#jeankasaweek2014

[foxberryblue]

Jeankasa Week Day 6: Firsts

Pairing: Jeankasa [ Jean Kirschtein / Mikasa Ackerman ] AU: High School!AU Summary: Jean have been dating for a while but still haven't shared their first kiss.

Notes: I seem to share the headcanon that Mikasa would make the first move. This is indirectly based on one of my own experiences.

Read it on AO3.

Walking down the path, hand in hand, Jean and Mikasa said very little to each other under the cloudy sky. With school over for the day, they planned to spend the afternoon together hanging out in the city. Jean had said he had some kind of plan in mind. Mikasa had simply taken his hand when his tongue started to tie itself.

They had been dating for weeks, but Jean had not made a move to kiss her. She knew he was nervous, but this seemed peculiar. It seemed as if he was holding himself back. She squeezed his hand a little at the thought, prompting Jean to look at her. She considered returning his gaze for a moment, but instead she disappeared into her thought process again.

They were close. This was not their first date. Even if it were chivalry or some attempt of Jean’s to be polite, Mikasa still found it rather odd. Perhaps he found her manner cold and indifferent. Perhaps he thought that she did not want him to kiss her.

She stopped walking, looking up at his face to consider it. She understood she was intimidating to some, but that had never seemed to bother him before. She looked over him but not into his eyes. “What is it?” he asked her, but she merely squinted in response. His face contorted, not sure whether he should say more or simply stare back.

Their last date had ended with a kiss to the forehead. After a long hug he had leant down towards her, eyes on her lips, and Mikasa had closed her eyes. His lips had touched and lingered on her forehead before Jean backed away with one of his smiles. The abashed, gawky one, in particular. She could not work out whether it had been his intention or not.

She tilted her head, placing a hand upon his shoulder. A small smile grew into the corners of her lips and her hand crept up to hold his face. Jean stared at her, perplexed, eyebrows high upon his face. Leaning close, she closed her eyes and placed a small peck upon his lips. Satisfied with herself, she gazed into his eyes, waiting for his reaction. Perhaps not the first kiss he had intended, but it was a kiss nonetheless. It was soft, but too frustratingly brief for Jean. Mikasa could see it.

A moment of silence passed as they stared at each other. Jean licked his lip, then bit his tongue in thought. Mikasa waited resolutely, without a word. In a sudden jolt, Jean’s hands darted out. One hand curled through her hair. The other tugged her to him by the waist, pulling her face close to his. He observed her face keenly, eyelids half-closed with wanting, as if he planned to devour her.

At first, he tested his lips against hers. Soft and warm, his lips seemed to melt against her, and the world became smaller in an instant. Her eyes closed as she drew him near, grasping at the back of his neck. She sighed against him, feeling his eyes peeking in between the few smacks of their lips to check on his performance. Amused, she drew her tongue across his lip and smiled into the next kiss as he hesitantly drew her closer. Humming her approval, Mikasa ended the kiss with a quick peck and a stroke down his jawline with the tips of her fingers.

As they broke apart, Jean stood very still, shocked by his impulse. Mikasa simply reached up and touched the tip of his nose with a finger. “The movie isn’t going to wait for us, Jean,” she said bluntly, grasping his hands in hers tightly. She tugged him along behind her as she headed off down the path. He nodded in agreement, following her for a moment before a thought occurred to him and he stopped in his tracks. “Wait! Who said it was a movie?!” Mikasa ignored his protests and tugged him back into step alongside her.

[omniswords]

Learning by Doing [Jean Kirschtein/Mikasa Ackerman] [JeanKasa Week 2014]

so I guess I???? did this for jeankasa week? it wasn't meant to be, it was something done on a whim thanks to i-really-heichou but it turned out to fit today's prompt, firsts, so A+ us. based on that one viral video where strangers had to kiss each other and junk.

His slot was at three o'clock exactly, and he got there five minutes before, palms sweating and fingers ever tipping the beanie on his head off-kilter, as though he'd kept forgetting it was there at all. It was a kiss, the director, a man named Levi with a few inches lacking and a half-sour expression, had told him when they met for an interview in the university cafe. It was for some advertising scheme, or a master's project, he couldn't remember now. There wasn't really anything to remember except the fact that he'd never kissed a girl before. A boy, sure--two of them, even, if he counted the one time he and Eren had gotten stupidly drunk together--but never a girl.

Sometimes he wondered if it was much different--there were still the lips on lips, the hesitant hands, never quite knowing when to pull apart, always learning the ebb and flow by doing. But kissing Marco in high school broom closets was different from kissing Eren in a drunken stupor was different from kissing a girl he probably didn't know, probably would never see again.

"Do you plan on staying out there the whole time? The lighting's better in here."

Jean looked up to find Levi, who was tapping his foot impatiently against the tile from behind the camera, and mumbled an apology as he shuffled into the studio with his hands jammed into his pockets. And there was the girl, sitting on the other side of the studio with her legs crossed and her hair curtaining her cheeks, fingers curled around a mobile phone. It wasn't until he took a few more steps and Levi cleared his throat to get her attention that he thought perhaps he recognized her. He didn't think he'd ever seen her with her hair down, apart from the dark apron and the metallic tag that bore her name. Mikasa Ackerman. Sometimes he tested it on his tongue and it settled comfortably, like it was strangely meant to be there.

He decided to hazard a guess as she approached him, her heels clicking against the polished wood. "You work in the library cafe," he said, cursing his voice for cracking. "In the mornings, right? You look... different."

She raised an eyebrow, eyes darkening--with excitement or sarcasm, he couldn't quite tell--as he held out a hand. "Nice to see you've fine-tuned your sense of object permanence."

He winced, shaking it gingerly, dropping it like he'd been burnt. "I'm Jean. Um. Kirschtein."

"I know."

He blinked. "You do?"

"You order the same sandwich every time you come down to study. Wouldn't be surprised if you were pissing buffalo and ranch by now," she deadpanned, and when Jean paled and tossed a glance to the camera for help he saw Levi cover his mouth with a hand.

He swallowed and tried again. "So... we're supposed to kiss?" Oh, God. He was supposed to kiss her. His first time kissing a girl, Mikasa Ackerman, and she probably thought he smelled like her job.

She hummed in agreement, fingers twisted in the folds of her suspender skirt, something strangely reserved about it. "For this project my cousin has, or something."

He might have dropped his jaw had the resemblance not hit him in time, and he composed himself and nodded so much he thought his beanie might fall off again. "So do we just, uh, go?" He stumbled over his words. Just--just go? Now? Do it now?

"We can switch you out for someone else," Levi said, equal parts taunting and irritated, probably for lack of substance. "I said you had to be strangers, after all."

"We might as well be," Mikasa cut in, folding her arms and tossing Levi a glare. "I'm kissing this one."

Levi lifted his hands in mock surrender, as if insisting that she go ahead, and when she turned back Jean could swear there was a glint of something in her eyes. Resolution? Attraction? He couldn't really tell. All this, and still not knowing what he was supposed to do, and when, where his hands were supposed to go, whether it was supposed to be gentle or firm, or--

She pressed a thumb to his lips, tugged him closer by his wrist, until his hand was settled uncertainly on his waist. "You're thinking too much," she murmured more gently than he expected, resting slender, pale fingers on his jaw. The glint was back, softer than he remembered, and she looked at him as if to guide him, as though something had tipped her off. She didn't seem to have any more words, only lowered lashes and barely puckered lips and the heady air between them when she leaned a little closer on the balls of her feet, leading and encouraging at once. He nearly forgot to close his eyes when their lips finally touched once, twice, again, when she gave him permission to melt into her.

It had none of the closet darkness, no mess of tongues or clacking of teeth; she was gentle and fierce in turns, teaching and reveling as she settled on her heels. It was as though he could feel fire licking at his skin, seeping into muscle and bone and growing in intensity with every second her fingers flitted over his chest, his shoulders, the back of his neck, leading him down until he couldn't conceive a possible return or separation. She only parted from him long enough to sigh against his mouth, tangling her fingers in his hair and tightening her grip when he had the sense to press his palms to her back and swipe his tongue across the seam of her lips. And she invited him in, bending into his touch, shivering at the brush of his fingers against her skin, gasping when he finally took hold of her face and pushed against her.

She kept him in place with the one-two-three of gentle pecks, eyes half-lidded and bottom lip caught between her teeth, head tilted upward with the lax curl of his finger under her chin. "Oh," she said, the word seemingly caught in her throat like a broken sigh.

"Oh." His shoulders heaved with a sigh of his own, hands only reaching to straighten her hair and clothes--had he done that?--before they slowly receded. So that was it. That was all there was to it, and he was going to walk out of here with experience and maybe one less shred of dignity. Levi gave a single nod from behind the camera, almost smiling, and Jean stiffened, thanking him--of all things, thanking him--before he bolted out of the studio. So maybe he would have to start getting his sandwiches somewhere else. Maybe he'd have to scout out a different part of the library.

He barely noticed the click-clack of footsteps behind him, and he jumped at the tap on his shoulder. He found Mikasa standing behind him with her hands behind her back, faced barely flushed as she cast her gaze to the floor. "You forgot this," she said, holding up his beanie, and before he could thank her she'd already turned on her heel and click-clacked all the way back down the hall.

A folded scrap of paper dropped to the floor when he up-ended the hat, and when he knelt to pick it up, the neat script betrayed a name and phone number to him. His stomach lurched at the message at the bottom.

Next sandwich is on the house.

[znrn]

Jeankasa Week - Silence

[courtneytheva]

Jean has been assigned guard duty for the night, while the rest of the squad is asleep -- well, most of the squad. It's been a few days since the squad failed to rescue Eren and Historia...and since the almost death of Jean Kirschtein. One scout in particular has taken it harder than she thinks she should...

This is my first contribution to any shipping week! I've been working on this little thing for a while, and I'm so glad I finally get to share it with you. I hope you enjoy!

Jean Kirschtein: dr-hazama (youtube) Mikasa Ackerman: courtneytheva  JeanKasa consultant/Bringer of sad head canons and AUs: super-sandri

Special thanks to super-sandri, emilykochva, and nikkispartanva for proof-listening. 

[foxberryblue]

Jeankasa Week Day 5: Silence

Pairing: Jeankasa [ Jean Kirschtein / Mikasa Ackerman ]

AU: Canon, post-Trost Summary: Jean takes a moment after the Battle of Trost.

Notes: A very short drabble this time. Read it on AO3.

Sitting alone, legs over the edge of Wall Rose, Jean stared out blankly at the tiled roofs and cobbled streets stretching out in all directions far below him. The ruins of his hometown seemed to smoke as the dirt and dust settled, trying to reach out for help with wispy fingers, desperate and clawing. There was nowhere Jean could look without thinking of one of his fallen comrades, or of the people he knew here.

He closed his eyes and sighed for what felt like minutes, surrounded by an eery silence as everyone who recovered from the atrocity bustled around him. He only needed a moment to clear his thoughts and set himself right again.

When she approached, Mikasa never once broke the silence. Her steps were deliberate and graceful, which came as no surprise to Jean. He opened his eyes to watch as he felt her presence, and she sat next to him, where she gripped onto the edge with her hands. He had no thought as to what to say, and she made no attempt to talk to him. The occasional glance shared between them said everything. Together, they stared out at the horizon.

His hand reached out, laying gently over her hand and grasping in a combination of protection and desperation. Jean could not tell which. Mikasa simply turned her wrist and entwined her fingers with his.

It was a brief moment of respite. He could ask for nothing more and nothing less. At least for now.

[foxberryblue]

Escapement (Jeankasa Week Day 4: Chance Meeting)

Summary: A mysterious man leaves a package at Mikasa's door. Jean is confronted by a woman at a farmer's market, convinced she has seen him before.

AU: Time Traveller!AU

Notes: This is perhaps my favourite piece though it just matches the prompt. It was delayed because I couldn't do it justice with personal issues.

Thank you la-la-la-laurel for editing for me once again. Dedicated to shynii, since she got so excited about this AU.

Read it on AO3.

It was early November. Wrapped and huddled in a blanket, feet cushioned in slippers and white mink earmuffs over her ears, Mikasa shuffled to the kitchen. A pot of a cold remedy simmered gently on the stove, its bubbling singing sweetly to her ears. The scent of honey, lemon and a whiff of echinacea wafted through the cottage.

Metal chinked against china as Mikasa languidly poured herself a cup of the concoction. It snuggled warmly in her hands, heat permeating into her as the smell teased at her sniffling, red nose. Resisting the urge to dive into it heartily, she took a tender, hesitant sip and savoured it as the lemon tingled at her lips and honey danced across her tongue. Trickling down her throat, it silenced the tickle that scratched at her impatiently. Another sip felt like welcome relief after a day of being swaddled in blankets and buried amongst pillows, trying desperately to catch up on sleep. A sigh escaped her lips at the closing of her eyes, feeling so heavy with lost sleep she had to will them to open again.

Three days of sniffles, coughing, and a painfully frustrating sense of lethargy had rendered Mikasa miserable. She spent her days moving little, tucked up on the couch under Armin’s orders. He’d convinced himself that all of Mikasa’s concerns were his to know since starting pre-med. More than they had been before. It was sweet, but intrusive and overbearing nonetheless. “Stay warm and rest” is what he had said, but the restlessness of being still and predominantly useless crawled under her skin, eating at whatever patience was still left.

Light through the glass doors shone onto the cold white tiles, reflecting the french doors it peeked through and adding a soft glow to the kitchen facing it. The fridge hummed, singing to itself in the quiet house, one of the few appliances making a sound. The swirling of the wind outside swept through the trees and dashed against the windows, shuddering them in their hinges. Outside, twigs fell to the ground, already covered with a light dusting of early winter snow. The chill had just set in, with frost clinging desperately to the corners of the windows’ glass.

She briefly searched through the fridge for something simple to eat. Her complete lack of energy and clouded head made an otherwise easy task take excruciatingly longer than it should have. After a minute or two of the passive yellow fridge light glowing in her face while the chilled air of the fridge stroked at it, she closed the door and collapsed against it. The groan she made as she slid down the fridge door sounded weak, guttural, and overall pathetic. It was not like her to be done in by something as feeble as the flu.

She sneezed loudly, jerking violently forward thrice as she sank to the ground, leaning forward to face the tiles below. The cold granite sapped the heat away from her legs as she struggled to push herself up to stand. Another groan resounded in the kitchen, echoing her pain and frustration back at her.

As she settled into her surrender after the third attempt, the doorbell sang out at her from across the cottage. Its song was shrill and light, as if fingers danced across her limbs, prodding at her to attempt standing once again. Doubting the speed of her movements, Mikasa called out, “Eren! Are you home?” A day of sleeping had left her unsure as to whether he would still be home or if he had already left for work. No voice answered her.

A shadow at the french doors stretched out across the floor. Agitated, it paced and turned, crossing back and forth across the tiles impatiently. This time a knock rang out, insistent and determined. Forgetting her blanket on the floor, Mikasa rose to her feet, alert, staring outside at the figure, shadow still shrouding its face. Without her eyes leaving it, she called out again, “Were you expecting someone today?”

Apparently struck by her voice and noticing her for the first time, the shadow stopped and seemed to jump in an almost comical fashion. It sunk quickly to the ground, leaving a bundle before its feet, and before Mikasa had made more than a step, it sprinted away into the snow. “Wait!” her voice croaked out; a violent, throaty cough followed. Once out of her mouth, her voice disappeared as her cold clasped tightly to her throat.

Mikasa stumbled to the doors and leaned against them. Her hand pressed against the cold window as she stared out into the garden for the figure. She spied a man with blond and brown hair disappearing into the trees.

Taking a deep breath, she sighed against the window, her hot breath fogging up the glass. Her eyes then dropped down to a small basket before the door. Mikasa suspiciously unwrapped the red and white cloth. Inside she found a blueberry and almond muffin, a small tin of green tea flavoured with honey and vanilla, and lastly, poking up out of the cloth and wrapped delicately in clear cellophane, was a single red tulip. Its bud had just begun to bloom.

Giving little thought to her condition, she swiftly threw open the other door and ran outside, discarding her slippers in her rush. Bare feet met the ice cold grass, the thin layer of snow melting under her footsteps, a yard between each one. Her grey eyes pierced through the trees and shrubs around her but caught nothing in their first sweep. The second caught a trail of boot prints, leading off into the distance down the hill. She could just make out the man who had run away. His hair caught in her mind as a curious brown undercut with a blond shock of hair across the top.

She gave chase, coughing and wheezing as she pushed herself forward. Her pyjamas were wet to her ankles and helped little in her pursuit. No matter how much she pushed herself on, Mikasa simply did not have enough energy to catch up with him. She promptly returned to the comfort of the cottage, keeping the tulip by her side for hours before she finally placed it in a vase.

It was late November. The farmer’s market was bustling with people when Jean arrived. The freshly brewed scent of cinnamon chai rose into the air, enticing him into the frenzy and warmth of the crowd. Voices called up about vegetables he had never heard of, and the overall growing buzz of chatter grew around him.

The weather had become gradually colder, and the 7am chill in particular ached in his bones. Zipping up his wool jacket, he nudged his way past a series of shoppers, tucking his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. He passed a small bakery stall with fresh muffins perched delicately on top of one another, a herbs and spices stall with leaves dangling from the roof, and a florist surrounded by sweet-smelling bouquets.

A voice called out from behind him. “Excuse me! Excuse me... sir?” It yelled into the busy crowd. Like the others around him who heard it, Jean turn around, confused. His eyes caught a woman coursing her way towards him with determination written all over her face. He stood silently, perplexed as to why such a striking woman, with her stormy, grey eyes, and long, dark hair that whipped around her face, had fixated on him.

He faced her with an open mouth as she stopped before him, waiting a moment for her to fill the silence before asking her, “Yes?” “Uh… hello,” she began, looking up at him with uncertainty. Her eyes looked up beyond his, unable to look away from his hair. “You look really familiar.” “Huh…” Jean looked her over again, trying to prevent himself from cringing as he wondered what he had done this time. Nothing about her seemed familiar to him. As far as he knew, they had never met. “Well, I’ve never seen you before.” She frowned, evidently unsatisfied with his answer, and crossed her arms as her eyes flickered down in thought. “Did you deliver something to someone’s door three weeks ago? At the cottage up the river from here?” “Look, I haven’t left anything at anyone’s door.” His hands rose up defensively. He became more cautious with what he was saying, slowing his speech. This might get complicated. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong guy.”

She began recounting her experience, every bit convinced that it was him. “I was sick, the doorbell rang, and when I answered, I could have sworn I saw you running away.” He paused for a bit, looking over her in a different light, and took a breath, carefully considering what to say next. He took a glance at his watch, checking the time and the date. “If you’re looking for someone to blame for something some jerk did, I’m not going to be that guy,” he finally said. “Not some jerk. You. You left a flower at my door.” Her persistence was admirable. Her feet tapped impatiently as nothing he said seemed to please her. “I haven’t done anything.”

She stepped forward, standing uncomfortably close before him, though she didn’t seem to notice. “I know it was you. I’d hardly forget that haircut.” Jean groaned, fingering his undercut absentmindedly. As attractive as he found her, she didn’t seem convinced. He was reasonably sure that he had not been anywhere near her home. “Nope. Still wasn’t me. I would have remembered someone as beautiful as you.” Jean blinked and stared, realising what he had just blurted out. They stared at each other for a moment. The woman seemed taken aback by his sudden outburst, and Jean could feel his face burning from his neck to his cheeks. “I mean…” he stuttered, scratching at his neck and avoiding her eyes. “I would have remembered you… if I was leaving flowers. It wasn’t me.” Finally satisfied with his answer, or perhaps, Jean thought, embarrassed for him, she relented. “Oh… well… okay then.” She walked away, taking one last glance at him with a confused look on her face, and shrugged as she disappeared into the crowd.

Jean covered his face. His cheeks still burned with embarrassment and he sighed, wandering back the way he came. “It never ends.” He spoke to himself quietly. “They always seem to find me.” His hands fiddled in his pockets as he stopped at the bakery, quickly ordering a half dozen muffins in a small basket. He tucked it up under his arm. “It becomes harder and harder to convince them,” he mumbled to himself, gesturing for emphasis. “It wasn’t me… but it seems like it has to be. ‘No, I don’t know you. I’ve just met you, but you’ve met me before.’ How do you tell someone that?”

He grew quiet as he approached the florist. The man behind the counter greeted him with a warm smile. Jean placed a single flower before the man, dropping his change on the counter. “A red tulip?” the man asked cheerfully as he wrapped it in clear cellophane. “Someone’s lucky. Is it for anyone special?” Jean shrugged and smiled, taking the flower and tucking it into his basket. ��I don’t know yet. She’s awfully pretty though.” “Well…” The man winked at him. “Best of luck.”

Jean nodded, meandering out into the crowd, raising his watch to check the date again. The numerous dials of the large black face shone up at him as the sunlight hit it. He pulled a face, looking around him in a cautious manner before his eyes returned to the watch. He tapped and tilted the glass to make sure all the dials were correct. He spoke to himself again, searching his memory. “She said three weeks ago, didn’t she?”

[foxberryblue]

Jeankasa Week Day 3: Close Calls

Pairing: Jeankasa [ Jean Kirschtein / Mikasa Ackerman ]

AU: Bike Messenger!AU

Summary: After work Mikasa tries to escape the city as Jean hurries to deliver his last package of the day. Not all goes as smoothly as they would hope.

Notes: This one kind of just happened. Mostly because I figured Jean would be the one with the close call and I can't stop thinking of him dressed as a bike messenger.

Read it on AO3.

Whistling winds rushed through the city streets. Tucking her hair into her red woollen scarf and popping up her collar against the chill, Mikasa wrapped her windbreaker around herself as she made her way through the busy streets. Only forty minutes before rush hour, she aimed to get out of the city before she was swamped. Being surrounded by hundreds of bodies was not something she was particularly found of. The sense of urgency could be seen in her walk.

Her heels clicked across the sidewalk like percussion. Mikasa was not one to tread lightly if it meant getting to where she needed to be. Cars rushed by as they tried to escape the city. Every car that flew past pedestrians picked up the wind and sent the city’s litter swirling. The sound of impatient drivers stuck in traffic joined the sound of a city preparing for the end of business hours.

The smell of a nearby hot dog stand made Mikasa’s stomach churn as she walked past. The office’s monthly lunch had left her more than satisfied, and every smell she passed tested her endurance. She looked away when the man at the stand caught her wandering gaze, which returned promptly down to the street and the legs of the people before her.

Up ahead there was a commotion. Horns and yells arose from the street up ahead as she drew closer. No doubt some self-righteous driver had decided to change lanes and had blocked a lane in doing so. As long as it didn’t affect her, it was of no interest to Mikasa. She ploughed through the growing crowd. People began to leave their buildings. Many in her way promptly stopped to answer a phone or check which way they were going, but Mikasa danced through them. With a simple twist of her heels or a quick turn, she made her way through them like a shark in water. If she had somewhere to be -- in this case, home -- nothing would get in her way.

The lights at the pedestrian crossing flicked on, their light sensors becoming aware of the growing dim. When she reached the crosswalk, the red of the sign glimmered as the rain began to fall. Pulling her windbreaker around her tighter, she buttoned it and was thankful she was at least wearing something waterproof. Yet it would do little for her hair. As the month became colder and work required more of her attention, she could not afford to get sick. She cursed quietly into her scarf, waiting for the light to change colour.

Jean swerved through the afternoon traffic. Cars were bumper to bumper in their hurry to escape the confines of the city. If it weren’t for his bike, he would be stuck with them, cursing just like the other drivers that hit against their steering wheels. He had a delivery to make, or his boss would rip him a new one. He clutched the satchel tied to his bike behind him. Still there. All good. Nothing to worry about but this ridiculous traffic. Chuckling at his fortune, he dashed past and waved at them.

Leaning forward upon his handlebars, head bowed in determination, he dodged and cut his way through lanes upon lanes of traffic. The occasional frustrated driver yelled out at him. Every time, Jean made the effort to stand up on his pedals to be sure they could see him further down the road. At one particularly enraged man, he made special effort to lean down to his handlebars as he stood, flashing his backside in the air. It was one of the very few perks of the job.

Perking up his head, he spied the intersection before him. He needed to make one more turn and then he’d be at his destination. It had only been ten exhausting minutes trying to navigate past series of incompetent drivers that seemed intent on annoying him. Once the delivery was over, he could go home happy. Just this last intersection.

His pressed his feet down harder, shoes gripping onto the pedals, and gave them all that he could muster. The road slipped under his wheels. The trucks and the vans and the motorcycles blurred past him. His goal was in sight. The bus, blinking benignly, took its sweet time turning the corner as the lights turned to green. Jean sped forth, wind rushing through his hair. He cut past a small car turning next to him, the bus to his right. Leaning into the turn, he kept himself in line. He was almost there.

A loud screech sounded to his left. Nearly hitting the bus beside him, he turned to look for the source of the sound. His search did not last for long as he quickly dove away from the bus with a quick lean to his left, edging close enough to slam into it. He ducked behind a small minivan, wobbling to gain balance and momentum. No sooner had he straightened himself than a loud crash thundered from behind him. His head snapped back -- once again nearly hitting another car -- and his eyes darted behind him to make out a four wheel drive slamming into the back of another car. It hurtled in his direction. Cars coming from the opposite direction swerved frantically out of its way as the driver apparently lost all memory of the brakes.

Jean clutched onto his handlebars and, without a glance, sped in front of oncoming traffic trying to avoid the speeding car. It seemed like some nightmarish game of Frogger. He skittered across, narrowing avoiding the windshield of an oncoming car. It just clipped his rear wheel and sent him wobbling towards the sidewalk, catching the eyes of a black-haired young woman who stood awkwardly in his way.

He slammed on the brakes, narrowing missing her as well. She stood still and silent, wide eyed, as he passed by her in a blur. Her hair was swept up in the gust of air he dragged along with him. His elbow hit the ground first, scraping along the concrete. Jean growled in pain as he fell off his bike and slid across the ground, stopping the bike in place with his leg.

“Are you all right?” The woman’s voice called out to him. Jean stared, dazed and confused, at the hand that appeared in front of his face before he extended his own to let her help him up. Moving softly in the breeze, her sleek and shiny hair held all of his attention despite the sounds of blaring horns and shocked onlookers around them. People around them talked and scattered, watching him closely, but as his eyes focused on her, she was all he could see. “Huh…” he said. “Are you okay?” She put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He nodded for a moment, still awestruck and shaken up by the fall. “You have beautiful hair.”

[foxberryblue]

Jeankasa Week Day 2: AU

Pairing: Jeankasa [ Jean Kirschtein / Mikasa Ackerman ]

AU: Victorian!AU/Jane Austen!AU, modeled on Austen's style and very loosely on Pride and Prejudice. Summary: Jean, on his travels with Marco, takes shelter for the night at Mikasa's home.

Notes: Based on a discussion with shynii as both of us wanted a Jane Austen prompt for Jeankasa Week. So I did it anyway after watching and reading Pride and Prejudice.

Read it on AO3.

A knock earlier in the evening had seen the peculiar event of Mr. Kirschtein and Mr. Bodt seeking shelter in the home of Armin Arlert, a young historian of little renown in the small country-town of Dawnton. Stranded by the afternoon storm and obliged to be in town the following day, Arlert extended his hospitality to the party. His wards Eren Jaeger and Mikasa Ackerman greeted them warmly and soon dispatched an invitation to dinner. Eren entertained their guests with inquiry and at six o’clock Mikasa summoned them to dinner. Bodt regaled them all with stories of his estate and their journey in the day.

When dinner was over, the conversation turned to their guests. Where Bodt seemed pleasantly curious in their affairs, his openness and easiness a welcome and happy manner at the Arlert table, Kirschtein deigned not to join the conversation. Despite a rather gentlemanlike visage, Kirschtein’s proud disposition left his company somewhat disappointed. As he was heir to an estate of three thousand a year, Mikasa dismissed his self-importance and pride as all he had ever known.

“Surely that is unheard of!” cried Bodt. “How is a woman in the country unaccomplished at the pianoforte? You say this in jest!” Mikasa smiled at his enthusiasm. “There is little to tell, I am afraid,” said Mikasa, “but I am perhaps the least accomplished at the pianoforte in this house. Though I do say that is not without attempting.” “You should have Kirschtein teach you,” said Bodt. “He is awfully good at it. Though one can never tell if he is enjoying himself while he plays.” “I should be curious to see such a display,” said Mikasa.

Kirschtein excluded himself from the conversation and did not answer. Mikasa glanced in his direction. Kirschtein had taken to pacing the room, too engrossed in his thoughts to participate in the passing of the evening. She took notice that he looked her way often. She glanced over her clothes and suspected he looked at her only to criticise. Kirschtein withdrew himself from the party and wandered out from the room. His discontent was evident, and his disconcern for their party showed in the miserable frown he held upon his face.

Mikasa approached Armin in the library in a moment of quiet. “Must we entertain such a disagreeable man?” asked Mikasa with a frown. “I understand that he is heir of some great fortune and they are our guests, yet this hardly constitutes the tolerance of such behaviour.” “Mikasa, do not misunderstand me,” replied Armin. “While I intend to entertain Mr. Kirschtein, I mean this as no punishment against you.” “I dare say I do acquiesce, regardless,” said Mikasa. “Though, he is only just tolerable.” She left him to his work.

A light waltz rose in the air from the other room. It seemed that someone had taken to the pianoforte. It was a strange sound to hear in a house that had not heard music so enchanting in years. Mikasa found Kirschtein seated before it. She longed to speak but could think of nothing to say. When Kirschtein looked up, still playing the sweet melody, he only smiled.

“Do you mean this as a taunt?” asked Mikasa. “I do not find it a surprise that one who has such privilege afforded to him should be accomplished in an art that I am not.” “You are all politeness,” cried Jean. “I merely wished to express myself.” “I see what you are about,” said Mikasa. “Does it please you?” Kirschtein took a pause from the cadence. He began to wish to know more of her and was struck with the thought of doing a gallant thing. In its stead he invited her to sit with him. “It would please me if you joined me.”

Mikasa sat on the stool with him and they both faced the keys. “With practice I am certain that you should soon play with ease,” said Kirschtein. “On which we do not agree," replied Mikasa. “Perhaps I should teach you. If you would permit me.” “It may all come to nothing. I am capable at many a thing, but this I am not.” “It would be cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you.” Kirschtein stopped and turned to her. She could no longer see discontent upon his face. In that moment, Mikasa took notice of him.

[znrn]

Jeankasa Week - AU Book of Life 

[znrn]

Jeankasa Week - Road trip

[foxberryblue]

Jeankasa Week Day 1: Road Trip

Pairing: Jeankasa [ Jean Kirschtein / Mikasa Ackerman ]

AU: Retro!AU where Jean still makes bad hairstyle choices.

Summary: Jean takes Mikasa for a drive.

Notes: Inspired by a peek of shynii's art piece for this prompt. This is what follows after her picture. The lavender was her idea.

Read it on AO3.

The gravel jumped and flew out in all directions as the convertible swerved around the bend. The dirt road beneath the tires crackled while Jean drove the car beyond its limits. Mikasa’s hair whipped around her neck, tamed by the silk red scarf tied in a loose bow under her chin. The wind rustled through Jean’s blond pompadour, unsettling hours of pomade sculpting in his attempt to impress her. The car screeched in complaint, wearing the tires bald with every turn that he made up the serpentine path, until it came to a sudden stop. A cloud of dust filled the air and obscured the view. The air seemed to fill with orange specks as the sunrise’s orange glow caught glimpse of it as it fell.

Having stopped, they both buckled their seatbelts and sat for a moment in the silence of the fields. Mikasa broke it as she turned to him. “Was that necessary?” she asked bluntly. “I didn’t want us to miss it,” he stated. Jean heaved himself and hopped out of the car. She looked him suspiciously as she stood up. “Miss what?” Jean rushed around the hood of the car to reach for Mikasa’s door, but he was not quick enough. She had beaten him to it.

The door squeaked as she eased it open, waving him away with a hand and standing up. Mikasa had no qualms about showing she was perfectly capable. It only spurred Jean to try that much harder. He suspected she knew as much. “Well…” He gestured out at the great field before them with a sweeping hand. “That.” The sun had begun its descent.

He heaved a woven cane suitcase from the back of the convertible, dragging it over the back seat to the tune of clamoring bottles. His hands reached down to pull out a large bundle of floral quilt. Throwing it over his shoulder, he grunted and tried his best to appear completely unphased by the graceless position he’d put himself in. He was not successful.

Jean peered over at Mikasa, struggling to hold the quilt on his shoulder in an awkward shrug. He could feel the sweat form on his brow as her eyes caught his. It had come to this. All his planning had finally culminated in this, and there she was, standing and waiting just for him. It still felt like unbelievable luck in his favour that she had said yes to this date.

“Do you need a hand?” she offered, hands reached out presumptively. Shrugging defensively, Jean drew his arms into his sides, adjusting his hold of the suitcase. “I’ve got it.” He lifted the suitcase and gestured with it to show he was managing it. Mikasa simply nodded and said nothing more.

They both turned to face the afternoon sun. As the breeze cleared the air, dust caught the glimmer of light in its specks and danced away with the chill of the summer wind, revealing rows upon rows of purple. Mikasa untied the scarf knot under her chin, pulling it down from around her hair, and retied it around her neck to lie across her chest. She removed her sunglasses in a fluid motion, and colour seemed to blossom within her field of vision. For as far as she could see, rows of lavender ran across the fields. Neat and precise, they appeared like intricate braids across the rolling hills. Amongst them and far out in the field before the pair stood a lone oak tree, its branches knotted and reaching towards the streaks of orange in the sky.

While Mikasa took in the view, Jean dusted off his jacket and watched as the glowing orange and purple of the sky played across Mikasa’s hair. Free of her scarf, it swished in the dusk’s breeze like it was trying especially to gain his attention. He smiled to himself. This quiet moment was more perfect than he had imagined it would be. He took a moment to savour it.

He finally spoke up, shaking himself from his daydream. “Let’s go find somewhere to set this all down.” Jean promptly led the way down the nearest row, taking care to check back with Mikasa along the way. She gave him a quizzical look as he insisted on checking every ten steps or so, and chuckled at his concern when out of earshot. He felt compelled to keep checking how the date was going, how he was doing. As he reached a clear patch of grass beneath the oak tree, Mikasa was by his side, gently laying a hand on his free shoulder in reassurance.

The floral quilt smelt of musk and mothballs from years of being stored away. Perhaps his grandmother’s quilt had been a bad idea, but it was too late to change it now. He shook it out and laid it down. It fluttered in the air, but crumpled stubbornly in one corner. Jean fell to his knees and meticulously straightened the quilt. “It’s fine, Jean. It’s fine,” Mikasa reassured after a minute of Jean’s fussing, promptly sitting down, and tugged him to the quilt to join her. Nodding nervously, he opened up the suitcase, piquing Mikasa’s interest in what he had brought to such a picnic. She immediately furrowed her eyebrows when she saw what the case contained.

Jean slipped out two tumbler glasses, placing one before each of them. “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he began, “so I brought…” He picked up the first bottle and laid it in front of her. “Red.” The second clinked against the first as he laid it down, too. “White.” “Jean…” She said quietly. The last bottle still in his hand, he gazed up. “Yeah?” Mikasa took a breath and calmly asserted, “White wine and sparkling wine are meant be enjoyed… cold.” “Oh, right…” Jean bit his lip, staring between the three bottles he’d chosen. “These --” She reached out to touch them to be sure. “-- are not cold.” She briefly rummaged through the suitcase, trying to quell her concerns. “Did you bring any food?” “Of course! It’s just under…” Jean stifled a curse in front of Mikasa. “I... seem to have forgotten it.” Jean had spent so much time worrying about the type of wine he forgot to bring the food he prepared and had specifically chosen the wine to match. Mikasa nodded, biting her lip and stifling a laugh. Instead she huffed, smiling and shaking her head at him, and pushed her glass towards him. “The Red.” His eyes darted up from her glass. “Okay.” Nervous laughter escaped from his lips, and his face turned a fresh shade of pink. Wine spilt a little off the edge as he shakily passed it back to her, and her deft hand took it from his own before he could spill it further. Her fingers brushed against his lightly.

Jean shuffled closer to Mikasa, trying his hardest to not appear too eager but still hunching his shoulders in self-consciousness nonetheless. He had organised the entire road trip so far and just barely managed to make the sunset on time. He bit his lip, cursing at the wine. How stupid it was of him to only bring one drinkable wine after all of that worrying and apparently careless planning.

Closing his eyes tight, he tried to push the thoughts away by force. He felt a soft weight fall over his hand that grabbed him tight. As the purple in the sky met the purple in the field, he looked down and found her hand in his. “Thank you, Jean,” she said softly as she rested her head upon his shoulder. “It’s nice.”