#ppushable

[brave-and-gentle]

hello hello

do you have any hcs for The Trio™️ at the beach?

Hello Push! <3

Of course I do!

Sasha, as we all can predict, packs a gigantic cooler with snacks and drinks. You could probably fit several toddlers in this cooler. She also brings a volleyball for a fun game with Connie and Jean. This is when Sasha's competitive streak comes out. She will not apologize when the volleyball hits her friends in the face.

Connie brings a snorkel to go exploring in the water. He's so fascinated by all the cool little guys in there! However, when he grabs something *alive,* Jean yells at him to put it back in the ocean. Connie also gets the worst sunburn because he forgets sunscreen - silly boy.

Jean looks forward to a relaxing beach day. He brings a chair and the book that he's been meaning to read, but he doesn't get very far before he chastises Connie for trying to bring home sea critters. However, Jean certainly doesn't mind an opportunity to take his shirt off and play volleyball - you never know when the ladies or men (Jean is a bi king) are looking. His favorite part of the beach day is floating in the water and drowning out all the noise - until Sasha and Connie come running in the water, that is.

Ty for the fun ask - I love interacting with moots!

[azulmagpie]

Some Jean at the request of @ppushable 🤯!! Also if any of you recognize the bottom right Jean fit you’re a real one 🙏

[firefly--bright]

september coffee

jean kirstein x reader, modern au

summary ; september feels alot like the start of the year. jean brings you pastries while you make coffee, and september feels less daunting than january. warnings ; none! a/n ; im sorry for the last atrocity. please enjoy this domestic slice of life and forget i ever wrote the last one. thanku. also this is just me revealing my mocha recipie. enjoy :3 taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿

middle tile art creds ; @ppushable !

september feels a lot like the start of the year. more than january, a better fit. maybe it's the air, maybe its the cool breeze, maybe its the fact that your hair falls a little better, maybe its the fact that your coffee tastes like how you know how to make it, or that your music fits the occasion of the leaves falling on the ground. orange, a little soft still, littering the entrance of your apartment building.

or maybe it's none of those. maybe you're reading too much into it. the wind holds your face with its coolness and you think it's okay to breathe a little better. you think it's better to forget you were ever fourteen. its okay if your bedside table is lined with coffee cups, a dark band running on the inside of them, indicating that it has been used well enough to know it isn't forgotten. youre barely there but its okay because the year is just starting - nine months in.

or maybe it's him. his hands in his pockets, waiting outside your door with a brown bag holding croissants and some cheese. the good one, he says, holding a grudge against everything that doesn't meet his taste. his coffee is black and made by you, just how he likes it, sitting on your kitchen counter patiently, cooling down.

maybe he just happens to breathe life into the september's stillness to make it a little fuller. which is an important title to give to someone, akin to god, being the one your risky and dangerous hopes are pinned on, an unknown specter.

he balances his coffee on his laptop, carrying the both of them - dangerous, risky, hopeful. places both on top of the kitchen counter in front of your quarter-made coffee. it's barely starting, the brew of your present concoction being only planned out and the mug is empty when he peers into it, curious.

"what's it gonna be this time?" he asks, taking a sip from his cup with gentle breaths, knowing just how hot the coffee is going to be. this is not hope. no, its the fullness that comes with being with him. being with him is to feel september around you, semi-crunchy leaves on the ground being forgotten by everyone else but you even if you're in your home making an iced mocha.

"you'll see." you say, speaking about hope. he'll see. you'll wait.

he nods, slowly, twice, uncalculated movements that you have somehow counted and known since you'd met him. "show me." he says. this is also not hope, and you dare not to mix the two - his voice isn't a command but its a plea. not a hope, because he knows you enough to know you'd comply. its certainty. not risky, not dangerous. safe and sound in your home, cup of quarter-made coffee, marbled floors, september air, his voice. safe. easy.

you've been too focused on stringing hope together. beady rocks of what people describe as a glimmer. you'd describe it as something more of a small weight. beads. something that required effort to be collected together once they scattered away. hope came with the dangers of risk and its own existence, a mapped road that you had been down to several times, hoping against hope. but this was good. the little shine in his eyes, looking at you without expectance.

"two spoons of coffee." you start, taking your shitty pack of instant coffee, crumbled at its zigzagged edges, cut unevenly. jean's face scrunches up at your choice, something you cant show you agree with. "why this one?" he grumbles, and you spare him a glance from the corner of your eye.

"its backup coffee." you say, shrugging. the plastic crinkles under your fingers as you slip a spoon inside it.

"backup coffee?" he asks, pushing the cup closer to your spoon - things that dont go unnoticed by you. its not about actions being added up in the end, you think, because you were always taught that it was the sum of all your actions that determined if you were good or bad, but its not. in this moment, you decide that everything - little or big - that he did made your heart feel like it actually mattered. every thing had its own consequence.

"my actual coffee's finished. this is the one i use when i have to wait for the next grocery run to buy the good stuff." you answer, and he hums, his hands folding themselves over his chest, nodding, attentive, certain. You turn your attention to another cabinet – the one containing the sugar and cinnamon – and jean’s attention rests on you. the music sounds different, you think, clearer. another thing about September stillness. Another thing about the normalcy of hopelessness. Despite how big and scary the word sounds; hopelessness isn’t a curse. It doesn’t have to be, not when jean’s eyes are on your hands and the way you turn the cap of the sugar jar, careful, certain. Hopelessness is certain. It’s a favour. it’s the lack of hope, the lack of the blood-curdling risk that comes with it. It’s the lack of the expectation for something to be perfect, you keep thinking, take one spoonful and dumping it on the coffee powder in your less-empty mug.

Another spoon. Your mind shifts - you're going to add chocolate syrup in this, that’s going to have sugar too - you shake some sugar off the spoon and back into it’s jar, grains falling in-between the space of the jar and the mug, spilling on the counter. Hopeless. Jean snickers. “shut up,” you say with a smile of your own, capping the lid back on before moving on to the next step.

“cinnamon?” he asks, tilting his head. You nod, flipping the lid open to the part with tinier holes than the other side and sprinkling some in. “how do you know how much?”

You shrug, but your moves are decisive. “just eyeball it.”

he rolls his eyes, hopeless. “I need measurements.” He says. you scoff. “and you’re going to actually make this?” “yes.” He says as if its obvious, “for when you want it but cant make it.”

Little things. You were always taught about adding things up to make them count more, but this counted just as much. You pause, taking a breath to take in the fact that he admitted to the act of loving you. admitted to the fact that he’d love you into routine.

September air breathes a little more into life.

“just… trust your gut.” You say, a little hopeful, you think, because your heart’s beating a little bit faster. Risky, dangerous. pearls of hope are scattering away from you. in the silence where you don’t speak, jean seems to have made up his mind, giving you a deadpan expression when your eyes meet his. “don’t give me that bullshit.”

“what? I trust your gut. Why cant you trust your gut?” you challenge, closing the lid, placing the bottle on the marbled counter, turning your face towards his. He runs one hand through his hair, shaking his head. “my gut cant even digest lactose.” “and yet you eat blocks of – what is it you got?” “gouda-“ “gouda with wine.” “yeah that’s because…that’s my duty.” You laugh in affectionate disbelief. “then its my duty to drink how much ever cinnamon you put in my coffee.”  

The same silence spreads across the room again. Contemplative, comfortable; an unsaid recognition of your own version of a confession, just as his was. And jean thinks about how you claim you don’t know how to talk about things in a way that make sense and have shape, but then you do. You always somehow find a way to make everything into a prayer, into a sentence that hopes to be something more than itself. And then he thinks about how comforting it is. The fact that he’s the only one that can decode your false bait into its much more real, much scarier reality. Each phrase hoping to be an “I love you” that only jean can hold, seeing it to be something akin to a scripture rather than three countable words.

A duty to make coffee for his beloved; a penance, an act, a confession. And then the duty to drink the coffee if it turns out worse than promised; a recognition, an act, a confession.

You move to get the milk from the fridge. Its half empty, half full, and you pour just enough for the milk to cover the powdery mix in your mug, filling up around one-third of the glass.

“hmm. Milk. Right after you made fun of my disability.” He says. you laugh. It’s a ritual. “being lactose intolerant is a curse, not a disability.” He waves his hand around in dismissal. “whatever,” he says, just as you place your mug in the microwave. The action catches his attention more than the rest of your actions do.

“microwave?” he asks, tilting his head again, a strand of hair falling over his forehead. Your hand reaches forward, brushing it back, your fingers tangling in his hair. His eyes flutter, cheeks tainting a watery red.

“helps the sugar melt faster.” You say. You watch his adam’s apple bob, his eyes opening to meet yours, your hand still in his hair. He hums, and you're almost afraid he’s going to fall asleep – standing up, leaning against the marbled kitchen counter, with your hand where its supposed to be, soft strands against your fingertips, just where he’s supposed to be, the slope of his shoulders relaxed, calm, only moving with his breath.

The microwave dings. Once, twice, and you open it before it reaches it’s last beep. Another ritual. The song changes, playing another soft tune, and jean’s shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, scratching the back of his neck and hiding his stupid blush from you even though you’ve already seen it and taken pride in it. You’ll grant him the illusion of having gotten away with it. Just this once.

placing the mug on the counter again, you stir the sugar into the milk and coffee and cinnamon. “how do you know if the sugar’s dissolved?” jean asks. He leans back to his left foot, shifting closer to you. his chest is against your arm, just enough space to let you mix the liquid, it’s warm scent filling the room, taking up space, mixing with your breath. September air lulls – its all just shitty instant coffee and cinnamon now, and the old, burnt-out candle on your coffee table not even three steps away is long forgotten.

“I kinda… stab the cup? With the spoon? To feel the bottom…if there are any grains left, id feel it though the spoon.” You say, demonstrating exactly what you were saying. Your spoon hits the bottom of the mug, and you feel a crystal of sugar through the tip of your spoon. “complicated,” jean whispers from beside you and you try to stifle a laugh.

“not really. Youre stupid.” “im not.” “sure.” “im not.”

“chocolate next.” You say. Jean nods, moving off of the counter to the cabinet beside him, and you try not to focus on his movements too much. It proves to be hard when his forearms flex with little effort and his face lights up subtly when he spots the bottle of the syrup, reaching forward to grab it. Another confession, you think, that you didn’t ask him for this. You didn’t ask him to come to your apartment just to watch you make your coffee, you didn’t ask for him to waste his time while you could ramble about the day you spent without him. He didn’t ask for you to look at him as if he was doing you a favour, but he was. Is it a favour if you didn’t really ask for it? You didn’t ask him to open the bottle for you, you didn’t ask him to squeeze whatever was left at the end ontop of your warm coffee. And you mumble out a “thanks” anyway, because what else can you do?

Pearls of dangerous hope string themselves together without your say in the matter. You breathe out and watch as the remaining ribbon of smoke from the heat of the coffee distorts around your exhale. Jean’s hand rubs the flesh of your arm, the un-asked for warmth leaving it’s traces on your skin. You didn’t ask for this. His hand is on your shoulder now, and you cant help but enjoy it. You stir the chocolate into your concoction, and jean leans forward to place a small kiss near your collarbone without prior notice. But you don’t flinch from surprise, relaxing under his lips. He pulls away before you can start wondering again, and your mind lulls.

You love him. there are no favours to ask for. After making sure the chocolate’s dissolved, the colour of the coffee changing from what it was before, small bubbles gathering at the edge of the liquid, you move to the fridge to get some ice. Jean’s eyes follow your figure, glued to your face as you reach into the freezer, prying the ice cubes out, holding them in your hands.

“you could’ve just got the mug near you,” jean says, watching you pour the handful over the coffee. “and I’m the stupid one?”

“shut up.” You tell him with a smile in defeat, unable to come up with a clever response. You wipe your now damp hands on your pants, and jean grabs the milk, pouring it over the ice, knowing just how much you’d like. A couple of the cubes float to the top, just as he stops, and now its your turn to lean on the counter beside him, hands resting on the marble as he stirs the coffee.

“if this were a glass mug-“ you say, and he looks at you with a soft smile you cant quiet place, “-you could see the layers of the coffee and the milk and it looks really pretty,”

he hums in response. “when did you find out you liked it like that?”

“I just followed some video at first and then I hated it. And then I just fucked around and found out. my first coffee was with my cousin sister when the lights went off. We all went to the grocery store because that was the only place with the a/c still on, and she got a can of cold coffee and I had a sip and now my only goal in life is to make coffee that was exactly like the shitty can of coffee we had then.” You said, overexplaining while the ice in your now full mug of coffee melted slowly. Jean took a sip of it, nodding to your story. His brows lift in little surprise after taking a sip, shaking his head in appreciation. “don’t know if this counts as shitty,” “you like it?” you ask with a smile, and jean pretends it doesn’t affect it as much as it does. The coffee settles in his stomach as do the butterflies. He nods.

“its good. Sweet,” he remarks. You tilt your head knowingly, “you pretend to like black coffee but I know you’d tear up a frappe,” “I would not-“ “literally last week.” “that was different.” “how?” “I bought that for you!” “and you drank all of it before I even knew you got it for me-“ “I was tempted.” “sure, jean.” You say, laugh laced in your words. Jean pushes the mug towards you as if to prove you wrong.

You take a sip. The song changes again, and jean’s hand finds its way to the small of your back. With your lips still touching the cup, his lips touch your cheeks. His stubble tickles your chin, but you don’t flinch. September air is calm, quiet, there’s little breeze. Jean kisses your cheek. “how was your day?” he asks, ready, quiet, calm.

you breathe a little better, turning your face to his and pecking a kiss to his lips. He unwraps the pastry he bought not too long ago while listening it you, hopped up on the kitchen counter with a cold iced mocha in your hands, jean’s eyes on you. pearls become a necklace, and the string is stronger than before because he’s here. His eyes are on you.

[ppushable]

hi queen your creations bring me infinite joy to the point where I lowkey hate you for making something so real and beautiful. so. yea. also happy 2 years to @ppushable I hope u never die 😻😻🤤🤤

DIE!!! (i would not be where i am without you. your writing tears my heart out and puts it on the cold autopsy table and covers it in flowers. when we die and become stars i hope mine is right beside yours) TRIP AND DIE 👎👎

[brave-and-gentle]

Ty sweet Moni!! @mayariviolet

egg: um, how about tofu scramble?? (don't knock it 'till you try it)

steak: no meat for me :)

milk: oat!! specifically in my coffee, hehe.

alcohol: margaritas!! however I've also been on a mint mojito kick lately due to the massive amount of mint in my garden

warm drink: some variety of black tea

no pressure tags: @dressycobra7 @destabee @ppushable @hideandgopeep (when you get back from vacation!)

[firefly--bright]

knowing. (1)

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

summary ; to love someone is to know someone, fully, wholly, and jean fulfills this, wholly, knowingly.

warnings ; (not in this part but) eventual smut (this part is sfw!!), descriptions of religion as a concept

a/n ; uhhh smut in the next part (which is already written. hidden for now.) and it was my first time writing that and . well. you'll be the judge of if it's good or not but if it's BAD dw I'm never writing smut again. I'm gonna delete my account after that actually. thanks.

taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @ppushable , @raazberry , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana .

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿

centre tile art cred to @bpepper_cn on instagram :)

✿

jeans mother always told him that love will come with time and patience. when he complained to her about loving too much, she assured him that one day, he'd be loved the same. he has to have the courage and time to keep doing it. he rolled his eyes then. but now he's getting ready for a new years eve party, an invite extended to him through eren by Connie. he raked his hand through his hair, looking at his closet, deciding on what to wear, with you on FaceTime, propped up on his dresser.

so why was it that he'd remember his mother's words now, out of all times? why was it that his mother's assurances rung out in his ears after he laughed at a comment you made about his closet?

or maybe he knows why. he just hates to address it. instead, he focuses on your voice like he always has.

"maybe if you had less clothes, this would be an easier decision." you say, your voice muffled by something you're eating. jean rolls his eyes and you can barely see it. from where you're set up, you can only see his waist, the view ending just above mid-thigh length from the bottom and cutting off at his neck on the top. you can see the tips of his hair and parts of his growing scruff and grey sweatpants. he knows this, but he rolls his eyes anyway and he knows that you know he's making that face.

"you're a hypocrite." he says, lightly scratching his cheek. he reminds himself to shave before leaving.

in all honesty, jean doesn't do this. he's always been the type of person to have his outfit picked out the night before, ever since he was a kid – the need to be too prepared just so he has a plan of action; options he could employ. but he was rethinking everything today, after seeing what you were planning to wear and how he wanted to match with you without making it too obvious.

Why? He doesn’t know. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s too much of a coward to admit it.

he remembers the first time he did that accidentally. he matched what he was wearing with you and you greeted him with a giddy smile and your finger pointin0g to him and then yourself and he knew what you were saying without you even having said it.

he remembers how your smile made him reluctantly smile as well, even if he spilled ink on the maroon crewneck, and you made fun of him for it. he rolled his eyes but didn't have the heart to throw the cloth out. it was still there, in his line of sight, and he smiled to himself after catching a glimpse of it. he hears you hum in thought.

"what about that vest you have? the dark green one?" you ask. his eyes light up and he hums right back, appreciatively.

rummaging through his closet, he pulls out the knitted vest, holding it up to his chest. he nods to himself.

this could work. your outfit was the same shade, and if he layered it right-

"see! it looks perfect. you're overthinking too much, you'd look great." you say. he's glad you can't see his face and how flushed it was, the tips of his ears and nose warming with comfort and madness.

he clears his throat, muttering a small, "thanks" to you. you smiled brightly. he refused to look at the screen, not admitting what your actions did to him.

half an hour later, the call finally ended. he cut it unwillingly when you complained about there not being enough time to get ready. he agreed but didn't do anything about it for another ten minutes, letting you go off on a tangent that led to another tangent. he listened while laying on his bed, playing with the hair that lay on his forehead unconsciously. you talked with a smile on his face and he swore the brightness on his screen increased, he swore that you had swallowed sunlight when you were young, making everything you said meaningful. or maybe he was the only one who found meaning in them, soaking into your words like a plant waiting to grow.

or maybe he was the moon, shining off of your light. maybe he was meant to love you like this; with his love known but afar, seen but untouched.

that was the only way to explain it. the only way he could put his words into any fruition, the only way he could make it his, because this feeling wasn't his. he was used to loving people without them ever realising it. he was used to his love being messy and thrown around without any care, he was used to his love being everyone but his. but for the first time it was here, with him, in his hands that were reaching out to yours.

always reaching out to yours. it was the closest he’d felt to the reaching the stars. the world around him fell apart and it was just him and his love and you, afloat with hands reaching out to the others. always. Or maybe it was the fact that this was the only way he could describe it in a way that made sense. Maybe it was the fact that all other ways would be too plain, too simple. Maybe relating what he felt for you to something as important and all-consuming and divine as the stars he sought out in the city was the only way he could feel it be as important as it felt.

he got in the car with Marco at the back, waiting outside your dorm to pick you and sasha up, after which it would be Connie's turn. everyone had their designated seats - Marco in the middle of sasha and Connie because their presence together was something jean’s extensively loved car was not equipped to handle. and then you, sitting next to jean in the passenger seat with jean driving, and Connie complains about how you're allowed to choose the music but he isn't, and sasha complains how youre allowed to eat in Jean's car but she isn't. marco doesn't complain, but he does comment about the extra privileges given to you just because you "sit shotgun" with a nudge to Jean's ribs. jean rolls his eyes and says it nothing, tells Marco to shut up. Maybe he doesn’t want to address it.

he doesn't. even now, as you take your rightful seat next to jean, flashing him a smile, Marco notes how he'll annoy jean about his eyes wandering to you, how his mouth opens and closes, no doubt thinking of some compliment to give about how you look tonight. but jean ends up saying nothing, as always, and Marco notes it down to tease him for it later. it's a cycle; perpetual and routine but the routine provided comfort. it was predictable and it was comfortable because they were people he cared about. there was you, who was picking out 'the perfect song' (that only Marco would end up actually listening to) with a cheeky smile in the passenger seat. there was jean, driving, responding to Connie's jabs at how he's never let Connie play the music before and then there was sasha, who was rambling to you (Marco didn't know how you could possibly even pay attention to her and respond to her with Connie and Jean's back and forth, but you did it anyway) about that blonde guy she met at the diner the other day, and you gave her notes on how she should respond to his texts when she showed her screen to you with a panicked expression. marco smiled widely, crossing one foot under the other, getting comfortable in his seat. he was glad he met you clowns. jean glanced at him through the rearview with a knowing look. jean knew him long enough to know what he was thinking about with a small smile on his face.

"well then you shouldn't have lived so far away." jean mutters, his argument with connie pulling his focus back to the moment.

"what does that have anything to do with this?" Connie asks, grabbing the back of jean's seat.

"hey! careful with that, that costed more money than-"

"I'll lick the goddamn thing if you don't tell me what it meant." Connie said, removing his hand from the seat and folding them on his chest.

“yeah? Do it, you shameless cu-“

"and then, he said... wait let me scroll up. he's so cute," sasha says, looking at her phone in her hands, scrolling through her messages with niccolo. marco stole a glance at her phone. "oh! there it is!" she says, showing the phone to marco before passing it on to you.

"you should go for it sash. shoot your shot," Marco said, looking at sasha's flushed face under the dim passing of the streetlights outside. she looked good today, sparkly eyeshadow highlighting the browns of her eyes, a baby blue dress and pearl accessories to go with it. you took a while reading the texts, scrolling down to the current chat where sasha had typed out, 'see you there!!! I'm wearing blue! :)'

"oh my god, sash, this is adorable. i agree with mar, you should go for it." you say, and sasha takes comfort in the nicknames you used for her and marco. Predictable of you to use, really. It was only a shorter version of their names, nothing creative, but it felt comfortable when you said it. It felt more like it was yours, that they were yours to make short and say without hesitation.

"really? i mean, I am sorta old fashioned in a way. i want him to ask me first," sasha says, sighing and leaning on Marco's shoulder. "but I do also want to speed up the process." she says. you hum. marco puts his head on top of Sasha's and she thinks, amongst many other things, how glad she is about the fact that you're here. that she met you and marco and jean this year and about how she had always dreamed of friends that felt like family like in the T.V. shows she used to watch, sitcoms with their own openings and closings, inside jokes that kept repeating until it became a comfortable thrum of predictable but bright laughter.

"i think you should go for it first. he seems like the guy who'd bring you flowers and stuff. besides, I think he really really likes you. I mean, the way he looks at you, sash-" you start, putting a hand over your chest. jean glances at you not so discreetly while waiting at a stoplight.

your face is lit up under the usual red stop light; an everyday feature, something jean has come across uncountable times, but jean looks at you like you've been casted in the sun and sasha blinks. if that's the way nicolo looks at her then she may have a chance.

"alright. I'll go for it." she says with resolve, clapping her hands together. you smile back at her, looking at marco, neck straining with effort, stretching to look over your shoulder so your eyes could meet his. "do you like this song?" you ask. marco smiles and nods - a cycle. Predictable. Comfort.

the five of you reach yeager's house in about ten minutes of the same cycle, the same perpetuality. jean opens the door for you, and marco stretches as he gets out, wringing his hands after being cramped. sasha adjusted her dress. Connie exits last, closing the door loudly.

"don't close the door that hard, dumbass." jean says, waving a hand through his hair, crouching down to look at the side mirror to get his hair just how he liked it. sasha asks you if her lipstick is okay and you tell her she looks perfect and has nothing to worry about, holding her cheeks in your hands. she smiles into them, giving you a hug that leads jean to stabilize you, abandoning his view in the mirror in favour of placing his hand near your shoulders gently.

his hands don't leave that place until youre inside the house and you have to pretend it doesn't affect you. it shouldn't. it really shouldnt send a large shiver down your spine, the touch making your bones relax and melt and be remade again. you wish he did that more often - let his hand sink into your skin. You wish he made it a routine, a second nature. Muscle memory. Your tendons would shape around his, and the comfort of the routine wouldn’t make it any less important. let his body meld against your own until it was one entity, floating and untethered but still grounded on earth with the same clay you were made from, same strings you were attached to.

"you guys! over here!" Reiner's voice booms out as he waves his hands over his head so the four of you could see.

you were soon joined by historia, ymir, bertolt, reiner and annie. you didn't do well at parties; a fact jean knew far too well, but you talked to the group you knew well, laughing and smiling, trying. everyone's finals had ended, and Reiner boasted about how well bertolt did - even if they hadn't released the results, he knew that Bert did well, patting a hand on his back as Bert smiled shyly. historia and Ymir were talking to sasha and Connie, marco struck up a conversation with Bert, and you and jean were talking to Reiner but jean wasn't really paying attention to it because he was too busy looking at you. A routine.

it was unusual, he thought, how quickly you had grown into his company and vice versa. but you did, somehow. you claimed everything to be yours without you even touching it. it was unusual how quickly he grew comfortable into this non-existent touch, more importantly how he knew it was there, how he quickly made it his rightful home because it would be too formal to call it sacred. sacred would mean he'd have to abandon and pay for his sins. sacred would mean he'd have to join his hands and beg for forgiveness. sacred would mean rules and regulations - a book he'd have to keep reading until he understood it, until the verses poured from the tip of his tongue as a reminder of his guilt. Loving you was divinity as a whole because it was the only word that could describe how it felt, how you felt, but you were far from it. Your divinity was your humanity, jean thought, because that was the only sin he could commit to memory.

but no, you weren't a place of worship that upheld it's sanctity. you were holy the way his home was - the way he didn't have to beg or pray or pay for his crimes, but the way where he could remove his jacket and hang it up next to yours. you were holy in the way where he didn't have to read you because of shame or guilt but because he wanted to, because there wasnt compulsion in your love. you were holy in the way he found god under his blankets when he was a child; shining a torch light on his sketchbook and drawing a nameless face while thunder roared outside.

his heart settles back into his chest, not realising it hadn’t been his for a long time. you were holy. not because you were pristine and untouched and well-kept, but because you needed to be touched, because you needed to be held and kept in the palm of his hand.

he'd do it. he'd hold you. he'd love you as a sacred home that was meant to be lived in even as you do as you were doing now, your hand holding a cup and fingers tapping the rim of it to the beat of the song, nodding along to reiner's story, he'd do it. he was doing it - all the loving and praying. not praying for you, but praying to you without the guilt and shame and begging.

you were not a god but jean would see you in every one. jean would find you everywhere. he would look at the sun and think of your smile and he'd feel the breeze in his hair and think of your hands. you were not god because you weren't and couldn't be as cruel as him but jean loves you like you are one - like you're the one that gave art it's meaning, like you're the one that followed him everywhere he went, that you're the one that could ever have the courage to look him in his eyes and forgive him even if he didn't ask for it, even if he didn't think he deserved it.

you weren't god but he says your name like worship. He looks at you like home.

"i think there needs to be better music," Reiner says, and you nod readily. Connie joins in the conversation, "I think they need to pass it to me." jean rolls his eyes, and you laugh, agreeing with Connie, egging him on.

more people arrived as the night went on, some of whom you knew the names of. it was a mix of people - a bunch of zeke's friends and a mix of eren's. friends in a loose sense – classmates and acquaintances of the classmates and their coworkers, making the large house seem smaller than it had when it was just you guys on the weekends playing with an abandoned ouji board (jean and eren tried to shit talk each other but ended being the most scared out of all of you. jean’s shriek still echoed through the basement when connie tapped on his shoulder in the dark). you were glad you at least knew the way through it as you lead sasha by the hand to the kitchen, deciding to give her a pep talk there.

the plan you and Connie made was simple - you'd lead sasha to the kitchen under the guise of giving her some encouragements, and Connie would lead niccolo to the kitchen as well, claiming that they could really use him there, even though the area was mostly empty. it wasn't an actual 'plan' – nothing you and connie concocted ever was - more of just a way to speed things along. Connie had brought it up the night before and you had readily agreed before putting a pack of gum in the shopping cart he was wheeling.

(grocery shopping with Connie had become a routine for the two of you. it started first as a way of getting Connie's life together but then spiralled into buying dumb snacks that you knew sasha would eat anyway. The last one she had tried was butter chicken jerk beef, something you had to spit out immediately but something sasha gobbled up in flat 6 minutes).

the kitchen was, thankfully, away from most of the crowd. the music still penetrated through the walls and the vibrations were still present on the floor, but there wasn't anyone in here, preferring the loudness of a stereotypical party to the quiet of a corner, finding their spots either outside or on the lawn or in the basement to dance. you held Sasha's hand as you turned to her, rubbing circles into the back of her hand.

“youre beautiful.” You tell her. She nods, understanding that it’s a command and not a compliment, a beckon for her to believe the truth as it is. “and I know he’s important to you, and I know you’re afraid of loosing him, but that’s why you should go for it.” You say, fixing the top of her hair that had gotten a little frizzy because of the heat in the house. “he’d be the dumbest person alive if he rejects you. I’d egg his car, but that’d be a waste of eggs.” That gets a small laugh from her. You’re glad that the noise from the outside isn’t loud enough to be important because you can hear her laugh. That becomes more important than any music with any amount of meaning.

"thank you. im just...really scared. i just haven't, I dunno, put myself 'out there' for a long time. especially since he's a good friend too. i mean you get it, right? with you and je-"

"i know what you're saying." you interrupt gently before she has a chance to complete her sentence, "I wish there was an easier way out, too. But, I mean, again, its scary because its important. And it’ll be even more important once you go through it." You say, unsure of what exactly your mouth is spewing out.

you're not good at this. you wonder what drove Connie to tell you, of all people, to give sasha advice on a topic that you also had barely enough experience with.

"just...rip the band-aid off. then you won't have to worry about it anymore. you won't have to have this wall with him, and if everything goes well - which I know it will - this can turn into something beautiful. just these couple minutes. and then it'll be done and over with." you say, hoping it does the job as well as you think it should. Verbal words were never your forte – you only hoped your actions could provide enough proof of your love than your flimsy words could, have more of a grip and tangibility than your voice.

she smiles and squeezes your hands in hers, and you smile in relief. "you're right. ripping the band-aid off. mhm." she says, nodding once in approval, before bringing you into her warm embrace. you happily obliged and hummed - sasha's hugs had a way of making your unsaid love feel heard. (you found that out after a long day of working at the café where an older customer had screamed at you until his head turned red, all for accidentally getting his order wrong. the start of your day was just as crappy as his yelling, everything had gone wrong since the moment you woke up. but when sasha took one look at your tired expression and mumbled hellos, she wasted no time in wrapping you up in her hug and you were sure it cured you, healing all the wounds that had been there prior to that day. if you could bottle up her hugs you were sure that it'd sell as an antidote for any poison, the gentle and consistent strength of her arms around you could hold the sky up better than Atlas could, holding your world up on her pinkie finger without breaking so much as a sweat).

"thank you," she muttered softly, pulling away. you didn't have a chance to reply before connie and niccolo entered the room, and connie sent you a not-so-discreet wink with two thumbs up, sealing the business deal.

you smiled back at sasha, squeezing her hand twice before walking up to Connie. "we'll leave the two of you alone!"

"use protec-" Connie's voice was cut off by your hand on his mouth, muffling it and pulling him out the kitchen. “don’t ruin it, man.” You tell him under your breath with a hopeful gleam on your face.

removing your hand just as you stepped out, connie turned to you with just as much of a bright smile on his face, holding his hand up for a high five.

you replied with a smile of you own, slapping your hand against his, grabbing his hand and shaking it.

"we did it!" he exclaims. you laugh, nodding, the slight amount of alcohol you had buzzing in your head; just how you liked it. Everything felt joyful – the faces and smiles unblurred, important, but words slurred. he continues, "you know what I just realised?" he asks, and he has to shout over the music to be heard, even if it wasn’t too much of a strain for him. Connie thrived in parties, being used to the shouting and the continuous laughter and bad decisions that led to even worse hangovers. you don't say anything, tilting your head and furrowing your brows instead., allowing him to continue. "this was our last mess-around of the year!" he shouts, leaning closer to your ear. You can smell the boozed punch on his clothes.

“oh my god, it is!” you say, “my favourite one was when we made the lights go out for the entire building.” You say, your voice reaching his ears only barely over the music. He nods with a big smile. Connie Springer in his natural element – going over shitty ideas with a drink in his hand, not his first and definitely not his last either. “holy shit, dude, I forgot about that!”

“im pretty sure what we did was illegal-“

“we’ve done more illegal shit-“ “shoplifting a pack of condoms isn’t the same as plugging the wrong wire into the wrong hole-“ “I CAN FIND THE HOLE.” He cuts you off, making you burst out laughing. Its routine – he says something particularly stupid, you say something worse, and he would say something to top it off. (the last time the pattern occurred was this morning – he spilled his mug of coffee on the kitchen counter as well as his pants, you had joked about how he kept “getting wet” to which he says “I always am.” Jean scoffed from across the room)

“no you cant, connie.” The familiar voice yells out to the two of you from the end of the wide, poorly-lit hallway. Jean walked towards you with what seemed to be his first drink of the night, and the dim overhead light made his hair shine like a halo on his temples. He tips his glass towards you with a nod and raised eyebrows, worldlessly asking if you’d like one. You shook your head. Connie continued, rolling his eyes. “not what your mom said last night.”

“my mother doesn’t even know you exist.” “that’s not what it looked like last nig-“

“im going to go out. To dance.” You say, avoiding another bad excuse of a brawl. If it was anything like the countless times you’d witnessed before, jean and connie would end up failing their arms at eachother; nothing short of just a catfight.

Jean turns towards you, his feet pointing to yours, “dance?” he asks, his voice only heard because you were standing so close to him. You nod once, knowing that you probably weren’t going to step outside so soon, knowing you preferred more quiet rather than the loud, crammed bodies in the basement or front of the house. Jean nods once too, knowing what you’d want, knowing what this is, knowing what your voice meant even if he can’t hear you well.

Connie shrugs, “im gonna go to the basement. Find the love of my life tonight.” He says, turning around with a smirk as you shout to him, “use protection!” mimicking his cut-off statement from before.

Jean shakes his head with a smile that only you got to see. the house was big enough to have two kitchens – a smaller one that was occupied by sasha and niccolo, and a bigger, more known one that was occupied by barely recognizable faces and loud voices. This hallway, although used many times by you and your friends, seemed more sacred now that jean was infront of you, latching onto every blink of his eyes, every sip of his drink, every tone of his voice. You liked having the intel – the power, really – of knowing him so wholly. Knowing that he knew what you meant, knowing what you did and didn’t mean to say and knowing exactly what he was feeling even under the dim, warm light of this hallway. It didn’t deserve to be called just a hallway. It felt more like a temple, more like the road that led to something twice more beautiful, more like the process you were told to trust.

“so,” he says, and you note how unaffected his voice is by the scarce alcohol he had. Reaching out, you take his previous invitation now that its just him, holding his cup and stealing a small sip. Jean tries not to think about why an even an indirect indication of a kiss can make his heart flip out into the open world and he wonders even more if you can see it, his heart, bare open on the carpeted floor of the hallway, ready to be treated however you’d choose to treat it. He wonders if you know its waiting for you, and he wonders even more about if this is what is never told to people about love. About how its known that you know him, that his heart – more soft than he’d like it to be – was for you to hold but more that he trusted you to keep it well. He knew you more than enough to know exactly how you’d treat his pulse. Maybe that was what the movies and t.v shows failed to tell him, that maybe loving someone meant knowing that they wouldn’t willingly hurt you. or maybe it was just him. Maybe it was just you.

“so,” you say, handing his glass back to him. “roof?” you ask, tilting your head towards the end of the hallway, leading him to an escape from this sanctuary, but really, everything would be a sanctuary with you. so he agreed, taking his cup and then your hand, leading you up the stairs, your hand clamped into his, feeling the folds of his palm under your own. You wondered if he knew that the wrinkles on your hand described everything you knew about your unheard future, and you wondered if he knew you were trusting him with it. You wondered if he knew it was only his to hold.

Maybe he did. His thumb circles the back of your hand, drawing conclusions to questions he was too afraid to ask out loud, knowing that the answers only lay with you. the rooftop was also a routine – visited countless times by the whole group after the basement got too stuffy to handle. The lawn would be too predictable, eren would say, and led everyone to the extra guest room on the last floor of the house (it was a mansion, really, you remembered thinking, because what kind of a house had a spacious basement and three whole floors? You remembered also knowing why eren preferred to spend nights at mikasa's much smaller, shared apartment than this solitary building with nothing but empty halls and stairways, quiet bedrooms that were almost never occupied). The roof wasn’t built to have people on it, presenting to be slanted and kind of a risky ordeal to climb up to it through the window of the bedroom, but it was worth it because the air would no longer be filled with the now comfortable smoke but would remind you of how wide everything felt, about how the watchful but drowsy eyes of your friends provided and endless amount of comfort against the cold nights.

jean opened the window of the bedroom, exposing you to the forgotten thought of how cold the air was, how still but lively everything felt. The music was still heard, but there were barely any people in the lawn below you since the back of the house always went untouched, the grass growing wildly – a stark contrast to how the front yard looked. The window was large enough for jean to fit through, and you held his cup as he climbed out of it.

His shirt rode up a bit as he climbed out, his arms flexing with the effort to pull himself onto the roof. This part was a routine. A dance, well-choreographed and practiced to the point of it being muscle memory, his hand reached down just as you sat on the ledge of the window, handing him his cup and then your own hand. Jean pulled you up with ease, holding your shoulders as you adjusted yourself on the slanted platform, breathing comfortably right beside him because that’s the only way you could breathe when he was around.

You sat with your legs on top of the other, and jean prefers to lay down right beside you just as he had countless times before, admiring how the side of your face looked because he knew he was too much of a coward to look at you fully without feeling everything he had tried not to feel before. Your weight rested on your hands behind you, and you looked at the sky, as the clouds rolled in to cover the moon momentarily before moving, seeing something new. Jean looked at your face, gauging the light on your face to know if the moon was visible or not, admiring how your eyes shone against the soft glow more than he’d ever appreciate the moon.

“what a year.” You said, the statement enveloping jean as your voice carried out to him softly, wholly. This was how he knew you. how he wanted to know you, how you were, your presence wasn’t a symbol of what could be or what was, not a reminder of what he could be, but more of the present tense. Love had always been something jean viewed as something he should be better for, something he should improve for, unknowing of how this was the feeling he should’ve been looking for all alone. Or maybe the fact that he wasn’t even looking for it made it even more beautiful – the fact that love was how you found him in the present. How you sat beside him, patiently, knowingly, always there. Its been a whole year of you being friends, of jean finding more things to appreciate, to love a little freely. His hand rested on his chest, and you rested just as he did. Rested, because that was what he made you do, no longer running around for some better version of yourself that you wouldn’t find. No, you were here, present, whole, with your muscles as relaxed as they could be without the influence of anything but him.

He hummed. You didn’t dare look at his face, knowing you were too much of a coward to look at everything you wanted to tell him, the silence stretching beyond the space you two shared. You wondered if he knew what you wanted to say, but you decided to take the risk. Break the comfortability, take a step against the routine.

With your heart beating at a slower rate than you thought it should in your chest, you spelled it out for him. “I didn’t… think I’d be here. With people I care about and who I know care about me.” You said. Jean breathes in and out, his hand covering his heart that was already safe with your own, listening, knowing.

“thank you.” you say. “youre important to me. Thank you for seeing me as important to you, too.”

The same silence stretches before you again, but unlike other times, you don’t have to wonder if you said the wrong thing, because it was an important thing to be said. Sacred, to you, more like the scriptures that told you how live, what was right and how to not do wrong.

Loving him was right. Knowing him was right.

He sits up. His shoulders brush yours as he does and then he says your name like you belong there. You swear you do, because you’ve never really fully been present but he says your name like you do, like you are. He says your name as if you’ve always been his to say, always been his to become. “youre so much more than that.” He says, “youre so much more than just important to me.”

You could stay here forever, you think. His voice is everywhere, colouring every atom with himself, and you can finally find the courage to look at him. His face shines, his cheekbones highlighted by the moon and you swear its made for him. The too-important, all-knowing satellite shines just for him, his eyes shine, watery and beautiful. The browns look a little greyer under the night, safe and tucked away for something less important, a small speck of white in his pupils, reflecting the light form above, preferring you over the wholeness of the moon. Theres no breeze and you barely notice the winter cold because of him, the warmth in his gaze holding you, wrapping itself around you long enough to make it known. It already was known.

He continues. In his head, he’s counting everything that makes you beautiful but loses count, loses track with you infront of him, giving him everything that was already his. “youre…. Youre you. I mean, everywhere I go, everything I do, I think about you because I know what you’d think. I know what you’d say, and everything becomes so much more meaningful. I don’t know how I can even simplify it or, I mean, I don’t know how to say it,” he does have to, you think, but he says it anyway. “I just… this feels more than anything ive been feeling. You feel right. I love – I love you. everything feels much more than what it is ever since ive met you, since ive known you. I… I don’t even know if love begins to cover it, honestly, but you know-“

“I do.” You say in a breath that youre so afraid to take because that would mean that everything he was saying was real. but he makes you braver than you thought you’d be, and so you inhale. Exhale. Youre you. he’s always seen you as such, and not as a perfect version of you that you’d always wanted to become.

“I know.” You say, “you’re in everything I’ve done. Everything I continue to do. Jean, i…I’ve always wanted to be, like, better than what I was. Better than I could ever be, but for the first time I think, because of you, I don’t need to be. Everything I have is yours. Everything I want is yours. i mean, its not…complicated, really, its simple and I love you. so much.” You complete, your words soft and quiet and that’s how jean knows they’re yours.

the string tying him together snaps in half, an inevitable conclusion to the long drawn-out, impossibly divine moment and he finds his hand meeting yours again, resting on top of yours, and he knows youre not god because he feels the reciprocal of his unending service because your hands turn upwards to his, interlocking your fingers, engulfing them in his. It feels predictable, comfort, routine even if you hadn’t done it before, even if you’d have the chance to do it countless times again.

And he knows youre not god because he’s never been close to the concept of one like this before, face to face, noses touching, the only thing he can think about is how your lips look, how his hand his travelling up to your cheek, tucking hair behind your ear so it doesn’t bother you. he knows youre not god because loving you is the closest hes ever been to himself, to everything that ties him to his existence. All meaning, all importance, all routine and all comfortability lies with you, he thinks, your breaths mingling together, both an answer and a question, and jean closes any gaps that had been left in the distance between you two, placing his lips on yours, slowly, wholly.

Everything happens. Universes are created, ended, made again, you shift closer to him if that was even possible, letting yourself melt into him because his hands are the only ones capable enough to build you all over again, your hands tangling themselves in their hair like its second nature, muscle memory, routine, comfortability. Your heart beats contently in your chest for the first time in a while, and the moon witnesses it all, shining softly. Your hand traces down to the left side of his chest where his own heart beats for you, and he pulls away for only a second to breathe before his lips are on yours again, half of his being in him and the other half in yours, your legs laying on top on his. Your hands caresses his heart, gripping his green vest, wishing to take it off so you could hear it louder than your own pulse. But youre sure you can hear it, because it sounds the same as yours, because its been with you this whole time. His hair tickles your forehead and you smile because it feels right.

You feel like yourself and jean had never felt the outcome of his love so tenfold before.

✿

part 2 >

[firefly--bright]

come january. (2)

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern au. part two of this fic.

summary ; to love someone is to know someone, fully, wholly, and jean fulfills this, wholly, knowingly.

warnings ; badly written smut, MDNI. ive never written smut before so its probably going to be bad. please tread carefully. literally the most vanilla sex u can ever imagine. too wordy.

a/n ; as said before ive never done this before and i really dont think writing smut is my forte with my writing style? but. i've had ideas and i just wanted to explore the idea of writing it. as practice. or wtv. so if you dont like it pls feel free to not interact at all OR leave a constructive criticism in my askbox/messages.

taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable

again, MDNI. any and all minors who interact with this post will be blocked! this is a direct part two of this post, so reading it within context would be better :D

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿

middle tile art creda to @yuka-levi on twt!

Everything happens. Universes are created, ended, made again. Strings – thick, usually unbreaking and strong, snap apart when his lips are on yours and you lose everything you ever thought you might had in him. And it belongs there, you think, because it feels right.

You pull apart, breaths heavy, hearts lighter, burrowed in each other's chests so deeply that it would take a skilled surgeon to replace them again. Your smile is still present on your face, gentle, whole, and your smile makes him smile even if his eyes are closed. There's a distance pop followed by a big bright flash of beautiful golden and you open your eyes, turning to the source. Fireworks. Another one, farther away, flashes out in all its glory, looking like the birth of a star. Jean’s head rests on your shoulder, his hands cupping your cheek, not taking his eyes away from you, watching the light dance on your features, lighting the tip of your nose and side of your cheek, kissing the corner where your ear meets your jaw because he finally can. Because he wants to, because he finds himself present there, with you and against you.

You inhale as his kisses spread further down your neck, your heart beating with the numerous fireworks in the sky only for you to realise that the new year was here and he was by your side, on your side just as he was supposed to be. You turned and his kisses trailed to the apple of your cheeks, to where your smile met your eyes.

“jean.” You said, your voice overlapping the boom of the firework, and jean hummed, his lips resting on your forehead, unmoving and you could feel his own soft smile on your skin. His hands cup your jaw, and yours lay on his cheek, guiding his eyes to meet yours again.

“happy new year.” You say, and he swallows the sound of your voice, proving your existence to be heard and seen. “happy new year.” He echoes, proving his own life, breathing it into you. “I love you.” your smile turns softer. You echo back, “I love you too, jean.” You thumb rests on his cheek, his eyes fluttering close, brows furrowing slightly, his breath on yours, and he thinks about how his name has always been yours to say, thinking briefly about changing his name so that no one but you could say it, utter himself into his being.

But he doesn’t because you’ll have him as he is, and his lips are on yours again because he wants to taste how it feels like to be. You lean back with the force of his lips, humming shortly into him, goosebumps covering your skin as his hand grazes over your thigh, keeping you in your reality, locking you into a promise, into a routine that he wouldn’t change. You loose focus, his eyelashes feel nice against yours, his hands feel warm on you, his hair feels so soft under your hands and he feels twice more real than anything ever has and ever could. He kisses you with soft force, wanting you to know that you still have choice, but knowing you’d choose him. Over and over again.

His tongue mingles with yours, no hesitance behind his teeth, nothing that could make him reluctant. Second nature. Muscle memory. You allow him just the same, a small noise escaping your throat not in disagreement but with just the opposite. His hand leaves your thigh to support you as you lean further back, unable to hold yourself up for longer. You pull back, his lips still following your every move.

“we should- we...inside?” you ask, loosing coherence, but jean catches the meaning you throw away so easily. He nods against yours, and you feel your noses bump.

climbing down is muscle memory. Second nature. Routine, whatever you want to call it, but the moonlight at hushed words that were exchanged made it become more of a shrine of itself that it really was. Like always, like all the times before this one where you were less hidden but also less seen, jean helps you down. you climb with your feelings in your throat, your love spilling everywhere you'd touch, which makes you grab his hand with even more fervor as he helps you down, slipping in the room from the ledge.

Sitting on the edge of the bed of the spare guest room, you catch your breath. Jean stands near the window, supporting himself on it after closing it, trying keeping his own breath controlled, enjoying the view. He cant stop the smile that seems to now find his home on his lips without care. He’d get your lips tattooed on the inside of his ribs if he, carve your name that was always meant to be his into his bones so in the future, after being buried next to you, they’d be in a museum for people to connect the dots themselves.

Seconds pass. They feel like hours, and he leaves his spot on the window, kneeling infront of you, placing one hand beside you and one on your knee, travelling up slowly, finding god in the way your expression shifted so easily and openly infront of him, your breath hitching, leaning down to capture his lips again. Its different this time, if only a little, because the gentle warmth had progressed into a proper temperature, you think, as you rest your hand on the junction between his neck and his shoulder, your other one drawing soft shapes into his back despite the weight of the kiss. His tongue was on yours again, stealing all the words you thought you could speak but giving them their home anyway. Gasping as he pulled away, all control is left to be picked up by the wind as he leans over you, pressing himself onto you, your back hitting the soft mattress gently, his lips touching every part of you that was exposed, kissing the lines of your collarbones, every vein and muscle that was hidden, ashamed under your skin igniting with colours that you didn’t know existed. “jean,”

He hummed on your skin again, his voice cracking. He supported his weight on his arm that held itself next to your head, his eyes closed into you, feeling your own hands everywhere on himself, warmth spreading across his body. His hand lifts your leg up, his hand moving upward, feeling the rest of your body, the parts you hadn’t shown.

“jean, wait-“ you say. He pulls apart instantly, concern clouding his features as he peers at you, his lips still close to yours. speaking takes a lot of control, something you try to seize after everything he’s done to make you forget it exists, “the door.” You mutter, your hand on his jaw. He pauses, glancing at the lock that was left open before, and nods reluctantly. He doesn’t want to let go, and you agree, and you’re sure he knows it because your hand is still in his hair as he gets up. You do, too, opting to use the time to pull the zipper of your dress down.

If this was someone else – not that you’d want it to be – you’d have preferred to be more lost in the moment, but this was jean. Your jean, where every moment spent with him was spent lost within it. So you’d take your time because you had it. He wasn’t going anywhere – this was routine. Second nature, and jean turned back around from locking the door, breathing in to calm himself down again despite knowing that his breath was going to quicken, and it did. Or maybe he just lost all of it. All his thoughts stilled, only one ringing out in his ears along with his fastening heartrate, his cheeks red.

You're beautiful. With your clothes now pulled away, leaving you with your undergarments and the dim but present light shrouding your figure, lighting your hair, a small smile playing on your face.

You're beautiful. not that you weren't before but this - closest to divinity, closest to himself. Matching your state, jean decides to join you by removing his vest and the shirt that was underneath all in one swipe, while still taking long strides towards where you sat. his lips found yours as if they had never left, resuming your positions. Your hands find themselves undoing his belt as he presses kisses – soft, beautiful, full of words he couldn’t spell out – unclasping the hook of your bra with one hand, his own hands going down your back, tracing your spine that arched slightly, covered in goosebumps. Not because of the cold but because of how warm his touch was, because you were sure no-one had come close to the amount of softness that he held towards you. his lips were the complete opposite, his kisses fleeting but solid, sloppy but definite, sure of himself, of the fact that he wanted this – you. just you. everything with you.

He pulls away again and you suppress a whine, but he doesn’t go far – just enough to remove his trousers comfortably, throwing them somewhere on the floor along with the rest of his belongings. He doesn’t need them anymore because he has you and he belongs here, with you, more than he belongs with anything else he attaches himself with. Your pupils are blown wide and he sees the admiration in them, smirking when he catches you looking at him, your eyes going over every part of him without so much as an ounce of shame, unabashedly, maybe even a little proud.

He looks like god. His chest, well built moves up and down rapidly, his forearms outlining his veins, the slant of his chest that connected to his shoulders looked the closest to belonging you had ever felt. You shuddered as your eyes went even further down, taking in the contour of his dick, the fabric pulled taught, snapping your eyes to his again. And there lay your favorite view, even after seeing almost everything he had offered with simple actions and simpler existence, his eyes were always your favorite part – lit up but gauging your reaction, glazed over with everything he wanted.

“like what you see, beautiful?” he asks, leaning forward again, hovering over you with the same smile. your knees locked against either side of his waist, and you pull him in by the back of his neck to shut him up. “need what I see.” you whispered, your lips spelling it out on his own. He lifted your thigh, giving in.

his hands are everywhere. They're all your know, you're sure your skin could remember every callus and scar on them because of it. One settles on your hip, finally, the other still taking its time roaming on you, claiming its place near your upper thigh. His thumb his feather light, shadowy, whispering against the hem of your underwear, making you gasp. There's a spark in you that threatens to grow into something more, and you don’t know where to put your own hands. One circles his neck, playing with the ends of his hair – something that makes him stutter his movements. Your other hand, however, has plans of its own, carrying itself over to the waistband of his trunks, sliding further down, grazing the outline you had studied before. He grunts next to your ear. He licks his lips, his voice husky when he whispers into your ear, “god, you’re so beautiful.”

Not giving you a chance to reply if you even had one ready, he melts you into putty, his warm lips circling your nipple. Your strings are fraying, and his hand that had been resting on your hips is on your waist now, and you feel your voice calling out to him, pleading.

The spark grows, a knot forming in your core, “want- please, jean-“

“im yours, love.” He rasps, his tongue swirling around, making you gasp. You cupped your hand where it was, his size making another round of shivers run down your spine, his whimper on your breast, your skin soaking every sound as if it would save you from further decomposition, pulling the hem of his underwear down, feeling the size of his cock against you now. The spark evolves itself into something greater and you moan, his hand pushing your underwear aside. Whatever the spark was is now long gone, increasing its size into a fire, consuming your body, making your skin feel hot. He calls out your name, strained, gentle.

Your heart beating was probably the only proof of you being in this moment; the rest of your being had been fully consumed by jean, his lips sucking your neck, feeling your pulse in his mouth, trying with all his might to not give you everything he had, even if he was sure you already had it, drawn out and in front of him. He pulled you closer to him, your thighs hooked around his waist so you could feel him, and he could feel you, ready and wanting and waiting, your whimpers reaching his ears, settling in his chest, making him move, his muscles rippling with effort, all of which you could feel under your trembling fingers, gripping his shoulders with force as he pushed himself into you, filling you completely, slowly, wholly.  

Everything opened. Sounds felt a little like they were underwater, and it took you a while to accommodate him, his hips grazing yours, and he was saying something. You exhaled shakily and everything closed again, and you could hear him clearly now, his voice the only thing that could guide you.

“feels..so good, sweetheart-“ he says, his tone being something you hadn’t heard from him before. you like it, enjoy it more than the moment youre caught up against. His voice slinks against your body, deep and uncontrolled because it was with you and for you, his lips nest to the cup of your ear making sure you could feel each syllable at its peaks and lows. “tu es fait pour moi, mon amour.” He rasps. You don’t know what he means, but you can feel it with the way his hands circle your clit. It feels like he’s worshipping you – every part of you being looked at gently, just as you were supposed to, and he feels like prayer to you because his name is the only thing you know how to speak. You repeat it with your eyes fluttering closed, feeling the fire turning, meeting something new.

Your mouth only sings of him. Its muscle memory as he pushes inside you again, guiding your thigh delicately and you want to burrow yourself into him, let him sink into you like he’s doing for the rest of how much ever youre allowed to have. The flame heats you up from the inside, spreading across every part of your body once again and if you’ve felt like this before, this overtakes. You don’t know what to call it – feelings and words other than the moment feel far away and untouched.

you hardly have the time to ask him what it means, lost in the way he feels. Spark. Flame? Youre not sure what it is, hardly sure of what you are either, he’s pushing in you now, grunting softly beside your ear, and whatever that was is growing now, fast. “god, love-“ “jean,” the two of you say at the same time, his voice sending shivers down your warm spine, everything is spinning. This feeling isn’t routine, isn’t something you’ve ever felt before but you welcome it as if it was a part of your own body. He pushes in again, everything builds up and crumbles at the same time. Thoughts are broken, sentences are just strings of words and he fills you, fully. Again. Tightening, beauty that comes close to discomfort only if it weren’t with him. It feels right.

he says your name breathily, his voice strained like he’s been thinking about saying it for a longer time than this. “I’m g’nna.. oh,” he says, and his voice is the only thing that you can hold onto beside himself, your hand gripping his hair while the other one roamed in the limited space between his shoulder and toned arms, nails scratch, and scratching his skin just enough to leave light, red marks, that matched the blush on his cheeks. “can i- sh…uh,” he says, making you blink him into focus, a tear rolling down your cheek. Your heart squeezes when his face becomes clearer, his brows knit tight. “I’m sorry,” he says, barely a whisper, only the proof of one. You shake your head gently, your hand freeing itself from his hair and resting on his cheek, thumbing the tear away. “jean… it’s okay, love.” “im, I just… never felt this before?” he explains, or tries to at least, grasping onto the only meaning he could find – you. his hand clasping your thigh. His hand near your head, strands of your hair under his thumb. He breathes, ribs turning putty, heart molding itself around your hand, creating a cast. That’s where it belongs, he thinks. “I know. I haven’t either.” You confirm. Theres two of you now, worlds apart from where everyone else would be, and he looks at you, your eyes holding that sheen on them, cheeks stretched with a small smile and thinks about how unbroken the moment was. No space between your bodies, comfortable unpredictability. His bones hum with familiarity, being this close to you - sending something close to electricity but far more close to divinity into his heart. He nods, kissing the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then your forehead.

“don’t hold back.” You tell him, unafraid. He nods, heart spurring.

Warmth, heat, spreading across your body and he goes a little faster, and you feel him everywhere, deeply, and your noises are only controlled by the barrier of your lips being bit by your teeth, something jean impossible notices, oulling your chin gently by his thumb. “don’t hold back on me either,” he’s so close to you.

So close. Your grip on his shoulder tightens, leaving a mark, his name leaving your mouth, freeing itself from wherever it was within you as if it was a part of you. he says your name just the same, his voice carrying out in the confines of the room, striking a chord only you can hear, only meant for you to understand. Your name has never felt like yours until he’s said it, like this, your back lifting, stomach touching his, and you feel the world collapsing, building. Flame turned into fire turned into smoke, your body shaking, sounds coming from your mouth merging with his and it stays there, unbroken, devouring, overwhelming. He’s out of you in what feeling like an instant but youre sure is slow, caring but time doesn’t make sense to you. the sheets under your legs are soaked, your muscles aching comfortably, unpredictably.

Your chest heaves, up and down, as does his, almost in sync. His strength sways as his body almost collapses onto yours, devouring, overwhelming, the scent of his rundown cologne and sweat and shampoo mixing into yours. devouring, overwhelming.

His lips are on your collarbone. You laugh with the little strength you have and jean drinks it up, a smile etching itself on his pink lips, his skin red. “we should.. do that more often.” You say. Your eyes closed, hand in his hair and he hums, nodding his head slightly, something you feel.

and this continues, becoming more than just a moment in your life, increasing itself into something that becomes your being. His knee bent, getting comfortable, and your thigh rests on his own, feeling his muscles underneath yours, skin to skin. It feels akin to holiness, but gods don’t have skin like you and jean. That’s their curse, you think, because you’d want to be human just to feel something like this again, no space between the two of you, legs entangled, warm, devouring, overwhelming, comfortable. If this was a new routine, you’d appreciate it for all the times to come.

His hand is pinned under your back and he lifts his head from your shoulder, resting It near your head, hair escaping and spilling next to yours. all of your parts meeting his. His eyes look at yours and you want to consume the look in them, something you wish was possible, but then he speaks and you think it is possible because his tone is the same as the way he looks at you – soft. Warm. Shining. “this may be the post nut clarity talking, but you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything that was right in front of me.”

Oh. Okay. He's saying what he wants to say, out of control, chest beating unexpectedly in control. A confession like this, under normal circumstances, would’ve been around in his head for about a week before actually having the bravery to speak it into existence, make it known. But with the prior fact already known – because it was you, of course you’d know – it was easy to say, and with that logic, everything became easy with you. not untethered but the exact opposite, everything was easy because it was connected and all of everything lead to you. always did. You breathe out shakily.

You kiss the crease between his brows, soothing it permanently, easing his features. You’ve never been good with words. When morning (or better yet, judging by how everything played out right now and how late it was, late afternoon) rolled around, jean was sure to have either a bouquet of flowers or an inexpensive gift with a full-fledged letter sitting on his desk, waiting for him in compensation. Either the letter or a text, you weren’t sure, the plan formulating in your head ass he breathed beside you, his breath fanning the side of your face.

you turn your face to his, opening your eyes again, looking into his. “if I told all of this to last year-me, I would’ve never believed it,”

He smirks. “cant believe you bagged the jean kirstein?” you scoff. “I hated your guts, I would’ve thrown up and asked myself what present-me was even thinking getting with that jean guy.” “oh,” he says, softly, his smirk slipping off his face comically. You laugh a little, shifting to your side to rest comfortably. His body shifts with yours, his hand now on the slight dip of your waist, thumb brushing your stomach.

“but present-me would tell her that I think… youre the most passionate and brave person I’ve ever met. And you make me laugh.” “its no that hard, y’know-“ “just take the compliment.” “yes ma’am.” He says, smiling drowsily, blinking slowly. You could capture his mouth in a kiss right now but you preferred to have it in front of your eyes instead of your lips. For now, of course. The promise of being able to see the same face with the same smile would mean you could kiss his lips and feel his mouth all over again, hundreds of times, like a beautiful predictability. Routine. He clears his throat. “thank you.” he says. You hum, gently, jean feels the vibrations of your voice against the thrum of his heart. He keeps it there.

“what… what else would you tell your past-self about… about that jean guy?” he asks, mainly to hear your voice again, under the guise of forgetting it every time you don’t speak, but really, its because he needs your voice to build the rope that he balances on. His hand reaches your cheek, feeling your words fully. You hum under his touch, thinking. “id tell her that… that jean guy is fucking annoying-“ “name one time ive annoyed you-“ “and pretentious.” “I have never once-“ “d’you remember when we went to that art gallery and you said that you 'loved how the elements juxtaposed each other'?” “…yeah.” “I thought you were just trying to sound smart.” “…I was.” You giggle at his admission. His ears tinge red, unseen because of the dark but not unknown because youre here.

“but I’d tell past-me that that same jean guy also held me when I needed it without asking. Made me laugh when I needed it without asking.” Theres a beat of silence. Jean breathes in, consuming your entirety, and youre okay with it. “that… this jean guy thought that past-me hated him because he was a dick.”

“yeah, I did,” he breathes out a laugh, continuing, “but then he – I – grew used to you. grew to like you. grew because and with you. and now present-me knows that present-you is resilient and patient and stubborn enough to stick with me.” “yeah, I should get an award for that.” “yeah, yeah, I’ll get you one.” He says, pulling you in closer with his arms, burrowing your face in his neck.

The moment would be unbroken. Even if the two of you had gotten up, reluctantly, after a while, under the bursting of fireworks, jean cleaned you up and helped you slip into your clothes again, fixing your appearance best you could. The moment remained unbroken as he held your hand, kissing your knuckles when you reached downstairs, catching sasha dancing with nicolo, connie on the table, marco trying to pry him down but not really wanting it to end, eren hyping him up. mikasa was somewhere behind him, with a small smile on her face as she glanced at you and jean’s interlocked fingers. The moment went unbroken even after the night ended, everyone hungover and piled on the floor of you and sasha’s shared living room even though the latter wasn’t even in her own home (she later texted you, extensively, about what happened with her and nicolo),  and jean woke up with a one page (front and back. You tried to keep it under the set word limit in your head but couldn’t) letter and a singular flower (you couldn’t afford to splurge until after your paycheck arrived). The moment remained unbroken even ass connie groaned about his hurting head and jean made fun of him for the same fact, marco glancing between the space – or lack of it – between the two of you as jean stood with an arm around your waist (something he later revealed he was panicking about in, his own words, “I didn’t even think much of it, I just sorta, did it, y’know,” but his eyes wouldn’t look directly at yours and the tips of his ears were red, a telltale lie).

The moment remained unbroken. It always would. Details kept safe, sound, intact, even while you retold it to your closest friends after only some pestering. Even after jean mulled over it on the most important day of his life, playing with his ring, adjusting his suit.

The moment, all the words and anatomy of it, remained unbroken. Beautiful. Holy.

✿

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[ukeshik]

Omg thanks for tag!!! I still don't quite understand how to do it all, but...!

Tags!!!!: @ppushable @jean-kirschtussy @wintrrxxo @wecouldgobacktowoodstock @bxsmxx @firefly--bright

Challenging you all!

Put your music library on shuffle, then list the first five songs that come up in a poll to let people vote for which one they like the most!

Then tag Tumblr friends to keep the game going!

[firefly--bright]

unearthed.

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u., buzzfeed unsolved a.u.

summary ; you dont know just how many watchful souls listen to you and jean speak, waiting, watching. maybe it's just you, but the prison air feels warmer. warnings ; mentions of violence, a little horror (? literally just the tiniest bit), talks of death. cringe humor. a/n ; happy halloween my beloveds. crazy that halloween and diwali were on the same day. kinda poetic lowkey. im DEAD TIRED so ykw that means! happy fireflyfic day! (and happy diwali to those who celebrate :)) taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable , @zombiefiedskeivy

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿

The prison wasnt eerie, which should’ve struck you as concerning. 

No, rather, the opposite, the fact that it was a little too comfortable, a little too lived-in to be considered ghostly was what you found…weird. Or maybe it was jean’s presence next to yours, the coldness of the air masked by his warmth and stolen jacket perched over your shoulders that made the air feel a little more breathable.

Connie and marco are huddled over the camera, speaking in hushed whispers - some technical jargon that your brain is too tired to recognize. 

Jean shifted from beside you, adjusting his own coat - not stolen - and thumbed the straps over his chest that snuggly held a smaller camera so it fit better over him. He cleared his throat when he caught you zoning out, “know your lines?” he asked, a prompt for you to speak your mind. 

You smiled cheekily, looking at him under the dim, sole flashlight. “By heart. Scared, jean-boy?” 

“Dont call me that on camera, please,” he says, eyes screwing shut when you shine your light straight into them. 

“Have i ever embarrassed you? You do that to yourself more than i do,” “okay that’s…intentional. It helps with the character im going for.” you snort. “Damsel in distress?” he scoffs, “i had to save you last time, remember?” “that was just an excuse for you to hold my hand, you can admit it. The cameras arent rolling yet,” you tease, bumping your shoe with his worn-out converses. He lets you. There isnt much he doesnt let you do to him. 

“Alright, cameras are gonna start in three…two.. One!” marco’s voice is characteristically calming, even at a higher pitch.

 

Your shoulders stand straighter as you look into the lens, placing the flashlight right under your chin. “hello, watchers! Welcome back to another episode of Unearth - a series where we try to gather evidence of the paranormal to see who wins - a believer,” you say, pointing the light under jeans chin briefly before settling it back under yours, “or a skeptic.” “it’s not a competition,” “right. Of course not.” you say, winking into the camera. Its jean’s turn to speak, his voice a low baritone, and you can see his breath becoming foggy into the now november air. “We are here today at the Marley Prison, rumored to be the host of seventy percent of the state’s most wanted criminals since the early eighteen hundred's. And we’re standing infront of it now and it’s fucking creepy,” “right, and it was also incredibly overcrowded, so-” “-so just, a terrible place to live in.” “yeah, but they killed people,” “...right. Most of them.” “i’ve heard it smells like shit,” you say, almost forgetting that this might get broadcasted, but jean’s eyes on you seemed to have that effect. forgetting the size of your own beating hear, forgetting where you were, melting away any proof of life except his.

He smirks, looking straight at the camera once more. “Right, that’s why i have-” he pulls out a small spray bottle. From what you could read, the text flashed, “FLOWER POWER!” and your smile turned into a laugh. “- this air freshener right here.” “right. That’ll protect us.” “if i get possessed i’d want.. It to smell, like-” “-like flower power-” “right.” now the both of you are laughing, shoulders shaking.

“Great. Let’s head inside, guys,” marco says, smile on his face, and eren puts the camera down to view what he had gathered. 

“After you,” jean says, his shoes scruffing against the harsh stones underneath, spreading his arm infront of you as a guide.

“Pussy,” you muttered, making him sputter.

-

“Alright,” you say, settling on the cold hard ground. Cell number 509, holding the last inmate of the entire prison who passed away in the very same, cramped room. Only a mattress and a sink to keep him company, a small, hand-sized window on the wall opposite to the door, meant to be locked at all times. 

“Dangerous people in this place,” you say, mostly to yourself. Your partner was on the ground floor of the vicinity, in another building entirely, investigating by himself. You decided to split up to see if that might spite any spirits to act, planning on asking questions to the different people that were barely alive, living in the space so freely disturbed. The camera crew were also downstairs, waiting on the two of you to be done. All you had was an old walkie-talkie that connected to jean’s. 

“You there?” his voice - filled with static and concern - reaches the confines of the prison cell. “Yep. where are you?” you ask, sitting in the middle of the floor, pulling your knees up to your chest, your flashlight flickering. “Im at the uh… that punishment place.” “ah. Im in Dean Cooper’s cell.” “oh,” he says. “Why dont we just use our phones for this part?” he asks, a beep following him. You smile. “I dont know, actually. Do you- should we?” “yeah that’d be.. I mean, better communication. Audio..quality - there are so many bugs here,” he speaks as you switch your phone on, dialing his number. He picks up not even a second in.

“Okay, can you hear me better?” he asks, and you rest your back against the thick wall. The door - heavy and cold - is fully closed so you could get a better experience, the full creeps. You nod, knowing he cant see it. “yep. Its crazy that people had to live like this,” you speak, holding the microphone part of your device close to your mouth, his voice on speaker. Something alive to fill the walls, more than your own presence. “Yeah. well it’s crazy that they committed so many crimes, honestly,” “i know.” 

You’re supposed to be filming. Your camera is rolling already and youre supposed to be speaking to a presumed dead person but a holy one is roaming downstairs without you and all you have is his voice as proof. “Hey,” jean calls out, and you thank good network reception and technology to have his voice be so clear, without cuts, real against your hand. “Im at the uh… what’s it called? The place where they could talk to their loved ones right now.” “ah,” “it feels weird.” a beat of silence. “Weird how?” you ask, your voice quiet. 

“Like-” theres a shifting sound at the end of the line, followed by a slight creak. “- weird in the sense that… i dont know, like, people still loved and cared for quote-unquote bad people,” 

You hum. Your head now also rests against the wall, too unaware to keep it up, too comfortable to find your own muscles. “I dont know. You’re always better with the words and shit.” he says, and you give him a small laugh. “Words and shit?” “yeah like, you know what to say.” “i mean, these people are dead, jean, theres a real small chance they can even hear us.” “i know, but like, even to alive people.” its almost 3 am, your phone says, and your heart increases in size, a little too comfortable against your ribcage. 

Have you ever felt that before? the muscle that’s supposed to be contained in a confined space now opens itself up and you have no choice but to let it. It grows, bigger, until youre body is tattered and all that remains as proof is your heart, big and timid, still beating, waiting for jean’s eyes to look at it. You havent. You wonder if any of the people half-alive in this place have. 

“I mean, love is alot of patience,” you start, your fingers fiddling with the end of your jacket. A stray piece of thread. You hear him humming in agreement and continue, “maybe they just… couldnt say it. How many times have you been able to not say that you love someone, y’know? And then you get the chance to but then it gets lost in all the other unimportant things and maybe that… maybe that’s love. The unimportant things.” you say. Your fingers feel funny, tingly, hearing his voice saying something at the end of your sentence. Youre too caught up to say something important as a reply.

So you settle. Listen. “Like, imagining this place alive… y’know. Like not in a creepy way but in like… it’s - like so much time passed, and so much was said here.” he says. His voice holds importance in your hands, and you trace shapes into the side of your phone with your thumb as if its the back of his hand and you’ve taken it in yours, cold and patient, unimportant. Tracing shapes that cant be seen. He hears them though. It’s in every pause he takes, every breath he hears on your end of the line and he wonders if you know how your alive-ness makes him braver than the night. Brave enough to know that speaking is something to be accomplished, that you’re listening.

 

He stares at the glass window in front of him, sitting on the chairs that prisoners used to sit on with hope in their eyes. At least, that’s how he imagines it. Theres a small hole in the window, enough only to catch a couple breaths and silenced sentences and he can only imagine how the other person mightve felt, seeing their loved one behind a blurry and unkept screen.

“Im not going to empathize with them, obviously, but, i feel like… i mean, obviously this place was built to be inhumane. The fact that they even included that section of the prison, though.. I dont know. it's kinda nice.” you say, and he closes his eyes to pretend youre in front of him. Its not that hard, in all honesty, because your voice fills his ears and he’d rather listen to proof of the living - with her shoe kicking his, with her voice teasing his shrieks - rather than the minute but present proof of the dead. He knew someone - barely alive souls, watching - had to be listening to your conversation but he also knew that he was listening to it too and he’d rather commit to the cold of your familiar hands than the unfortunately lived-in warmth of this place.

“It is.” he agrees, his chin tilting up, his shoulders relaxing. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone, microphone to his lips with the speaker on. He wasnt alone. His phone’s screen is blurry and unkept, but he wasnt alone. 

“Y’know that’s what i find kind of… i dont know, comforting? About like, something this hopeless. That, like.. There’s a recreational room that they had. Like the option was there for them to sit down there and talk, maybe. I dont know how that wouldve gone-” you say, voice ending in a self-aware laugh, making him smile, “-but it was there, right. Same with this communication room…thingie. Like the option of loving is there.” 

Your voice floats against the walls of the room, touches the glasses separating him and the world, before coming back to him. His chest feels funny, more aware that it’s there. Not just as an organ and something trivial that helps him breathe but now as something larger than himself. Something less candid, hidden under layers of clothing and skin built to be thick, raised to be soft, and it almost lays there, in front of him, inhaling the sound of your voice like it’s a new source of oxygen. And it grows. Alive.

“Option of loving,” he echoes, eyes now fluttering open and looking at the expanse of the tattered ceiling above him, spotting shapes. Option of loving. “Like even now there’s like.. Im sitting here, and there’s notches on the wall. Like the… four standing lines and then a slash through them. Like the hope of getting out isnt gone. Its… cool how humans just do that.” you say. He clings onto every word, his own little prayer against the dark, unsaid but important. Option of loving.

He looks back infront of him, staring at the glass window again. Theres gunk in the corners of it and spiderwebs claiming it as their home in a place as haunted as this. “And even if i dont… believe in ghosts it’s like…cool to think about in the sense that, i dont know, everything is a proof of life. Y’know?” you ask, ready for confirmation knowing that he’d provide it to you. Anything you’d ask.

“Thats… i didnt see it like that,” he admits, “i mean i just saw it as like… confirmation that dead people are dead and that if there’s an afterlife we have to chose a right way to live, something we’re proud of, so that we dont regret it when we’re… dead and roaming the halls, waiting to be found, yknow?” “like grief.” you answer, and he shifts in his seat, getting a bit more comfortable. He nods, knowing you wont see it. “Yeah. kind of.” “that’s…poetic. We should start a podcast-” “-shut up,” and both your voices are broken up by laughs, short and warm and proof of being alive and roaming the halls, waiting to be found.

There’s a dog howling in the distance. No light in the room that you’re in, barely any air, coolness of november flush against your skin despite your layers. His voice holds you, a little blanket, cocooning you around yourself. “Hey, you’re supposed to come find me,” you say, reminding him of his task of peering into the halls, asking ghosts and bugs to come closer to him. Whatever’s alive or half-dead or half-alive or half-already-living. “And you’re supposed to play twenty questions with your hot date,” “i think he’s pretty cold, actually,” you say, he laughs. Another shift in fabric, another creak - he’s gotten up from his place on the chair, now warmed, soon to be claimed by the prison’s musty air, but for now it’s there. Fully alive. 

“My battery’s gonna die.” he says, voice a little solemn, his footsteps squeaking against the floor, rubber on hard cement. “We have walkie-talkies,” you provide, your voice full around it’s edges with your own smile and jean almost asks why youre smiling, but refrains. He’ll ask when he finds you. Or maybe he’ll tell you he’s in love with you. Or maybe the words will get lost under all the other unimportant things that he has to say to you. 

Or maybe that’s just what love is. The unimportant things, layered, hidden, chest and heart, large, warm, growing. 

[firefly--bright]

etymology of acting

jean kirstein x reader (modern au)

summary ; the lights are out but you've never been able to see things so clearly. his silhouette isnt just a shape anymore.

warnings ; nothing more than some hurt/comfort as usual

a/n ; i've realised. i like writing oneshots more than i like writing series. so i am very sorry that im not updating my bigger fics i just,,, need more motivation for them.

taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ song to listen to while reading! ✿

You’ve never really been sure of what you are.

Maybe who you are would be a better question. How do words come to be? Is it the cultural significance that makes them more important or is it just the fact that theyre the most used? You decide your name holds none of the meaning – be it heavy or light – that all the other words do. Not really significant or most used or said or thought about.

You knew your place in the world well enough to know where your name fit. Moreso, how your name didn’t fit, feeling foreign coming from familiar faces, feeling even further away coming from you. it sounded more like of what you should, of who your parents wanted you to become, hope you’d turn out to be. Something far greater than yourself. At least you knew this – you wouldn’t live up to it.

It takes a while to get used to at first. A way to let people down gradually. Nothing dramatic, nothing noticeable; but when you go through the same pattern as you always have countless times, you start seeing it as such. As something more dramatic, to give yourself more meaning. Youre waiting for the moment to come crashing down on you, waiting for the light to stop being bright an consuming and more of just a flicker. But that would be giving yourself too much importance. Giving yourself too much meaning.

“I mean… I didn’t, haven’t, fought people before,” jean says, “or – wait. Maybe I have.”

You breathe out a laugh. “you don’t remember if you’ve fought people before?”

“I mean, its not…whatever. Maybe I was too small to remember.”

“five year old jean, tearing into people’s jaws. What a rebel.” You say. Its his turn to smile.

The marble tiles of your kitchen floor are cool, your thighs resting on them, back against the glass of your oven. He sits in front of you but you cant see more than his outline. The lights have been out for a concerning amount of time now, and the curiosity of wanting to find out why had long since died down, turning into simple acceptance of this nights fate. His voice is the only thing you can hang off from, even if youre anchored to the ground.

it’s the in-betweeness of this. The space between your bodies, though not far away, knees touching only briefly, is when you realize you’re going to fade away soon. He’s going to find it mundane to look at the same face you had been seeing. The light is going to flicker, and you can feel it. The anticipation of something that will undoubtedly hurt nobody but you, quiet and accepting, and you’ll end up having to face the light again; wait for another light that needs to be snuff out. You’ve never been the greatest in having yourself be enough.

It's a performance at first. Jean had sat next to you and you’d started, lights and all. Smiling soon turned to relentless, comfortable teasing, turned into the second act. The deeper feelings that would be kept with you and only you for the rest of whatever you were living. Act three started just as act two did, gradually, softly, and you could sit in silence without having to find the strength to speak something more important than you into existence. You knew what would happen next. The end act, before the bows, before the close curtains. Your name wouldn’t be credited after this, no, he’d leave the theatre and not look back, forgetting why he spent the evening there. Maybe it was necessity, maybe it was boredom.

Act three, scene four, your voice spoke again after the pause, after catching his voice in your hands. The shared can of the energy drink was getting warm because of jean’s hand, your cold ones doing nothing to help. “I used to pretend I was in, like, a tv show when I was five.” You said. A hook to another unimportant, soon forgotten story, but it was in your script. So you spoke. You couldn’t see his smile, but he hummed lowley, your cue to continue.

“there was this show I used to watch a lot, like, to the point where I memorized almost all of the script.” You say, taking a sip of the drink. The carbon had fizzled out, leaving sugary residue on your lips, coating your tongue. “so when the house was empty in the afternoons, I would play all the parts out myself.” You say. Your words carry more weight now than they ever have and you’d probably have to clean up the mess it would make on the floor in the morning, having the light of the sun to accompany your mistakes. But for now it was okay. Improvising your lines was easier when it was with him. Act three, scene four, you could let your performance waver because you knew it was coming to an end.

“Is that why youre so good at talking to yourself?” he asks, his voice laced with a smirk you can almost feel against your cheek, despite him sitting across you. his hand brushes against yours, warm, calling, and you hand the can to him. You roll your eyes and you know he cant see it because it’s improvised. “im an amazing self-talker. Give me some credit.”

“alright. You’ve won my oscar.” He says. You snort. “your oscar?” “for your groundbreaking performance.” He says. Another sip.

You breathe in the way his words shape you. you don’t know which row of the audience he’s sitting in, but it feels awfully close, enough for him to catch you breaking character. Amazing performance, he said, not knowing what he meant, but you took meaning in his comment anyway, just as you did with everything else given to you. all words had their meanings, whether good or bad, cultural or just because of their uses. Everything had meaning and he was calling it an amazing performance. Your laugh makes no noise – youre breaking character.

“I was shit scared of the dark when I was five, too.” He says. The can is still with him, and you tilt your head. “you were a very accomplished five year old.” He scoffs, you continue, “starting fights and being afraid of the dar-“ “as if. I won those fights.” “is that why you forgot they even happened?” “maybe, yeah, what about it?” you laugh, breaking character. He grumbles, “whatever. I was brave.” His chest puffs up in faux confidence.

“right, what were you saying?” you ask. He clears his throat. “I was just gonna say I don’t mind being in the dark now.” “that’s deep.” “can you be serious for, like, two seconds-“ “you know me better than to ask me for that.” “right. I like nights now because of you. That’s all. Make fun of me.” But then you don’t say anything. Breaking character. Being on a thin ledge so he could see you and being pushed back, making you lose balance, suck in a breath.

Act… three, was it? Scene five. You don’t know what to say. He continues where you don’t. “like, I mean – okay, I like working with you at night, and I like staying up with you. it… im not scared of the dark anymore because of you. don’t look too much into it, it’s whatever, don’t. don’t make this weird.” He says, effectively making it weird, but you don’t mind. Youre on the stage, pleasantly confused because jean is in the audience with a smile and not with indifference.

youre on the stage and he’s telling you its okay to not be on one, to break character, to join him in the dark of the seats and leave the bright, overhead spotlight that makes you squint against it’s pressure.

The distant wailing of an ambulance sirens plays somewhere in the distance, the honk of cars, the shout of a crow that was somehow awake, the rustling of leaves. And with everything – all of the things outside of the theatre in your head, making you less important, was jean. There was barely any identifier to know he was in front of you except for his silhouette and his voice that had gone quiet. His thumb played an invisible beat on the can.

“when… when I was five,” you started, finally, not knowing what was coming out of your mouth, not following a script. Act three? Which scene was this? Jean was infront of you. you didn’t know how, but your voice held importance. “I was alone a lot. I used to be scared of ghosts. Especially at night. But since I was alone I decided that I had to fill the space up with games. With plays. Talking to myself.” Because that was the only thing that made you important – tied to the ground -  but then jean’s hand in on your knee, warm. An anchor. The curtains are closing. “and now I have someone to listen to me. Im not one of the ghosts in my house.”

If jean’s eyes were the only pair that were ever to witness you, you’d let that be. You’d be important in the darkness of your house and not under the all-consuming, weighted spotlights on top of you, shining against your every move, making it more important, but then the lights turn on, all of them at once, making you witness how you’ve made him.

His cheeks are red, warm, the tip of his nose in the same shade, his hair now lit up by the overhead shine, creating an almost gold halo on the crown of his head, a little frizzy and messy from raking his hand through them so many times. but really, its his eyes that make you break the character you were trying so hard to keep, because it didn’t make sense that he was looking at you the same way in the dark, going unnoticed, his gaze soft and now highlighted with a small white dot around his pupil, browns swimming, tethered to your figure. He was looking at you without your performance, without the proof of light to guide him.

Breaking character. Remembering there was a character to break but not caring about it, not in this moment, not when the spotlight has shut down, no-body controlling your lines except for yourself and the air in your apartment, still and full of life, unsaid confessions.

He clears his throat, shifting behind, looking up to the light, realising that there was brightness apart from you. “well.” He says. What else is there to say?

“well.” You echo, but neither of  you get up from your seats. There was secrecy in the dark, but now that everything is in front of you, youre a little more afraid. “it’s… lat-“ “you wanna watch a movie?” he asks, interrupting your invitation for him to go back home and away from you despite wanting nothing more than to stay by his side. You smile, unabashedly, cheeks stretching. “yeah.”

“not-“ “ten things I hate about you-“ “no. not that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. He doesn’t get up. His hand is still on your knee. “come on, you liked that movie!” “yeah, for the first two watches. We’ve seen that like, a thousand times now.” “not a thousand. Twenty, maybe.” “close enough.” “which movie, then?” you ask, jean shrugs. He hadn’t thought this far into the moment, and really, he doesn’t mind watching the same movie again as long as you were next to him, letting him sit too close to you, letting your shoulders relax, letting your thoughts ease. He liked you like this, not dancing around yourself, not trying to do something spectacular. You already were.

But he cant say it. So instead he says your name. with purpose, with meaning and weight that anchors you to the ground and brings you back into your body. “youre…not a ghost.” He attempts at something bigger than what he means to say. He doesn’t know how you do it. But you look at him like you know exactly what he means. Words have meaning, culturally or just because they’ve been too much, and you look like you understand them more than anyone else. Reading in between the lines, each letter having its shape and sound being heard even if its quiet.

“thanks to you.” you say. His thumb traces a circle into your skin. Unscripted.

“speaking of ghosts-“ you start, making jean groan. “do not-“ “we should watch conjuri-“ “I will kill myself.” “that’s also what one of the ghosts does to herself.” “jesus fuck.” “come on, its so bad and cliché.” “i… fine.” He concedes.

Your smile is brighter than the lights. It comes naturally to you, the script lies forgotten and you join him in the audience, sitting close.

[firefly--bright]

hello everyone. so @ppushable is an insane person and made ART FOR ONE OF MY FICS

i killed myself canonically I'm dead now. if u want to contact me you can't because this killed me. thanks!

[titlishu]

@ppushable

FEM JEANNN! (pls no weird comments about her as i am not comfortable w that since i personally believe 19 is still a teenager)

this panel?…🏳️‍🌈

junior high babies

+ silly hange based on twitter post

[brave-and-gentle]

Thank you for the tag Nat!!

Favorite color(s): Greeeeen! Every shade. All the greens.

Favorite flavor(s): Coffee. Peanut butter. Spicy curry.

Favorite genre(s): Romantasy (don't come after me okay). General adventure, some dystopia.

Favorite music: I'm a basic bitch at heart, sorry to say - any sort of indie pop, Noah Kahan, Hozier, Maggie Rogers, The Maine, but also Halsey, Chappell Roan, Charlie XCX, Sabrina Carpenter, etc.

Favorite movie(s): Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Moulin Rouge!

Favorite series: Attack on Titan, obviously lol. But also: The Hunger Games, ACOTAR

Last song: Oof, I've been traveling lots lately so not totally sure, but probably something by The Maine?

Last movie: Uhhh I actually can't remember the last time I watched a movie?? Really struggling here. But over the winter (literally months ago yikes) I saw an indie movie "The Teacher's Lounge."

Currently reading: I just finished rereading The Hunger Games for what, the 10th time? Just started The Conquest of Bread - Peter Kropotkin

Currently watching: One Piece and Attack on Titan LOL

Currently working on: Two AoT fics!! One is Jean x oc and mostly follows canon. The other is Jean x reader in a modern au (ex-Jeankasa angst heehee, readers be warned!).

@hideandgopeep @ppushable @mayariviolet

Ask & Answered!

tagged by @toastdarling 🌸 thank you!

◈   TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU’D LIKE TO KNOW BETTER!

favourite colour(s): every shade of blue

favourite flavour(s): cinnamon, cherry, teriyaki

favourite genre(s): fantasy, magical realism, mystery

favourite music: honestly I'll listen to pretty much anything, from hard rock to classical music, but I have a special preference for 80s hits and Japanese indie

favourite movie(s): Pride and Prejudice (2005), Howl's Moving Castle, Shrek 2

favourite series: Good Omens, One Piece, Haikyuu!!, Gravity Falls

last song: Your body is a weapon by The Wombats

last movie: Glass Onion

currently reading: The house in the cerulean sea by TJ Klune

currently watching: One Piece, Buddy Daddies

currently working on: in a creative sense, working on a zosan royal au fic, several fanart pieces and a few fantasy au concepts I'm excited about; in a personal sense, working on my insecurities, hoping to improve my lifestyle by trying sports for the first time (kendo, specifically!) and studying for a competitive exam

@goldenandhappy @ftld42 @bryttdaffodil @doremiinas @ats0mi @mafuwara @miyakiyoomii @heart-cores @omiishii

[brave-and-gentle]

Thanks Beffers!! Below is me telling Jean boy what to do lmao. And uhh, my last meme? Lolol

@ppushable @itsnathateasy @mayariviolet

Tag challenge: Do this cute picrew and post the last meme in your camera roll, then tag at least three people. Have fun! :D

no pressure tags: @keegansshark @glossysoap @blacktacmopsi @milkteaarttime

@gunnrblze @kuneho141 @howtotwirlaknife22 @rookiesbookies

@step-on-me-khun @imafraidoftomorrow @staytrueblue @mikichko

@simonrillleyyysss @aoioozora @writingfromasgard @pear1escence

@neiptune

[brave-and-gentle]

Wahoo, a tag from Beffers! @hideandgopeep

10 faves from 10 fandoms:

Finnick Odair (The Hunger Games)

Jean Kirstein (Attack on Titan)

Nami (One Piece)

Elide (Throne of Glass)

Nesta (ACOTAR)

Roy Mustang (Full Metal Alchemist)

Brida (The Last Kingdom)

Nynaeve (Wheel of Time)

Yue (ATLA)

Twilight (Rosalie)

Um um um no pressure tags: @dressycobra7 @ppushable @d33pwithinmys0ul @mayariviolet

10 characters, 10 fandoms

RULES: List your ten favorite characters from ten separate fandoms, then tag ten people

I got tagged by: @sukiluvvs 💗

In alphabetical order:

Ai Enma (Jigoku Shoujo)

Chuuya Nakahara (Bungou Stray Dogs)

Emilia (Re:Zero)

Giyuu Tomioka (Kimetsu no Yaiba)

Saeyoung Choi aka 707 (Mystic Messenger)

Shinya Hiiragi (Owari no Seraph)

Sunako Nakahara (Yamato Nadeshiko Shichi Henge)

Toph (Avatar the Last Airbender)

Yor Briar/Forger (SpyxFamily)

Yuuko (xxxHolic)

Tagging!! @getsuuna @marurumai @mikuyuuss @octoooo and others who wants to do this ahaha idk anyone here much sorry :D

[brave-and-gentle]

Fanfic writer interview

Ooooo thanks for the tag @itsnathateasy! PS - I also used to be a huge Directioner! That is actually how I got on Tumblr in 2012 lmao

How many work do you have on AO3?

4

What's your total AO3 word count?

110,050

What are your top 5 stories by kudos/likes?

GirlDad!Jean tea party - 65 likes

GirlDad!Jean dance and soccer - 184 likes

Devil in the Cold - 88 kudos

GirlDad!Jean Happy Birthday - 62 likes

A TIE!! Second Chances and The Patient - 46 kudos

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

OFC. I'm so grateful that someone enjoyed my fic so much that they took the time to comment, so I will respond with aggressive love <3 (i am an aries venus)

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I actually don't think anything I've written has an angsty ending?? But Second Chances might, we'll see...(it'll be fine i promise)

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

they all have happy endings because i'm a sucker for happy endings :'')

Do you write crossovers?

I have not!

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No THANK GOD

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yesss hehe, mostly afab with Jean Kirstein because that's what i want lmao

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

i hope not!!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

kind of! way back in 2009-2010 before i even knew the meaning of fanfics, my irl friends and i would write The Hunger Games fics together, but from decades before Katniss' story. This is going to age myself esp since I think most of my followers are a little younger than me, but we literally posted them to a private Facebook group LMAO. it was kind of like asynchronous DND, we even had a GM and would take turns!

What's your all-time favorite ship?

JeanBee, aka, my self-ship delulu!! :')

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

*takes biggest sigh of the day* I think I still have a post-war Gale Hawthorne redemption arc saved somewhere. Idk if I'll ever return to it, though I'd love to because he deserves it!! I never published it anywhere.

What are your writing strengths?

Based on my Ao3 comments, it seems like readers really think I've nailed how the different AoT charaters act, and I am honored :')

What are your writing weaknesses?

Diving into my characters inner thoughts more! I feel I sometimes rely too much on outer factors to relay their thoughts, which is definitely necessary, but sometimes I forget that they actually have inner dialogue lol.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Same as prev: in my experience, it's irrelevant to the plot more often than not. i do appreciate it when it's important to the plot.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

I'd loooove to write JeanPiku, but I fear i would never do them justice!

What's your favorite fic you've written?

Definitely Second Chances, linked above. It's a mildly angsty divorced dilf Jean x reader fic (warning! DO NOT read if you are a JeanKasa ride or die, it ain't for you bbys, ilysm)

np: @hideandgopeep @mayariviolet @ppushable @d33pwithinmys0ul

Fanfic writer interview

Thank you @thelettersfromnoone for the tag!! 💖

How many work do u have on AO3?

3, not your local AO3 girlie lmao

What's your total AO3 word count?

8 534

Your top 5 stories by kudos/likes

I'll go with Tumblr ones, cause from my 3 AO3 works the biggest number I got is 31 lmao

Anyone but you (Legolas x f!reader)

Night watch (Legolas x Reader)

Well-deserved rest (Haldir x f!Reader)

One messy night (Boromir x f!Reader)

Transition (Haldir x f!Reader)

Honorable mention (since it's not fics but headcanons)

Green Council receiving a hot pic from you (HotD)

TLK men's reaction on being pet named

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I always try to respond to comments! These little things are brightening up my day, so I wanna let the people know that they are my heroes hahaha

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I really think it's Transition. All in all it's a pretty dark story, a bit depressing I think (I had these intentions while writing at least).

Otherwise, I don't think I have angsty endings fics?

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

New family members for sure!! Was thinking hard what to choose, cause I think all of my happy ending fics are on the pretty same level on a happy scale, but I remember that I have this gen, non romantic baby and I love it so much ❤️‍🩹 There's a little TLK OMC for y'all

Do you write crossovers?

I wanted to say I've never done this BUT THEN!!! My Assassin's Creed (Ezio) x LOTR little headcanon!!! My beloved child!!

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No, not that I remember getting any hate on my fics

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do, tho not much and on rare occasions. I used to write a lot of smut when I was younger (a teen), then I stopped being comfortable with it for a wild few years (tho reading never made me uncomfortable lmao).

Now I started writing smut again, idk what kind? Don't really understand what does that mean lol F x M traditional sex? Pretty detailed? If so, then yes lmao

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't know 😂 Maybe, maybe not. I think rather not.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not to my knowledge, I don't think so.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

We tried with my friend a long long time ago. Didn't go well lmao It's hard and kinda stressing, cause you never know what the other person is gonna write (at least we had this SURPRISE system), so... You kinda have zero plot cause everything you want to write plot-wise can be ruined by the second person's plot lmao

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Athelnar?? Athelstan and Ragnar were my first ever OTP (quickly followed by Alfred and Uhtred). You could never beat that Athelnar shit out of my body lmao I've never written for them, but oh I do love them boys!

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Now, that's the HARSH one lmao

I think I have at least 3 OC stories that I really wanna write (2 for TLK and one for LOTR), but I'm scared that I will never actually do it. I never was good with multi chaptered stories, and these are indeed not a one shots 🥲

What are your writing strengths?

Ugh... I don't know? I think I was pretty good with dialogues and descriptions of the surroundings to build the atmosphere. But... I guess it's not for me to decide but for the readers?

What are your writing weaknesses?

I rarely finish what I've started lmao I should write everything in one go or else I'll never finish it... Or will finish it in two months even if it's a 2k words one shot

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I love them! I've only done it with my LOTR fics (with Sindarin) but I really love it. But I really love it when the language is different from the language of the settings? Like, if the story is happening in England and everyone is English, but you have two characters who can speak idk Dutch, let them have a Dutch language in their dialogue. I had a rant post about it not that long ago actually lmao You have to think about your in-universe language

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

Ahhh Bungou Stray Dogs! I love them, and I'd gladly try to write something for them. Not a character/character but reader my beloved.

And maybe Stephane Narcisse (reign) my beloved and a reader

What's your favorite fic you've written?

The blood on my hands (Eomer) and Peace (Finan) are definitely my fave ones I think. They are dark and both explore some trauma

No pressure tags: @whitedarkmoonflower @lord-aldhelm @holy3cake @gemini-mama @emilyhufflepufftlk @persephones-journey @solinarimoon @mrsalwayswrite @emmanuellececchi @bilbotargaryen @levithestripper @mrsarnasdelicious @paula-in-dreamland