#Post Tension Slabs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cutehoons02 · 2 months ago

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See you on the podium, sweetie!

*pairing: Lee Heeseung F1 Ferrari driver x PR

*trope: only one bed-bad boy Heeseung?

*driver: Lee Heeseung=Charles Leclcer

*synopsis: Being the PR of Ferrari has always been one of your biggest dreams but you would never have expected to find yourself working with Lee Heeseung, the representation of the driver that no sports PR would want to have: flirts with all the girls, is always paparazzato to parties around the world from MonteCarlo to Bali, breaks the heart of his fans miliary both because it is really beautiful and knows that he is but also for his aura untouchable because he is the chosen in house Ferrari. But there is a secret that is coming more and more to the surface, he can't sleep peacefully for months now both because of the countless haters he has in social media but also because he doesn't win a race for almost 6 months and from a driver Ferrari everyone expects more from him. What if the PR of Ferrari was the only one to calm him and put him to sleep? a shared bed, various hotels to travel around the world, beautiful tracks and countless podiums to win...

*tags: A lot of tension,fluffy, pervy Heeseung, a lot of humor, teasing, kissing, sucking, shower sex, unprotected sex (don't horny people) minor don't interect + 18, fingering, pubblic scenes,masturbation, pet names (sweetie, PR,good girl) (Hee) jealousy, possesion

11.4k (🌹)

Heeseung has just stepped out of his red-hot car, his eyes are tired but full of determination and while he takes off his helmet he sees his companions or "friends" on the podium while they spray rivers of Champagne and take a thousand photos for various social content with their trophies. He is trying to hide his frustration after another disappointing race by coming in P4, while reporters surround him when he enters the post-race space of the reporters. You were always flawless in your role as PR, and you make your way through the crowd with a firm step, a smile that hides a veil of sarcasm. As soon as Heeseung sees you, he smiles and looks up at you with his hair ruffled by sweat and helmet, trying to keep his "womanizer" attitude under control.

«Here’s my favorite PR, you’re always by my side, Y/n. I was wondering if this time you would cheer for me, or if I would see you clapping your hands for your little friend Jake or whatever for Jay» He said, leaning towards you as you were going to get in line to answer the questions of an Italian journalist.

"You don’t look like someone who needs my support, if you want I’ll show you how many girls cheer you up on ig sending you pictures at the osè. Rather, it seems you need a miracle both for how you drive and for your appearance. But don’t worry, I’m good at fixing things...at least those that aren’t about your ego." Heeseung smiled maliciously leaned on a slab leaned his head and looked at you with a defiant expression

«Ah, my ego. I didn’t think you liked it so much. Or maybe it’s just that you’re afraid I’ll win, so you should stay up like 24 hours a day to check every social or your mailbox if you find some pictures of me with not only my prize but also with girls and I do some shit?»

You took a step closer and looked him straight in the eye

"I don’t care to be in the middle of the action, Heeseung. I’m interested in you winning, finally, and bring a little joy to this team that works its ass every weekend. But the miracle you’re referring to is becoming more difficult. You are tired, aren’t you?"

«I’m not tired, Y/n. Just frustrated. I want to win for Ferrari, you know. But... it’s not easy.» closed his eyes for a moment because he was tired and could not wait to lie down on the plane.

«It’s not easy... when things don’t go as they should.»

You sighed and looked at him, he looked like a helpless puppy put in a cage of lions who would eat him and did not help the thick dark circles under his eyes.

"I know. But the pressure won’t help you run faster. Neither will your ego. Maybe you should just take a break... and maybe sleep a little since you haven’t slept more than 8 hours?"

Hee looked up at the sky and with an ironic smile said to you

«Yes, because sleep is the solution to all my problems, right? It’s not like I’ve been trying to sleep for the last couple of months... I tried natural herbal pills, medicines, anti-stress pillows, hypnosis, sleeping with Jungwon, sleeping in the motorhome, and other shit»

sighs and shakes his head

«But, of course, you keep giving me advice and making fun of me. I’m sure that another 'everything is fine, surely this evening you will be able to sleep' on your part will do me miracles.»

"I never made fun of you Heeseung and you know better than me that I’m worried about you. But since you’re so stubborn, maybe you should stop being a superhero and accept that even champions need a shoulder to lean on. You’re human too, Heeseung and sooner or later you’ll find a solution to your insomnia problem and you need to sleep at least a couple of hours even on the shoulder of a random person."

«So, are you suggesting that I fall asleep on your shoulder, Y/n? Weren’t you the one who didn’t want to be touched by anyone, would you grant me such an honor?» he looked at you amused as you raised your eyes.

"You’re a lost cause, Heeseung was a way of saying what I told you to sleep on someone’s shoulder. But don’t worry, if you want to fall asleep on my shoulder later in the plane, go ahead"

Heeseung looked at you amused and raised his hands in surrender

«Okay, okay, I give up. Let’s do it then. But if I can finally sleep, I’ll buy you a ticket for a concert of those Korean bands that you listen to.»

You opened your mouth slightly surprised by how much she knew about you and smiled but in a genuine way.

"Let’s give it all Heeseung, there is nothing to lose!"

The plane is almost empty, with a few team members sitting in the back of the cabin, some chatting, others resting. You were sitting by the window, immersed in reading a romance book that they were all talking about on #Booktok. The soft light of the plane illuminated the pages and your face was focused, as if you were living every word of history. Heeseung was sitting across the row and bored himself to death. He needed a distraction, so he got up and stood by you and took a sneak peek at the book.

«So, Y/n.. another of your love novels? I hope Prince Charming comes soon to save you because otherwise, you will find yourself at 50 years old still fantasizing in your house in the countryside full of cats»

"Are you always so sarcastic, Heeseung? Better to stay in a house full of super cute and cuddly cats than having a person like you in the house! You better not have your ego ever come up to the level of one of these books' protagonists, or you will never find your white horse or sword fighting to save your princess." You said without lifting your eyes from the book but with a funny smile

Heeseung made a gesture of stabbing his heart and looked at you with a grin.

«But come on, Y/n! Let’s be clear. Do you think that the Prince Charming of these books is really what happens in a relationship? With broken hearts and promises of eternal love? Please, what you read is practically unreal in this society»

You finally raised your eyes, raising an eyebrow and looking at him badly.

"I guess you’re more realistic. Instead of waiting for the prince charming, maybe you should accept that you are not invincible. And a Ferrari is not enough to change who you are, I know that inside you hide a boy with a thousand fears and that it could be the "prince charming" for at least one girl out there if you open your eyes and behave like a normal guy and not a womanizer." You said, touching slightly the part of his heart covered by a wide sweatshirt

Heeseung laughed, shaking his head and staring at you

«I wouldn’t say that I’m a 'prince charming' type, but at least I’m a driver. And with my talent when I have the high-performance car I’ll be the king of the track and maybe of history. There is no white horse, only racing tires and a roaring engine.»

You were slightly amused by his answer and returned with your eyes on your book.

"Ah, well, everyone has their way of feeling like a hero, but this year there is another hero on the track and that’s not you but Sunghoon with his Red Bull. But you can still think it’s all that easy if it makes you feel better."

Heeseung slightly leans to see the title of the book and looks for it on the internet and starts laughing reading that is a sport-romance about a hockey player and a kind of singer and the trope is "Enemis to lovers and Tutoring". While he was reading he felt his eyes getting tired and he hands his face and is jealous to see you so alert and focused even after countless hours of work.

«I will pretend not to have read the plot Y/ n, meanwhile I comment that it will be another book where the boy is perfect and has 0 weak points and represents perfection»

"If you think I’m looking for perfection, then you don’t know me at all, Heeseung."

With a fun air, moves a little closer to you, trying to peek better at the pages and have the opportunity to observe you.

«So what are you doing with these books, Y/n? It seems that you are waiting for your 'knight' but you know better than me that he does not exist in real life»

You looked at him for a moment, amused but also a little annoyed by his insistence. He moved even closer and kept on making jokes until you closed the book and looked at it with defiance.

"You’re unbearable, Heeseung. I read these books to escape from reality and find some peace and to have some laughs for what happens in these super romantic books but someone named Lee Heeseung does not leave me alone"

Heeseung raises his hands in surrender, but he can’t help laughing. After another minute of silence, he realizes that you had put on headphones and you were leaning with your eyes closed at the window and his expression softens, although it still does a little cynical fake.

«Okay, okay, enough with the jokes. Just... you’re right. I’m tired, and maybe I’m talking in vain. But seriously... a little rest would not hurt me.»

You felt his sincerity hidden under his facade, you can not help but shake your head.

"It was just a joke, Heeseung. I know you don’t like the idea of admitting that you need a break. But if you want to sleep, maybe you should get comfortable, instead of being condescending with me. Try to close your eyes and relax a little we have almost 3 hours more flight"

Heeseung, who has never liked to admit that he is vulnerable, tries to appear uninterested. But, after a few more minutes of tension, without thinking too much, it lets go and leans on your shoulder inspiring your sweet scent but at the same time floral.

Heeseung sighed, almost whispering.

«All right, all right... I give up. I don’t expect miracles... but maybe a little sleep.»

You were not completely surprised by that gesture but you looked at it for a moment and you said nothing. It’s more of a spontaneous gesture from Heeseung, who finally seems to admit he needs some peace.

After 10 minutes you were listening to Taylor Swift and chanting it in your head until you felt a slight breath next to your neck and opened your eyes and watched Heeseung sleeping, who breathed with a relaxed breath and even his face seemed relaxed rather looked completely abandoned to his sleep. You looked at him incredulously and a small smile formed on your face, and at that point, Jungwon, his teammate who had seen the whole scene from the other side of the plane, came up with a look of pure surprise.

<< Can’t believe it... really. This is a miracle, maybe we found the right cure or person for Heeseung. We were all completely stupid or unaware you were always here with us>

You looked slightly at Jungwon and I did no with my head

"I didn’t do anything he's just tired, Jungwon"

Jungwon shakes his head, watching Heeseung sleep peacefully for the first time in weeks, and looks at you with a grin.

Heeseung wakes up slowly after 3 hours, stretching with a slight groaning. He slept like he hadn’t done in weeks, but as he moved he felt a discomfort around his neck. He sits better in the seat and looks down...only to realize that his arm is wrapped around your waist. Even worse, her head is practically resting on your breast.

It freezes and the eyes open. His mind runs fast, trying to figure out how to make up for it and how he got to sleep leaning on you for hours. The image of him, sleeping in that position, seems compromising: He, the "great flirt", now transformed into a puppy that clings to you as if you were his pillow.

«Oh, my...sorry! I don’t know how... I didn’t mean to... I mean, it wasn’t intentional!» pulling out the arm with an unnatural speed

you had been motionless not to wake him up and you looked at him with a mixture of irritation and disbelief.

"It’s not like you can use people as a human pillow, Heeseung. I hope you slept well at least because I... don’t."

Hee looks at you with fawning eyes, a little embarrassed but sincerely sorry.

«I swear, I didn’t notice! It’s... well, you were comfortable and I hadn’t slept like this for an eternity...»

Before he can say anything else, the sound of a giggle interrupts him. Jungwon, sitting a short distance away, turned with a funny expression and a smartphone in his hand. It’s not hard to guess that he was watching the scene for a while.

<< Well, good to know. The solution to your sleep problems was not complicated Hee: you only need Y/n next to yourself as a human pillow!>> With a mischievous smirk looked at you and Heeseung

You gave Jungwon a look that could burn up a Ferrari engine, but he doesn’t seem to be the least bit intimidated. On the contrary, he turns completely towards you by placing his chin on a seat, ready to continue teasing.

"Don’t put yourself in it. It’s enough to put up with him, let alone you."

He raised his hands in surrender but with a glaring

<< Hey, come on Y/n, it was just a joke. But seriously, look how he’s been born again! I haven’t seen him this calm in months. Maybe your problem is already gone, Y/n is a kind of sleep talisman."

Heeseung, still red in the face, tries to answer but he gets stuck, clearly in trouble. He doesn’t know how to react: on the one hand, he would like to continue to be a bad boy, on the other hand, he feels like a child who has been caught in the act.

«Stop it Jungwon. It’s not like that! It’s not my fault I fell asleep and Y/n was just... there.»

<< Ah, sure. 'Just there.' So much 'just there' that you were wrapped like a koala around her. >> he said with a clever smirk

You were unaware of the situation and got up from your seat with a strong gesture, the book under your arm. She’s tired of both and ready to leave that embarrassing scene behind.

"Fantastic. You are a dream team I understand why everyone says that you are made for each other as a duo in Ferrari. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to prepare myself mentally for a new race weekend, who knows what dramas will come out." You said looking at Heeseung in particular

Jungwon turned to Heeseung and spoke

<< You know, I think Y/n could really be your medicine. Or at least, your antidote against insomnia. >

«But stop... It’s not like that. It was comfortable. And then maybe you’re right. I don’t know how, but I slept well."

Jungwon takes another photo with his phone, this time of Heeseung who seems thoughtful, and shakes his head laughing.

<< I don’t know, Hyung. I think Y/n is your good luck pillow. Maybe we should patent it as part of the team>>

«Come on, Jungwon. Let’s get off and stop taking pictures before Y/n finds you and destroys you.»

As they head for the exit, Heeseung is surprisingly in a good mood, despite the embarrassment. He would never admit it openly, but for the first time in a long time, he feels rested and even a little happier.

Montreal GP (Canada)

The afternoon light is perfect. The clear sky reflects on the calm water of the river, creating a dreamy backdrop for the Prada photo shoot. Heeseung and Jungwon, dressed in elegant suits and luxury shoes, pose with a surprising naturalness for two F1 drivers.

You were there as always on the go: setting up contracts, managing fans huddled behind the barriers, and overseeing every detail to ensure everything went smoothly. But as you turn, you notice Heeseung with an absent-minded look, sitting on a chair between one shot and another. The fatigue is on his face as the makeup artist approaches him with a flirtatious smile. Gently, he fixes his hair, then bends slightly to attract his attention.

'Looking forward to seeing you on the track, Heeseung. You’ll be great as always. Maybe you could bring me a special pass?'

Heeseung looks up, but can’t even pretend to smile. He puts his hand on his face, sighing.

«Yes, sure... thank you. But first I have to sleep at least five hours in a row without waking up if I want to be great on the circuit.»

The makeup artist, surprised, laughs nervously, thinking she is joking.

Well, then stop going out and about! That’s why you’re so tired, right?'

At those words, Heeseung slightly straightened up on the chair and looked at her with a serious expression, almost exasperated and a little annoyed because he wanted to be remembered as a Ferrari champion not as an obsessive from the parties.

«I haven’t been to a party in weeks. The last time I saw a club, they were still playing songs from last year. My problem is not dancing too much... it’s that even when I’m still, I can’t turn off my brain.»

The makeup artist seems to not know how to respond, and she quickly moves away, a little embarrassed.

On the other side of the set, Jungwon, who witnessed the scene, burst into a low-pitched laugh. You were engaged with a contract, lift your eyes in time to see Heeseung lean tired on the chair.

<< Hyung, I can’t believe it. You were so rough on her! You’d usually be the first to flirt with me, but I know your charm is slowly disappearing. >>

«Ah, yes? Flirting? Not even the way that word is written, Jungwon. I’m too tired to even think about it.» He said, standing with his hair and slapping himself on the face to wake up,

Jungwon keeps laughing but the joking tone fades when he sees how exhausted his teammate is. You approach him by observing.

"Heeseung, maybe you should take a day off after this shoot. It wouldn’t help anyone to see you collapse on the track Sunday, I’ll cut you off at a small event in Montreal"

«Thank you, Y/n. But every time I try to rest, it seems to me to waste time. As if I was wasting an opportunity to improve, I could train or I know how to watch the telemetry of the machine but the problem is that I am exhausted.»

You crossed your arms, looking at him with an expression that is halfway between reproach and understanding.

"You’re not wasting anything if you take care of yourself. And for the record, you look more dead than alive. Even the products and make-up artists of Prada cannot cover certain dark circles."

Jungwon laughs again, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

<< Y/n is right. Maybe you should seriously ask for a set of Prada pillows made extra-sized for you, maybe those help you sleep better. >

Heeseung giggles slightly, shaking his head. Despite the fatigue, he is grateful for the presence of the two. He would never admit it openly, but Jungwon’s irony and Y/n’s concern help him to keep his feet on the ground.

Heeseung stands up and stretches and looks at you.

«Don’t worry, I’ll sleep. Sooner or later and when I’m well rested before I beat all the competition on the track and then I’ll go to celebrate, Y/ n is for a while that there are no dramas about me or gossip!»

The free practice had gone surprisingly well. Heeseung had found a good pace, the team was satisfied, and even the journalists seemed less insistent. However, as he walked in the paddock towards the Ferrari camper, he looked like a rag. The dark circles were deeper than ever, and his movements showed how tired he was.

In the living room of the camper, Jay and Sunghoon were waiting for him and both had noticed that something was wrong, but they also knew that Heeseung hated to admit his weaknesses.

'Hey, Hyung. I got to show you something. Maybe I’ll give you some advice on how to be Pole tomorrow.' said Jay smiling with a grin

"I hope it’s a new race strategy because everything else is a blur."

Jay hands him the phone, showing a photo taken by Jungwon. In the image, Heeseung sleeps soundly with his head resting on your shoulder, his arm around your waist, while you look completely stiff and visibly uncomfortable.

'Look at this. The real winning strategy: it’s the human cushion. Maybe we should add it to the race plan for Sunday.'

Sunghoon, sitting a short distance away, bends forward to look at the picture better, bursting with laughter.

<< Oh my God, Hyung, you’re like a baby who can’t sleep without his favorite blanket! >>

"It’s not what it looks like! It was just... boh, a coincidence. I was tired and she was there."

'Sure? Because you don’t look so random in this picture. You look rather... comfortable.'

Sunghoon with a clever smile

<< Maybe you should do a scientific experiment. You know, to see if it’s your antidote. But to do it right, you should sleep with it. And I mean really sleep, not do the usual things you do with girls>>

Heeseung looks at him with an expression between amused and disoriented.

"You two are impossible. And no, it won’t happen. It’s Y/n, okay? She hates me enough without me asking her that."

But later that night, as he looked at the clock at 10:30 p.m., something stuck in his head. He really needed to sleep, and against all logic, he couldn’t get out of his mind the possibility that you could help him in some absurd way.

With a sigh and against his "values", he stood up and headed for the door of your room. Knocked twice, then leaned on the doorframe with his usual flirtatious grin, trying to look casual despite the heart beating hard and opened the door, crossing his arms and looking at him suspiciously

"What do you want, Heeseung? It’s late. Shouldn’t you be sleeping already?"

Hee bowed his head, a Playboy smile.

«I was thinking... maybe you want to keep me company. You know, let’s talk, read one of those romance books or something.»

You stared at him, raising an eyebrow. You know that tone and smile, and you usually can’t stand it but there’s something different in his eyes: there’s no usual security, and under that mask, he looks really tired and vulnerable.

"Heeseung, spit the toad. Why are you really here? I don’t think to talk about books."

«Okay, okay. You’re right. I just... can’t sleep, and the last time, on the plane, I slept so well. And I thought maybe...» he looked down, scratching his neck.

"...that sleeping next to me might help you again. I understand?"

«More or less. But don’t get me wrong! Nothing else, only of course if you also do not want to try something as beautiful as me. But this evening I just want to sleep. I swear.»

You would want to kick him out because you can’t stand him but at the same time he seems hurt if he came to you, one of the few people who stood up to him and that you didn’t fall into his flirtations. You sighed and opened the door to let him in.

"God, what am I doing wrong to deserve to see it 24 hours a day? If I agree, promise not to snore and not invade my side of the bed. If I catch you touching me"

Heeseung raised his hands in surrender and smiled at you

«Promised. I’ll be more discreet than a cat»

"If I regret this decision, I swear you will never see a contract signed by me again."

Heeseung smiles as he enters the room, but this time it’s a genuine smile, lifted. Maybe for once, she will let herself be helped.

You were standing in front of the bathroom mirror, with a seemingly endless collection of bottles and creams arranged neatly on the shelf. The Weeknd resonates in the background from your phone, filling the environment with the sensual notes of "Earned It".

On the other side of the room, Heeseung was leaning against the bathroom door, watching you with a funny curiosity. He’s not sure what he’s looking at: the complex skincare routine or you with only a slightly wide shirt and short shorts that made him go crazy.

«Are you sure you want the ticket for that Korean band of K-pop? Can I give you all this, god how much money are you spending on skincare, are you sure that everything you’re putting on your face is not... excessive?»

You raised an eyebrow while gently smearing a cream on your face

"Heeseung, if you could understand something more than soap and shampoo, maybe you wouldn’t have the skin of a 12-year-old under stress. These steps are necessary."

«Don’t overdo it. My skin is perfect as it is. But, tell me, is this all for me? Are you trying to impress me or is it for your future prince charming?»

You puff silently but can’t help but giggle as you grab another bottle.

"For you? Don’t make me laugh. I do it for myself and when I’m old I won’t need to get my face punctured. Although maybe you could learn something instead of standing there humming The Weeknd like a teenager in love."

Heeseung pretends to be offended, taking a hand to his heart.

«First of all, The Weeknd is also one of my favorite artists. Second, I’m not humming... I’m singing with passion.»

With a mischievous smile, he begins to hum the refrain of "Earned It", emphasizing the words with an overly intense look towards you:

«Cause, girl, you’re perfect... You’re always worth it... » Isn’t this a perfect song for both of us? You know, with your obsession for perfection and my natural charm?"

You stopped for a moment, staring at him with an expression that was somewhere in between fun and disbelief.

"Maybe you mean it’s a song about how hard it is to win someone’s favor? Yeah, maybe he’s in. But trust me, you’re not exactly the romantic protagonist he describes."

Heeseung laughs and leans over the sink next to you, staring at you as you put on eye cream with extreme precision.

«You know, if I were your romantic protagonist, I would be much more convincing than those perfect guys that you read in your books, I could make you feel the same things they make their "loved ones" feel but in a real way. And you wouldn’t need all these creams, I would make you shine naturally!»

You stared at him with an exasperated expression, but you could not help blushing slightly.

"Can you stop flirting for five minutes? Amazingly, you can find the energy to say this nonsense even when you seem on the verge of collapse."

Heeseung chuckles, raising his hands in surrender.

«All right, all right. But I know that underneath you like this whole Y/n thing, and you’d be super bored working with people like Jay or Sunghoon, right?»

You didn’t answer, just turning off the bathroom light and heading for bed. And he still follows you smiling.

As you lie down, with Heeseung visibly calmer but also a little stiff, you observe him from the underside.

"Why do you seem so uncomfortable? Has anyone ever asked you to just sleep with someone or do you always chase them away before trying to sleep?"

Heeseung moves slightly, staring at the ceiling. It’s hard for him to admit things, but you don’t let him out.

«It’s not exactly... what I’m used to.»

You can’t help laughing, covering your mouth with a hand so as not to wake up any neighbors.

"Relax, Heeseung. I won’t jump on you. You can relax for once in your life."

He turns to look at you, with an expression between the amused and the mortified.

«Thank you for the reassurance. Not that I was afraid! , you would rather sleep with a wolf than with me knowing you, Y/n»

"No, of course. You’re not afraid of anything. Except maybe to admit that sometimes you need someone."

That phrase leaves him speechless for a moment. But as he closes his eyes and finally lets go, he realizes that Y/n may be right.

The morning light was filtering through the window, illuminating the hotel room. You had been awake for a few minutes, but it hadn’t moved yet. You were held back by a strange feeling. Perhaps it was the weight of Heeseung’s arm that, while sleeping blessed beside you had moved too close to your breast.

You sighed, trying not to think too much. You simply had to move it without waking him, that’s all, and gently took his wrist, but at that moment Heeseung moved.

Instead of walking away, he murmured something incomprehensible and pulled you even closer to him, as if you were his personal stuffed animal. His hand, meanwhile, slipped under your shirt caressing the skin of your side in a distracted way, until its fingers reached your back, gently touching your spine.

You felt a shiver all over your body. It was a completely unexpected feeling and not to happen especially with Lee Heeseung.

"I can’t believe it. This is a nightmare. "

He, meanwhile, was sleeping soundly, with a puppy-like expression completely unaware that his head was resting close to your neck, the messy hair touching your skin and tickling you. You tried to move a little bit more but the grip tightened slightly and you held your breath. Heeseung moved slightly, his face sinking a little deeper into his neck.

«Where do you think you’re going?» He murmured in a husky voice, still soaked with sleep.

You felt a shiver running down your back. "I didn’t want to wake you," you whispered in a neutral tone.

He chuckled softly, a low laugh that vibrated against your skin. «Don’t worry... I wouldn’t wake up for anything in the world if it wasn’t for you.»

You looked up because even in the early morning he was flirting and there was always that usual pinch of mischief in his voice. Before you could answer, you felt his hand slip under your shirt, so slowly that it seemed studied.

"What are you doing?" you asked, trying to keep his cool.

He caressed your side uncovered, the touch light but enough to make you feel the skin burning. «I’m thanking my miracle cure» he replied. «I haven’t slept so well in months... and you made it all possible.»

You stiffened, but you did nothing to stop him. You felt Heeseung’s hand move gently as if he were trying to memorize every line of your body. The warmth of his fingers was almost hypnotic, and for a moment you let go, closing your eyes.

«You know, you should relax more often» he continued, his voice soft and sweet. «You are not like the others... And I like this.»

"Don’t be stupid, Heeseung, they’re not like those perfect models you hang out with. And anyway, I don’t like physical contact, so..."

Before you could finish the sentence you felt his slightly calloused fingers touch a cape and unintentionally you raised your back and he lifted his head, his dark eyes staring at you with an unexpected seriousness. «Don’t say nonsense», he slowly lifted your old pajama shirt and began to kiss you from the navel with light kisses until they reached your breast with one hand he squeezed it slightly and then laid his lips and started to tease you; he would lick it, slightly nibble it and hold it for you «You are beautiful, Y/n. More than you can imagine. And I don’t want you to get paranoid about these things, do we understand?» you nodded your head and Heeseung kept leaving little kisses all over your body and with his big hands he held one side of you and the other always a tit

You looked down, trying to hide the blush that was coloring your cheeks. "Heeseung..."

«Shhh» interrupted you, placing a finger on your lips. «I’m not flirting. Not this time, god this breast is made for my big hands and I want to make you feel like my dick is already hard just because of you, Y/n.»

You look uncertain, But there was something in his expression that made him soften and he laid slightly above you with a quick movement he rubbed his length into your pussy still covered by some short shorts and succinus misery was hard, and for those few seconds. You heard it could have been imagined that it was also great. "Look, if you want to thank me, do it by winning on Sunday, okay?"

He laughed softly, a laugh that seemed to dispel all tension. «All right, boss, but if I win I want something in return» You saw how he looked at your whole body and after a while stood up and winked at you before leaving.

Heeseung, who has just left his P2 qualification, heads to the interview area with contagious energy, ready to do his usual show. He’s smiling, charming, and was terribly annoying to you.

You were a few steps away from him, with your phone in hand, recording every word to avoid misunderstandings or fractions that could turn into tabloid headlines. But as Heeseung was getting in front of the cameras you knew he wanted to make a show.

The first journalist hands him the microphone, smiling.

Journalist 1 :

"Heeseung, you missed the pole by a few tenths. Do you think the race step will be enough to turn things around tomorrow?"

Heeseung :

'Sure, tomorrow I’ll give it all. But if you want to know my strategy in detail... I promise that I’ll explain it to you, as long as it brings me luck.'

The emphasis on the word "luck" is accompanied by a wink that makes half of the room laugh. You snort loudly, attracting the attention of one of the press officers who looks at her confused.

With the second journalist, however, Heeseung is at his best.

Journalist 2 :

"Tomorrow will be a tough race. Sunghoon seems to have an advantage, but do you think it will be a duel between the two of you?"

Heeseung :

(with a mischievous smile)

'My duel is always with Sunghoon, but you know what? If I had you by my side at the wall box, I would win without problems.'

You put down the phone with an incredulous expression, mumbling.

"Eight hours of sleep and he’s already turned into the usual serial flirter. I should have kept him awake."

When Heeseung comes back to you, visibly satisfied with himself you stare at him.

"Congratulations on the qualification, Casanova. But if you don’t win tomorrow, I swear I’ll take that microphone and make you eat it."

«Calm Y/n, you should be as refreshed as you were this morning with me! It was just to keep the atmosphere light, in this place they are all so boring and obsessive with the coldness of Sunghoon."

You slapped him lightly and pursed his keys.

"Relax, of course. Too bad I have to answer your fans in delirium on Twitter.»

You were a bundle of nerves sitting in the Ferrari box watching the race of Heeseung. From the start, Sunghoon had taken the lead, taking full advantage of the straight speed of his Red Bull but Heeseung, however, kept calm, studying every corner of the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve, known for its technical braking and the famous "esse" of the Casino.

The decisive moment came in the last ten laps, when a small collision caused two cars to come out and the Virtual Safety Car came out that allowed Heeseung to switch to softer and fresher tires. Upon returning to the track Hee flew with his red fire car and showed all his power and agility, bend after bend began to gnaw the advantage of Sunghoon.

With three laps to go, the overtaking reached the final chicane just before the Champions Wall. With a breakaway at the limit, Heeseung joined Sunghoon and, despite fierce resistance, took the lead in the race with an impeccable trajectory.

Crossing the finish line in first position, you had tears in your eyes because it was 6 months since you did not win and the whole team hugged you and you ran under the podium.

On the podium, his smile was brighter than the sun reflecting on the gold trophy. He sprayed champagne with a contagious energy, wetting Sunghoon, who laughed defeated, and Jungwon, who occupied the third step. You watched from the edge of the track, crossing your arms but with a smug smile.

"He’s finally back to win, at least now he’ll stop tormenting me for how much he missed winning." You muttered in a low voice

When the celebrations on the podium ended, the group headed towards the river near the circuit, a special tradition to celebrate Canadian Grand Prix victories. The crowd of fans had already gathered along the banks, shouting and cheering as the drivers and team approached the water.

Heeseung was euphoric, almost in a trance. With a sure gesture, he unlaced the top of the pilot’s suit, letting it fall on his hips and with a fluid movement, he also took off his shirt, revealing his sculpted chest and toned muscles under the sunlight.

The crowd exploded in shouts and applause, as dozens of phones took photos and recorded videos.

You stopped suddenly when Hee took off her shirt and your eyes were fixed on the slightly tanned skin but especially in his toning muscles that covered all of his toned body.

"Oh. My God. Really? Did he have to take off his shirt? Wasn’t the Playboy smile and the Greek statue body enough? This is ridiculous, tomorrow there will be all the social media invaded by him." you said in a low voice not making you heard from anyone.

You tried to look away, but your eyes inevitably returned to follow every movement of Heeseung. The sun was shining on his skin, and the champagne drops from the podium were still visible. He ran his hand through his hair, wet and messy, before approaching the edge of the river.

Heeseung turned to you with a provocative smile, having noticed your eyes following him before he jumped into the river and yelled at you.

«Y/n! What are you doing there all serious? You’re not judging me, are you? Come on, admit it, this physique is not bad, right?»

"I’m not judging you. I’m just trying to figure out if you have a social media contract, since every move you make ends on the net!"

Heeseung gets up, diving into the water with a spectacular dive. When he emerged, he passed his hands over his face and hair, casting another amused look, and winked at you.

When he got back to the small wooden pier he came close to you who had a light towel and looked at you with a smile that would have made thousands of his fans crazy but it was only for you at that moment and with a little laugh she undid her head and small drops of water mixed with champagne they flooded your body and a slight redness took possession of your cheeks and you thought:

"This guy will drive me crazy. And not in the professional sense of the term."

«So? Have you seen something that you like?»

"Yes. Your suit, which for some reason you’re not wearing. Do you want a tip? Get back to putting it on, before someone makes an awkward photo montage."

Heeseung laughed

«You’re too stiff, Y/n. Should you relax a little bit by maybe taking a bath... with me?»

You pointed your finger at his still-wet chest.

"Keep it up, Heeseung, and you’ll see that the next bathroom is with the whole PR team, but to save yourself from trouble."

«All right, all right! Only because today you were my medicine even off the track.»

When you returned to the hotel, you promised yourself to ignore him for the rest of the day. But as he walked before you, you could not help but take one last look at his carved back.

"There is no hope. This guy is a continuous temptation the red devil."

It was Saturday night and you were finally enjoying some relaxation at home, away from the chaos of paddocks, interviews, and especially Heeseung. You had dinner with your friends and after weeks of going through the circuits, you felt like a normal person for a moment. But, of course, your phone decided to remind you who you really were: the PR of the most problematic (and irresistible) driver of the moment.

While your friends were laughing at another joke you saw the phone screen light up with the name you feared most: "Heeseung".

With a heavy sigh, you already know that you would never spend a quiet evening.

"What do you want, Hee?"

On the other end of the line, Heeseung seemed agitated, almost desperate and there was music in the background.

'Y/n! Thank goodness you answered. Look, I went out with Jake and Jay at the Twiga, just to relax a bit, nothing like that... but a paparazzo caught me with a glass of wine while talking to a fan.'

You closed your eyes, holding back an exasperated groaning

So? Where’s the problem, Heeseung? It’s not the first time you've ended up in these situations, by now people know that you have lived off the track and that you go to have fun and I doubt it will be the last.'

'Y/n, it’s not like it seems, and don’t get mad! I was just having a chat, I swear. The fan came over, asked me for a picture, and then he said something to my ear. But I promise you, nothing strange! Just that, you know how paparazzi are, It seemed... well she was kissing me"

You feel a mixture of frustration and resignation grow inside you.

"Heeseung, I don’t need to know the details. Really. You can do what you want with girls, it’s not my business but I’m just tired of this situation..."

On the other side, there was a moment of silence. Then, Heeseung spoke in an unusually serious tone.

'Y/n... Nothing happened. Really. You know I don’t want to ruin everything with this nonsense especially now that I’m adjusting the rhythm on the track." You got up from the restaurant table, away from your friends to find a quiet corner.

"So, if there was nothing, why are you calling me? You know I’ll do what I always do: I’ll fix the situation, I’ll make the photos disappear, and keep your image intact. But, honestly, I’m starting to think you enjoy making me feel bad, every time I’m not with you you always do one."

On the other side of the line, Heeseung looked almost wounded.

'This not so. I know I give you a lot of work, but I didn’t want this thing to come to you. I just... I trust you. And I don’t want you to think bad of me.'

"I don’t think badly of you, Heeseung. It’s my job. Only... sometimes it would be nice to spend a Saturday without having to make up for something."

Sorry. I do. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again."

"All right. Send me everything: photos, videos, anything that can help me solve it. And, Heeseung... Maybe next time you won’t get too close to anyone, even just to talk. You know that it takes one click to blow up the internet."

Heeseung laughed slightly but in a sincere tone

"Promise. Thank you, y/n. You’re the best, you know?"

"I know. And now leave me alone, I want to finish the evening without any more surprises."

All right, all right. Good evening...and don’t think too much, see you in Belgium.'

You hung up and snorted, god could not stand it when it was like that and the words of Jay resonated in your head << You know that Mercedes is looking for a PR for next season, if Heeseung makes you work even when you shouldn’t think about it because I don’t cause trouble and my other teammate too>

Spa Gp (Belgium)

The Friday and Saturday passed quickly, between technical briefings and free practice. Spa was a track that gave many riders the creeps, but Heeseung loved it. The fast curves, the slopes, the iconic Eau Rouge: it was everything he loved about racing and gave him that adrenaline that made him vibrate with its light.

When the time came for qualifying, Heeseung looked like a man on a mission. The atmosphere in the paddock was tense, dark clouds over the circuit threatened rain, but he was as concentrated as ever. He got into the car, ready to give his all and take another pole position because he was a magician in the dry ride.

In the first fast lap, he had already shown that he was fit. He was clean, precise, and almost surgical in his trajectories and his radio engineer was enthusiastic.

Engineer :

"P1 for now, Hee! Great job, but Jay is behind by a tenth."

His second lap was even more impressive. He passed the Eau Rouge with the gas completely open, the car seemed to dance under him. In the final part of the track, under a sky now black as ink, he managed to gain more fundamental milliseconds.

When he crossed the finish line, the clock was clear: he was in pole position.

Engineer :

"P1 ! Pole position! Heeseung! You’re a monster!"

Heeseung banged his hands on the steering wheel for happiness and when he turned on the radio he shouted 'P1 baby! The car is a lightning bolt I can’t wait for tomorrow to fight for victory.

At the finish line, Heeseung raised his fist as he stepped out of the car in victory, while everyone in the Ferrari pit was exploding with cries of joy.

After qualifying you were back in the Ferrari motorhome, watching the replay of Heeseung’s lap. It was amazing, as always. But you couldn’t share the team’s enthusiasm.

When he came back, still euphoric, he approached you with that smile that usually could melt anyone.

«So, my favorite PR what does she think about the ride? Impressive, right?»

He passed you to go up in his motorhome with crossed arms.

"Yes, it was a good lap. But we’ll see tomorrow in the race. Pole doesn’t count if you don’t take the result home."

Heeseung froze, slightly surprised by the coldness in your voice.

«Wow, you are the queen of the tifo, eh? Come on, Y/n a little enthusiasm! I gave everything today and it’s not everyone to pole at Spa!» You raised an eyebrow, keeping your icy gaze.

"Heeseung, you know that what you do on the track is great, and don’t need me to tell you, you’re fated and if it’s not this year next year you’ll be fighting for the world championship."

He stopped, surprised by your voice. He had noticed the hardness of your words and never had seen you so distant.

«Come on, don’t do that. What’s wrong?»

You were unable to hold back, opened the door of his motorhome room, and entered both.

"You’re treating me like a puppet, Heeseung! Every weekend it’s the same! You get what you want, flirting with everyone, and you always get in trouble, the executives of Ferrari call me to solve your problems even during weekends off. I’m tired of being your PR!"

Heeseung tried to approach, but you stopped him with a cold look.

"I want to look around. Maybe it’s time I had a chat with someone like Jay or Sunghoon, see if in Mercedes or Red Bull they treat me as a person and not as a slave of your ego."

Your words struck Heeseung like a stab. His heart stopped for a moment, and an unexpected wave of jealousy swept over him without warning. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The idea that you could look around, away from him, drove him crazy.

Hee this time approached you and with a low, furious voice said to you

«Don’t make me say what I think. Don’t test me.»

He had an expression of anger on his face and you did not back down, rather challenged him with your gaze with the same intensity. The tension between you was palpable, the air seemed to overheat. Then, in a sudden and determined movement, Heeseung grabbed you by the wrists and pushed you against the wall.

«If you think that someone else looks at you like this or that you deserve in their life you are wrong, now I’ll show you what it means to be with me, Y/n.»

His warm breath touched your skin, and you were paralyzed for a moment. But there was no fear in his eyes. Only anger and frustration.

"What do you want from me, Heeseung? Why can’t you treat me like a person?" And I pushed him slightly to run away from him

His body was contracting, but at that moment something in Heeseung snapped. He wanted you, only you, and felt the anger grow inside him like a fire. He came even closer, so much so that his breath felt caress your skin. Then, without warning, he kissed you with force.

The kiss was intense, almost violent as if trying to communicate everything we could not say. Heeseung’s mouth moves against yours with a rush that surprised you but however much you wanted to resist, you couldn’t ignore the attraction between you two, that tension that had bound you from the beginning.

He gently pulls your hair with one hand and holds your jaw with the other, deepening the kiss, practically sticking his tongue in your mouth and establishing dominance from the beginning, Your hands fall on his muscular shoulders and you draw him closer to you and your hips come desperately close to his to quench your thirst. It is a huge boost to his ego of Heeseung when he hears you moan something indestructible and with his big brawn lifts you slightly and puts you in the small raised bed where before the race they did the massages, you slightly spread your legs with one hand and stands between you two. You had the perfect hair, the cherry lip dye that you used to use in your face, the chest that lifts and lowers, and the icing on the cake for Heeseung was to see you wearing a bra as sexy and red as his car as well as his favorite color.

« Fuck, did you do it on purpose to wear this bra? Who would have thought that my PR wore sexy braces so short that she didn’t look like a good girl anymore.»

Heeseung had begun to attack your neck, his lips clinging to every inch of your skin and leaving beautiful red marks. You would tell him to be careful not to make them too evident but you were in a state of trance and pleasure when you felt a hand of Hee come down where your little skirt was to slightly pinch your thighs full, Until he made little circles inside your already slightly wet panties and starts rubbing against his hand, not caring how Hee couldn’t help but smile as he moved his lips towards your full bosom.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you as close to him as possible before catching one of your nipples in his mouth and slowly pulling him into the tufts that he had long for his mullet haircut.

"I am not your property, Heeseung. You do not own me. I will never be." You heard a light laugh coming from the boy who was sucking your nipples in his closet and this time he pinched the flesh of your thigh and screamed from pain but also from excitement. " Heeseung"

Hee laughed and his hands found the edge of your red Ferrari skirt that you had to use as a uniform during the summer gp and thanked the stylist for giving him this opportunity to touch you thanks to that skirt.

«Mmm, if you weren’t mine you wouldn’t be here moaning my name Sweetie! See your panties wear my favorite PR» Heeseung saw that you had a red lace outfit even underneath your panties and formed a grin bowed slightly and took one of your legs if he put it over his shoulder and with his fingers slightly calloused you he moved his panties and smiled when he saw you were already totally soaked for him.

You leaned against the cold wall while Hee put two fingers in. At first, he was slow and careful. He wanted to give you the chance to back off if you didn’t feel comfortable enough to do all this with him but when he realized that you really wanted it, he allowed himself to relax and start his work. His steady rhythm did not last long: every second that passed, he pushed only faster, wishing to hear you groan again and again. He kept looking up from your chest, watching your expressions and smiling to himself as he alternated sucking your breasts, especially your full and hard buds, and left marks everywhere in your body. You began to move your hips towards his hand, desperately chasing even more pleasure.

His fingers went deeper and from your mouth came sounds that Heeseung was ecstatic and thought every time he touched himself when he thought of you.

«Tell me,» said Heeseung. You heard it but did not answer. «What it’s like to get fingered by a guy you can’t stand but at the same time that makes you feel all these feelings and we’re doing it where everyone could hear or see us, Y/N!» you have silenced Hee by quickly pulling his hair, your free hand clings to his shoulders, your nails are embedded in the skin exposed by his toned and muscular physique for the many hours of training.

"Hee...it’s so beautiful" you replied moaning and the boy next to you was overwhelmed with adrenaline and groans for praise. You were soaked and with the thumb tickled even more your clitoris and did not stop giving pleasure just as you were about to reach orgasm Heeseung believed that he came too while he felt liquid wet boxer shorts and had slightly hard balls. It hides its face in the hollow of your neck, now stimulating your clitoris with its thumb and making you go into a frenzy.

«Come for me», mumbles right against your ear. A shiver runs through your back before you succumb and the knot in your stomach melts. Heeseung kept you while you were coming, trying with all his might not to go with you because not only would it be embarrassing but also because you would surely have made fun of him.

Heeseung pulled out his fingers once you calmed down. You smiled because you still did not have the energy to talk and say what you thought about everything that happened in that closet...nor did you have the energy to do anything else. Heeseung smiled at you with a grin as he was busy wiping his fingers using his mouth, naturally and winked at you and his look became darker, more intense, and without saying a word, he slowly released it. He pulled down your skirt and went to get the shirt that he had taken off and put it back on you as if you were his favorite doll and put in your ear gently a fluttering tuft that you had in your hair and slightly lowered to your ear and said «It doesn’t end here, Y/n. You are mine and you will be forever»

In Belgium Heeseung won the race and in Hungary, things went well for Hee came p3 but Y/n did not want to sleep with him or stay next to him for that 2 gp pretended that nothing happened between them two and stayed as much as possible with Jungwon. In Holland, Hee felt very tired and wanted to sleep with Y/n but both he and she were embarrassed and they were mostly stubborn, which was a disaster for the Ferrari in general Hee went crashed and when he came back in his boxer pissed and looked coldly Y/n, He absolutely wanted to talk with you but before there were the briefing and interviews to do and when he arrived in the room was exhausted and slept and no 4 hours, on Sunday they arrived in the points area miraculously both him and Jungwon. He just wanted to relax and find a way to talk to you and perhaps knowing all your habits knew where you were at that time and a small smile took possession of his face.

He knew you were probably in the pool, as you often did after a hard day, trying to relax. When he arrived he saw you swimming smoothly, your arms drawing elegant lines in the water, fully concentrated as if you were trying to clear your mind. Heeseung watched your body move, as usual, but this time it wasn’t just admiration. There was desire, anger, and a strange feeling of possessiveness that he could not suppress.

He approached slowly, his heart beating fast and when you noticed him you stopped looking at him with that mix of confusion and challenge that he liked so much but now it seemed more difficult to face. Without thinking too much, he took off his shirt, despite the back pain, and immersed himself in the water with determination. Every fiber of his body cried against his physical state, but he wanted you close.

«Don’t run away, Y/n. I’m tired of playing these games»

You tried to get away but Heeseung reached out, took you by the wrist, and held you firmly. His warm breath touched your skin and you felt a shiver run down your back. You were trapped, but not in the way he thought. It wasn’t fear, you were confused by all the feelings you had for him.

«Why don’t you look at me? I won’t let you go and you know it. I want to see you give in.» You stared at it, and the beating of your heart increased while your body struggled between the desire to escape and the attraction that felt growing. Then, without warning, Heeseung came even closer, his hands touching you gently, but with an intensity that left no doubt. It slid down your skin, from arms to hips, and you couldn’t help but feel that sensation.

«You are mine, Y/n. You always have been, only you don’t want to admit it.»

His words were a sweet poison, a game you no longer knew how to play. You felt Heeseung’s hands touching you in a possessive way, as if he wanted to mark you as if he wanted to remind you that despite your attempts to get away from him you had never been truly free of him.

You tried to push him away but Heeseung wouldn’t let go. With a quick movement, he kissed you. It wasn’t a sweet kiss, but a violent one. His lips pressed against yours with urgency, while Heeseung’s hands went into your legs and carried them around her waist. You pushed him slightly, but he, with a cry choked by desire and frustration, pulled you even closer and you tied your arms around his floor.

«Don’t pretend that it doesn’t drive you crazy. I know what you want. I can see it in your eyes.»

You looked up and started to pull his hair slightly while he sucked your neck and bit it slightly and between the breathless breaths you said:

"You can’t... you can’t... not with me, I don’t want to be another one of your stupid awards. I’m more than this Heeseung."

Heeseung kissed you again, but with a fierce rage as if he was trying to take possession not only of your body but also of your soul.

«I need you Y/n, not as my prize but as my girlfriend. God, from the first day I saw you, you drive me crazy, you’re the only one who can hold my head, the only one who hates my flirting, and the only one who can understand me and see not only the F1 driver but also my most vulnerable part» You felt your heart beat like crazy and you did yes with your head and while accompanying you in his room he never took off his hands from your body and when you reached his room immediately pushed you into his large bathroom where from the large window of saw all the panorama of the city and the sunset in the darkness.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, feel his gaze crossing your face. His eyes stopped on your lips and smiled again, With the air of fun and when he put you under the jet of water shivered a little until you felt the big hands of Heeseung soapy gently all over your body and made you a small soap bubble by pressing lightly a jar of soap to relieve the tension between you two and when he saw you laugh slightly he hugged you and washed your hair gently. «God, how good it is to feel the bath foam I use on you Y/n, I can not wait to fuck you and to smell your scent against mine» he leaned forward, catching your lips in another kiss and you moaned needy in his mouth, pressing your hips against his and he unlaced the little triangle costume you had and when your breast came out with one hand he held you still and with the other started to bite your sensitive bud both because of the excitement but also of the hot water coming down and It gave you slight chills After a while he moved to release the piece under your bra and bent slightly. You groaned as his teeth sank into your thigh, giving a strong sucking so as to leave its mark. " I guess I won’t wear skirts and shorts so soon I’ll have to put on the autumn uniform even with 30 degrees..." You didn’t mean it because God, wanted everyone to see the signs that he left for you.

«I guess not, every time I saw you in that red-hot skirt I always felt my cock getting hard because of you» he growled as he left you some more lollipops along the inside of your thighs, enjoying how you were writhing under him and groaning his name.

His tongue slid along the outer part of your pussy, flattening against the length, then sliding his tongue up and down the crack, plunging just past the entrance to your core. The little jolts and tremors that flowed through your body, together with your choking moans and high-pitched whimpers were absolute perfection for his ears, and Hee turned off the hot water and buried her face as deep as possible. It was intoxicating, the taste of your pussy, sweet and slimy with your excitement, and practically drooling on it was seriously fucked by your body, how you moaned his name, how you teased him every day, and how only you could understand it and have it all for yourself.

«I thought you couldn’t stand me or to be honest that you hated me at the beginning of the F1 season but now look at you are here moaning my name» You pulled Heeseung’s hair slightly and said, "I never hated you, but sometimes you’re so damn annoying that it’s hard to be your PR or stand by you."

"God, please," you complained, the voice that grew faint in a slight groan at the end as Hee ate your soggy pussy as if there was no tomorrow. Until then you had forgotten what pleasure was. His long callused fingers surrounded your wet pussy hole, pushing past your folds to massage against the tensed muscle with every dive of her mouth.

"Hee is even more beautiful than last time, please!" Your back bowed against the cold shower tiles, eyes closed and a low moan in your throat, your body quickly reached the point of no return. «Come for me, Sweetie, only for me»

You pushed your hips forward, rubbing you but you were ripped from that moment of pure bliss when he stuck a long finger inside you and shoved it back and forth quickly pumping it.

His name slipped from your lips in a whisper, his fingers stopped half-thrust. Your pussy was shaking around his finger and kept moving his hand through the bedtime shocks, letting the moment of bliss last as long as possible, watching you keep on wailing and wailing as you came.

«You are so beautiful, Y/n», he whispered as he slowly kissed your lips, his eyes kept wandering up and down the length of your naked figure and he turned on the water and trembled at the contact next to him. " I need you, Hee, please" You started to pump slightly its length and smiled at you «Mm, my favorite PR that asks me to be his, who would ever have thought that my impure dreams become real?» He smiled and leaned forward again, kissing you with small kisses on the neck. His free hand wandered on the lower part of your back caressing your bottom.

«Do you trust me?» you made a sign of yes and slowly took you in his arms and slammed you against the cold shower tiles and slowly with a dry push slid its full length inside you in one single strong and decisive blow and you yelled slightly for the cold contact of the wall and its length within you.

"Hee" you mumbled his name, your legs were wrapped around his hips, and his cock kept diving into you, encountering your desperate whimpers as your hands clenched around his strong biceps that held you tight. Heeseung cursed and dropped his face in your neck and drops of boiling water fell between your bodies and moved a lock of hair from Heeseung and groan pressed against your neck when he took another push.

«Holy shit, why we have not done it before, this body, this pussy is made only for and for no other man» You writhed in place as his hand was clinging to your thigh and around the curve of your back. "Heeseung".

«Fuck Y/n, say my name again, like that. You’re so fucking beautiful with my dick inside of you.» His forehead leaned against yours, nibbling your lower lip, and told you something you would never think of hearing in your life «I love you so much, you make me crazy from morning to night, only you can» He pushed his hips into your tighter hole stronger.

"I love you too, I don’t know...how it happened or when" his lips kissed you avidly, passionately, moving as sharply as her thrusts, Water slippery and you felt his thumb tickling your clitoris, and small moans of pleasure came out of your lips when with a sharp push hit your G-spot.

«Let go, Sweetie, come everywhere on my dick like a good girl you are!» It takes a couple of long, powerful thrusts before you find yourself yelling his name, coming hard on his dick. Your hips are contracting as his cock is sticking deep inside you, The sperm splashes into you and you feel so good after so long after a while Heeseung comes out of you and holds you against his chest, and leaves you some slight caresses that start from the bottom of your back to reach your hips.

«Are you all right? Or was it too much for you, sweetie?» Look up slightly and see him for the first time with a sincere smile, his hair all ruffled and attached to the forehead and with red cheeks because of the heat.

"it was perfect but don’t get your head in the sand, already your ego is big enough, and maybe something else too" You looked slightly down embarrassed, and after a little bit felt Heeseung’s hands take your face and kiss you with lips. «I have to tell you a secret but also you, don’t get too excited» You looked curious and felt his breath next to your ear and said «You’re better than a race won on the last lap»

OMG🌹 i hope you enjoyed this story. Heeseung in my head gives me too many vibes from Ferrari driver, comments are appreciated and also reblogs.

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platinumshawnn · 8 months ago

Text

Bound by Blood and Fire — benjicot blackwood x tully!oc

prologue

masterlist

forward

A/N: new fixation of the month, another skinny yt boy! I haven’t written an actual series in a few years, so here I am giving it another try. Also I know he didn’t turn out to be Benjicot, but I’m sticking with fancast!Kieran as Benjicot. Benjicot is aged up to 21, character is 18 — semi-proofread and updated (the character was changed into a random oc) characters physical description is not detailed or referenced to.

You can now read the next part here: i (posted July 17 2024)

Synopsis: Amidst rising tensions and a looming war, House of Tully seeks to strengthens its strongest alliances by proposal a marriage between Benjicot Blackwood, heir to Raventree, and Elmo Tully’s only daughter.

Content Warning(s): mentions of violence, no detailed depictions however. Era related content and sexism.

Word count: 1.8k

“It is done then?”

Elmo looked across the table at his son, his heir, as Kermit Tully nodded his head — his head bowing forward in response to his father’s words, “It is.” He simply replied, head lifting then to make eye contact with his father’s.

The pair stood in silence as the weight of his admission lingered in the air, the flames from the torches that lit the room casting a dim glow over the face of the father and his son who could have been mistaken for a mirrored image of himself if not for his own having grown aged throughout the years — Elmo’s gaze darted to the walls of their meeting room after a small, meek nod that hinted towards his reservations; gaze scanning the walls built of solid stone that stretched upwards in seemingly endless slabs, high enough that it almost seemed as though they were attempting to reach up high enough to the Gods themselves. The air was damp, caused by the ongoing storm outside having plagued the House of Tully for days — it made for a mess keeping guard amidst the growing tension between the houses, further enabled by the ongoing dispute regarding the throne.

“I do wonder, father,” Kermit suddenly spoke again, interrupting his father’s silence of contemplation as his grip on the hilt of his holstered sword at his hip readjusted, the glazed over look in his father’s eyes briefly clearing as he once more looked at him. “If I might…do you think she is ready? I do not wish to rush her into this, this is not a decision I think should be lightly considered…”

“Worry not, Kermit.” Elmo snapped, the anxiety in his chest heavy again at the thought of his daughter, shrouded by guilt that he was forced to swallow down. Pride. He released his grip on the ledge of the table made of weirwood and wrung his hands as he paused, his brow twitching and inhaling deeply, “We have given her more than enough time — all she’s had is time. It is her turn to perform her duty, just as we all must.”

Kermit’s gaze shifted, blinking a couple of times as he nodded, processing his words. There was a silence that fell over them both once more, the tension in the air almost suffocatingly thick and crushing him under the weight of it as Kermit thinks of his sister. Thinks of how she will react when he tells her she’s to be married. Thinks of his sweet sister, caught in the middle of the politics of the realm — treated as nothing more than a pawn and broodmare; his sweet sister who cried when he brought back his first deer after a hunt when he was twelve, big eyes welled with tears and nearly inconsolable. He recalled the days it took for her to speak to him again after that, promising to never subject her to such a sight again and do his best to sneak any catch in through the back gates. He thinks of the soft, sensitive girl who picked flowers and was fascinated by bugs growing up, much to their mother’s dismay — so curious and quiet, innocent and in her own world. Kermit wished he could have understood what it was like to see the world through her eyes sometimes, to see what it was that she did. Sometimes.

He almost felt dirty at the realization of just who — what — she would be marrying and that he was subjecting his sister to a lifelong commitment to a man who used to throw mud on her dresses; teased her until she cried as a girl, and then teased her more because she was a girl. That he was giving her hand away so quickly without giving her even a chance to agree or defend herself or choose — but what choice did a woman have in these matters? Kermit swallowed thickly, exhaling as his hands clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

Kermit did not have many friends beyond these walls that were not of his own blood. Benjicot Blackwood was one of the very few exceptions — introduced as children, both heirs to their respective houses, Kermit naturally found himself in the other’s presence more often than not; learning the ways of running households, trailing behind their fathers. Hells, they had trained together for several years and even fought alongside one another, too, on a few occasions after run-ins with Brackens. Benjicot had become a close friend of his over the many years they’d known each other, coming to know him as soft spoken, if not even shy and quiet and still, even knowing him and his character as well as he did — the decision still had not been an easy one. But he had mulled over the many available lords and their heirs across the realm, thoroughly considering each of them and whether they were suitable for his sister’s hand. No matter how close and good of an ally any of them were, how loyal they were, how fierce and powerful….Kermit simply could not consider any of them to be good enough for his dear sister. Benjicot hadn’t even been his idea. It had been his father’s idea, in fact — he was one of the first names that had been put forward when the discussion had first come up, but he had shot it down just as quickly.

He pictured the thought of his sister, sweet and soft spoken, scared of anything violent and bloody beside Benjicot — wild, crazy, and psychotic Benjicot whose eyes were wild in battle, bordering feral in simple fights that did not require getting bloody, pummeling men bloody regardless until they were nearly unrecognizable. The thought made him feel sick to his stomach.

“Do you think…” Kermit began to say, cutting himself short as he did not know what he intended to ask. He blinked twice, glancing down briefly before looking back up to where his father had turned his head to stare at him. They were both quiet, staring back at one another, as if they both seemed to be sharing the same thought.

Elmo looked back out the windows, looking over the fields that were soaked and flooded by the rains, seeming to know what his son intended to say, “She will understand.” He stated, taking a few steps closer towards the window’s ledge, looking up at the sky that was covered by dark, full clouds that hid nearly any and all traces of sunlight. “You should be off to speak to her, let her know of the news. Lord Samwell will be expecting you in the coming days. I am entrusting you to oversee finalizing everything. Oscar and I will follow.” He explained, back turned to him still as he spoke.

Kermit was not one typically to shy away from making difficult choices, but this one still felt like he was ripping out a part of himself. Like he had betrayed his sister somehow.

He nodded abruptly, bowing his head before taking his leave with a pivot-step and striding out of the room quickly, the doors swinging open before slamming shut behind him with the force of the guards stood outside. With a curt nod to the guards, Kermit turned and began wandering through the halls; absentmindedly guiding his way to the library, his hands clenched so hard his knuckles had turned white and jaw clenched as if that would steady him.

The doors to the library could have otherwise been a comforting sight on any other day, given that he had spent several days there in his youth, studying and teasing his sister into their adolescence over her obsession to memorize the history books front-to-back rather than being outside with the girls her age; knowing this was her safe haven amongst the busy day-to-day hustle of their house. However, it appeared daunting that particular day as he paused outside them, hand stretched out and ready to push inside as he listened for any noise; hoping that he would be met instead with silence that he could use as an excuse to walk away and claim that she wasn’t there — that he did not know where she was at that moment. Give him any excuse not to tell her…not yet. But instead he was met by the soft shuffle of shoes and melodic humming, his eyes closing with a furrow of his eyebrows as his shoulders slumped, sighing out a breath.

It took him a moment to compose himself — straighten his shoulders and stand upright, taking one final breath before he pushed open the door to find his sister; her head turning immediately to look at him, eyes wide and one hand up to her mouth as she picked at her bottom lip, frozen as though he had startled her, her humming ceased as her other hand held an open book, “Brother?” She suddenly asked, voice small amongst the room.

“Sister.” He greeted, voice low. “We must speak — join me.”

—

“Winds are coming from the east today.” Benjicot said, looking out from the entrance of his tent before letting the flap drop closed, shielding him and his cousins from the cool winds that had picked up over the past few hours with the storm; clothes still clinging to his limbs from the rain that had caught him on his way back to camp, his hair soaked as it stuck to his forehead in stringy strands that dripped into his eyes. He used the damp backside of his hand to wipe a bead of water from his eyes as he knelt close to the map, staying far enough back so as to not damage it by getting it wet as he’d yet to change into something dry. “We can use that to our advantage if this rain slows down.”

“Any animal with even half a brain across the realm has gone into hiding by now, there’s nothing left out there.” Emrys said, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he sat back on his elbows, earning a pointed stare from his cousin. “Let us just call it a day for now. We will continue in the morrow — rest, warm up.” He pleaded.

“Don’t be foolish, Emrys.” Benjicot snapped while standing back up, circling the tent towards his cousin and deliberately nudging him with his rain soaked boot. “A true hunter does not just give up so easily, dear cousin. Though, I imagine this isn’t how you would rather spend your day — rather instead spend it with your whores, yes?” Benjicot mocked, the men letting out a chorus of laughter that was muffled by the sound of heavy rainfall.

“Regardless, we still might —”

Benjicot’s words were interrupted as a guard arrived, calling out to him as he entered the tent where the group of men were meeting, “Ser,” the guard said, stopping abruptly by the entrance and holding out a scroll. “A Raven has just arrived for you.” He announced, the scroll dampened by the rain as Benjicot retrieved it from his grasp, eyes narrowing slightly at the stoic male who stood still as a statue; awaiting his next orders. His gaze dropped to the scroll in his hands, the seal recognized as that of his house and glancing up at the guard once more before cracking the wax seal to unravel the paper, his gaze scanning its contents. In his peripheral vision, he could see his cousins sit up, Emrys to his right.

“Who is it from?” Emrys asked.

Benjicot blinked, jaw clenching as he lowered the scroll, sighing, “My father.” He replied. “He’s instructed us to return to Raventree at once. I’m to be married apparently.” He explained, voice just above a mutter as he crumpled up the paper and shoved it into a pocket.

#davos blackwood #benjicot blackwood #davos blackwood fic #hotd #house of the dragon #house blackwood #bloody Ben #benjicot x reader #Benjicot blackwood x reader #davos x reader #Davos blackwood x reader #hotd 2 #benjicot blackwood x oc

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sephines · 11 days ago

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Declan O'Hara x Reader: you say you wanna go slow

Declan O'Hara x cis woman reader

Summary: Takes place after Maud has left for London. You're working for Venturer, and you and Declan have been secretly sleeping together for a while now. After a long day of pent up sexual tension shared between the two of you at a garden party at the Priory, you're finally alone together, and desperate to get your hands and mouth on him.

Word count: 3.8k

Content: pure smut, 18+, reader age not mentioned so can be whatever you want, mostly reader pov w small instances of Declan pov, swearing, infidelity (sort of), smoking, alcohol, lots of teasing, dirty talk, relatively fluid power dynamic (both Declan & reader alternating between being a little more submissive or a little more dominant), slight instances of inflicting pain, blowjob (inc face fucking), not enough here to constitute a praise kink but definitely praise, basically all about my oral fixation

Author's note: This is the first time I've ever written smut so I'm a little apprehensive to post but I really enjoyed writing it! Not me saying 'I'm only going to write little snapshots' and then writing almost 4k words of achingly slow, drawn-out foreplay culminating in a blow job. This is essentially a long, slow, sensual tease. Not sure if it'll be everyone's cup of tea but I tried to just write from a place of my own fantasy. Bc of the slow pace I imagine it would be best read slowly and taking time to imagine everything if possible!

There are probably some inconsistencies wrt what Declan's study looks like. I also initially played around with writing in an Irish dialect for him but wasn't sure about it so scrapped that - so imagine him speaking in his gorgeous accent.

Title is from the Haim song Gasoline.

If you enjoy it I would really appreciate feedback/reblogs/likes! Thank you 🌹

It’s dusk on a hot July day. You and Declan are in his study, the taste of cool whiskey and melted dark chocolate on your tongues. You’ve been at a garden party for Venturer at the O’Haras all day, and the grounds had only cleared out about half an hour ago. The two of you have spent the day teasing one another from afar - a stolen glance here, long, lingering eye contact there. About two hours into the sweltering afternoon, knowing how much it turns you on to see his chest hair peeking out, Declan had caught your eye over the buffet and loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, smirking at you before turning around to speak to someone you didn’t recognise. Forty five minutes later, when you noticed him watching you from across the dancefloor, you rested your hand on the bicep of the good-looking man chatting to you and leant forward to whisper something in his ear, knowing that seeing you flirt with someone else would amp up Declan’s desire for you. The day was littered with moments like this: loaded looks, subtly suggestive comments in company, finding small ways to push each other’s buttons.

You’ve been alone in the Priory, having encamped in Declan’s study armed with a leftover bottle of whiskey and slabs of dark chocolate from the party, for thirty minutes now, and still neither of you have made a move. You’re relaxing in the sunshine streaming in through the glass doors, but the tension in the air is thick - it’s like you’re each silently daring the other to give in first, neither wanting to buckle.

Declan’s sitting in his chair, legs splayed, head tilted back over the headrest as he takes drags from a cigarette, letting the low evening sun fall over his cheekbones, his mouth, his neck. In the heat, he’s taken off his shirt, and his bare chest rises and falls slowly, luxuriously, in front of you. You take in the coils of dark hair - thick up top and leading down his stomach to the top of his belt - and the light sheen of sweat glistening atop it. Your breath hitches and you feel your own head tilt back in desire, your teeth biting down on your lower lip.

Declan’s eyes are closed. He can’t see you drinking him in like this - it adds a thrill to the experience, almost lends him a little vulnerability, you a sense of getting to indulge in your own desires unwatched, unseen. The thin gold chain draped across his collarbones catches the sunlight, and there’s something about the delicacy of it against his strong, muscled shoulders and torso that you find impossibly sexy. Declan doesn’t usually put an enormous amount of effort into his appearance, and imagining him taking the time to clasp the chain around his neck feels so deliciously at odds with how unbothered he comes across.

He slowly lets his head fall back down to center, and opens his eyes lazily. He sees you looking at him intently, and immediately clocks the look in your eye. A smirk spreads across his face as he stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray beside him, not once taking his eyes off of yours’. He knows the effect he has on you. It’s enough to make your pulse quicken.

Involuntarily, you bite down harder on your lower lip. You feel exposed now - it’s an entirely different experience to watching him without his knowledge. You feel suddenly as though you’re the one under inspection. You’re sitting on your knees on the hardwood floor across from him, dressed in a low-cut crop top and flowing mini skirt, palms on your thighs. Your hair is pulled into a claw clip at the back of your head, and you can feel beads of sweat across your neck and your cleavage. Declan might be shirtless, but you feel just as naked, achingly aware of how little fabric covers your body, of how little Declan would need to do to have his hands on your bare skin.

He tilts his head at you, raises his eyebrow almost imperceptibly, exhaling the last plume of smoke from his cigarette. You know what he’s saying: I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of telling you, “c’mere.” I need you to act. I need to see how much you want me. You meet his gaze, frustrated and turned on in equal measure, and smirk at him in return. You love the little games you play, the way he teases you, the way you can communicate without words.

You crawl forward until you’re kneeling between his thighs, letting your eyes drink in the swell of his chest and the slope of his stomach. His body is muscular, but there’s a slight softness to it, too. There’s something about this that feels rawer, more primal, more sensual to you than if he were incredibly chiselled. You let out a sigh. You’re so heady with want for him. You let your palms slide down his pecs, move to follow them with your mouth. Before you can feel the touch of your lips against him, he reaches down and cups your chin in a strong hand, lifting your jaw gently but firmly, to look up at him. You let out a whimper of frustration. He brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, your mouth opening slightly in response to his touch.

Desire glows in his eyes - it’s intoxicating to see how much you want him. He wants your mouth all over him just as much as you do, but he wants to tease you, too, to build the suspense for both of you. Your big eyes look up at him intensely, heavy lidded with lust. Both of you are breathing heavily, letting the moment of anticipation stretch out.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he says.

You moan and take his thumb into your mouth. He lets out a groan and grasps the other side of your face, pulling you up towards him. His thumb slides across your bottom lip as your mouths meet. The kiss is hard and messy, your lust for each other spilling over. You clasp one hand across his throat, feeling the cold metal of that delicate chain under your thumb. The other is tangled up in his hair, pulling sharply on his dark curls. He removes the claw clip from your hair and tosses it to the side, allowing loose tendrils to fall down around your shoulders. You feel as though you’re melting into one another.

Declan breaks away to murmur, amidst ragged breaths, against your mouth, ‘I’ve wanted you like this all day.’ The kisses you share become urgent, fervent, hard. ‘Needed you like this.’

Hearing him say this makes you moan. You pull away from his mouth just slightly, catching his eye and murmuring, ‘I know,’ a smirk spreading across your face.

He chuckles and shakes his head. ‘You’re such a fucking tease.’

You smile at him, smug, before he pulls you into another kiss.

His hands travel down your shoulders and over your tits, your waist, until he reaches the waistband of your skirt and slides it down your hips along with your white lace underwear. You feel a little thrill at being so exposed.

Declan positions you gently away so he can look at you, taking in the swell of your breasts in your crop top and the curve of your hips, your lush pussy and swollen clit. You’re so gorgeous. He feels his cock straining against his trousers. He sighs and shakes his head at you, ever so slightly, as if in wonder. His thumb circles your nipple, causing you to sigh in pleasure, before his hand travels down your waist and to the soft swell of your ass, squeezing hard.

You reach up to kiss him again, your touch firm yet caressing on his jawbone and neck, and this time it’s deeper, more languorous. Your tongues slide against each other and you moan into one another’s mouths.

Moving one hand to those dark curls, you tug gently at the nape of his neck until he tips his head backwards, letting you kiss lightly across his jaw, then deeper down the soft skin of his exposed throat, feeling the vibrations of his low moans against your lips. This is what you’ve wanted all day: to put your mouth on every inch of him, to feel his hot, strong body against your lips, under your tongue. You’re so hungry for him.

You pepper your kisses with little bites, and he responds by tightening his grasp on your hair, making you moan in turn. Your kisses meet his collarbone, and then you sink onto your knees, moving down to his chest. You’re just melting into the moment, into him, into the swell of his pecs against your lips, finally, when he uses his grasp on your hair to tilt your head back and away from his torso. His thumb brushes against your jaw. You look up at him, whimpering in frustration.

He returns your gaze intently. You’re breathing heavily, dizzy with desire. The moment unfurls out in the silence between the two of you, in the eye contact you share. The anticipation feels delicious - so overwhelming you almost can’t bear it, and yet somehow satiating in itself.

‘Declan….’, you breathe, ‘...please..’

You can see his breath quicken in the way his chest moves. He moves his thumb gently from where it rests on your jawbone to stroke your lower lip. ‘I just want to hear you say it. How much you want me.’

You let out a sigh. The desire you feel for him, the frustration in not being able to fulfill it, has you weak. You want to tell him just how much he drives you crazy, how incredibly sexy you find him, but you can’t find the words - they swim in your mind untethered from one another.

‘Declan…I…’ you begin in between ragged breaths, looking up at him, ‘...I don’t even…have words for how much I want you.’ Your voice is quiet, almost a whisper. He’s brushing his thumb ever so lightly, ever so gently, back and forth over the center of your bottom lip. You let your gaze drift down to where his muscled chest rises and falls in front of you. ‘You’re so fucking…sexy to me…’ You shake your head slightly in wonder. ‘I can hardly stand it…’

He lets your words hang for a moment, his eyes growing heavy with lust, his pupils widening.

You’re wondering how long he’s going to keep you waiting, if he's going to make you say more, when a softness fills his eyes.

‘Open your mouth,’ he says, gently. It’s more like a suggestion than a command, and you feel safe following his instructions - Declan knows your desires so well, knows what you want and need. You can trust him to give it to you.

As you do so, he reaches to the bronze side table beside him and curls his fist around his glass of whiskey, lifting it towards the two of you. Drops of perspiration coat the outside of the glass.

Catching his eye and realising what he’s doing, you offer up your tongue to him. Slowly, one hand still wrapped up in your hair, pulling your head back, he tips the glass downwards, pouring the cool, strong whiskey onto your outstretched tongue. The feeling of the cool liquid hitting your tastebuds, the rest of your body so hot in the evening sun streaming through the windows, sends a shock down your spine. Declan continues pouring, so the whiskey flows onto your collarbones and down to your breasts, soaking through the white cotton of your crop top and coating your nipples. It feels luxurious.

It feels like he’s touching you without touching you.

Declan watches intently as the whiskey drips down your body. Your hair is messy, your lips swollen. Your cheeks are flushed, and a slight tan has formed after a day spent in the sunshine - across your forehead, your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose. Across the swell of your cleavage, which rises and falls heavily, droplets scattered atop your bare skin. His gaze gets stuck there - the now wet, whiskey-soaked cotton of your white top clings to your breasts, revealing the full curve of their shape. Your nipples peek through your lacy white lingerie, even harder now, having been drenched in the cold liquid. Seeing you like this has his cock aching for your touch. He lets out a sigh, the hand in your hair softening slightly.

Slowly, deliberately, you reach up and take the glass from his hand. His eyes follow your movements. After a moment’s pause, you position the glass just below his jaw, and pour the remainder of the whiskey onto his chest. He tips his head back in pleasure as the amber liquid flows down his pecs and onto his stomach.

Without thinking, you lean forward and lick, slowly, from the soft skin of Declan’s stomach upwards to his chest. The taste of the cool, strong whiskey mingles with the salt of his sweat on your tastebuds. Feeling him hot against your tongue like this, finally, makes you moan. He lets out a groan simultaneously, the hand in your hair tightening its grip. Finally, you have him where you want him. You begin kissing the soft flesh of his throat again; bite down hard on his earlobe.

‘Fuck,’ he whispers.

‘I love it when you swear for me,’ you whisper, almost inaudibly, into his ear. You know the feeling of your breath against those sensitive nerve endings will send shivers down his spine.

He lets out a small noise - half moan, half chuckle - and then tightens the grip on your hair, hard. The movement sends a sharp sting through your scalp. You gasp in both pain and pleasure, just as he had intended.

Moving down, you pepper his collarbones with light kisses, before placing a deep kiss on his chest. Your hands roam across his strong shoulders and arms, and you let your desire overtake you. You’re guided less by what Declan might want, now, and more by what you need - where your mouth wants to go, the sensations you want to feel against your lips, against your palms. You’re barely even thinking at all. You want to taste all of him. You let your mouth roam, kissing deeply across his pecs - the taste of his sweat and of the whiskey, the texture of the dark coils of hair coating his chest, the hardness of his muscles against your lips and tongue all make you moan into him. You kiss down his stomach slowly, luxuriously, taking your time.

As you inch closer to the waistband of his boxers peeking out from over his belt, you feel his breathing quicken, and feel achingly aware of the rock hard bulge just centimetres from your face. You let your lips brush delicately against the soft skin of his lower stomach, looking up at him as you do so. He’s gazing intensely down at you in anticipation.

You undo Declan’s belt and the button of his trousers, unzip his fly. He lifts his hips, watching you, so you can slide his trousers down to his ankles. As you do so you sigh at the sight of his hard cock constrained in tight grey boxer shorts, at his thick, strong thighs, covered in those same dark coils of hair. You sit back for a moment, taking him in, and stroke him from his stomach to his inner thighs. You squeeze slightly, feeling the strength of his muscles, then use just the lightest touch of your fingernails to stroke the sensitive skin there. His breathing quickens more still. He can’t keep his eyes off of you.

Hungrily, you lean down to kiss deeply along his inner thighs. You can hardly control yourself now - you want to be full of him. Pausing once you reach the edge of his boxer shorts, you look up at him, lift his hand to your mouth and suck his index and ring fingers in one motion, deep and slow.

Declan can’t help but let out a deep moan. Seeing you like this - your face mere centimetres from his throbbing cock, your lips wrapped around his fingers - and feeling your hot, soft mouth around him, so close to where he wants it, is almost too much for him to bear. The look in your big eyes only adds to the intoxication: there’s a mixture of mischief and innocence there. He knows you know what you’re doing to him, and at the same time, you’re surrendering to your desire for him.

Desperate now, impatient, you slide down his boxer shorts and let out a sigh at the sight of his thick, hard cock breaking free from its restraints. You feel a pleasurable tightening in your lower stomach, in your pussy. You hover above him, letting your heavy breaths tease him, before brushing your lips gently up his length. You moan softly at the feeling of him hard against your lips, at the feeling of finally getting what you’ve been aching for all day.

Declan bites his lower lip, breathes in hard. He doesn’t want to let himself go, not just yet, but it’s taking every ounce of his willpower not to moan. He reaches a hand down and brushes the side of your cheek and jaw gently, before using his fingers to pull those messy waves away from your face, keeping them clasped in a fist at the back of your head. He wants to see you, and he wants to make things easier for you.

Unable to hold back any longer, with your hands on his hips, you take Declan into your mouth in one swift motion, both of you moaning loudly at the sensation. You don’t have the patience to tease him any longer - you’re greedy for him. You take him deeper, sliding him in and out, sucking him deeply. His moans drift down to you, consistent now - he can’t stop himself. Neither can you. It feels so fucking good to have him hard and aching in your mouth, finally. His grasp on your hair tightens, and you pause for just a moment at the tip of his cock, looking up at him. His eyes are glazed over, and an expression of frustration overtakes his face as you let the seconds pass, unmoving. Needy, he begins to thrust, slowly, into your mouth. You feel your own eyes glaze over as he does so, let them close as you begin sucking him again.

Your hands are clasped on his hips, feeling the soft flesh of his stomach and the hard muscles beneath, your thumbs circling around the dark hair. The feeling of your hands on him like this; of his hot, thick, throbbing cock thrusting slowly in and out of your mouth, against your tongue, filling you, his fist bunched up tightly in your hair, is bliss. You feel entirely in the present moment, lost to anything but the sensations overtaking you.

Declan is the same. His head is thrown back now, eyes closed too, overcome with pleasure.

A sudden cool breeze floats through the ajar glass door, caressing your bare clit, your wet opening, your nipples still coated in whiskey. Your moans deepen in response to the new stimulus. The cool air against your naked skin only highlights your arousal, how exposed you are.

The same sensation is enough to break Declan out of his dazed state for a second. He dips his head down in your direction, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. He lets his thumb trace down your jaw. The sight of you on your knees, flushed lips wrapped around his cock, eyes closed, blissed out, makes him dizzy.

‘You feel so fucking good,’ he murmurs, through ragged breaths. ‘You’re so fucking good to me.’

You whimper at the sound of his praise in that thick irish accent, and his grasp on your hair tightens again, sending sharp stabs of pleasure through your scalp. Declan leans back again, giving way to his pleasure. His fist clenches in your hair, his breaths quicken, his groans deepen. You muster up the energy to open your eyes and look up at him, and see his head tipped back, mouth open, strong chest heaving. The hand not clasped in your hair is digging his fingernails into the soft flesh of his thigh. That delicate golden chain glints against his throat in the soft sunlight. God, he’s gorgeous.

There’s something about being in the position you’re in that allows you to feel submissive and dominant all at once: on your knees below him, your pussy slick, exposed and aching for him, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth, you desperate to take him. And at the same time, seeing him come undone before you, unravelling, entirely at your mercy. Exactly where you want him.

You move your arms down to his thighs and hold them down, sending a signal to him to stop thrusting. He follows your lead, sighing as he looks down at you for a second before tipping his head back. You wrap one hand around the base of his cock and begin pumping, working in tandem with your lips and tongue.

Declan lets out a loud moan, his fist curled around your hair even tighter now. As you work him harder and faster, his breaths become quicker still and your name begins to float down from his mouth to you repeatedly, peppered with the occasional ‘fuck’ and ‘Christ’.

Suddenly, he stiffens, moaning loudly, and you work him fast through his orgasm, his release filling your mouth. You swallow deeply, and feel the hand in your hair soften, his body going slack.

You kiss up his stomach and chest lazily, before positioning yourself flush against him and placing gentle kisses on his neck, caressing his collarbones. His head is still tipped back, chest heaving, spent. He brings a strong arm up to your head and strokes your hair, the other on your waist.

‘You’re amazing,’ he murmurs, finally lifting his head to look at you. He tucks your messy waves behind your ear and brushes his thumb across your cheekbone, before pulling you in for a long, deep kiss.

When you break apart, you lift your top and bra over your head, needing to feel your bare skin against his. He sighs at the sight of your bare tits and gives you a lazy smile. You let yourself drape over him, your nipples brushing up against the hair on his chest, your arms wrapped around his neck, lips brushing against the soft skin of his throat. Declan moves his strong hand through your hair tenderly. Both of you catch your breath, spent, the rest of the evening laying luxuriously ahead of you.

#declan o'hara #rivals #aidan turner #declan o'hara x reader #rivals fan fiction #declan o'hara smut #rivals x reader #declan o'hara one shot #declan o'hara imagine #rivals hulu #rivals disney+

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grvntld · 8 months ago

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21 june 2024—✨️🤍🎀👁💋👁🎀🤍✨️

i was out and about for half of this day bc—

🩺 obgyne visit ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ finally got my first dose of hpv vaccine. two more doses to go! also did my pcos routine checkup. results were as expected, and yet, i still cried bc of it. no surprises there, really. overall, im grateful bc duh, ive got no major thingy to worry about naman down there, ykwim.

🍵 chill tOime ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ went to one of my go-to cafe restaurants. im so happeh they opened this branch, and they finally hv meals on their menu! i stayed here for hoOOOOooOOOooours—for lunch i had their bacon slab something + sea salt latte, and then for dinner i had their buffalo chicken something salad + mango hibiscus. i also prepared an ig post which my brain turned into a full blown activity (((i had so much fun making the caption for this ♡))) all the while watching bones, and talking to my sibs + gOrL cousins. i miss them.

💆‍♀️ relaxation tOime ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ decided to get my monthly massage today. hihi. my body has been aching lately, especially my hips and lower back. got a deep tissue massage, and oh my gosh, i think ive found the masseuse for me. she was amazing! i really felt like all the tension has left my body, oh my gosh, i so love her!!! i took a mental note of her name so that i could request her for my next massage.

💞 home at last ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ surprised moosey with a custom vanilla bean latte ♡ i also surprised him by going straight home, instead of him picking me up. all my gala kasi, hatid sundo niya talaga me, and i was just feeling like ~actually~ coming home to him and to the furbebis this time, with a pasalubong in hand, so there i was booking a grab ride even though i was actually scared and anxious doing that (((bc my cousin had two unfortunate grab rides recently))). i also brought home my fave harry potter butterbeer. hihi.

🐶 furbebis missed me ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ and of course, as usual, it was also sooOOOOooo heartwarming to see the furbebis so excOited to welcome me back home. they were all given hugs and kissies na diyan sa gif kaya mejj calm na sila. hehe. also, 5/6 sila diyan since di pa pwede much makipag-interact youngest namin hihi she got lotsa kisses too, of course!

—grabe, this day was indeed packed! i enjoyed it so much ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ my heart, mind, body, and soul are all well-rested huhu thank you, big g!

#cookie #cottoncandy #icecream #ang saya saya saya saya ko kahit na may iyak momentz ako today nyahahahhaha #ang kyoti kasi tinatawag na nila kong “miss aina” doon sa cafe kanina kasi siyempre naka-ilang order ako so knows na nila name ko hahahahaa #they were like thank you miss aina bye po miss aina i hope you enjoyed your time with us miss aina hihi i love eht #i did not check this for errors so excuse me if you ever see anything

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corner-stories · 3 months ago

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before the storm, after the flood (act 1)

Jean Kirschtein. Mikasa Ackerman. Post-Canon. Flashbacks. Paintings. Past Relationships. Present Tension. Seaside Cottages. 16,873 words. (ao3.) || (act 2.) || (act 3.) || (epilogue.)

Now.

Seeing The Painting.

It’s mid-September when she visits the west coast of the Island, a port town known for what comes in and what comes out as opposed to what stays. If it’s not foreign material goods arriving on the Paradisian shores, then it’s visitors of all kinds, even if they never stay for long.

Mikasa knows by this time tomorrow she’ll be gone. It had only been an hour since she stepped off her train with the intention to stay a single night, as most visitors of the town tend to do. Once her time is up she’ll be on a line bound for the northwest, so in the meantime she has nothing better to do than to keep herself busy.

As she weaves through the sea of strangers in the public market, she compares it to the one at home. Shiganshina’s street vendors always seem to be stocked with newly harvested fruit, freshly baked bread, and marbled slabs of perfectly cured meat. The port town fares similarly enough, yet Mikasa notices an abundance of items she doesn’t often see — like delectable dates, sun-dried tomatoes, and decadent candies she’s only ever tried on visits to Mitras.

As she browses a selection of fruit drops imported all the way from Hizuru, she feels something brush against her back. When she turns around she’s greeted by the face of the child who bumped into her. The little one is apologetic and briefly stops chasing their friends to mutter a quick “Sorry, Ma’am!” then continues down the street as quickly as they stopped.

In another world such a sight would make her think of her childhood — the prettier parts, to be exact — but nowadays it reminds her of her shifts at the Reiss Orphanage.

When the thought comes to mind she's quick to sigh at herself. She’s officially been on “vacation” for half a day and she already has a reason to think about work.

Yearning for some kind of distraction, Mikasa continues down the street, the rays of the late-summer sun warming the brim of her hat.

She finds herself on a street where on her left is an array of merchants lined up to sell their goods, and on her right is the ocean. Her eyes are drawn to the sight of the surf and the shore, admiring everything from the various boats floating on the surface to the seagulls that soar high above the water. The sound of the waves caressing the docks soothes her fears and assures her that taking this trip was not in fact a bad idea after all.

With the beauty of the sea so clear in front of her, Mikasa wonders why she hadn’t visited the coast a lot sooner.

Frankly, she’s sure that Historia doesn’t even care where she spends her time off, just that she spends it as far from the Orphanage as possible. It’s very hard to refuse a demand from the Queen herself. Even if Mikasa’s content to remain at work and keep a low-profile, her old friend had been surprisingly persistent on the idea, determined to have Mikasa experience something beyond late-night shifts and half-hour lunch breaks. At the end of it all, Mikasa had gone through with the offer just to get Historia off her back.

Now all that’s left for her to do is make it to tomorrow.

As she continues across the cobblestones and civilians, Mikasa passes by a barbershop. She walks by the window and it only takes a few seconds of witnessing a burly man performing his craft for an idea to pop into her head. She undoes her ponytail just as she enters the shop and hears the bell above the door ring. She promptly requests a haircut, a service that doesn’t take long, yet is unfamiliar enough for her to realize that she can’t remember the last time she had gotten one.

When Mikasa leaves the shop she’s sporting a style she has yet to wear in her twenty-seven years of life. The barber had called it a bob and claimed it was popular with women all around the Island. As she walks she catches sight of her reflection in store windows, noticing how the ends of her hair hang just above her shoulders and sway differently with every step. The style is still new to her and she’s not sure how she feels about it, but at least for now she can revel in the novelty of trying something new and the fact that hair always grows back.

By mid-afternoon she visits a tavern across the street from the inn she had checked into earlier. As she eats a lunch of bread and cheese she sees patrons from all around the world in every corner of the room — some are charmingly weathered from their travels and others look like their journey’s just begun. As of now she’s unsure what category she would belong to, because while she’s stepped farther off the Island that some Paradisians will in their entire lives, the scars from such outings have marked themselves both on and under her skin.

Before the memories can resurface and spoil her afternoon, Mikasa looks at the decorations on the tavern wall. Hanging corner to corner is a collection of photographs, enough to make her forget that the technology had only been introduced to the Island very recently. However, hidden in plain sight amongst the array of framed pictures is a single painting. And Mikasa is drawn to it, not purely due to the different medium, but rather for to the subject itself.

Through delicate brushstrokes, the shape of the hill filled with numerous houses is a familiar sight. The greens are bright, contrasted with a sky made of pigments so blue that it immediately reminds her of the past summer. Little squares of greys are carefully placed into the horizon to properly represent the buildings of the district. It’s a sight that's been burned into her memories for the last eight years.

“You like what you see, Miss?”

Mikasa turns her head to see a barkeep behind the counter. He’s a middle-aged gentleman with a round face and kindly brown eyes, someone who seems content in his life of pulling pints and chatting up patrons.

“It’s Shiganshina,” she replies.

The work depicts the view of the city from Eren’s Hill — specifically the view one sees when facing away from his tree and towards Paradis without its walls. Over the last few years countless travelers and visitors climbed the slope, making the artist just one of many. For a moment she lets herself wonder if even half the patrons in the tavern know what the painting really is and how many of them don’t.

“You got a good eye,” the Barkeep continues to say. With a rag he wipes a spot on the counter before redirecting his gaze to the painting on the wall. “The artist is local, lives just up the coast. His name is, uh… Jehan something. Nice guy. Real quiet sometimes.”

Mikasa nods along in silence, her usual reaction to when people are being chatty when she doesn’t want to be. A look to the corner of the painting shows that the artist signed it with one name and nothing else. She's unsure whether it's a pseudonym or a mononym.

Before she can go back to finishing her meal, she hears the Barkeep hum. Her eye is drawn to him as he puts down his rag and walks a few steps away. He finds a smaller framed photograph in the sea of many and takes it off the wall.

“This was the night he dropped off the painting,” the Barkeep explains, obviously referring to this elusive ‘Jehan.’ He walks back to where she sits and shows him the picture. “We asked if he wanted to stay for a drink and he was happy to oblige." He scoffs. "Never turns down a free pint, that Jehan.”

As Mikasa puts down her fork she begins to ponder just how talented this “Jehan” must be if the Barkeep keeps singing his good praises. She takes a good look at the photograph that depicts a whole group of people enjoying themselves on a busy night in the tavern, an evening where the laughter flows as freely as the drinks from the bar and the sweat collecting on every surface.

Due to how many people are crowding the frame, the Barkeep points to a person in the corner. When her gaze settles upon the alleged painter, Mikasa’s heart skips a beat.

It’s a different feeling from when she glanced at the painting. The shock that fills her makes her chest feel tight as her eyes go wide.

Who she sees in the photograph is someone she’s seen before, but someone she never expected to ever lay eyes on again. She says nothing to the Barkeep trying to make small talk. In her head all she can do is repeat a name that hasn’t crossed her mind in years.

Jean?

…

Then.

The Last Cigarette on Paradis.

Outside of the Palace of Queen Historia Reiss is the finest garden on the Island. Somewhere in the between the meticulously-trimmed shrubbery, beds of flowers in every colour, and animal-shaped bushes is an old tree in a clearing. Hanging on one of the branches is a pair of swings, something presumably built for the Crown Princess of Paradis.

Currently on one of the swings is someone a lot less royal, but Jean figures he can get away with it.

It’s barely been a day since the Ambassador’s return to the Island, yet the burden of work is already weighing on his shoulders. With a dinner full of smiles and handshakes behind him, he hopes that the royal guards have more important things to do than to shoo a wayward Ambassador from the garden. Sitting alone, he is illuminated by nothing but the moon in the sky and the distant torches near the palace entrance. The world around him may be dark, but at least here it's quiet, exactly what he needs to step away and take a breather.

He’s usually like this at the end of the day, so wound up from the stress of meetings that all he ever wants to do is loosen his tie and find his trusty cigarette case. Smoking is a habit he formed to de-stress from his travels and work, but not one that he’s necessarily proud of.

After finding the case in his jacket, Jean opens it and discovers only one roll inside, something that makes him grumble like an old man. Considering that it’s been a week since he last purchased a pack, he wonders if the hassle of getting to the Island had really gotten to him or if Annie’s habit of “borrowing” his cigarettes had increased. As he puts his final smoke between his lips, he tries to remember if he has any other stashed away or if he has to find a way to procure them on Paradis. The mere thought of the import fees alone is enough to fill him with dread.

Jean grabs a matchbox from his pants pocket before a soft voice disrupts the silence of the garden.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Jean glances up to see the last person he would expect at this hour. The one and only Mikasa Ackerman is walking on the stone path, the tips of her boots scuffing the ground every few steps. She moves with her hands clasped in front of her, yet her shoulders are slumped in a way that makes her seem smaller. The woven material of her sweater is draped over her like a cloak.

“Only on special occasions,” Jean answers, unable to keep his usual sass out of his words. “What about you?”

Mikasa stops and stands in place, watching him with glassy eyes under the moonlight. “I’ve done it once,” she replies like she intends to say more, yet doesn't.

Sensing the awkward silence growing between them, Jean continues. “...and did you like it?”

She shrugs. “It was alright.” She doesn’t seem like she hated it, but doesn’t appear to have particularly enjoyed it either.

Her answer is enough for Jean to assume that she’s okay with his little vice, so he puts his case away and strikes a match. He holds the flame to the end of his roll until it glows, and soon small puffs escape his lips and nose before he takes his first drag.

Just as Jean contemplates where can source more cigarettes, he looks aside to see Mikasa sitting on the adjacent swing.

Considering that he expected her to leave once he lit up, he’s surprised. He didn’t take her for someone who would so willingly expose themselves to the scent of smoke. After expelling a cloud into the air, Jean takes the roll from his lips and holds it out to her, a simple courtesy he developed over the years.

And once again, Mikasa surprises him by accepting.

Jean's memories remind him of a Mikasa who treats her body like a temple — a Woman worth a Thousand Soldiers, as some used to say. He can still remember the way she adhered to her workout regimen despite sustaining a rib fracture the month before, moving with the haste of a person who will only slow down when the battle is truly done.

But here she is now, sitting on a swing sized for a child and accepting a smoke from a friend.

Perhaps he’s not the only one looking for some kind of release.

He watches as Mikasa unflinchingly takes a drag of his cigarette, breathing in the smoke and expelling it just as slowly. She passes it back to him and he takes his turn, silently looking her way as little puffs hang in the air.

It’s only now that Jean remembers what it’s like being next to her again.

The red scarf he’s used to seeing her in is contrasted by the dreariness in her eyes. The pink cardigan he swears she’s had forever looks odd on a person so willingly accepting a cigarette. She doesn’t seem much older in a technical sense — as she’s still as pretty as he last remembers — but she certainly acts that way, like the last three years on Paradis were longer to her than to anyone else.

Thinking about it now makes him feel guilty to have left her here while he and his remaining comrades travelled to every corner of the world. Sure, the circumstances were far from ideal and much of it was out of his control, but Jean can’t shake the image of Mikasa stewing in the demons of her past with no one else around. Even her claims that the Reiss Orphanage keeps her busy isn’t enough to shake his worries. Who could she go to for comfort? Who would listen to the thoughts on her mind? And who could understand even a fraction of them? He wishes he knew.

Eventually, Mikasa glances aside and catches him staring.

“What?”

Something inside of him clenches as he averts his gaze. Nervously, he takes a puff of his cigarette and wonders just how long he had been eyeing her before she noticed.

“...you look good,” he tells her in lieu of anything smarter. He means every word of it. He hands her the cigarette again before he can say anything dumber.

Mikasa accepts the smoke and Jean can see the slightest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“You, too.”

He’s not sure if she actually means that, seeing as several of his companions — namely Pieck and Connie — have derided his scruffy beard and slicked hair for making him look like he’s trying too hard. All his attempts to look more mature have led to him appearing far from it, as even the suit he wears on-duty hangs awkwardly off his lanky frame.

But Jean grins along anyway, if not to convince himself than to convince her.

“Thanks.”

With the roll between her fingers, Mikasa inhales, exhales, then knocks some ash off the end before handing it back to Jean, who does the same. They say nothing else as they fall into the silence, going between enjoying what could be the last cigarette on Paradis and taking in the view of the garden gleaned from the swings. When he glances up he sees a sky full of stars, a sight he’s seen a thousand times before. The light pollution on the Island is not as strong as it is in the rest of the world, and thus the twinkling dots in the atmosphere seem to shine just a little bit brighter.

When he’s not looking at the sky he’s looking at her. As Jean passes the cigarette again and watches Mikasa slowly inhale from what remains, he finds that the newness of discovering this side of her is fading away, like he’s getting used to it already. He also finds that maybe in this instance what Mikasa needs more than ever is a friend.

…

Now.

A Walk Up The Coast.

The Barkeep’s definition of ‘just up the coast’ turns out to be a half-hour walk. There are no roads leading there, just the dirt underneath her boots, the ocean to her left, and the hat on her head grows warm underneath the coastal sun. The surf keeps her company with every step. The sound of the waves ease her worries and make her forget the very real possibility that this could all be for naught, that her attempts to satiate her curiosity could be a complete waste of time.

In due time Mikasa spots something on the horizon. With a few more steps the dot in the distance gets bigger. The closer she gets the more she is able to see the unmistakable sight of a cottage by the sea.

Soon she is close enough to see the place in its entirety. The structure is built of wood on the grass, just a stone’s throw from where the earth turns to sand. Two storeys under a roof of slanted tile, a mix of greys, blues, and greens that reminds her of the painting in the tavern. It appears like something she’s seen in storybooks — she can already imagine the place housing fisherman’s wife, constantly braving the storm and as she waits for her lover to return.

Mikasa presumes that the place is as new as every other coastal building, yet the way the world has weathered the cottage walls makes it look just a bit older. The curtains are pulled over the windows, making it difficult for her to glean any signs of life. As she continues to take in the place she sees things like the dry, lifeless garden beds at the front and the laundry lines at the back, where an array of shirts and sheets dry in the ocean breeze.

Then cutting through the sound of the waves and the wind is the barking of a dog.

Mikasa’s attention is brought to the side of the house that's farthest from the water. She steps towards the sound before she is brought to the sight of a barn behind the cottage, a structure that is slightly smaller than the main building and made of much older wood.

In front of the barn’s slightly ajar door is a dog, one with dark brown fur, pointed ears, and a slender snout. She recognizes the breed as the kind that would be deployed alongside a squad of soldiers, where a vicious temperament and a set of sharp teeth could be trained to mar and maim. However, the canine in front of her now has such a sweet smile on its face that Mikasa can’t possibly imagine it being used for such things.

The dog is panting happily and wagging its tail so rapidly that its rear end shakes, assuring Mikasa that despite the barking it interprets her as anything but a threat.

She only takes a few steps towards the barn before stopping, still unsure on who actually lives here or whether this was all a good idea in the first place.

Mikasa’s eyes go to the window of the shack. Inside she can make out the shape of a person, as well as what appears to be various canvases covered in paint. Perhaps she's on the right track after all.

The dog barks again before another sound enters the atmosphere.

“Hugo! Shut it!” comes a man’s voice from inside the barn.

Through the window she watches the man walk in front of the paintings and towards the door, where he slowly steps into the light. Now standing in the outside with a paintbrush in hand, he glares at the dog currently yapping in front of his barn.

“What’s going on, Boy?” he asks, then barely a second passes before he looks up and sees her.

And immediately she knows it’s him.

The confirmation that her hunch was correct fills her not with satisfaction, but the kind of shock that one only feels when they’re doubting what they see.

He looks close to how he did in the photograph. She notices things like how the beard on his face is a little bit thicker — like he hasn’t trimmed it in a while — and how his hair is just a bit longer. He looks older as well, weathered and rough around the edges even though Mikasa knows he’s not a day above twenty-seven. His clothes are a far cry from the suits we would wear as an Ambassador, the last thing she can remember seeing him in. He’s sporting a rugged sweater, the kind she’s seen fishermen wear. Spots of dried paint are scattered all over his trousers and boots.

And after everything he’s still Jean Kirschtein.

Going completely still, her old friend lets his hazel eyes peer into her like he’s seeing a ghost.

For what feels like forever the only sound between them is that of the waves hitting the land and the wind blowing so fast that the warmth of the sun feels scant on her skin.

Then Mikasa breaks the silence.

“Hey.”

Jean looks her up and down, as if to make sure that it’s really her.

“Hey.”

…

Then.

Wine and Friends.

This particular room in Historia’s palace is not usually used by guests, but rather by the staff during their routinely breaks. The place is smaller and more easily tucked away, and in the middle of which is a table much smaller than those in the palace’s many dining halls.

Illuminated by incandescent lights, the room proves to be the perfect spot for old friends to converge.

In the middle of a round table are several bottles of wine, most of them uncorked and halfway finished. At this point of the evening Jean is only on his second glass, and while he's far from buzzed, the drink does wonders in keeping him at ease after a long day of meetings. As he sips on wine more expensive than his entire outfit, he listens to the conversations being thrown around him.

Connie is on his third helping of wine as he practically leads the discussion, gesturing wildly with his free hand and clutching his glass in the other. He's practically beaming as he recalls all the wonderful things he’s witnessed during the last few years.

With their work taking them all across the globe he’s certainly accumulated his fair share of stories, but what Jean doesn’t get is why Connie is choosing to tell the more humiliating ones. Specifically, the ones that involve him — Jean — making a fool of himself.

At least Armin and Mikasa seem to be having fun, though the former seems to be doing so because all it takes is one drink before he finds everything utterly laugh-worthy. On the other hand, Mikasa is doing a much better job at pacing herself, preferring to sip her wine slowly to savour the moment and appreciate the company of old friends.

Jean steals glances at her as the night goes on. Under the orange and yellow lights she looks almost ethereal, smiling sweetly as she listens to Connie’s every word. She looks far more calm than she did in the garden — more assured, more peaceful, like she doesn't need a cigarette between her fingers to numb whatever's inside. She looks out of place compared to him, Connie, and Armin, as she's donning her usual scarf and sweater while the three of them are still in their suits, albeit with pieces removed here and there. Even if Jean's removed his jacket and loosened his tie, the clothing that Mikasa wears is just another sign that she’s not a part of their life.

But that's not necessarily a bad thing. After all the travelling they've done in the last three years alone and the habits he's developed to cope with the stress, Jean can't imagine Mikasa ever enjoying it. Perhaps in some ways, her remaining on the Island was for the best.

Jean takes another pull of his wine as Connie recalls the time the Ambassadors stayed a night at some coastal village. Neither of them can even remember the name of the place, just that the drinks at the local tavern were plentiful and that the people were very welcoming to the visitors. It only took a few glasses of brandy for Jean to end up in the arms of a lady with green eyes, blonde hair, and an apparent affinity for horse-faced diplomats. Though maybe that was the alcohol speaking.

Nonetheless, Connie makes sure to use rather colourful language when describing the way the lady had been straddling Jean’s lap as she mashed her face against his, kissing him like the corner of the tavern belonged to them and only them. The fact that she eventually came to her senses and abruptly walked off was simply icing on the cake.

The story makes Connie guffaw and causes Jean’s ears to go red. If this hadn't been the first time he had seen Connie smiling in months, then he wouldn't have hesitated to smack him silly.

Armin trills with the laughter of a man who will feel everything in the morning. If Jean recalls Armin hadn’t been there when the incident happened, as he opted to spend the night at his room in the inn (and definitely not in Annie’s). Perhaps now he regrets his habit of never joining the guys to go drinking — he missed the opportunity to see Jean strike out in-person.

“And then... and then!” Connie continues with a goofy grin. “She just fuckin’ bolts! Leaves Jean standin’ there lookin’ like an idiot!”

Once more Armin laughs like a hyena and Mikasa hums, amused. In contrast, Jean gives Connie a glare before reaching for the bottle on the table. He tops up his glass before taking another pull, a longer one this time.

“Yeah, yeah, real funny, Connie,” Jean mutters after he puts his glass down.

Connie makes a childish face. “Lighten up, Horse-Man, can’t you take a joke?”

“Can't you learn to make one?”

“Why don't you suck my-”

Nearly at his limit, Jean shoots his friend a scowl and Connie holds up his hands like there’s nothing wrong with what he just said. In any other circumstances either Pieck, Armin, or occasionally Annie would intervene to stop the two from killing each other like feral cats. But considering that Armin's incapacitated and on the track to a lovely hangover, there's no one around to halt the chaos.

Before Connie can strike back, Mikasa speaks up.

“Okay, stop,” she chides, directing her voice to Connie specifically. “You're embarrassing him.” Her tone is playful, but firm enough to get her point across.

Mikasa’s words come through and Connie backs down. He settles back into his seat as he finishes the wine in his glass.

Once the moment is over Jean can feel the flame inside of himself starting to quell. When he eyes Mikasa across the table he notices that her smile is a little bit wider.

Their gazes meet just as Connie continues to speak and Armin continues to laugh at nothing in particular. Jean holds his glass up to his mouth and makes sure she can see the indebted look on his face. He mouths a quick ‘Thank you’ and she mouths ‘You’re welcome’ back, an exchange that is over as soon as it starts.

…

A Walk in The Palace.

As Jean walks through the palace halls, he feels the effect of the drink with every step. But yet he is cognizant of things like the ornate trim on the windowsills, the moon peeking through the cloudy sky outside, or the tipsy hooligans currently stumbling around in front of him.

Armin lives up to his reputation as the lightweight amongst the Ambassadors and wobbles about like a baby deer. Requiring the help to get to his room, he walks with one arm around Connie's shoulder while his legs struggle to keep him upright. It’s a sight Jean’s seen before, usually the aftermath of a night at a pub, and something that never ceases to bring a smile to his face. With his jacket slung over his shoulder he watches fondly as Armin’s attempt to walk nearly throws Connie off balance.

As Armin receives a scolding for nearly bringing both him and Connie down, Jean looks aside to check on their other comrade, the one who's not usually present during moments like this.

Mikasa walks with her hands clasped in front of her, beaming demurely as she watches her childhood friend lumber and lurch after two glasses of wine. She almost looks proud to witness Armin nearly tripping over his two feet and Connie narrowly preventing him from hitting his stupid head on the floor.

Once the group finally arrives at Armin and Annie’s room, Connie turns towards the less-drunk members of their little quartet and gives them a nod.

“Run along, you crazy kids, I got this,” Connie assures before opening the door. With Armin still on his shoulder he takes one step into the room before calling out, “Hey, Annie! I got your boy right here!”

Jean only gets a brief glimpse inside the room, but in that short time he is able to spot Annie on the bed clad in her usual sleepwear, a book balanced on her knee as her once-quiet night abruptly comes to an end. When she glances up and sees Armin leaning against Connie’s shoulder, her typical bored expression morphs into that of surprise. It’s enough to make Jean and Mikasa share a quick curt laugh before Connie tosses Armin to the bed, closing the door behind him.

Once they’re alone in the hallway Jean only spends a few seconds listening to the stumbling from inside the room before glancing aside, where Mikasa meets his gaze.

He clears his throat. “Could I walk you to your room?”

She nods her head. “I’d like that.”

Jean drapes his jacket over his forearm as the two begin to walk. It’s fortunate that he knows where her quarters are in this maze of a palace. He’s still unsure who made it so her room was directly across from his, but best case scenario it’s a mere coincidence and worst case scenario it’s Historia messing with him. It seems that even the Queen of Paradis needs ways to spark joy into her life.

At this time of night Jean doesn’t complain and simply lets Mikasa lead the way. Her usual scarf is draped loosely around her neck, the material remaining untied and swaying with every step.

“Tonight was fun,” Jean tells her. “We should do it again.”

“We should,” she agrees. Soon a playfulness seeps into her voice. “But only if Armin can handle it.”

As they walk Jean notices her glancing out the window more than once. Knowing how easily one can see the garden at any part of the palace, he wonders if she can see the tree where they shared a cigarette, an encounter that only happened the other night yet feels so long ago.

When they arrive at their rooms Mikasa goes to her door and Jean goes to his, but lets his eyes linger on her for a few more seconds. Just before she touches the knob, she turns her head and meets Jean’s gaze as he stands on his side of the hallway.

“See you in the morning?” she asks like it’s a possibility that she won’t.

The earnestness in her voice makes him grin. “Of course.”

Mikasa goes still as she stands in front of her door, then only a second passes before she’s walking towards him again. Before Jean knows it she’s embracing him, wrapping her arms around his torso and holding him in a rather stilted hug. He immediately stiffens under her touch. Her head is not against his shoulder like the way she hugs Armin, but against Jean’s chest, a sensation he never thought he’d ever feel. The rate of his heartbeat makes him feel uneasy, worsened by the fact that she can definitely hear it. It takes a moment before he’s hugging her back, though on his end the gesture is embarrassingly awkward.

Perhaps this is a side-effect of the wine. He can’t imagine her doing it without it. Once she breaks from him she goes back to her door, avoiding his gaze up until her hand touches the knob.

Still enraptured in newfound shock, Jean watches as she opens the door, the uncomfortable feeling in his chest still not going away. A new sense of heat begins creeping up into his face, making him wonder if he’s blushing and if she can see it.

Before she can slip away into the night, Jean finally finds the willingness to speak.

“Good night, Mikasa,” he tells her in a voice that’s just above a whisper.

Mikasa stops in place, slowly craning her head around to finally look at him. Her eyes look darker in this light.

“Good night, Jean.”

…

Now.

Spilling The Tea.

Jean is much more cordial than she expects. Despite the unmistakable wariness in his eyes, he invites her to sit on his porch before ducking into his home. For a few minutes she's left alone with nothing better to do than pet Hugo, who seems to be the only one who's happy she's here. She occupies herself by sitting on the front step and caressing the dog's fur — at least the sight of Hugo wagging his tail in absolute delight distracts her from the feelings inside. Soon Jean emerges from the cottage with a pot and two mugs. She didn’t even ask for tea, so she guesses that he brewed it more for his nerves than hers.

In silence they sit beside each other, the only thing occupying the space between them being his tea set and the sounds of the sea. Mikasa holds the mug with two hands, the warmth against her palms contrasting with the chill of the ocean wind.

It's from here that she can truly appreciate the simplicity of the sea — the scent, the sight, the intoxicating mix of sand, water, and sun. She's seen views like this in photographs and paintings, but no medium can capture things like the salt on her skin, the wind tousling her hair, or Hugo playing in the grass.

The longer she takes it in, the calmer she feels. It eases her worries as she takes a breath and braces herself to look Jean's way.

He’s currently slouching with his elbows on his knees, holding all of his tension in his shoulders as he avoids her gaze. His longer hair shrouds his face like a curtain. Instead of finding it in himself to look at her, he watches his dog roll across the grass, almost like she doesn’t even exist.

Mikasa tries not to compare him too much to the person she last knew, or even to the words of his final letter. Five years is enough time to change anybody, yet a part of her still expects him to be the same. To be the Ambassador who attends meetings by day and sneaks off to smoke cigarettes by night. To be the guy who slicks his hair with his fancy pomades and adjusts his tie before entering the boardroom. To be the artist kills time between events by sitting in the Queen’s garden with his trusty sketchbook balanced on his knee, either using charcoal or watercolours to create a masterpiece within the pages.

She wonders why he’s been hiding out here, of all places. There are certainly more glamorous towns for someone like him to reside in, even on the Island. But suddenly the world they live in comes crashing down like the ocean waves. She recalls that Jean betrayed the Island the second he joined the Alliance, knowing full well that stopping the Rumbling would label him a traitor for the rest of his life. Even if Armin had taken the brunt of burden that came with being the Man who Killed Eren Jaeger, to assume that no weight had been shouldered onto Jean — a close friend and ally — was shortsighted.

Perhaps this is the safest place for him to be, tucked away like a secret to remain hidden for the rest of time. It’s hard to imagine a Jaegerist coming this far to plant a bomb underneath his chair and exact revenge. Perhaps this is why he no longer goes by his actual name, preferring to hide behind the alias he signs in the bottom corner of his paintings, quietly secluded in his own corner of Paradis. Mikasa wonders if the people of the port town have any inkling of the truth.

She still doesn't know what to say. Her fear of being too forward is confounded with the fear of letting the silence between them persist for any longer.

The main questions pressing at her mind is why he never told her he was here and why he even came back. But her instincts tell she shouldn't bring it up, not yet. A flurry of possibilities spin in her head, potential conversations that she could blurt out and get it over with because the persistent wordlessness between them is becoming unbearable.

Somehow, Jean beats her to the punch by speaking first.

“How exactly did you find me?”

Mikasa focuses on her tea and can nearly see her reflection in the liquid.

“I was in town. I went to this tavern and… there was one of your paintings on the wall. The barkeep just kept talking and talking about it, he…” She glances aside to see if Jean is looking at her. He’s not. “...he showed me your photo. Said you lived just up the coast and..." She takes a breath to calm herself. "... and I thought I’d check on you.”

Jean says nothing for a few agonizing seconds before letting out a sigh. “Seb,” he says, frustrated. He continues to slouch and holds his face in his hand. “He doesn’t know when to shut up.”

The first thing she wonders is if Seb the Barkeep is privy to the truth, noting that Jean’s first-name basis with the man implies a level of familiarity. Perhaps Jean is better at hiding his past than she expected, even when spending his nights under the glow of tavern lights.

Judging by the quietude of his new home, no one has managed to deduce that ‘Jehan the Painter’ is one of the people who betrayed Paradis, or the Ambassador of peace who helped argue for a better world. Perhaps her recognition of him is the only one that slipped through the cracks — there are some faces in her life that she’ll never truly forget.

Noticing the furball on the grass, Mikasa tries to change the subject.

“How long have you had Hugo?”

“Two years,” Jean mumbles, taking his face out of his hand. “Two and a half, I think.”

She can’t stop the next question from leaving her mouth. “That’s how long you’ve been here?”

With the slightest bit of apprehension, Jean shakes his head and focuses his gaze to the sea. “No, uh… I’ve been here for three.”

Mikasa eyes him, confused. “Three?” She tries not to let an accusatory tone enter her voice.

It’s only now when Jean finally looks at her, cautious eyes settling into hers. “...yeah, three years.”

She doesn’t want to be mad at him, but the revelation sparks something in her that makes her even more aware of what she says and how she says it.

“That’s…” she starts, then takes a quick breath. “I’m happy for you.” She takes a sip from her cup — there’s a slight metallic taste to the tea but she doesn’t care.

Jean raises an eyebrow. “You are?”

“Of course.” Mikasa nods her head and refocuses her attention to Hugo on the grass. “This is a nice house.”

“It wasn’t when I first got here, but uh…” He turns around and looks at the front door with all the sheepishness of a nervous schoolboy. “I fixed it up.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘fixed it up?’ ”

Jean meets her eyes again and she tilts her head slightly, which seems to get across the fact that she’s toying with him.

A faint smile tugs at Jean’s lips. “I mean someone tried to build themselves a beach house and abandoned it halfway. I just did the rest.”

Mikasa hums as things begin to make more sense. Considering that her legs still tingle from the trek here, she can’t fathom why someone would even bother building a home so far from the nearest town. Then again, her little abode just off the Reiss Orphanage’s property is more removed from Shiganshina than she would like.

But in regards to the Jean's new home, finishing what one person began does feel more plausible than starting from scratch. In the time that she’s known him she never took him for the handyman type, yet the evidence to prove it is right in front of her. Perhaps helping build a railroad laid the seeds for him building himself a cottage by the sea.

The exterior of the place is painted light gray — except for the shutters and the windowsills, which are painted white. Even with the chipping on the edges she would be hard-pressed to call the cottage a shack. For a building under constant push of ocean winds, it looks comfortable, sturdy, like it could stand for a thousand years.

“You did a good job, Jean,” she assures him, smiling his way for what feels like the first time in forever.

There is a beat where the only thing between them is the ocean breeze and the sound of crashing water, then the bashfulness in Jean’s face returns.

“Thanks,” he says, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “That uh… that means a lot to me.” There’s almost a sweetness to the way he speaks, a new sense of warmth imbuing his every word.

Feeling more at ease, Mikasa takes another sip of her tea. “Your garden could use some work though,” she points out, that familiar feeling of camaraderie having returned.

“Yeah…” Jean resigns. He finally picks up his mug from where it stands on the porch, holding it in front of him as he rests his forearm on his knee. “I’ve been busy lately.”

Mikasa takes note of the paint stains on his forearms, calloused hands, and clothing. They look fresh.

“I can tell.”

…

Living Spaces and Photographs.

Once the late afternoon meets the early evening, Jean gathers up his tea set and invites her into his cottage like the good host he is. He opens the door and it’s Hugo who reacts before she does. With little green blades sticking to his fur, he stops his romp in the grass before skipping past the guest on the porch and slipping inside. Jean rolls his eyes at his dog’s antics, but Mikasa simply smiles as she stands.

She enters the cottage to see Hugo getting comfortable in the main living space. Having hopped onto the couch, he rolls around on the pile of cushions and blankets like it’s what he was born to do. The grass that had once clung to his fur are now scattered onto Jean’s furniture.

The grin on Mikasa’s face gets wider, yet when she looks aside to see Jean stepping in he’s running a hand through his hair again. He seems embarrassed that his faithful companion is acting like that in front of a visitor.

“I’ll get started on dinner,” Jean announces as he moves past her.

“I can help-”

He barely takes a step before stopping where he is. “It’s fine,” he insists, raising his hand up. “You’re my guest.”

He doesn’t say another word before continuing towards the doorway leading to the kitchen. Soon the sound of him scrounging around his cupboards and drawers fills the air, leaving Mikasa with nothing to do but observe his new home.

Occupying the main space is a couch fit for a dog, a dinner table that’s seen better days, and an armchair near a lamp perfect for curling up with a good book. By the window is a desk being shrouded by what remains of the afternoon sun and a gramophone near a shelf of vinyl discs. The latter in particular is something she hadn’t expected him to have all the way out here, him living a simple life and all. Her best guess is that his proximity to the port town gives him slightly more access to new technology than the average Paradisian, recorded music included.

Mikasa steps over to the desk and observes the stack of stationery and well-loved fountain pen. Her hand touches the wood and she thinks of all the letters he writes in this cozy little spot. But upon catching sight of a familiar ornate cigarette case and a matchbox near the corner she suddenly has an inkling of what he actually uses this space for.

Considering his current profession, Mikasa is surprised to see that most of the decor in Jean’s home consists of photographs. She really did expect to see a lot more paintings. As she steps around the space, admiring the frames hung above his desk, she guesses that most of the pictures have come from his ventures off the Island.

One photograph is of Armin standing on a beach that she doesn’t recognize, barefoot and clad in a flowy linen shirt. It reminds Mikasa of the letters she’s exchanged with her beloved friend over the years, wherein he’ll make up for his inability to visit the Island by detailing his life with Annie at some coastal cottage on the mainland and she’ll read his words with unbridled glee. Armin’s letters always give her a sense of comfort, yet even with all the pictures he would send she never understood why he would constantly sing the praises of living so close to the sea.

Until now, that is.

Mikasa looks at other photographs, all of which contain familiar faces. One is of Jean and Connie standing in the hallway of a moving train, old friends that fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. Another picture shows Jean sitting in a boardroom with Reiner and Annie, the latter two looking rather uncomfortable with having a camera shoved in their faces. Then one picture near a window catches her attention the most.

Armin’s cheery face is the closest thing to the lens. From the way his arm is reaching beyond the frame it’s safe to assume that he’s the one taking the picture, having turned the camera towards himself for once. Behind him is a tavern, a place that looks indistinguishable to the few she’s been in, and in the seats of a table are the rest of the Ambassadors. Connie and Pieck are on one end, his arm slung around her shoulder like they’ve been friends forever. The lively expressions on their faces is either an effect of the drink or a sign that they’ve grown quite chummy over the years. Reiner and Annie are in the middle of the table and are still proving to be painfully camera shy, Annie in particular holding up her wine glass to obscure her face.

And on the farthest end is Jean. He looks more relaxed than the first photograph she’s seen of him, holding up a foamy stein with a contented look on his handsome face. His tie is loosened and his sleeves are rolled up, painting a picture of a man who’s finally been given the chance to let go. He looks tidier than he does now, the edges of his beard clean and sharp while his hair is slicked back, a perfect look for an Ambassador of peace, but a far cry from the person currently making her dinner.

“Are you okay with wine?” Jean’s voice suddenly says.

Mikasa turns towards the kitchen and sees Jean in the doorway holding up a bottle. She nods and he mirrors her gesture.

In the background is the sound of something sizzling, a savoury aroma entering the air. Jean walks back into the kitchen and begins rummaging around again. Mikasa walks to the table in the middle of everything and wonders if she should offer a hand, even if she already knows his answer. She takes a breath and tries to find something to comment on, quickly scanning the walls until she spots a framed photograph of an older woman who shares Jean’s eyes.

“How’s your mother?” she asks.

Mikasa looks through the doorway and sees Jean holding two glass jars. Suddenly he goes still, his shoulders stiffening as he faces away from her. The way he halts himself is jarring. He stays like this for a second before saying —

“She’s fine.”

“Have you seen her lately?”

He still doesn’t look at her as he walks to the living space.

“A while ago,” he answers. His face remains stony as he uncorks the wine bottle and pours her a healthy serving of white wine into one of the jars.

Mikasa narrows her eyes, noticing the tension in the way he hands her a serving of wine, their fingers grazing for a moment. She can practically see the thoughts occupying his head, notions that are clear as day to him but aren’t reaching his mouth. She’s tempted to ask if he’s alright or if she’s said something wrong, and she damn near does before he speaks again.

“...I gotta finish dinner.” Jean pours some wine for himself, takes a healthy pull from the jar, and puts it down before walking back to the kitchen.

Once he’s gone Mikasa makes sure that the sigh she expels isn’t too loud. She lets herself watch him through the doorway again, where she sees him put down his jar and begin chopping vegetables. She takes note of how much attention and care he puts towards the meal, even for someone like her, then takes her first pull of wine for the night.

…

Dinner and Tales of Heartbreak.

Dinner consists of seared scallops, steamed potatoes, and a salad made of herbs, tomatoes, and onions. For something he hastily cobbled together out of whatever he could find in his kitchen, he's certainly gone above and beyond, she thinks. As she pokes at her food she wonders how often he has to cook for company, but decides against actually asking him about it.

The gramophone in the corner plays a melody over dinner. It still boggles Mikasa's mind how a machine can read a bunch of grooves on disc and turn it into music, playing noise that she had only associated with live ensembles. Something like that would have been unheard of not even a decade ago, she's not sure when she'll get used to it. The tunes that Jean has selected are filled with horns, plucked strings, and some of the smoothest beating drums that she's ever heard.

They sit apart on the farthest ends of the dinner table, Hugo lying underneath and curling up into a ball by her feet. As she spears a tomato slice with her fork, Mikasa wonders whether Jean gets his food from the nearby town or grows it, then is swiftly reminded of the abysmal garden beds outside. She’s tempted to bring it up again and make his lack of horticultural skill a recurring topic between the two, something she could tease him about and maybe share a laugh over. In fact, there are many things Mikasa can ask of him now — like where he learned to paint, or where he got Hugo, or how often he makes the half-hour trek into town. But when she looks up to meet him across the table, the first thing she sees is the tenderness in Jean’s eyes.

Something about it unsettles her. She feels a tightness in her chest when she realizes just how long it had been since he had looked at her like that.

“What?”

Silence follows and all Mikasa can focus on is the very subtle upturn of Jean's lips. He hasn't even touched his food yet.

“You look good,” he says, and Mikasa can't tell if he had said something similar to her back then or if it was the other way around. There are some things she can’t trust to be a memory or a dream.

The ache in her chest does not subside, so on instinct she reaches for the jar near her plate and brings it to her lips. She takes a breath to aid her composure before welcoming a pull of wine.

Jean chuckles as he reaches for his own jar. Barely an hour ago, the man sitting across from her was slumped on his front stoop, unable to even acknowledge a ghost from his past — but now he is unable to to take his eyes off of her.

He looks different in this light — scruffier, rugged, and sun-kissed from the past summer — yet some parts of him still feel the same. His broad shoulders, long face, and the way he fills out his sweater creates a familiar silhouette, even when the full beard and shoulder-length hair is still a novelty to her. For all her observations of how he’s gotten wiser, there’s a kind of boyish earnestness in the way he stares at her.

“The scallops are nice,” Mikasa decides to say, putting down her jar and ignoring the warmth now spreading inside of her.

“That’s good to hear.” Jean puts down his jar as well, finally picking up his utensils. “For a second I was worried.”

“Why so?”

“Because you don’t like seafood that much, right?”

Mikasa’s eyebrow quirks up. “How do you know that?”

“Remember that day by the beach?” Jean asks. “When Niccolo was cooking for us? You barely touched a thing.”

It takes her a second, but soon it comes back to her — a sunny day by the sea, plates of food she’s never seen before arranged on a table, Niccolo looking initially displeased to be cooking for Eldians, and Sasha stuffing her face with shellfish before proclaiming that it was the best thing she’s ever had. To this day Mikasa still can’t believe that this of all things sparked Niccolo’s affections for her old friend.

But as of now, the main thing she’s unable to believe is how Jean can remember such a vague detail while she can’t.

“I… a little bit,” she tells him. Even with the memory stirred, she can't recall actually tasting the food. No wonder Jean got the impression that she didn't like seafood. “That was so long ago, how do you still remember that?"

Jean pauses and she can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“I remember a lot of things, Mikasa,” he eventually says, a huskiness to how he speaks.

To distract herself from the way his voice grazes her ears, she gathers another forkful of salad and changes the subject.

“Where’d you learn how to cook?”

“Niccolo, actually.”

“You see him often?”

“Uh… I haven’t seen him in a while, actually, but he taught me a few things back then,” Jean admits. He rubs the back of his neck. “Is he still living with Sasha’s folks?”

Mikasa isn't sure but she can imagine it. She does not keep in contact with the Brauses as much as she should, and before she knows it the guilt of never visiting her beloved friend’s family washes over her. She wants to find something to blame it on — like her shifts at the orphanage or life in general — which is a good enough reason yet she still feels bad. The last time she saw them was four years ago, when she bumped into Artur and Kaya at a market in Shiganshina. All she can really recall from the encounter was the girl being taller than she last remembered and not much else.

In another world, Mikasa imagines that Niccolo could have become part of Sasha’s family another way. She has memories of lying in her cot after a long day of training or government meetings. Despite the events behind them Sasha would still have the energy to chat her ear off. Mikasa remembers listening to Sasha gush about how she took Niccolo for a walk by the river, or how Niccolo cooked something new for her to try, or how they kissed in the shade of an old tree. Even if exhaustion would inevitably take over and make Mikasa fall asleep, a part of her will always cherish her and Sasha’s late-night chats.

“I think so,” Mikasa answers. “Have you stayed in contact with anyone else?”

“Armin and Annie,” he starts. “Through letters, usually. Connie, obviously, and Reiner. Sometimes Pieck.”

Mikasa only knows the exploits of Armin and Annie, but in regards to everyone else she's unfortunately lost touch.

“What are they up to nowadays? Aside from Armin and Annie, I mean.” She gives him a knowing smile. “He sends me letters, too.”

Jean nods along. “Well, uh… we’re all kinda scattered nowadays. Last I heard, Connie and Reiner are still traveling together. Just…” He blows some air from his lungs as he tries to remember every detail. “...wherever they can go. They never stay anywhere for too long. And Pieck’s with her Dad. He’s…”

For a few seconds he goes still, briefly glancing down before taking in a breath. “...he’s not doing so well, guess she wants to be around him.”

After letting out a sigh, Jean reaches for his wine jar again. “Can’t say I blame her.”

Mikasa is tempted to ask what has him so bothered, but before she can Jean suddenly breaks eye contact and looks below the table. The canine that was once asleep by her feet is now pawing at his master’s lap in the hopes of getting some leftovers.

“Hugo, no!”

The dog is persistent and shows no signs of backing down. The slightest snicker escapes Mikasa’s throat as Jean struggles to calm the beast. He puts his wine down and pushes his plate away from the table's edge, which effectively keeps his dinner away from Hugo but knocks over his drink. White wine swiftly spills over the table and dribbles onto his clothes, causing Jean to stand and wipe at himself with a napkin.

“Fucking hell…”

“I can-”

“It’s fine,” Jean insists, gesturing for her to remain seated as goes to the kitchen.

Hugo continues to smile and wag his tail, completely oblivious to the chaos he just caused.

Mikasa watches as Jean returns to the living space with several dishcloths and cleans the mess with the kind of speed that would make Levi proud. She notices that most of the wine that didn’t get on the table now clings to his sweater.

“Dammit, Hugo!” Jean grumbles. “First girl we’ve had here in forever and you do this?!”

His words catch Mikasa off-guard in a way she can’t quite describe. In a day full of unexpected things, the world seems keen on finding even more things to surprise her. She sees the slightest hints of panic in Jean's eyes — he didn’t mean for the words to slip, but now that they’re out he can’t take them back.

For the last hour Mikasa had been watching what she says, but at this moment she can’t stop herself from asking the first thing that comes to mind.

“Were you seeing someone?”

Jean doesn't break eye contact. She’s not sure how many seconds pass before he finally opens his mouth.

“‘Seeing’ is not the best way to describe it,” he admits.

Before saying anything else, he cleans up the rest of the wine before walking back to the kitchen. When he re-emerges the initial jitters instilled in him are gone, but the nervous way he runs a hand through his hair says enough.

“But… I was in town delivering a piece, met her in a tavern and… yeah.”

It only takes a few seconds for a flurry of other questions to pop into Mikasa’s mind. She wonders if this woman knew the truth about the charming painter who lived up the coast. The thought of such a thing makes the anxious feeling in her chest return. She speculates that he called himself “Jehan” when in the midst of his tryst, anything to protect the little bubble of safety he created for himself, but she can't be sure. Instead of asking anything to satiate that part of her curiosity, she instead says —

“What was her name?”

“Loena.”

Mikasa hums as she realizes she’s never heard that name before. “Sounds exotic.”

Jean chuckles, the slightest sense of relief filling his eyes. “She was local, actually. Grew up in one of the villages out east.”

“And what was she doing around here?”

“Well… let's just say that she really liked me,” says Jean, sighing.

In the span of a second Mikasa conjures an image of the woman. Even if she can't think of much, the picture of Jean being so kissed lovingly by a different pair of lips comes to mind. She almost wants to chastise herself for even thinking of such a thing. Of course, he found comfort in someone else's arms over the last few years. Of course, he connected to someone the way only lovers can. What right does she have to say that he cannot?

Once more Jean steps away from the table, turning around and slowly pulling off his sweater. He slips into a room that leads to the back of the cottage, where the sight of a metal basin and washboard tells her that this is where he does his laundry. Through the swinging doors Mikasa respectfully diverts her gaze at the brief glimpse of his bare shoulders, allowing him some privacy as he fishes for something a little less wine-soaked. When he returns he's buttoning a spotless collared shirt over his torso, stepping back to the dining table without missing a beat. Through it all Mikasa is able to glimpse a familiar scar on his collarbone.

“Her husband, however…” Jean continues.

He rolls his eyes like he's already over everything, but in contrast Mikasa is concerned.

“She was married?”

Jean nods half-heartedly as he sits down again. “Guess bored housewives have nothing better to do.”

Despite her relief that the conversation has been steered in a less weighty direction, Mikasa now has other reasons to worry for Jean. His nonchalance over the whole ordeal makes her wonder if he’s had time to process things or wasn't as invested in the relationship as he could have been.

“Did you…” Mikasa starts, though she doesn't have the clearest idea of what to say. “...did you like her? Before you learned the truth?”

Jean’s unbothered attitude continues as he refills his wine jar. “A little bit, yeah. But shit happens, right?”

He takes a sip and the ever-present thought in Mikasa's mind is that he's still taking things a little too lightly. He deserved better than to be the plaything of a bored housewife, yet there he sits nursing his wine with complete disregard for the whole ordeal.

“How long ago did it happen?” she asks to keep the conversation going.

He takes a second to think. “A year? A year and a half ago, I think?”

“And here I thought you’d be staying out of trouble.”

“Well, sometimes trouble just finds me,” he scoffs. “But that's old news and… it’s not like I was being completely honest on my end either.”

The sigh she lets out is quiet, but at least another one of her questions has been answered. Mikasa looks down and refocuses her attention on the meal Jean so lovingly cooked for her. The usual taste she's learned to expect from shellfish is aided by a mix of lemon and butter, the sensation both surprises and pleases her. Before she can pay her compliments to the chef, she hears Jean speak again.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Mikasa looks up just in time to see Jean visibly cringing at himself. At least she's not the only person in this room embarrassed to be so forward.

He takes a breath and briefly looks like he would want nothing more than to stab his hand with his fork. “Or… have been seeing anyone?” he manages to stammer out. “...lately?”

Her instinct is to answer honestly. She could bore him with the details of how work keeps her hands full enough, that after making sure every child at the Reiss Orphanage is cared for she only ever has so much energy left for the day.

Her life as of now is more about surviving than thriving. The most socialization she tends to do involves lunch-time chats with her co-workers, errands in town, or the occasional visit to the palace because the Crown Princess of Paradis wants to see her Auntie Mika again. Anything beyond that feels superfluous, and truth be told she doesn't really fancy the idea of trudging to the nearest sweaty, crowded tavern to meet people.

“No,” she answers after a moment's thought, simplifying things for both her sake and his. "I don't really have the time."

The answer settles into Jean in a way that makes his eyes widen slightly, his newfound intrigue is as clear as day. Now more than ever Mikasa becomes acutely aware of how he's looking at her.

“The Orphanage keeps me pretty busy,” she clarifies, even if there’s really no need. Underneath the table her hand grasps onto her skirt and squeezes the material as tightly as she can. “It’s hard for me, too… to get to know someone new.”

Jean nods. “Yeah, I get that.” Looking slightly more content than before, he looks back to his plate and begins digging into his dinner for real.

Mikasa does the same and for a few seconds they eat in silence. She distracts herself with bites of steamed potatoes, onion salad, and seared scallops tossed in lemon and butter. The sound of music and the ocean blend together, mixing into the atmosphere in a way that calms her beating heart.

“I missed this.”

Mikasa meets his gaze across the table. “Missed what?”

Another beat, and as Mikasa waits for an answer the softness returns to Jean's hazel eyes.

��Being around you again."

On the floor Hugo returns to his original fate of curling up at Mikasa’s feet, content to continue his nap instead of begging for more leftovers. That combined with the utter fondness in Jean's eyes, a strange kind of heat begins seeping through her in a way that makes her think it could be the wine, but could also be something else entirely.

But Mikasa manages to collect herself and say —

“I missed it, too.”

…

Then.

Chaos In The Atmosphere.

Throughout his travels Jean has kept a little tin box at the bottom of his suitcase, an item that becomes his solace whenever his cigarettes cannot. Inside said box are little squares of dried watercolour paint all organized by hue. It is not a vast palette by any means, but it’s always been enough to get the job done.

He's only had the set for a year, a little memento he picked up when the Ambassadors spent a month in a city full of water and canals, but by now it looks like something he's used all his life. Little bits of pigment are splattered on every inch of the box. Bigger blots of dried paint remain where he mixed the colours, like little battle scars of the past. Even his routine wipedown of the box doesn’t rid it of every spot, but he doesn’t mind.

With his open sketchbook on his room's provided desk, Jean paints under the constant drum of a storm. Outside his window is the kind of gale that causes the rain to go sideways and the branches of a nearby tree to periodically tap the glass, a downpour that thoroughly drenches every bit of the land and hits the roof like handfuls of pebbles.

Under the glow of the candlelight, he is indifferent to the chaos in the atmosphere and paints like nothing is wrong. He’s grown accustomed to working in turbulent environments — whether it be the stateroom of a ship, the sleeping car of a moving train, or a room at an inn with Connie snoring one bed over. His room in Historia’s palace is certainly one of the more spacious places that he’s ever worked in, and for that he really can’t complain about the gale outside his window.

With the gentlest touch, Jean applies pigment over a sketch of a flower he saw on an afternoon walk in the garden. He doesn’t know what kind it is, just that the purple hue of the petals was so vibrant under the sun that he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

His skills with a paintbrush are still not where he would like them to be, a far cry from the masters of the craft that he had seen on his travels. To be able to depict landscapes of the countryside or views of the city at night in such meticulous detail is still a dream of his, one that’s far from where he stands now. So Jean keeps at it, painting for both the fantasy thinks of when pondering a life beyond the boardrooms, and for the part of his mind that had been searching for something to keep him sane.

The storm outside his window continues to bellow and blow. As Jean rinses the bristles of his paintbrush, lightning flashes in the sky. Seconds pass before thunder crashes outside the window. Then suddenly he hears a sound in the gale that makes his heart skip a beat.

It’s a scream, something loud enough to cut through the walls of his room.

Fuelled by instinct, Jean is instantly on his feet. He wastes no time as he grabs his shirt off his chair before dashing out of his room.

Pulling the garment over his torso, he crosses the hallway with haste. Panic imbues his every fiber as he finds the knob and flings the door open.

Jean’s heart is hammering inside his chest as enters the bedroom, where he is greeted to the sight of an old friend.

“What happened?”

Mikasa is sitting up on her bed, her breathing heavy and her eyes filled with the kind of terror that Jean finds sobering. It takes her a second to register that he’s in her room. Once she glances over she shakes her head, shifting until she’s sitting on the edge of the mattress and avoiding his gaze.

“I’m fine.”

Unconvinced, Jean closes the door behind him before refocusing his attention on her. “No, it’s not. You screamed.”

Mikasa looks like a mess, her hair unruly and unkempt as a sheen covers her face.

“Why are you even here?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

She shakes her head again. “No, I mean... why? ”

There’s something accusatory in the way she’s eyeing him and Jean doesn’t know what to tell her.

Because the last few years had attuned him to the cries of his friends. More than once has Connie or Reiner woken up in the midst of the night, gasping and covered in a cold sweat, struggling to gain control of their panicked breaths.

Connie gets it worse, however, often thrashing or screaming in his bunk and jolting Jean awake no matter how late it is. He doesn’t know the exact reason why Connie’s nightmares terrorize him even more, but he’s made a few guesses. Beyond everything they’ve seen in their twenty odd years of life, there are nights where Connie is too restless sleep or days where he is too sullen to eat. There are moments where he is so stressed from their duties as Ambassadors that he can’t let himself breathe.

And it's on the nights where everything boils over that Jean steps in. He’s gotten used to letting his best friend rest on his shoulder or in his arms as Connie waits for his world to feel normal again. He’ll ask Connie what he saw before he woke up and more often than not Jean won’t get a proper answer — just the ramblings of a man who can only ever see Sasha, Sunny, Martin, or his father in his dreams.

But Jean doesn’t tell her any of that. Instead he lingers on the sight of her looking fragile as glass on the edge of the bed, then and decides to say —

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Mikasa still looks stressed, but now he can see her expression softening into something bashful. As she catches her breath it becomes clear that she feels remorse for waking him, but some things can’t be helped.

“Go to sleep, Jean,” she whispers. Something about the rushed way she speaks doesn’t sit right with him.

“Could I sit?” Jean asks, the question leaving his mouth before he can stop it. His gut feeling tells him not to go, not until he knows that she’ll be okay.

A moment passes where the only thing Jean can hear is the sound of the storm, then she slowly nods her head.

Jean steps forward and joins her on the bed, choosing to sit on the other side to give her space. Outside the window another lightning strike briefly illuminates the room, the thunder soon following. The noise causes a slight rumble to resonate throughout the palace and makes Mikasa fidget with the bedsheets. The rain continues to batter the windows and walls.

Jean cranes his neck to keep his eyes on her and once again she looks away.

Sensing that she’ll need a moment or two, he takes the time to look at the room. The space is identical to his own but a lot more empty. His travels force him to pack light, yet as he observes the same desk, chaise lounge, and private bathroom that was provided to him, he notices a distinct lack of personal belongings in the space. At least her usual scarf is folded neatly on her nightstand.

Mikasa had never struck him as someone who owned a lot of things — not due to circumstances out of her control, but through knowing what she really needed to get by in life and shirking anything else. Yet somehow, the vacantness in her room makes Jean wonder if she’s even comfortable in the space.

“What are you doing up this late anyways?” Mikasa asks as the wind whips at the windows.

“I was painting,” Jean answers.

Various questions dance in his mind. How often does this happen? Was she awoken by the chaos of the storm? Does she still see Eren in her dreams or is something else haunting her tonight? His instincts tell him to say something, anything — but as Mikasa shifts on the mattress and rests her back against the headboard, a distinct air of melancholy hanging over her like a cloud, Jean can’t find the words.

He briefly considers running off to find Armin, something he defaults to whenever he doesn’t know what else to do. But something about the sight of Mikasa tucking her knees up to her chest motivates him to stay.

“I have this kit with all these little pans of colour, I bring it everywhere with me,” he explains to take her mind off things. “I was painting this flower I saw in the garden.”

“What kind of flower?”

“I don’t know. I’m not good with plant stuff.”

"What colour was it?"

"Purple."

“What shape were the petals?”

Despite staring at his own sketch barely a minute ago, Jean needs a second to remember. “Curved, I think?”

“Were they all clustered together?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

Mikasa begins to think, her lips remaining pursed. “It could have been a hyacinth.”

“A hyacinth,” Jean nods. A part of him is very relieved to have gotten her talking about something. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Another lull of silence follows as Jean sees her begin to mellow out.

“You know a lot about flowers,” he remarks, a friendly smile slowly finding its way onto his lips.

“I garden sometimes,” Mikasa admits.

“Have you now?”

“It keeps me busy.”

“More than the orphanage?”

Seemingly sensing the playfulness in Jean’s banter, she hums. “No. I wish I had more time for it though.”

“Maybe you’ll find it in the future,” Jean assures. A sense of relief begins to wash over him. In time the world around them starts to feel less heavy, even with the sounds of the storm outside.

“Uh… I can leave if-”

“Can you stay?”

Her words surprise Jean. After she speaks he sees something shift on her face that implies that the question surprised even her.

“I can," Jean promises, then gestures towards the middle of the mattress. "Do you mind if I…?”

“Go ahead.”

Jean nods. He shifts on the bed so he is sitting against the headboard. There’s still a certain amount of distance between them, as they are separated by a pile of needlessly opulent cushions and blankets. Somehow, the barrier keeps them both at ease.

As Jean crosses his arms over his chest, the most pressing thought on his mind is whether Mikasa will be okay. He wonders if the palace is really the safest place for her — because while she's far from any vengeful Jaegerist looking to cause her harm, everything about tonight is telling him that what’s hurting her now is something she can’t outrun. Her knees are still held close to her chest, her hands grasping her shins.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Jean tries, but he thinks he already knows the answer.

“No.” With only her eyes Mikasa glances aside at him. “Do you need to sleep?”

“I can stick around,” he says instead of answering her question.

She doesn't say anything else, but she nods her head. That in itself is enough for Jean to rest more of his weight against the headboard. He lets himself get a bit more comfortable, his bare feet rubbing against the silken sheets. His mind goes to the schedule of the day ahead of them, which is merely a continuation of the peace talks from the days before. He's already imagining his attempts to sneak a nap during the meeting or how much coffee he'll need to chug just to get through. But it's a small price to pay if it means making sure Mikasa isn’t alone.

Jean doesn’t know how much time passes before it becomes a struggle to stay awake. His head starts to feel heavy and begins drifting lower, but he catches himself before he can fully nod off and blinks furiously to keep himself conscious. The sound of the storm outside continues to rumble.

He looks at Mikasa's side of the bed to see her now lying under the blanket and facing away from him. He must have nodded off more than he thought because he doesn’t remember seeing her move.

While his memories are never as clear as he'd like — far too clouded by ghosts — Jean can recall an era sometime after the Liberio attack where Mikasa stuck fairly close to those she cared about. He couldn't blame her for not wanting to return to the room she used to share with Sasha, not wanting to be alone during such a sorrowful time. As a result she spent the next few nights in the same space as the boys and they didn’t mind. Jean can still remember looking across the barracks from the bunk he shared with Connie, where he would see her in the same bed as Armin and not be bothered by it one bit. It’s the kind of relationship they have always had and frankly, Jean would be more surprised if Mikasa didn’t turn to her old friend in a desperate plea for comfort.

Looking at her now, Jean is tempted to ask if she wants him to leave. But for once she looks so calm, seemingly asleep while encapsulated in the sheets. So instead Jean remains where he is. Conscious of the space between them, he keeps his arms crossed over his chest and takes a breath.

“See you in the morning.”

…

Now.

The First Goodbye.

The sun is just beginning to set when Mikasa leaves Jean’s place, casting the sky above the sea into a dreamy mix of orange and pink. As he opens the door and lets her out, she steps through with the extra weight of a promise to write and a note tucked deep in her pocket, one with the address of his mailbox in town.

“No, really, Jean,” Mikasa insists as she places her sunhat back on her head. “I can make it back just fine.”

Jean chuckles. “You sure about that?”

When she turns around she sees his jest in his eyes, but refuses to play his game. “I can handle a little walk.”

Before can respond with his usual snark, Hugo slips through the door and onto the porch. On reflex Jean manages to stop the mighty canine, promptly grasping Hugo’s collar and holding back the dog’s final attempt to leap on their guest.

“Hugo, no!” Jean exclaims for what feels like the thousandth time that day.

Mikasa lets out a polite chuckle as Jean wrangles the beast back into the house. In contrast, Hugo looks cheerful as he taps his paws against the wooden porch, his master struggling to haul him indoors.

As Jean continues his backbreaking task, Mikasa takes a moment to take in the view of the coast. In the distance she can see the water lapping at the rocks lining the beach, the sound caressing her ears with the grace of a worldly waltz. The sight of it all feels too good to be true.

To wake up to a view like this every day would be a blessing, she thinks, then once the thought comes to mind a pang of envy clenches at her heart.

Sure, she's thankful for the abode that Historia provided her, a cottage just off the property of the Reiss Orphanage, much like the one Jean built for himself. But the closest body of water to that is a creek that leads to a mere pond. To say that it pales in comparison to the cloud of seafoam gathering on the beach is an understatement.

Eventually, Jean manages to get Hugo into the cottage and closes the door before the beast can escape.

“I think he likes you too much,” he says, chuckling awkwardly.

Mikasa hums. “I was getting that impression.”

Soon comes a moment where neither of them speak, and in that time the sound of the sea does what it always does and resonates throughout this side of paradise. Only a few more seconds pass before Mikasa realizes that this may be it.

Their reunion over wine, scallops, and stories of heartbreak had finally reached its end. An afternoon and evening that had brought a sense of warmth to her, one that she hasn’t felt in the last few years, is over and she doesn’t know what to say.

She's tempted to try something like “We should do this again,” but decides against it because she's not even sure when ‘again’ would be.

Fortunately, Jean speaks before she does.

“Your hair looks nice, by the way.”

The sudden change in subject catches her off-guard. For a second she had even forgotten that she stepped into a barbershop just a few hours ago and stepped out with a bob. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly conscious of how she appears.

“I got it cut today,” she says instead of thanking him.

“Oh… well, it looks good,” he says with the earnestness he had shown all throughout dinner. “I was uh… gonna say something before, but I was afraid you’d just cut it all off again.” In no time Jean is visibly cringing at his own words. Again. “Sorry, bad joke.”

It takes a moment for Mikasa to remember exactly what he’s referring to, but soon the memory of a twelve-year-old boy telling a twelve-year-old girl that her hair was very beautiful comes to mind. Though the most vivid thing she can recall is the way Eren’s fingers touched the ends of her hair, followed by his suggestion to cut it and her immediate promise to follow through.

“You still remember that?” she asks, intrigued and impressed.

Jean chuckles again. “Well… I think I remember it a little differently.”

She wants to laugh with him, yet the only thing she can think about is how her memory is not as good as it used to be. Even if the incident he recalled happened fifteen years ago, she's embarrassed over her inability to recall even the most placid of happenings.

As Mikasa wallows in her own personal failings, Jean keeps his eyes on her and waits for her to speak again. When she doesn’t he simply runs his hand through his hair once more, unsure how to steer the conversation now.

“See you around?”

Something tightens in Mikasa's chest. “I’m actually leaving town tomorrow,” she reveals a little too abruptly.

“Tomorrow?” Jean asks, surprised. The slightest bit of disappointment is visible on his face. There's a chance that he had gotten too used to the presence of another in the last few hours, so much so that he had forgotten that it couldn't last forever. “Historia’s really forcing you on holiday, huh?”

“She’s very insistent,” Mikasa surmises, figuring that this may be the best way she can explain it.

Jean nods knowingly, though the wistful look in his eyes persists. “Come by any time, then?”

“I might,” Mikasa says, keeping the softness in her voice. She doesn't know if she'll stay true to her words, so to distract herself she glances upon the dirt beds in front of his house. “Your garden’s a mess, by the way.”

Jean sighs and nods. “Yeah, I know. I haven’t had time to uh… make it less shit. I’ve been busy.”

Once more, she notices the dots of paint on his trousers and boots, details that tell her all she needs to know.

“I figured.”

She meets his eyes again. It doesn’t take too long for her to realize that they've really been prolonging the inevitable. Another separation, but at least this one a little less bittersweet.

“I guess this is it then,” Mikasa says.

“It is,” Jean says. His words feel weighty. There's something in his eyes that tells her that he doesn't want to let go, not yet. “So… I’ll see you-”

“Jean, I’m sorry.”

She speaks before she can stop herself and already regrets it. Her sudden forwardness surprises both him and her.

As Mikasa takes a moment to ponder just how long she had been holding that in, Jean tilts his head and looks more concerned than confused.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry about how…” she begins, briefly thinking of the right words to say. “...how it ended last time.”

She sees Jean contemplate what she’s implying, an action that involves crossing his arms over his chest and furrowing his brow. When he seems to realize what she had meant, his face visibly softens.

“I don’t think there’s anything to be sorry about,” he replies in a surprisingly charitable tone.

Once he says the words Mikasa thinks she should be relieved — because in theory, the weight of the remorse she had kept inside of her for the last few years should be gone. She had bottled it within her like a poison for far too long. But as she stands in front of Jean with the words of her apology now fading from the air, she realizes that nothing has changed.

“It was so long ago, too,” Jean adds, touching his chin with his thumb. “I mean… you did get my letter, right?”

The memory he asks of her is a lot more fresh — five years old, just like her regrets. But even then, she finds that she remembers it in fragments — like Jean’s handwriting on a piece of parchment, the glow of a lantern inside her log cabin, and something like a heavy cloud hanging over her head on a very dark night. Upon inspecting her memories a little more closely, Mikasa realizes that while she’s retained a lot of things surrounding Jean’s letter, she can’t recall the contents of the letter itself. Perhaps her inability to remember things precisely is trying to protect her.

“Yes,” Mikasa ends up answering, and in a way she’s telling the truth.

Jean nods like there's nothing left to stay. “Then that’s all you need to know.”

She accepts his answer with grace, even if it does nothing to change the hole in her heart. She worries if he’ll stay on the topic for any longer.

“Goodbye, Mikasa,” Jean tells her instead.

She breathes in and tries to ignore the pressing feeling that they’ve been in this position before.

“Goodbye, Jean.”

She turns around before she can say anything else, forcing her eyes away from her old friend as she steps off the porch. The wind continues to blow above the surface of the ocean, the ends of her newly trimmed bob, and at her scarf. She fears what would happen if dared to look back and moves with haste.

Her boots dig into the dirt. With every step she imagines that Jean's seaside abode gets smaller and smaller until it is nothing but a speck amongst the horizon. She leaves behind the life he had built for himself, in which he lives through brushstrokes on a canvas and quiet evenings with his dog, a life she had simply dropped in on like some goddamn tourist.

Mikasa isn’t not sure when she'll be back. But for now, she’ll return to his world and he’ll return to his.

…

Then.

The Breakfast After.

By mid-morning Jean is awoken by the light of the sun shining through the window and by the pain in his back becoming too prominent to ignore.

As he straightens his back, each ache is a lovely reminder that he had spent last night half-slumped against the headboard. The fact that his joints don’t hate him right now is a miracle, yet it doesn’t make the act of getting out of the bed any easier.

Disoriented and groggy, he blinks as he gets used to his surroundings. Once he's more awake, the first thing he realizes is that he's sitting on an empty mattress. The spot where Mikasa had slept is now completely vacant, the nightstand that once housed her neatly folded scarf is now bare.

As Jean stretches, he looks around the room and hopes for some kind of indication that she had at least slept well last night — because God knows that he sure as hell didn’t. Though he knows he’ll see her eventually, he can’t stop himself from sighing as he stands and leaves her bedroom. Even the sight of the sun rising above the storm's aftermath can’t deter the sinking feeling inside of his heart.

Jean goes across the hallway and back to his own room, where he changes into his work clothes before heading out for the day.

On top of keeping her guests sheltered during the peace talks, Queen Historia has also been keeping them fed. She had reserved one of the palace’s many dining halls just for the Ambassadors, thus allowing them to enjoy their meals in some semblance of privacy.

As per usual, Jean nearly gets lost on his way to the east wing and thanks a god he doesn’t believe in as he arrives at the door. Upon entering the dining hall, he’s immediately enchanted by the fatty smell of fried cured meats and the buttery scent of freshly baked bread. The sight of the spread on the table makes him forget about the pain in his shoulders in favour of his rumbling stomach.

He glances around to see the expected crowd. Reiner and Pieck are playing a game with her trusty travel chess set, the latter sipping casually on her tea as she takes down her opponent’s knight. Annie is boredly drizzling honey into her yogurt as she fights back a yawn, making it clear that Jean’s not the only one who slept badly last night. Connie is standing alone by the window, nursing a cup of coffee as he watches the palace staff clear the branches and debris that the storm had blown into garden.

And as to be expected, Mikasa is sitting next to Armin.

On the far end of the dining table, she and her beloved childhood friend are chatting in the dining hall’s placid atmosphere, poking at the fruit on their plate as they talk. There’s a content look on her face, far from the way it had been just a few hours ago.

As Jean walks past Connie and gives his friend a reassuring pat on the back, Mikasa glances at him and their gazes meet for a mere second. He sees that serene look of hers falter slightly, but soon she’s returning her attention to Armin and only Armin.

Jean tries not to think too much of their shared look as he finds a spot near Annie. He pours himself some coffee and thinks about how much food he can cram into himself before the first meeting starts. His mind barely wanders as he eats his fill of fried sausages, sliced strawberries, and scrambled eggs.

Then before Jean knows it, a servant of the palace alerts the Ambassadors and Mikasa that they are needed for their first meeting of the day. As everyone stands up, Jean hears Annie let out another yawn, as well as Reiner grumbling over how he was this close to a checkmate, only for Pieck to say “Sure, you were” with her usual dry wit.

Jean finishes the last bits of his coffee before putting his cup down. As he walks he slips a crescent roll into his jacket pocket and he joins his comrades, briefly wondering if somewhere out there Sasha’s laughing at his antics.

Fuelled by caffeine and fried sausages, Jean looks forward and tries to see if the opportunity to do what he needs to do will arise.

Mikasa is near the back of the crowd, trailing after the majority of the Ambassadors sans Jean. Once he’s close to her he taps her arm, garnering her attention. Their eyes meet again, a gentleness now permeating the way she looks at him.

“Did you sleep okay?” Jean whispers.

“I did,” she answers more quickly than he expects. “Thank you.”

He’s not sure if she means “thank you” as in “thank you for checking on me.” Or “thank you” as in “thank you for staying with me.”

He doesn’t bother asking for specifics because before he knows it, the Ambassadors and Mikasa are corralled into a meeting room. The space is occupied by a long table, multiple chairs, and various other people clad in impeccable formalwear. It’s a sight that Jean is starting to get sick of but knows better than to let it show. The last thing he lets himself look at is the sight of Mikasa walking away from him, the ends of her scarf and hem of her sweater swaying slightly as she moves and finds a spot next to Armin.

Without anything left to say, Jean takes in another breath and braces himself for another day of peace talks.

…

Now.

A Change of Plans.

In the morning she is awoken by two things — the bustle of the port town outside her window and a persistent dryness in her throat. On one hand she's not hungover, but on the other she takes a minute to recompose herself by staring at the ceiling and thinking about how tired she is.

When she stands from her bed she discovers that her clothes from yesterday are scattered on the floor, a reminder of the events of last night. She can only remember the latter half of the evening in parts — like how dark it had been once she arrived at the inn and how exhausted she had been after trudging up to her room. Whatever energy she had left was put towards undressing and slipping into bed.

In hindsight, perhaps the ‘two’ helpings of wine she had over dinner were a little closer to three.

Barefoot on the floor, Mikasa clothes herself with a sweater from the depths of her suitcase and tries to go on with her routine. After washing her face with the room’s provided pitcher and bowl of water, she gets a glimpse of her face in the mirror on the wall. The dark circles underneath her eyes are never as bad as she fears they are, but as she looks at herself now she cannot fathom how Jean could have possibly spent most of last night looking at her so adoringly.

When she finds her pocket watch the first thing she notes is that the train she's meant to board is leaving in three hours. The second thing is that despite having known what the plan had been all along, Mikasa can't find it in herself to be excited for it.

She spots her ticket on the table near the window, remembering the intentions that had already been set out for her. The village in the northwest awaits, a place she’s never been and could potentially explore, but internally the joy she’s meant to feel for the adventure is gone. The desire, the excitement, the zest and zeal for going far beyond her little place in the world isn't there.

Letting out a sigh, Mikasa lies back on the bed. Maybe some coffee could fix her.

With her eyes on the ceiling she contemplates contacting Historia and telling her that the trip was a bad idea after all, that the stress of travel is too much for her to handle and that she's better off holed up in her cabin for all eternity, shackled and chained like the madwoman in the attic.

As her mind goes through the possible excuses she can give, Mikasa exhales and wonders how one person could be so pathetic.

A few minutes pass as she listens to the sound of the town outside her window. She hears carts being pulled over cobblestones and civilians yelling over the noise, merchants trying to sell their goods and children running amok.

She hears one seller in particular raving about his potatoes, of all things, going on and on about how there's plenty to go around and even the smaller ones are worth saving and planting later.

Intrigued for a reason she doesn't even know, Mikasa pulls herself off her bed and goes to the window. She pulls back the curtain to see the seller standing on the street with a cart full of vegetables, a bright smile plastered on his face as he speaks to the flow of passerbys.

As Mikasa observes the crates of goods practically overflowing in his cart, as well as the bags of smaller spuds for those willing to plant them, an idea comes to mind. It feels farfetched, more improbable than anything she’s done in a while, but even after giving it a few seconds she finds herself warming up to the thought.

She takes a moment to compare her newly concocted plans with the one already set out for her. When she realizes that she would much rather do that than hop on a train in the afternoon and go to a town she doesn’t even know, Mikasa takes the first step. She gets dressed, heads downstairs to the manager’s desk at the entrance of the inn, and extends her stay.

#jeankasa #jeanmika #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #mikasa ackerman #mikajean #post-rumbling #post-canon #snk #seaside cottage au #if you wanna know where i've been for months it's been writing THIS

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