. “You want a treat, bud? You just had lunch,” he said, wondering out loud.

From your crouched position at Polo’s paws, you spoke, “i think he can sense the rats,”

Jean stumbled with the dish in his hand, slipping it into the bubbles involuntarily. Clearing his throat, he murmured an apology and an excuse, none of which you actually bought. Stuffing the box of Tupperware into the too-full fridge that was as old as your grandmother, marco also crouched beside you, his knees snapping.

Scratching polo behind his ears, he said, “we should do something about that before connie has another panic attack.” his voice was a few octaves higher, as if he was having a conversation with polo and not the kitchen.

You breathe out a laugh, watching them interact. “I can take care of it,” you tell them, tilting your head so you can see polo better. His eyes are closed at the gentle caresses from his owner, mouth open with his tongue sticking out, pleased. Patting him on the head, you get up to help jean.

He’s about elbow deep in soap, pink gloves covered in suds. “Need help?” you ask, resting you hands on the counter.

he looks at you as if he wasn't expecting you to be there. You haven't had a lot of luck with him after last week - though you’ve connected a little more with connie and marco, especially after the latter brought polo back into the apartment - Jean mostly either stayed to himself or on campus, finishing up work that required bigger materials. You wanted, desperately, to see what he was working on, what kept him so busy, but you couldn't walk into the architecture building and claim the studio space as your own. You weren't close enough to jean for that, and for some reason, you were back to square one.

With his hair coming undone across his forehead, you blink up at him as his mouth opens and closes, searching for an answer. “Yeah, yeah… uhm, you can grab the towel over there-” he nods at the napkin “-and uh, dry these, i guess.”

You nod once, set on your task. Every dish had its own story, with it’s scratches set in ceramic, wiped clean from any visible grime. Marco stepped next to you to make some after-lunch coffee and flashed a smile at you, one that you returned. “Want one?” he asked. You shook your head, muttering a small thank you anyway. Glancing at jean to ask him if he wanted one too, you saw him wiping his forehead with his shoulder, trying to get his hair out of his face with a scowl, obviously failing. You said nothing, instead averting your eyes and going back to wiping dishes.

Red. blue. A murky green, and then a bowl that was more of a plate, decorated with thin blue stripes that you had used for your lunch today. Swiping your napkin over it, placing it aside to be kept in its home in a bit. You gleaned at jean again after marco left the kitchen, polo scurrying behind him like a golden shadow.

“I can-” you said, hesitating. His attention turned on you - “i can help with your… your hair, if you want.” you said pointing to your own forehead, napkin still held in your fist. Jean’s eyebrows shot up his now completely covered forehead, “oh. I mean…im not-” “-not like, with my hands if that, if that creeps you out,” “-oh?” “yeah…uhm, i can…. Try it with a…fork?” you say, wincing at your own statements, face scrunched in visible regret.

Maybe that does the trick, because he cracks a small smile, with an even smaller laugh.

“With a fork?” he says, amused. You roll your eyes, only a little annoyed. “Hey, man, let me have this.” he laughs a bit louder now, his smile enough to touch his cheeks instead of just his lips. He nods, convinced but hesitant.

Grabbing the nearest, newly wiped fork, you hold it in your hand like brandishing a sword, and point at his hair. He flinches backwards with a “woah,” to which you reply, “i’ll be careful.”

And you are, to your credit, as you gently lift his hair and push it back behind his hairline, making sure that the prongs don't graze his skin.

A daunting task. You step back to observe your work. “Yeah?” you say, with a smile that's half approval and half question. He nods, “yeah,” while avoiding eye contact. “Youre surprisingly good at that,” he adds, pointing to your fork with a pink-gloved hand, water dripping on the floor from it.

“It's my years of practice. Im… a mermaid?” you say, unsure of every word that comes out of your mouth, and he barks out a surprised laugh. “Right,” “yeah, that’s why im not touching the water. I’ll just… grow a tail-” “-grow a tail, yeah, no i get it. Sounds… magical,” he says, playing along with your terrible attempt at a bit. “A little weird, too”

You scoff, a little humorous, “coming from the guy who likes to avoid people,”

There's only some regret that comes tumbling out of your mouth at a form of, “i mean, i didnt mean to say that,” half-heartedly, but jean nods, his lips sealed into a thin line with guilt.

“No, youre right.” he starts, “Its just…i get too in my head about this, like- dont get me wrong, you’re a nice person, it’s just that we havent been friends before you moved in, y’know?” he says, his hands - gloves and all - making animated figures in the air, articulating his point with silent drawings.

“I get that,” you say, softly enough for connie’s loud snores to almost drown your voice. But jean gets it, and his hands stop fidgeting, instead finding peace at his sides. “But… you can start to be my friend, too, yknow? So im not a stranger living under your roof?”

His eyes finally meet yours. “Yeah,” he says, just as softly as you, “i’d like that.”

There's a beat of silence where you can feel the weight of something newer, out of control but still close enough to be called yours. He clears his throat, glancing at the fork that lays still in your hand, waiting for it’s story to be told.

“As long as we clean that fork,” he says, pointing at the object. You lift it up with a cheeky smile, “nah, i cant touch water, remember?”

He laughs.

➷ Monday, 8:12 p.m.

“So, is the rat situation under control?” sasha says, almost scaring some of the patrons that you're meant to be serving as she sneaks up at the register.

“Thank you, you can collect your drink after your name’s been called up. Have a great night!” you say, politeness clipped into your tone, before turning around to face your friend. “Dude, youre going to make the customers think we have rats.”

Sasha waves her hand dismissively, “they’d drink the coffee anyway. College students dont care about that.”

“I think they do very much care about it, considering how connie and jean were acting,”

Sasha barks out a laugh at that, her hands moving swiftly on the espresso machine, cleaning up the stray coffee grounds that had escaped from the portafilter, flinging them into its dedicated can. “Jean likes to act all nonchalant about it, but i swear he’s losing sleep. Connie’s just a scaredy cat, plus he has history. I had to take care of most of the bugs when i was living with them.”

You shake your head with a laugh, “beating gender stereotypes one rat at a time,”

She points to you with a smile, her tone approving, “exactly. So when are you going to meet mr. squeaks?”

You hum thoughtfully, “my long lost twin,” to which she laughs, brewing hot espresso into a glass shot. “Luckily, i still have my rat trap from the last time this happened at my own place, so i can set it up tonight and hopefully, tomorrow, i’ll meet the famous guy,”

“Fame-mouse little guy,” she says, elbowing you in the ribs, forcing out a laugh from you.

“Yeah. fame-mouse. The moment i get a place of my own that allows pets and isnt a glorified dungeon, im buying a white rat.”

“Hmm, will that be Pip or Squeak?”

You snort. “It’ll be Pip. The cat will be Squeak. So its ironic.”

“Of course. How could it not be. Youre a poetic genius.”

“So ive been told,” you say, holding the warm cappuccino in your hands and calling out the order’s name.

Noor waited for you outside the steps of the cafe, keenly observing something rustling in the bushes, her arms kept to herself, tucked under her leather coat that she had proudly stolen from her mother during summer break. When she hears you stepping out, however, her shoulders drop in relief.

“I think there’s something in the bushes,” she says, shaking her head towards the subject. You hand her a cup of your concoction - raspberry cold foam tea. Nothing too experimental tonight, considering you weren't the one closing, leaving the rest up to sasha, who had claimed there were some tricks she’d learned from nicolo for closing up faster. You trust her.

“Must be rats,” you shrug, looping your arm into hers as she leans against your side, shuddering in disgust. “Why would you say that to me. I was having a normal da- actually, i wasnt.” she says, and you feel your cheeks lifting at her shift in mood, your feet moving at a slow speed to match with the pace of her story as she recounted her day.

“You will not believe who was in our textile class today. Dont even start guessing, actually, because i wanna say it. Baldy fucking springer. Constantinople. Whatever his name is.” “he seems like a conrad,”

“ew, thats worse. Loser white boy name. Anyway, he was there, right, which is crazy because what job does he even have here? Apparently he wanted the professor's advice for one of his prop projects which i call total bullshit.” she says, glancing sideways at you, waiting for you to confirm.

You nod vigorously, “oh yeah, i dont think making some fake food needs a deep dive on textiles.”

She scoffs. “And then when i walked into class he immediately came over to my desk to bother me and namedropped the prof as if they were old buddies. God, i hate that.”

“Me too,” you say, half agreeing with your ears fully peeled for her voice. Undoubtedly, connie had started growing on you, especially with the whole rat fiasco. Everytime he heard the squeaks, he would glance at you as if waiting for you to translate the sound into something that made sense for his human mind. You'd catch him leaving treats for the mouse, and when asked, he said he was doing the “opposite of white fang. Black toothing.” the literary ramifications of which you weren't even going to unpack. To fuck with him, though, you did make a soundtrack with over three hours of the ratatouille soundtrack interlaced with Mouse Squeaking sounds so he’d be jumpscared by it.

You think you accidentally desensitized him instead.

But now was not the time to disclose that.

“He just gets on my fucking nerves. He wouldnt let me concentrate the entire time. His fucking perfume, too, god, it’s like he bathed in it. Smelled like a macho-man version of what he thinks could be vanilla.”

“Oh, i think that might be jean’s, actually.” you say, an amused smile playing at your lips. “He’s very pretentious about his…smells. I think he has an entire space in the living room for it like a display,”

She takes another sip before laughing. “So stupid. Hows that going, by the way? I mean… like, living with practical strangers and a manchild?”

“You could be talking about either of the three and i’d agree with you. Except for marco.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely.”

You sigh, looking back ahead. Only a couple more minutes for her awaited apartment, and then a couple more for yours. You didnt mind leaving her at her place before yours - you preferred it, in fact, because her goddess of a room-mate would always give you something from the fridge or the pantry, asking you to stay for longer.

But not tonight. You had a mission tonight.

“Its… i mean, he did awkwardly ignore me for almost a whole week? But then it was fine because i called him out on it yesterday. We’ve been…chill? I think? I dont think i’ll ever know where i stand with him.” you say, shaking your head.

Noor hums from beside you, something you feel more than hear, your shoulders touching hers, a natural rhythm settling over your bones. It was easy with her. Not having to second guess, always knowing the jokes would land because she’d be the ones catching the stray ones that don't usually stick.

“God. that fucking sucks,” she says plainly, and that’s all you needed. No solution to ‘talk it out’ (something your mother would recommend, not that you’d told her that you were living with two strange men, one normal one, and one dog. She’d make you give up and move back home), no patronising ‘i know how you feel’, either. Just a fact that was laid for observation and attention, something she provided tenfold.

Her thumb traced a familiar warm pattern on the sleeve of your arm where her hand rested - a silent acknowledgement.

You rest your head on her inviting shoulder.

She rests her head on yours - muscle memory. “Wanna spend the night at mine?” another warm invitation, this time said out loud and open.

You hum, “I wish. I need to get the rat out of our place, though. Dont know how connie-” she fakes a gag at that - “will sleep tonight if i dont,”

“Youre going to put a trap up only for him to be the one to get trapped in there.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Are you saying he’s the rat?”

“No, I'm saying he’s stupid enough to do that as a human being.”

You agree.

➷ Monday, 10:31 p.m.

Dinner was had. The preparations were set. Connie wore his old blue basketball helmet that you were sure was too small for his head.

“What are you even trying to protect?” jean asks connie, sitting on the couch, observing your moves with precision, almost like he’s noting them down for future reference.

Marco sits next to you on the floor, holding a piece of the crust of a slice of bread smothered in butter. “is this… are you sure about this?” he asks as you open up the rat trap, opening the cage.

“Yeah, dont worry. Ive done this many times.” you mutter. You try not to let the rust of the cage bother you - it was one of the items you had been given by a rather kind old neighbour from your old place after you had asked her about the rat problem.

She told you about leaking pipes and moldy food. Something about capitalism and the rat race? You couldnt remember the details of the conversation, but you remembered the absolutely delicious watermelon she had cut up for you that day.

With your tongue poling out of your mouth in concentration, jean and connie sitting on the couch stiffly - the former clutching a pillow to his chest and the latter clad in his helmet, chest and knee pads along with a bat - murmuring their arguments to each other, marco sitting next to you, leaning in close to view your work, and polo sleeping on his dog bed on the opposite end of the room, it seemed like the whole room held its breath, walls contracting in anticipation.

“Done!” you exclaimed with a smile, standing up and cracking your bones. “Now we wait.”

The anticipation lies still within the apartment. “....we wait?” connie asks, voice small. You almost cant make his face out of the bars that conceal it. You nod to his question, plopping down on the cushioned chair yourself.

All three of them are looking at you. “What?”

“So i dressed up like this….for nothing?” connie asks, a little broken-hearted. Jean’s grip on the pillow loosens. “Thats a you problem, nobody told you to dress like this.” “im trying out a new type of fashion,”

“Speaking of fashion,” you start, and connie looks at you - or so you assume. “Noor was telling me you were in her textile class today?” you ask. Not really meant to be a tease or a threat, more of a simple prod of his intentions. You wiggled your eyebrows, “whats that all about, man?”

“Oh my god,” marco said, still on the ground, his hand now covering his face in embarrassment.

Jean just groaned while rolling his eyes, back relaxing into the couch.

“I was just trying to talk,” connie says, voice anything but innocent, but he shrugs like its not a big deal.

“Why are you hellbent on annoying the poor girl?” marco asks, and you nod in agreement.

“Hey! Im not annoying her-” “-i dont think he can help being annoying, to be honest-” jean mutters. Connie pays him no mind “-i was genuinely trying to talk to her. I think she’s a nice person, and you know me, i always want to make friends!” he says, convincing no-one but himself.

“Right,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

He doesn't say anything for a second, lost in thought. Then, “why? Did she say something about me?” he asks. If you knew him better, you might assume he was hopeful.

You try to break the news to him gently, “well…she thinks…” you trailed off. Catching jeans eye, he nods with a smirk, egging you on. “She thinks youre… persuasive.”

“Yes!” connie cheers. Jean scoffs from beside him. Marco just shakes his head in disbelief, a smile on his lips.

“I didnt mean that as a compliment,” you inform, which simmers his spirits down.

“Dude, im telling you, apologize to her first.” jean says, patting connie’s back placatingly. Marco nods in agreement, but your face twists in displeasure, catching jean’s eye again.

“I dont think that’ll work, but youre welcome to try,” you speak. “I mean, she’s amazing and kind but she might need more than that,”

“I can get flowers. What flowers does she like?” “thats not-” “or i can get her coffee! Whats the one she always gets?” “i dont think you should-” you try, but jean cuts you off with a quip of his own. “Yeah? With whose money? Besides, buying your way into forgiveness isnt going to work.”

Connie settles back down with a groan. “Okay. i guess i’ll say sorry.” he concedes.

“Wait, so when do we catch the rat?” jean asks, diverting the topic.

You shrug. “We just have to leave it where we think the rat is and hope it gets lured in by the toast.”

“I guess polo’s going to sleep in my room tonight.” marco says, glancing at the mop of golden hair in the corner of the room. Jean nods in understanding. Connie shivers dramatically, “ugh, i can feel him crawling on me.”

“It could be a her,” you say.

“Nah, all rats are men.” jean snorts at connie’s confidence, “yeah, youd know wouldnt you?”

“What the hell does that mean, horsey?”

“Fuck you.”

“Youd like that, wouldnt you?”

The rest of the conversation is blocked by your ears, making your way to your room with a shake of your head and smile, muttering an exhausted goodnight to marco and lightly petting polos golden fur.

➷ Tuesday, 7:47 a.m.

You crouch next to the prison that traps the rat, who scurries around the limited cage. Waving to it with your finger, you smile at it.

“GET THAT FURBALL AWAY FROM ME.” connie shouts, refusing to step out of the threshold of his room. Jean stands a couple steps behind you, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Marco made himself scarce this morning after sending the text, claiming he needed to tend to polo’s needs.

“Thats a slur.” you joke, raising your head to look at your room mate. He clutches the door frame with white knuckles, his helmet and pads still adorning his body. He seemed to have slept in them, and you wouldnt doubt the fact that he slept with the bat he had been clutching last night either.

Jean’s brows were twisted in slight concern, slight amazement and worry, his face showing his emotions more than his demeanor or words could. “You…. you need help in… killing it?”

You whip your head towards him, eyes wide. “We’re not killing this guy,” you claim, shaking your head. There was no way you could allow something other than natural causes to bring any misfortune upon this little creature. It must already be so scared being in an unknown trapped environment.

“Sorry bud… we’re not killing you, i promise.” you address the rat - Squeak, you’d named him, as sasha had pointed out the other day - and then turn back to jean. “We’re gonna let it go downstairs. Besides, logically speaking, there's no way we can kill Squeak. He’s pretty big.”

Jean hums thoughtfully, “fat ass rat.”

You breathe out a laugh at Squeak’s expense. He seems to hear you, stopping his needless pacing. “Can you grab the door real quick?”

jean leaves your side to do as instructed, finding it very easy to be as far away from the rat as possible in his current state. He hadnt even gotten the chance to eat breakfast or comb his hair back when connie’s relentless screeching woke him up. How you slept through it, he had no idea. With what jean can only define as pure bravery, you hold up the cage by its handle and walk out of the door, leaving his eyes to trail after you. The rat seemed to have calmed down and patiently awaited its release, staying in place as the cage softly swung in your grasp.

“Jean,” you call out, snapping his attention to your eyes instead of the load in your hands, “can you-” your head motioned for the elevator doors. He scrambled to open it, ensuring the doors wouldnt close by shielding the opening with his back pressed against cold metal.

squeak. squeak.

the rat seemed to almost speak it's excitement to leave the cage - and subsequently also their apartment - as the elevator creaked into action. “so when you said you'd do this often…” jean started, trailing off when he found himself lacking the words to makes coherent sentence while the gremlin in your hands stared at him with beady eyes. he'd never vocalize it, though, because the slight smile on your face was enough to not speak about his fears.

you shrug, an easy expression on your face. you'd also just woken up, and clad in your shirt that was splattered with different blotched of bright paint against the stark background of the fabric with shorts to match, you didn't look disgruntled. somehow, you still looked put-together to your best possible efforts, and jean felt a little out of place knowing he probably looked like shit.

“there were a couple in my old apartment.” you said. jean nodded, listening. “did you ever name any of them?”

that seemed to get your attention to his eyes, smile growing slowly

on your face, soft and present.

“there was one that I named Tuna.” you said, reminiscent. “for ironic purposes.” you added. there was a pattern there - easy to read and open for jean to see - that you liked to name things ironically. he'd have to ask you why some other time, he notes, opting to continue the non-hesitant back-and-forth you have going on.

“purr-poses,” jean says, almost out of instinct, and before he could apologize or correct himself, you laugh.

he counted it as a win. first laugh of the day, and it had only been accomplished about twenty minutes in. score.

“that wasn't bad,” you comment.

jean shrugged with a smirk that bordered on being genuine, “eh, I've done better,”

“sure you have.”

“what does that-”

the elevator doors opened before jean could argue with your statement. he swore he could see your teasing smile as you escaped the cramped four walls, and jean breathed out a sigh of relief.

the birds were chirping almost too loudly when he stepped out behind you, following your lead as you made your way to the edge of the sidewalk.

“well, Squeak, this is it,” you said, setting the cage down and crouching next to it. jean simple watched you with his arms crossed over his chest, the same expression adorning his face from before - slight amusement and slight concern.

“be brave, bud. make sure to stay away from traffic.” you said. if jean didn't know any better, he could've assumed you were talking to your own pet. you turned your face enough to glance at him, “do you wanna say anything to him?”

he blinked. “uhm… best of luck? thanks for not eating our food unless offered. I'll….miss your squeaks,” he said, nodding in satisfaction after he was finished with his goodbye speech. he felt like he was giving a eulogy.

turning back to the cage, you waved at the rat before opening the door. it seemed confused at first, but soon after sending his freedom, rushed out of the cage, scurrying away from the pair of you.

you stood up. jean observed as Squeak ran with his tail dragging behind him, in search of the nearest drainage inlet.

“i hope he finds his way.” he hears you speak, and if he wasn't close

to you, he'd probably wouldn't have heard.

“i think he will. seems like a smart mouse.”

“i knew it, you're warming up to him!” you say, turning to jean with the same teasing smirk as before. this time, jean can see it in full bloom - against the morning sun, your eyelashes created shadows on your under eyes.

jean scoffed, “a little to late for it,”

“but you're admitting it, though. that you like Squeak.” you push.

he does. He thinks he might just actually miss squeak. or maybe that's because you've convinced him to. Either way, he did grow to care for the rat, and it was easier because he was comfortable admitting it to you more than anyone.

“im not admitting anything,” he counters. he saying it just for the sake of argument, but his resolve had already crumbled.

you hum knowingly, “sure, jean.”

the way you say his name would've made his heart stop in a different context. maybe in a public setting, or if you were to whisper it the way you just said it, he would've dropped his drink.

“you’ll miss him and you know it. and I know it too,” you say, turning around to head back into the building, your hair lighting up with the rays of the sun.

his mind works its way through various loops, the cogs in his brain turning to provide a suitable quip to your sentence.

“you think you know everything, pip?” he says after a bit. it's his turn to retain a teasing smirk now, as you look at him with eyes that seem to have laughter etched into them. “Pip?” you ask, but he knows you already know the answer.

“like, yknow… Pip and Squeak. your hypothetical rats. i think it suits you.” he says, his eyes refusing to meet yours because he's making a very important point that he cannot stand being refuted.

but you don't refute it. instead, you laugh softly, nodding to the new proclamation as if you're feeling out the name. “is that what you're gonna call me now?”

jean hums in agreement. “yeah. can't change it.”

“right,” you say, smile still present, “I like it.”

jean smiles too. you like it.

ˋ°•*⁀➷

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⁀➷ taglist ➷ @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @jeanscremebrulee , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @raazberry , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @a-fflict1on , @gojo-ana , @ppushable , @zombiefiedskeivy , @candleohappiness , @alt—er—love , @1ovede1uxe , @aspinny , @sevriizy , @toscapaeron , @whoevenisjessica , @simone-tb , @mrsryuguji , @bxsmxx , @my-dear-historia .

⁀➷ a/n ➷sorry for lowkey abandoning this (can be said about a lot of my fics tbh) im trying to work on it!! its just that these fics take a lot of time to with edit all the pictures and making sure theyre perfect to post. its p hard to do it all in one sitting :( anyway! hope you guys liked this one! :) also please leave any and all constructive criticisms you have about this fic! im swimming out of my comfort zone with this one, so if anything can be made better or changed, id love to do that to the best of my abilities <3

⁀➷ comments, likes, reblogs are always appreciated!

line dividers by @peachesofteal

#jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #aot #jean kirstein x you #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #jean kirschtein #marco bodt #connie springer #sasha braus #modern au #attack on titan smau #aot smau #femreader #jean kirstein smau #jean kirschtien #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirschtein x reader #jean x reader

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firefly--bright · 19 days ago

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started dusk to dawn when I was starting out in my second year in college and nowim going to start my third year in like. two weeks. happy one year anniversary

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #am i incredibly slow in updating? yea....

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firefly--bright · 20 days ago

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head over heels!

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u., b99 a.u.

summary ; detective kirstein has a nice ring to it, you think, and jean thinks you light up the dingy apartment that you had turned into your home. warnings ; not proofread </3 too tired a/n ; this has been in the drafts for so long i miss my man. i will be making a part two/series of this, but for now, meetcute to quench your (and my) thirst :3 taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy , @1ovede1uxe , @sevriizy , @toscapaeron

✿ masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ requests for headcanons are open! ✿

middle tile art creds @/sonagee on twitter!

“this is fucking disgusting, horseboy,” eren says, stepping into the suspiciously smelling apartment building, his boots scruffing up against the poorly maintained floors.

jean snatched the green juice back from him. “fuck off, Yeager. it's called being healthy on duty.”

“yeah?” eren scratches behind his ear, “take a sip, then,”

jean scoffs. “You take a sip.” he retorts, childishly, holding up the picture of their current victim - a woman in her late thirties, blonde hair that barely touched the top of her shoulders, a mole under her left eye. Their carpeted footsteps stumbled through the narrow hallway and jean gulped down the urge to gag. Not because of his green juice, but because of the smell of… ammonia and what jean guessed to be rust in the air. At least, he hoped.

Eren knocked on the door infront of him, three loud raps against the quiet afternoon air - suspiciously quiet for being in the city, but jean rolled his shoulders back to appear more intimidating. “Pdp,” eren called out, bored. Turning to jean, he mumbles, “do you smell that?” “yeah, probably your fucking perfume.” before the door opens, cutting off anything eren wouldve liked to argue. an abysmally loud creak pierces through jeans ears and he winces, his eyes shutting involuntarily.

“hello miss,” eren speaks directly to the person infront of him, the door letting out the smell of apples and…cinnamon? was he smelling it right? suddenly the smell in the hallway was just an echo, and jean opened his eyes to find you in front of him, hand on the door as if you're physically keeping it in place, and you're speaking. you're saying something but jean can't hear.

a detective with six years under his belt, sixty something arrests - sixty seven, not that he's counting, of course, but eren only has sixty six - and he gets flustered over a girl.

granted, a very pretty girl.

“sorry about the door,” you say, knocking on the heavy wood, “everything in this building is dying.”

“speaking of,” eren says, small smile on his face as he turns towards jean with his palm upturned. jean blinks. what does he want?

“oh,” jean hands him the picture of the victim - Elizabeth Schafer - “have you… seen her anywhere, around here, maybe? or…or y'know, ever?” jean stutters through his sentence, making two questions of a statement that was supposed to be just one. out of his periphery, erens smirk gets more demeaning. a bait to tease jean until the end of time, again.

you hum in thought. “she was the upstairs guy’s girlfriend,” you say, shrugging, “I used to talk to her sometimes. is she…” you trail off, keeping the word as heavy as death away from the comfort of your box apartment. jean could only nod with pursed lips, glancing down at his feet.

“yeah… if you know the victim, we have a couple questions to ask you,” eren said, filling in the gap left in Jean's inner, panicky monologue. should he compliment you? that wouldn't make sense, would it? you're just wearing pyjamas, he'd come off as a creep. so what should he do? just ask the questions like a professional, hoping that you'd see his stoicism as mildly attractive and ask him for his number? or should he poorly attempt small talk as he usually did when he saw pretty people across the bar near the 104th, which seemed to work only on two percent of the people he tried to talk to.

“sure!” you say, interrupting his thoughts, your eyes flash to his briefly, and his heart almost skips a beat. biologically almost impossible, but then why did the English language make it up? whatever. his mind is going in uneven circles, his skin crawling with warmth. he hates this. “do you guys wanna come inside till then? if it'll take a while?” you ask, thumb pointing behind you in invitation.

eren glanced at jean, and he regretted the moment he signed up to the Paradis 104th where he'd be assigned to detective eren Yeager, like a turbulent marriage, and erens expression reflects it because he knows what jean is thinking about. looking back at you, ignoring how hard jean’s heart is beating out of his chest, he smiles wide enough for it to be considered slightly cocky, a bit too all-knowing, and says, “sure, your house smells better than the whole building.”

jean hates to admit it, but he hates how much better eren is at talking to pretty people than he is. jean may have more arrests (just one, but it still counts), but eren knows how to charm people into talking, fool them by being their friend to get an unknowing confession.

they work well that way, jean thinks as he steps inside your apartment, holding the door open with his back, his ears turning warm at how you say “thank you,” to him, as if holding the door open was a big deal.

the door closes shut almost as soon as jean steps in, and you continue your conversation with eren, telling him how you had to combat the bad smell somehow so you purchased almost a lifetime supply of candles with coupons you had scavenged. soft music that jean guessed sourced from your bedroom, seeping out into the small living space. jean looked around as eren kept asking you questions. he should shut the fuck up, but then again, jean didn't know how to fill in the gaps of the conversation.

“i was gonna make some hot chocolate right now,” you mention, slipping away into your kitchen - if it could even be called that - and pulling out three mugs from your cabinet, without even waiting for confirmation. your easy smile made jean dizzy. he could use some hot chocolate right now. “would you guys like some?” you asked, but the answer was already assumed because your hands moved towards the fridge before he could say “yes, yeah. sure.”

good. casual. eren bumped his elbow into Jean's arm, prompting him to say something interesting, but all jean could muster up was a side eye with a scowl to his partner.

“you said you knew the victim?” “you've got nice taste in music-” the both of them said, jean trying to take the professional route while eren opted for something immature.

you didn't seem to be bothered. your hands moved on their own, breaking apart a bar of chocolate and putting it in a pot with a little bit of milk. you glanced up at them, smiling even wider at the weirdly thoughtful compliment - dammit, eren - “thanks, it's a playlist my friend made for me. and I mean…I didn't know her that well, just as an acquaintance. she was really nice though. one time, she helped me with the groceries, my hands were full and the paper bag was ripping from the bottom so I had to hold it-” you held your hands infront of yourself like you were holding an invisible baby - “like this. and she helped me carry my other bag upstairs.” you said, hardly looking at the both of them. eren continued to glance around, seeing the way you decorated your place. books, posters, plants, pictures. a small tv, an open drawer with stationery almost spilling out of it. candles, two of them, lined up against your small window, and the smell now mixed together with melting chocolate and brown sugar and cardamom in a pot you were brewing. it was beautiful.

your hands moved like habit over the small stove, and jean gravitated towards the counter. he could almost feel erens snark from where he was, still observing your apartment from a little ways away.

jean cleared his throat, an attempt to get your attention. put on his best im-here-to-help face, and asked, slightly trembly, “do you need any help?” with his hands on his hips because he didn't know what else to do with them.

you turned your head to him with a smile, “not really. I'm almost done, detective…” “kirstein.” his voice broke - “jean. jean kirstein. just jean. is fine.” he said. pathetic. god he wanted to die.

you didn't seem phased, not even a laugh at his voice crack, and turned back to your mixture in the pot. “alright, jean. kirstein. detective.” you looked back at him, “which mug would you like?” as if that was a hard decision. but jean looked at it as if it was, scrutinizing the three mugs infront of him.

one; dark green with yellow polka dots. cute. the next was a light blue with a white strip going around it, something handwritten that he couldn't quite read across the white band. the third; a clear one with small white and yellow flowers over it. there was a thin crack running on the bottom of the mug - something that told him that this was the most used out of your collection. good. he wouldn't touch it then.

he pointed to the green one. “this,”

you smiled. “final choice?” he nodded once, sure of himself, and he almost forgot that this wasn't his house he was in, “I like the colour.”

“hmm, I can tell.” you said, and he blinked, furrow in his brows as he glanced at you. your strained the hot chocolate into the mug, “you're wearing it,”

“ah. right. good observation.” “thanks, I could steal your job,” he laughs softly, “please don't, I can't afford to be fired right now,” you look at him with a smirk that he wants to capture in his brain forever.

“okay. I'll spare you. here,” you say, pushing the cup towards him. before he can take a sip, however, you're already walking towards eren with his own cup - the blue one - and jean inwardly cheers at his correct solve of the clear one being your favourite.

“thanks,” he says, blowing over the steam with soft, gentle breaths. you wave your hand dismissively. “eh, it's nothing. anyway, sit.” you say, lightly demanding, and jean crosses the room in large strides to follow your order. eren has a perpetual smirk on his face. jean wants to smack it away. you sit on the chair next to the sofa, folding one leg under your thigh with your cup in your hand, and jean would be scared of you spilling it if it wasnt for your surprising steadiness. maybe he was just easily impressed with everything you did.

eren sips loudly from besides him, making jean scrunch up his features and look at him with disdain. He did this just to get on his nerves, he's sure.

“jesus, that's good,” he praises, making you raise your head with a small, knowing smile, “thanks, it's my recipe.” you say, shrugging as if you’d already gotten this compliment multiple times and knew the exact way to handle it. jean didn't know why but the thought made him warm. maybe he had a type - people who were sure of themselves. or maybe it was particularly you, he wasn't sure. you had a charm to you, a familiarity he couldn't quite place. familiar enough for him to know he'd seen you somewhere in the city of thousands of people, unsleeping, bustling, crowded. but then there were pockets of warmth - your apartment being one of them, with your body situated comfortably on your chair - that reminded him of what hes doing this for, that reminded jean of old friends that he no longer held contact with. he couldn't put his finger on it.

“-it was an easy solve. child's play, to be honest,” eren said, eyes closed with his chest puffed up with pride, describing a story that jean barely listened to but knew that he'd heard it a million times before.

he rolled his eyes. “the only type you can solve.” he said. your shoulders shook with a poorly contained laugh, making jean smirk into his green, polka-dotted mug, inhaling the scent of sweet chocolate. “shut up horseboy.”

“horseboy?” you asked, tilting your head with your eyes slightly squinted at him. not really judging, more of a curious questioning, ears perked up with interest, and jean almost groaned in embarrassment.

“he looks like buchwald-” “don't,” “-who got a medal of valour the same day as him-” “Yeager I swear to god-” “- and outranked jean,” “he didn't even fucking do his job.” jean said, settling into the couch - which he hoped would engulf him wholly - in embarrassment, cheeks ablaze.

you snorted out a laugh, which spurred jeans next statement, “yeah? we'll atleast I didn't get my eye almost pecked out on stage-” “that was a targeted crime of passion!” “no it wasn't. you had bird food on your fucking hair-” jeans smile widening when he heard your burst of laughter, “-which made even more birds enter the damn place,” “it wasnt even my fault!”

“you're both accomplished detectives-” you started, your voice broken by a laugh, “- and yet you couldn't stop animals from ruining your ceremonies?”

“act of passion,” eren muttered, scowl on his face. jean smirked, weaving a hand through his hair, and your eyes on his face made him lick his lips consciously, “act of passion alright. the birds loved you.” “i hate them.” eren said, and you breathed through a small laugh, eyebrows scrunching in slight disbelief. cute.

“unrequited love always hurts,” you speak, taking another sip of your drink, palm covering the heat of your cup, much like jeans. “you said this was your recipe?” jean asked, a prompt for you to start the origins of your hot chocolate concoctions. “well, a little, I was trying to make chai, but I didn't have tea leaves. i did have chocolate, though, and the weather was just right for it, so I thought a substitution wouldn't be too bad. and it wasn't, and it turned out good enough for my college roommates to wake up from their after lunch naps and ask me for a sip,” you take another gulp, “and now it's the most go-to thing they ask me to make. honestly, I should charge them for it.” you say, shrugging.

jean smiles. “you should. if you sold these on the street I would pay good money for them.” you hum in response, “my goods are better than to be sold on the streets, detective.”

Jean's eyes widen. did he offend you? fuck. he didn't mean to, “I mean, like, if you- you know if you, opened a shop, or a cafe, or something. i would come there. every morning. or like, the day, just for this. if you…wanted, uh, to.” he said, his hands sweating, making him wipe the free one on his pants. eren snorted inconspicuously.

your smile softened. “i was messing around, jean.”

oh. your said his name like he thought it was meant to be said. how? was it warm in your apartment? warmer than he'd like? heat crawled up his neck and he took a deep breath in, nodding, breathing out a laugh that he thought would suffice, “I know that. i was joking too,” he said, digging his grave deeper.

eren cleared his throat.

“getting back on track,” he said. jean nodded, refusing to make eye contact with you, who still had a small smile over the interaction. “did you see Elizabeth anytime before noon yesterday?” jean picks his head back up, placing the now only half-full mug on the small coffee table infront of him, fishing out a small black notebook from his pant’s pocket, uncapping the pen hooked onto his front pocket.

“right. i saw her i think, in the morning? at around seven, I just came back from walking around the block, and she was….she looked kinda uncomfortable?” you spoke, concern laced in your features. jean wondered if knowing the outcome of the interaction made you think about her even more now, but then you continued, “maybe…I mean I could've asked her how she was - I usually do, or, did, I guess, when I bumped into her, but… I don't know, she didn't seem like she'd be in the mood to talk. and then my neighbour… I don't know their relationship status. maybe it's, like, a situation ship that got out of hand or a friends with benefits situation - I don't know, but she didn't… like both of them got really awkward one time when I asked them in the elevator,” you explained, shaking your head, your hands waving in the air with the progression - or divergence - of the story.

he knew he should be paying attention. really, he is paying attention, but most of it is captured in every movement of your hands, every adjustment in your shoulders.

eren nodded to your descriptions. “so, that's all?” your eyes wandered up to the ceiling in thought. “kinda. i mean, treger - her… uhm, friend? followed after she got out the apartment, but he wasn't like, chasing her. just calmly walking behind her. and then I didn't see him. or wait-” you said, sitting up straighter, brows furrowed a bit more seriously this time, and jean leaned forward to listen, his elbows resting on his knees. your eyes locked in his for the next part and jean tried not to overthink that action. “no, yeah, I saw him later… at night? i mean, I came home from work…and then I saw him on the staircase, kinda, just, with his head in his hands. uhm… I asked him if he was okay, I thought - I kinda guessed something happened between them? like, maybe they broke up or she's mad at him or something, and then he just looked at me for a good five seconds. and didn't say anything, just stood up and left. i didnt think much of it cause he's kinda…weird? i mean, not in a degrading way, unless he actually committed a crime, then I do mean it in a degrading way,” jeans lips twitched at the way you said it, a little rambly, just a little out of breath, your eyes looking right at him as if his partner wasn't even present in the room.

“but… I don't know. he's had this sort of…vibe around him. i don't go out of my way to talk to him, is all.” you say, shaking your head before taking another sip of your hot chocolate. jean notes how you sip slowly, savouring every bit, and how while he was half done with his cup, yours was only quarter empty.

eren nodded slowly, and jean looked at him knowingly. this was useful, good information. “that's very helpful,” eren said, nodding to you. you shrugged. “anything else I can answer?”

eren looked at jean impatiently, questioning. jean’s jaw locked in place, and he shook his head a little - a silent conversation.

ask her for her number, horsey.

no.

why?

unprofessional? are you insane?

come on! she seems interested in you, too.

whatever, man.

jean looks back at you, shaking his head. “nah, I think we're done.”

“unless you see something weird.” eren says, perking up in his seat as jean stands up, “here's my number.” his partner says.

what a bitch. jean scowls, permanent, unwiped disgust on his face.

“oh,” you say, a little surprised, glancing at jean, and then handing eren your phone. “sure thing.”

he types in his number, every digit a nail in Jean's coffin, a grating noise in his skull. divert her attention. away from Yeager and his fucking pretty green eyes.

he clears his throat. “thank you for the hot chocolate. I'd still pay for it,” he says, calling back to your earlier interaction, which makes you smile and laugh softly. “it's alright. next time.” you say, shrugging, and jean gulps under the connotation of it all.

“there.” eren says, handing your phone back to you. “eren Yeager.” you repeat, reading his name from your phone. And then, with another biologically unexplainable heart-skipping beat, you look at jean while pointing your phone towards him, the keypad open, “and jean kirstein? Detective? Just jean?” you say, a little teasing, but jean cant help but find the endearment in your voice. Rolling his eyes with a smile, he says, “yeah. Detective jean kirstein,” and holds your phone, afraid of breaking something that belongs so closely to you, and puts his number with a smiley face after his name. Just a little treat.

Eren’s eyes are out of their sockets, and jean tries not to let the image of it all affect him, but he cant because he wants to ingrain this, tattooed under his eyelids so he can see it every night before going to bed, the picture lulling him to sleep and keeping his slow blinks some company - eren with his jaw slackened, eyes wide in surprise, brows flown upwards, and you, infront of him with your phone in your hands asking, though indirectly, for his number in your phone. Your. phone.

“Right.” he says, handing you your phone back, a small smile playing on his lips. A beat of comfortable silence passing between you, eyes locked, before eren opens up his smelly mouth and says, “alright, we’ve got to go.” making you turn at his direction, humming in agreement.

“Thanks,” jean mutters, finally, and you glance at him with a smile. “Youre welcome, detective.”

#i wonder who's writing the second part to this..... haha #self rb

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firefly--bright · 21 days ago

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silence.

✩‧₊˚☾

masquerade chapter three.

jean kirstein x fem!reader, regency a.u.

chapter summary ; Jean was used to silence. he never expected it to be heard near you, however, and he never expected to see you under the moonlight, seething.

chapter warning ; angst, daddy issues (?LMFAO), major historical inaccuracies but its for the plot, lesbian situationship/unrequited love (for the plot. again), idk if the plot of this makes sense yet but please bear with me

a/n ; sorry for abandoning this fic i genuinely forgot how to write for it but then i reread it and turns out i kinda just adopted this writing into the rest of my fics. so. anyway! hope you enjoy this :)

taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @jeanscremebrulee , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @raazberry , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @touyasside , @xakilicious , @gojo-ana , @ppushable , @zombiefiedskeivy , @candleofhappiness , @alt—er—love , @1ovede1uxe , @sevriizy , @toscapaeron , @whoevenisjessica , @simone-tb , @mrsryuguji , @bxsmxx

☾ series masterlist ☾ main masterlist ☾ enter my taglist ☾

✩‧₊˚☾

Jean wasn't used to his house being quiet.

The halls always echoed of sounds that stuck to the walls, to the perfectly carpeted floors, to the panes of the many windows that decorated the structure. It was either his own merriment - his band of clowns, as his mother had termed it, that were the sole cause of the noise, or it was the peaceful silence that rarely came with their company - the type of silence that felt enjoyable, a quiet that came as a repercussion of being alive.

No, Jean wasn't used to his house being quiet. Which is why it sent shivers down his spine when it finally did.

On the incredibly rare occasions of when his father - Viscount Kirstein, he would demand to be called - acknowledged his own home with his cold presence, the halls remained silent. Every footstep caused a heavy thud. The crumpling of paper sounded like thunder splitting up the ceilings. The house felt like a skeleton without life, a corpse bled dry, despite having living organisms feeding it.

Jean knew he’d never get used to that suffocating silence. But what Jean didn't know, however, was just how silent it would be after his father passed. Moving from the countryside to his father’s estate in the gentle bustle of the town, with the halls that he had called his own left behind, the bones of this new house felt hollow. Empty. Devoid of the affection that tainted the bricks of his previous one. Despite the same people living inside its walls, there was the same impending silence that Jean couldn't quite shake, leeching into his organs, threatening his tendons.

It was the same silence that choked him now. His collar seemed to be too tight around his neck, the cuffs of his sleeves felt mismatched, riding up his arms waiting to be pulled down again.

He did what he was asked to do. Exchanging his smiles with the all-too-important crowd that blurred into faceless figures draped in the season’s fineries, humming in agreement about the taste of the wine despite not having had a taste himself, nodding to unimportant tales of a family that was on the cusp of being ruined. The glittery glow of the candles did nothing to ease him, burning under his lids as he blinked.

Marco’s eyes on his despondence barely went noticed by everyone but Jean. His mother seemed to be mingling well, having left his side the moment she entered in favour of some ladies he barely remembered the names of. His best friend cleared his throat from Jean's side, leaning towards his ear to whisper, “are you doing alright?”

Dark brown eyes cloaked in concern, and the silence in Jean's ears lessened, though its weight remained. He nodded once, letting himself hear the melodies of the orchestra echo throughout the wide room, battling the sound of the crowd itself.

“I just need some air.” he said, adjusting his collar for the nth time that night.

“We just have to greet the host,” Marco confirmed, his eyes roaming the room, threading through the faces until he found the one he was looking for. With a warm smile gracing his lips, Marco nodded to the person of interest. Sometimes Jean wondered why Marco couldn't have been born in his place. He seemed more suited for the roles that trapped himself - Marco was more of a leader than Jean ever could be, despite his extensive and forceful training, why Marco couldn't be the one born as a Kirstein, why fate decided on the least likely fit to be the one to bear the unfortunate title rather than his Advisor.

Jean’s eyes followed his. The crowd seemed to part in interest of the host, some bowing their heads in a respect that Jean wasn't entirely sure was earned.

Lord Ackerman's posture was pin straight. Well taught, well learnt, well performed. His hair is trimmed, beard clipped close to his cheeks, enough to show his age but hide his wrinkles, vain in a way that was only expected from men. Beside him was who Jean knew to be Levi Ackerman. His performance was less of the act that Lord Ackerman portrayed, hands behind his back with a bored expression, eyes remaining sharp, studying Jean under the too-bright lights.

Jean bowed just as the crowd did. “Lord Ackerman. Thank you for hosting this evening,” he says. Practiced, precise, jaw clenched. Making sure his smile - polite and small and barely-there - remains intact through it all, he feels like he’s wearing a mask of himself. Forced upon his face, strategically placed just as the colour he was wearing tonight.

He feels eyes on him. Observant and knowing, making his own eyes glance towards the room to find them, impatient.

Ah.

You look beautiful. He knew as much - you’re beautiful even under a large coat, hiding your entire figure in darkness, even under the deep shadows of the night with nothing but the dim glow of the moon shining the sides of your face. You stand now, however, dressed in the same shade of blue as the night that he had met you in, your face shining under the thousands of twinkling candles, highlighting the pupils of your eyes and the softness of your cheeks, your eyelashes casting a soft shadow on the apples of them.

For a moment, he’s in awe. For a moment, a slight mishap, his mask falls. But it’s back on his face again as Lady Ackerman, whose voice is shrill against the band that plays its peaceful tunes furiously, tells him that she’d introduce him to Mikasa.

Jean glances at her, nodding in agreement, smile remaining on his face. If Marco notices anything, he makes sure it remains unknown. Lady Ackerman makes quick work, dragging a rather pretty young lady towards him, with your hand looped into hers. For another moment, brief and soft, Jean swears the silence in his mind ceases completely, just as it does on the nights his sleep is a far fetched thought, just as it does when the sound of your scribbles carve themselves into the soft flesh of his brain.

But the moment passes, and Marco answers the question that was not directed towards him. “yes, only recently. About two months I’d say? Right, Jean?” he says, his eyes scanning the side of Jean's face.

He nods and states something in vague agreement. Lady Ackerman has her arms proudly around her daughter. Her dark hair is pinned neatly behind her head, only a few strands escaping its forced placement, her gown matching his suit - perfectly tailored, gold ornamenting it with gaudy simplicity - deep red. An indirect contrast to the dress you were wearing, and Jean couldn't help but observe; as artists living under a precarious guise usually do, that you were the only one dressed in blue within this family, a silent but obvious outcast.

You - his artist - did not belong with them.

With his mask falling back into its rightful and grand place, he acknowledges Lady Ackerman introducing Mikasa, who bows just as practiced. Jean does the same, capturing her gloved hand and placing a kiss on her knuckles, his other arm pinned behind his back. By the time his spine straightens, you're nowhere to be seen.

“We are glad to have you here,” Lord Ackerman's voice rings out, deep and commanding attention.

Jean shakes his head, his smile remaining cemented. “It is my pleasure,” he says. The silence rushes into his ears again, deep and condensed, settling against his eardrums like thick cotton, reminding him what he’s here for.

He sets his eyes back on Mikasa again, lacking much of the warmth that would usually be seen towards his closest comrades, towards his artist, clearing his throat. He makes sure his smile is charming and inviting before uttering the statement that he’s sure locks the cage he’s trapped in even further, the bars tightly closed with no chance of escape. “Would you like to join me for a dance, My Lady?” he asks her, unrecognizable to himself.

With a glance towards her mother - who only nods with a well-concealed threat - she casts her thundering eyes towards Jean, nodding with not much choice.

He smiles with faux satisfaction, offering her his arm to take, leading her to the dancefloor that waits for them, his shoes making no noise.

“You’ve learnt this dance well, Lady Mikasa Ackerman," Jean comments, his feet stepping to the sound of the orchestra, the strings playing out a familiar tune.

Mikasa is shy. This is what he prefers to deduce - not that she, much like him, is being forced into a life that hadn't felt like hers to begin with - because being under a facade is preferred over becoming the corpse of their living bodies. She maintains her distance, keeps eye contact as she answers, "I've been taught from a young age. Same as you, I presume?” she asks with not much room for him to answer.

Jean tries to enjoy himself. If this were him more than a year ago, he would’ve been sure to join the festivities with his friends by his side through his forceful and tempting persuasion. Not that he had to persuade Connie Springer to join a party - the mention of merriment would spark a glint in the man’s eyes. Sasha Braus didn't need any other reason to join a plan other than the prospect of glorious food. Marco would have joined him regardless, much as he is now, but rather than staying silent at his side, Jean would often find him charming people (mostly ladies) with an easygoing smile and strategic conversations.

But so much wasn't right. Springer wasn't here, weaving himself through the crowd with music in his steps. Braus wasn't there to flock around the tables of pastries, and Marco remained glued to the wall, knowing his place in this town.

His comfort was nowhere to be found. He was sure he dreamed up his artist in a shade of indigo that only accentuated your eyes, as you had slipped away like a ghost, away from his presence.

He was nowhere to be found. He doesn't recognize what he’s saying, and he doesn't know who this performance of himself has become.

But he continues. Presses on - he knows if he is to be wedded to Mikasa, he would not let her remain a stranger sharing his walls.

“What do you interest yourself in?” he asks. He feels like a little boy again, a dusting of pink scattering across his cheeks as he wants to shrink in embarrassment of the obvious prodding.

Surprisingly, Mikasa's lips twitch. For a fraction of a second, as if she finds either him, or the situation, amusing. Entertaining. Jean wants to breathe a sigh of relief.

He does not need this to be pleasant. No, pleasant and comfortable are reserved for someone else. He needs this to be tolerable.

Yes. That is what he settles for.

“I… suppose reading does.” she says curtly. After a beat, she asks, “and you?”

There is an air of obviousness. A bare open conversation flows between them, and under the guise of small, well worded questions lie a larger confession. They do not wish for this, but this is what they’ve gotten dealt with. They did not wish for this, but they can make it less hellish for each other by being tolerable.

Jean answers. Tells her, making sure to keep up with the rhythm, that he enjoys playing parlor games that he’s grown familiar with.

He asks her what she prefers to read. She tells him she’s interested in History and Geography - books that Jean would not personally reach for. She asks him what his favourite parlor game is in return, and the dance continues much like the game that Jean prefers - his turn, and then hers, and then his again.

Tolerable. That is what they settle for; an unsaid understanding.

Marco’s promised breath of fresh air arrives just after the two finish their dance, Mikasa excusing herself, leaving Jean to find Marco.

His best friend stands outside the main venue, near the doors of the hall overlooking the garden. At night, its beauty is less noticeable, flowers lost under darkness, grass only partially shining under the soft glow of the heavens. But they make themselves present by providing a home for the cicadas that chirp their own symphonies of the night, away from the stringed quartet that plays out inside with the clinks of glasses and tinkling of jewelry.

“How did you fare?” Marco asks, a cheeky smile replacing his polite mask as Jean finds himself beside him.

Shaking his head, he breathes out an incredulous laugh. “I’ll be sure to ask her grading of me, if that is what you're asking.” he says, unsure of how to feel with the proclamation he had been dealt with, the sudden air he’d been given after being suffocated by this godforsaken collar-

“You just need to feel comfortable around her.” Marco says as a light, helpless suggestion.

Jean sighs. Nods because he understands, but his mouth tumbles a “It might take a while.”

There's a brief silence. Jean tries to pay no attention to the way Marco is looking at him; placating, concerned, understanding despite not being in his shoes, and instead decides to immaturely kick around the dirt near his perfectly polished shoes, the leather almost reflecting his own face through its weathered wrinkles. The cicadas chirp in the cool summer night, restless, and Jean’s slight shuffle seems to harmonize with their symphonies. If the night was perfectly silent, he would hear the rustling in the bushes that could be mistaken for some simple wind playing with the leaves, but Jean pays it no mind, all too consumed with the silence within and around him.

“I’m not looking for a….grand love match,” Jean says. Declares, really, because he’s already made up his mind about this topic only a couple nights ago, when he’d found out about it. His father’s will and his perfect handwriting - poised and taut - and Jean's own undoing loyalty brought him to send a letter to Lord Ackerman. It only so happened that the Ackermans were in a dire enough position to find their funds dwindling, needing help from the Viscount.

Really, Jean had no choice but to obey. He’d been taught how to since his childhood, given to him as a far-off scenario with a hopeful future. No, Jean had no choice because his father had conspired with Lord Ackerman, waging off the children's future for an - although sizable - tangible fee.

“Im not.” he says, convincing himself with finalty. “Love is the last thing I desire. The point of any of this is simply to tolerate each other long enough for us to be recognized by the king and queen. And if the Ackerman's prized possession can bring this as such, then so be it. I will find it in myself to tolerate her.” he says. His words are forced, clipped to their letters, allowing no room in his mind to argue.

There’s another pause. Jean prepared for a reprimand from his friend, but it came in the form of, “You know i can tell when you’re ly-” cut off by a noticable CLANK.

In the bushes. Jean should've known. Really, he should've known this silence was being heard by someone other than himself.

“Who’s there?” he asks loudly, stepping forward to a direction he’s unsure of. Before any answer, he finds his feet leading him towards a suspiciously tall bush that would be beautiful in the sunlight, but bathed with shadows seems like a thief. Like a mask.

There's another rustle, to which he replies, “you’re not being slick, i can hear you-”

Ah.

Its you.

The brilliant, deep blue of your gown almost blends in with the night, almost enough to make you invisible with the lack of any jewels to show your being, your hands curled up at your sides. Your hair shines under the moonlight as if the night only basks its spotlight for you, following you everywhere you go. Or at least, that’s how Jean sees it. It's you, his artist, under the glorious moonlight, just as when he first found you, just as he kept finding you, stealing his nights with witty comments under your breath and whispered laughs.

“It's you,” he breathes out, eyes scanning every bit of you, memorizing it like he’s studying his painting subject.

But you're looking at him with…. mild disgust?

Marco finds his footing next to Jean as he always seems to. Jean pays him no mind, even as he introduces himself to you with his usual charming smile, lips stretching as if he was the one who was acquainted with you before this meeting.

“Fine evening, isn't it? Marco Bodt, the Viscount’s Advisor,” he says, his arm stretching out to take your knuckles into a polite kiss as greeting.

You eye his hand. For a moment, nothing happens. But when you do start, when your hand does stretch towards his - Jean's blood almost boils - it shakes Marco's hand.

Confusion blooms across his friend’s features, exchanging the same glance with Jean. Your gloved hand returns to your side again, and you're back to how you’d been discovered; angry. At Jean, it seems, and he only smiles a little in a way that seems natural with the conversation he’s used to having with you.

“Pleasant evening, is it not?” he asks, repeating his friend’s greeting, trying not to seem too giddy in seeing you without your guise.

“It was. I… hear you’re planning to wed Lady Mikasa,” you speak, voice cold.

Jean steps back, if only slightly, in surprise.

“I…am.” he says. He’s unsure of his place - he’s familiar with you. Arguably more than he would be with most other people in this town. Yet you act like you’ve never met him. Or worse, that you’ve been burnt by him before he was even aware of the spark.

Oh, he knows this silence. He realises this after you’d called Mikasa by her first name without her last. He realises it with ice spreading in his veins. The silence is louder now, more noticeable, the cicadas seemed to have stopped chirping, the world stopping completely to hold its breath. Not in anticipation, but in dread.

Yes. He knows this silence. It sits in his bed, waiting for him to crawl into it, to give into the truth that lies within it all. Silence that tells him that his choice has already been made. Silence that tells him he’s nothing but a pawn in hands that have never held him. Silence that has pushed him to the brink of insomnia, chasing the streets for something that would help his ears - chasing the streets until he found you.

And it comes rushing to him, pushing him further back on his heels. His feet are still planted on the plush, firm ground, his face still as stone, gauging you.

Marco steps in before you speak your mind as Jean knows you will. You’ve always been honest, something he admires in a town full of whispers that are half lies and half stories, but he knows what a double edged sword this honesty can be. He's seen it in the mirror himself.

“Perhaps I can take you inside, miss? Get you a glass of the champagne, I hear it’s wonderful-”

“And love is not what you desire?” you ask, attention solely on Jean’s eyes.

He doesn't flinch. Not this time. The silence consumes him in the inches that he’s apart from you, and your voice travels to him in a vacuum. He doesn't speak. He knows you’ve made up your mind.

“How do you plan on marrying her without love, Viscount?” you say, his name remaining so painfully obvious but so obviously hidden, a calculated move. Your voice refusing to say his name despite it being given to you previously, the same voice that told him just the other week about his sketch being lively. About his sketch making you feel, and how you had confessed, in a voice smaller than it has increased into now, that it made his scene seem alive. That his hands lack famed magic but have experience and stories that somehow can't be kept hidden even when he tries to. The voice that told him something about himself that even he hadn't known; the voice that finally, finally broke through his silence without a shout or a scream but rather a softer whisper.

“I will do as I see fit.” he says, mouth forming a hard line.

You nod once. “I see.” another pause. Marco doesn't intervene - he doesn't dare to - and you speak again, “you have this all planned out, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” you repeat. He can see you making your mind up. “Have a good night, Viscount. And you, Mr. Bodt.” you say, taking your final bow.

Jean watches your silhouette as it heads back into the venue with its lights seeming even more menacing than before, almost swallowing you whole.

His chest aches. He breathes, once - in, and out - adjusts his collar, and the cicadas continue to chirp as if he hadn't been talking to his revered artist in what he assumed was without secrecy. But the secrecy upheld still, too loud to ignore, too large to move past. You weren't yourself.

Silence swallowed him whole, settling into his lungs like thick tar.

Marco looked at him, questions swimming in his eyes. Jean only spared him a glance before turning around into the venue himself, leaving his friend bewildered and even more concerned than he previously was.

Your legs ached when you finally made it to your little attic-turned-room. The worn gown you had been given by Lady Ackerman was removed promptly after the ball, not allowing any more contact with you even by you a second after its promise was over - a fact you were glad for; it was far too uncomfortable to move around in.

Your body collapsed into bed without protest.

Mikasa had asked about your absence, and questioned you about your sour mood afterwards, but you had deflected it with the same exhaustion that clung to your bones now. While undressing her, you'd asked her about how her dance with the Viscount went, and she had replied with a curt nod and a, “it was fun.”

You know she hadn't meant it. She knew she hadn't meant it. It was a truth that was meant to sit in silence until it would rot.

You didn't question it. You didn't prod - half for your sanity and half for hers.

The Viscount was to wed your best friend. The Viscount was your muse. The Viscount was to marry your employer. The employer was your best friend. The Viscount, your muse, was to marry your employer, your best friend.

Too many titles. Too many relations. You wished - for once - that you would've kept your conversations to yourself. That you wouldn't have opened your heart for either of them. Maybe it would've saved you from the trouble of caring for them so deeply.

The Viscount - Kirstein, Jean, your muse, all the same person - had been clear about one thing. He was not to marry Mikasa with the intention to love her.

You scoffed. Absurd. Why was he in this, then? Mikasa was a perfectly capable young lady with interests and a mind of her own, guarded and beautiful. How could the Viscount not even allow a potential to fall in love with her?

How could the Viscount be so cruel to not give your best friend the love that you dreamed of for her?

Out of everyone, it had to be her. It had to be her to have someone that loved her. Out of everyone - and you knew this to be true because she was your best friend - she had to be loved. She had to be. And the Viscount couldn't provide her with that. He never intended to. What kind of a friend would you be if you just sat back and allowed it to happen?

The house made no sound, the grandfather clock that was sitting in Lord Ackerman's study was the only proof of these walls ever being a home to you. The walls were hollow and unwelcoming, and despite the merriment and mingling having just taken place downstairs, it seemed haunted. Emptied out, unlived in, too pristine.

Using your elbows for support, you pushed your body upwards, observing your unkempt room with tired eyes.

You could run. You could pack up your scarce belongings and run again. You need not leave a note this time; not many things here will remember you. You won't leave proof. It would be as though you never existed. You'd be far away from here, from your best friend, from your artist.

You could learn to live without the latter. But Mikasa had ingrained herself into your life with a force that left you wheezing and catching your breath. Holding your hand to lead you out of that basement, even as yours stubbornly shook with refusal. Her hands were too perfect, too soft - and when they held yours, it felt like a blessing disguised as punishment. Your palms were cut up, rough, calloused. Too worn for someone as young as you were. But she didn't mind. She held your hand, and in doing so, grabbed your heart along with it, and you were afraid she still hadn't let go.

Or maybe - and this was the worst of it all - your heart, being as stubborn as the rest of you, hadn't left her.

The Viscount had to love her. He had to feel the same softness that she had lent you, the same warmth that lies in her breath as she succumbs to a sleep that she had told you wouldn't come. He had to feel the same breath in his lungs that you had felt after she hadn't let go.

The Viscount had to love her. If not him, then you’d only leave after making sure that someone did. You'd be damned if you ran away without accomplishing it.

The canvas in the corner of your room sat patiently. Your eyes swept over it, lost in thought, and you noticed the half-painted ginger cat that you spotted only a few nights ago with your muse - the Viscount. Not your muse. Not Jean, not Kirstein. The Viscount.

Despite your obvious fatigue, you made your way over to it, studying it with eyes that were now detached from the stranger (because that’s all he was - Hitch was right) that had unknowingly claimed this piece for himself before even knowing its existence.

The candle burnt low when you were finished with it, the sun peeking out of its cave.

And just as it was born - spontaneous, unplanned, ugly - it was kicked under the bed, fossilizing its unknown fate.

✩‧₊˚☾

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #aot #jean kirstein x you #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #jean kirschtein #marco bodt #sasha braus #mikasa ackerman x reader #connie springer

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firefly--bright · 27 days ago

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just finished my reread of summer by ratboiradio on AO3 ykw that means!! time to restart masquerade after abandoning it 🩷 haha sorry guys

#jean kirstein x reader #also im bedridden and kind of been in and out of sickness like a victorian child which has #kind of inspired me to pick it up again #fireflys rambles

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firefly--bright · 1 month ago

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haha....who misses masquerade guys

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #fireflys rambles #i forgot that i have written an entire draft for most of the chapters HEO #im sorry for not updating but in my efense it lowkey didnt get as much traction as i wouldve liked 😭

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firefly--bright · 1 month ago

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HEYY I LOVED YOUR JEAN SPENDING HIS SUMMER WITH HIS SIGNIFICANT OTHER I JUST WANTED TO ASK IF YOU COULD MAKE MORE I LOVE ITS ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT

LOVE YOU<333

HI IM SO SORY FOR THE LATE REPLY I'm unfortunately very employed rn. busy touching grass and whatnot. BUT YES OFC!!

✿ I've always headcanoned that he has like. a MILLION hats. Connie and jean are like. the Hatted Brothers because Connie always wears beanies and jean always has a hat. he does the cringe thing of "hat worn backwards means sports mode 😈" ok man

✿⁠ anyway. his favourite time of the year is summer. he gets to wear slutty ass tanktops. his entire wardrobe is made only for his summer essentials and he barely has winter clothes. he has like 20 swimming trunks that look so good on him..

✿⁠ he also has an entire excel sheet with the best beaches. rates them according to each aspect (least crowded, best sunsets, distance from home, etc) and he takes you to the top five. he'd surprise you with random beach days the entirety of the summer break

✿⁠ he's such a SAP he'll go to ANY cafe you ask him to go to. he'd hold your purse or bag and will not let you hold ANYTHING if you're going out for shopping. and he doesn't do the "this isn't my purse haha" thing that men usually do either. he fully embraces the Purse Lifestyle if that's what you prefer carrying. hangs it from his shoulder and everything. even keeps his phone in there

✿⁠ he takes so many pictures of you. most of them are TERRIBLE and blurry but you appreciate the fact that he keeps going at it. sometimes he asks you to pose and those pictures turn out really amazing (he makes one of those his lockscreen) but most of them are just candids that he's never going to show you. if he really loves one he'll commemorate it by drawing you a million times <3

✿⁠ he also takes you to visit an amusement park if there are any near your area. he loves rollercoasters and acts really nonchalant about it but he's the first one in EVERY line. he also makes sure to win every prize that catches even an Eighth of your attention

✿⁠ spreads his entire body over the mattress. he's a very warm blooded person and gets really hot really fast so just don't judge him if you find him lying starfish on your bed with nothing but his boxers on

✿⁠ if your air conditioning stops working, not only does he invite himself over with a whole toolkit but he also uses it as an excuse to not wear his shirt. he loves lemonades so if you make one for him he's going to forever cherish you (not that he doesn't already)

✿⁠ hes usually very handy with this sorta stuff but if he can't fix it, he takes the L ("love, your a.c. sucks ASS what the hell these parts are gonna take forever to get here....haha...") he proposes to go to the air conditioned grocery store next door

✿⁠ proceeds to browse thru EVERY item and makes terrible jokes about them. "sabra? i hardly know ha" pls die I love you

✿⁠ he's a sporty person so he does ask you if you'd like to go on a hike with him. like he has so many sporty activities he'd like to do with you. he rents two bicycles and you guys cycle thru the city on a beautiful afternoon together and have an early dinner at a fancy restaurant that serves those pizzas with brie cheese on top that he does Not Know how to eat. he pretends to be a wine connoisseur and pronounces the name of the wine in his beautiful french and sniffs the drink and spins it around in his glass ("oh yeah this has hints of...like, it's nutty," "yeah ur being really nutty jean" "ur supposed to LOVE me") also lowkey spills some on his white linen button up

i hope you liked this!! again, so sorry for the late reply I've been Running Around

luv u!

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #aot #jean kirstein x you #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #jean kirschtein #modern au

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firefly--bright · 1 month ago

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Rat Plushie PNGs

#d2d next chapter spoilers

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firefly--bright · 1 month ago

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Oh no, skull mask Jean got caught!

#yummy......

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firefly--bright · 1 month ago

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Jean Kirstein's Wedding Playlist

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern au

♪ Track One ; Figures Cant Calculate (The Love I Have For You)

playing on jbone's iphone

warnings ; none!

⏭ previous ⏭ series masterlist ⏮ next ⏮

Jean’s hands shook in anticipation as he corrected his tie for what seemed like the thirtieth time, blowing a sigh at his inability to stay still when it counted. His feet swiped against the floor, softly recreating dance steps that he’d been preparing for a month.

Marco glances at the mirror where jean stands, fidgeting with the flimsy forestry green piece of fabric, tangling and untangling in between his fingers, his eyes glancing at his best friend’s figure in a scrutinizing amusement. “Dude,”

Jean’s ears were unaffected, no trace of recognition in his features and he continued with his useless fiddling. “Jean.” he tried again, taking a step towards him.

That seems to get his attention, honeyed eyes finding darker ones. Jean’s face is as readable as it could ever be - something marco found happened more often when his friend thought about you - despite his openly anxious demeanor, jean’s feet wouldn't stop moving against the invisible beat of a song that was sure to play out during his first dance with you. More than that, though, was the undisguisable excitement that flooded jean’s veins without control.

“Relax,” marco called out, sitting on the chair closest to the groom. There was still a good hour and a half to go until the ceremony began, giving jean’s fluttering heart more than enough time to stop beating so rampantly against the cage of his ribs. “You got this.” he said, slumping against the chair as jean finally stopped relentlessly attacking his tie. Without taking his eyes off the mirror, jean shook his head, confused at his own state. “Im not even scared. I’m actually feeling completely normal,”

Marco hummed; an encouragement to continue. Jean moved a single strand of hair that had escaped onto his forehead, pushing it back until it held into place. “I just… i dont know. I dont wanna mess this up.”

There was a short pause where jean could swear he could hear your laughter three rooms down the hall, bright and vibrant and bringing a hidden life to his chest again, his lips quirking up at the sound.

Marco breathed out a laugh too, “you’ve been ready for this ever since you first met her. I dont think you’ll mess it up.” he says it like its fact.

Because it is.

The day was not on jean’s side.

He should've known to carry an umbrella. He should've known to check the weather that day - but he really didnt want to blame his planning, or rather, his hopefulness - it had been bright and sunny all of freshman year summer break, the skies deciding to turn sour during the first week of college, as if the universe was waiting to give the students a cruel reminder of their reality.

Or maybe he was just stupid and too arrogant to admit it. Whatever the case was, he decided as he ran to his pre-planned destination, it wasnt his fault. Totally.

His phone screen getting dangerously close to drenched, he switched it off before swiftly stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans, dark splotches decorating its cuffs. His hands provided a useless shield against the pattering, his hair sticking to his forehead as he approached the diner - out of breath and disgustingly rained-on.

He braced his palms on his knees as he caught his breath under a sizeable shade that the red and white awning graciously provided. With his chest still expanding and contracting wildly, he lifted his head up, only then noticing a presence next to him.

Just like him, you were also catching your breath. Your hair was a little frizzy - from the looks of it because you had also gone through the rain - as you shook all the moisture away from it, doing the same with your clothes, though they seemed to be too far gone to save, just like him.

Similar darker splotches decorated your own clothes, a sense of camaraderie filling the air between the two of you, matching each other's actions unknowingly. And when you finally exchanged glances, a wordless acknowledgement, you both smiled with tight lips, the kind that were appropriate for a stranger that could have the potential to be a named face.

“Should’ve brought an umbrella, huh?” you commented, and he breathed out a polite laugh, surprised at your further interaction, but welcoming it with warmth nonetheless.

He nodded, same small smile gracing his lips, “yeah,”

You had held the door open for him then. He would later recount that he wanted to do that for you, but you took the opportunity before he could even see it. With one more adjustment to your hair, you were going to depart from your stranger, but your name rung out loudly against the semi-packed diner, bringing your attention to the girl that was waving an arm in the air to get your occupied attention.

“Here!” she exclaimed with a smile brighter than the summer ever could've been, and jean glanced at the interaction, connecting dots that were clear and visible to him. You were the girl that sasha was mentioning earlier; the one who had just moved into her and mikasa’s apartment, the one that baked banana bread on the first day and made the house smell heavenly against the downcast weather.

He didnt know how he could forget. Sasha - bless her heart, really, because she did this with everyone she met that was even remotely disconnected from her large network of friends and acquaintances - had shown him a picture of you that she had only just gotten after asking for your socials.

Your smile was soft in the picture, unlike the one you had shown him only moments before, jean realized, as you walked toward your room mate.

Right. That made sense. God, was his first impression on you going to be a guy who was both running late and unprepared enough to not grab an umbrella despite the warnings?

You sat down beside sasha, leaving the only available seat to be the one next to you against the corner of the leathered booth. Jean slipped in beside you.

It seemed like you had also connected the obviously visible dots. You welcomed him now with a smile that was more like the picture he was familiar with; easy and soft at the corners, small wrinkles apparent as a proof of all your years under the sun. your smile reminded him of a petal, he had decided - the shade of your lips reminding him of the one he had grown up with in his garden, a common pink calla lily that his mother had been particularly fond of.

He’d smiled back. You’d later note that you knew he’d been giving you one of his real, impolite and informal smiles because the corners of his eyes had crinkled. He wondered how you’d grown to know him this unabashedly, to be so close to his heart without being afraid of it’s monstrous thrums that soon only beat for you.

The night was beautiful. He wouldn't realize it in the moment - no, good things are never ones to make themselves apparent - but your voice had carved itself into the notches of his spine. Not too deep yet, but the markings of a future etch were evident.

And he’d allow it.

You’d continued to introduce yourself, mingling with him and his friends as an exchange student without much knowledge of Paradis. Connie had made a passing comment about Trost’s beautiful gardens, pointing to jean, to which you turned to his direction with sparkling eyes and a french fry in your hand, forgotten to be devoured until after jean spoke. And he did, albeit stuttered, somehow managed to string together a coherent enough sentence to validate your admiration, telling you about the same calla lilies in his mother’s backyard.

You didnt back down, taking the conversation head-first and asking him about any memories he’d had with his hometown that stuck out to him, which had gotten him to speak - almost a little too passionately - about him and marco and the other kids that werent in Shinghanshina university, about how he’d picked some flowers from the garden without his mothers knowledge to impress a schoolboy crush on a girl who’s name he couldnt even remember.

You had laughed and told him about the guy who you’d share your lunches with in kindergarten. You, like him, dont remember his name either, but would always remember the “who has the longest noodle in their lunch” competitions.

And for a moment, everyone else had been forgotten. With your own little secret conversation, jean found it easy to talk to you. Sitting close to you also meant hearing your muttered quips that went unheard by everyone else but him, which he’d appreciate with a small smirk or a breath of laughter that was also only noticed by you.

No, Jean wouldn't mess this up. It was fact.

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