#she’s like.. somewhere between short hair and medium hair

[clickbeetle]

11 year old me with a special interest in cat breeds would be so pissed at me for not knowing what breed lainey is

[ragnarockz]

*rolls window down* Hi, hello! Can I have? Wait a minute, I have written it on my notes app, the menu was so extended, hehe

Okey, so it'll be an order of:

9. Don't hold back

23."Don't be gentle with me—I like it when you're rough."

25."Fuck—uh! I love it when you touch me like that."

With Butch!Agatha, agent Vidal and a medium-sized strap, please? I can make it large for only $1? Yeah, sure, I think I can take it :D

Thank you very much, have a lovely day ✨️

*Rolls window up and drives away without paying*

Motherfucker didn't even pay! 😡🤬

ENJOY YOUR PROMPT, ASSHOLE!

I'm sure these two are at least 👀⬇ Callback to this post and, this song being the inspo for the room number!

Agnes pulled into the parking spot outside of their motel room, number 21, and parked the car. She reached over to the passenger seat, grabbing the 'have a nice day!' plastic bag with all her and Vidal's 'necessities' she had run out to grab at the nearest gas station. Most, if not all of it was junk food, a bar of soap and, a lighter since she had misplaced hers somewhere between this motel and the last. She grabbed her bag, got out of the car and locked it before pulling up to number 21.

She tried the knob, open, as Vidal said she would leave it just in case she was going to jump into the shower. Agnes didn't hear the water running. A quick turn to her right and she was face to face with Agent Vidal lounging on their bed in a emerald green satin teddy. Her hair was down; tousled as if she had just shaken it free from her claw clip. It looked soft around her, how it fell on her shoulders. She didn't look bothered by the head at all, not how Agnes looked and felt in her frizzy, messy ponytail. Vidal smiled wide when she saw Agnes back with their belongings, looking hot and sweaty from the late afternoon sun.

Agnes strode over to the bed, placing the bag down. Vidal didn't even glance at it, didn't even sneak a peek. She was too focused on Agnes; too focused on the bulge between her legs.

"What did they say?"

"Who?"

"Whoever. At the gas station. They say anything to you? Did they even notice?"

Agnes shrugged, tried to play it off cool but she was already turned on. She had left turned on. Drove to the gas station turned on. She had walked up and down the few aisles grabbing the stuff they needed and caught sight of herself in the glass of the fridge doors. Vidal had asked her to wear her toy out, to be ready for when she got back to the motel. It felt like a promise, a dirty secret. Sneaking around in a motel, just the two of them in between state lines. Time bleeding into itself as they spent another hot night together; the AC blown out in the room and the mini fridge not stocked.

"Don't hold back, Vidal...help yourself,"

Agnes whispered as she stood as close to the edge of the bed as she could so that Vidal didn't have to reach too far. Vidal reached her hand out, looped her pointer and middle fingers through the belt loop on Agnes' shorts and pulled them down with a hard tug. The deep purple silicone cock bounced free, stood erect for Vidal as if it was a true indication of Agnes' feelings. How many times did she wish she could get hard herself just so Vidal could 'see' her arousal for her? Too many times to keep track of.

Vidal's fingers wrapped around the base of the toy, grasping gently, running her nails over it. Agnes hissed, trying to soak in the possible feeling of it; what it would feel like if it was her own. She glared down at Vidal, clenching her teeth as she pulled her hips back in protest,

"Don't be gentle with me...I like it when you're rough."

It was Vidal's turn to clench her teeth, holding back a moan as she nodded her head. She got to the edge, sat over it with her legs hanging over and Agnes closed the gap. Vidal's face was basically touching Agnes' stomach; the toy almost touching her. She took the silicone back into her hand again, clutching harder this time. Her left hand found its way underneath the toy, trying to rub at Agnes' clit from behind the harness.

'Did you...ever think you'd...be getting a hand job from me? FBI Agent Vidal in a motel?"

Agnes moaned loudly, pushing her hips forward. Vidal kept the tension in her hand, deep and long strokes. She was pumping at the toy, applying pressure. She glanced down only once to see Agnes' legs shaking, trying not to buckle as she both felt the tug from the harness and the rubbing of Vidal's fingers in between her legs.

"God, Baby, you're so wet for me already...."

Vidal moaned under her breath as her fingers dared to push up inside of Agnes. She was soaked; completely turned on by everything Vidal was doing to her, for her. She prodded the two fingers that had grabbed the belt loop earlier into Agnes' pussy; embracing the warmth and wet, the arousal. Agnes moaned; trying to move even closer to Vidal, to the edge of the bed. Her right leg moved, thigh coming in towards Vidal. She was close enough to ride it but not at the right height; the mattress too high for her. Agnes moaned in frustration, her words coming out rushed, irritated,

"Fuck, Vidal...uh! I love it when you fucking touch me like that."

Vidal smirked, moving both her hands in a rhythm that only worked for her. She was staring up into Agnes' face, seeing how she wrinkled her nose, the way her top teeth bit down on her lip and created that dent into the skin. It would be rough there when they kissed but Vidal didn't mind, knew it was that way because of her.

"When I touch you like what, Daddy? When I rub your cock or when I finger your cunt?"

Agnes pulled away completely, felt the spring of the toy between her legs, Vidal's fingers leaving her. Vidal giggled, crab walking backwards onto the bed so Agnes could get on, coming in between her. She loved when she could drive right home to Agnes' arousal, her libido. It was easy to make her ruthless, to get her to hone in on her desires. She thew away any formality, any manners. She was crawling now towards Vidal, cornering her between the pillows and headboard.

They smiled at one another, teeth and all. Agnes noticed how hot the room had become, sweltering with barely any air coming in from the open window. Vidal noticed how Agnes' hand had gone in between her legs, guiding the toy towards Vidal.

The smiley face printed bag laid abandoned on the bed; the contents no longer needed for the time being. Their necessity becoming more than an indulgence in the face of their desire; their utmost need for one another instead.

[repulsiveliquidation]

Lazy Saturdays and Scrambled Eggs

Georgia Stanway x Reader BLURB

only fluff really!

10AM, Saturday Morning

The sun pours into the bedroom carelessly, the curtains forgotten about last night as the two of you stumbled into bed after a late night out on a date. Nights like these were where you could let loose since you had the weekend off with no games. The German streets were filled with bars and restaurants to visit so the two of you spent the night out away from the rest of the girls for the first time in a while.

Georgia was sound asleep on her tummy, right arm slung over your middle. She was in her sports bra and shorts, no time last night for any sort of skin care routine as you two danced till your bones were tired. You had the same thing on, right arm being used as Gee’s pillow. Clearly the two of you attempted to cuddle but your tired bodies had other plans.

You stir first, the sunlight shining right on your face and waking you. You yawn tiredly, rubbing your eyes as you try to look around and feel Gee still beside you. You smiled softly, her mouth was open a little and you could hear soft snores leave her sleeping form. You wiggled out of her hold, she grumbled but did not wake.

You washed up, taking a shower and washing your hair since you felt grimy from your night out last night. Georgia was still asleep, position the same as you left her. A small smile crept up on your face, softly padding out of the room and walking into the kitchen. You decided on making a little breakfast in bed, wanting to enjoy your time off and making it a little special for the two of you.

Pulling out eggs and bacon, finding that Georgia had grabbed some bread from the supermarket too, you got to work. Georgia liked her eggs very differently from you, she also only ate them if you made them. She liked them scrambled, somewhere in between soft and medium and she claimed only you could get it right. With the bacon in the oven, you started the coffee pot while toasting the bread, humming along to the turntable playing your favorite album in the living room. Georgia was a heavy sleeper so you knew the noise wouldn’t wake her.

Making the plates, you gave Marlo a little bit of bacon with a smile. You quietly told him, “Don’t tell mummy okay darling? It’ll be our little secret, hm?” He trotted off a happy little boy with his treat. You slid the door open and set the food on the table. Georgia was still asleep, this time on your side of the bed with her head squished against the bed cutely. You climb back into bed and rub her back, kissing her hair softly.

“Good morning, baby. It’s nearly noon darling, time to get up.” You say softly into her ear, kissing her face all over. She lets out a low rumble, mumbling into your thigh which she had pressed her face into. “You’re lying. You left me, it’s not a good morning.” You chuckle and smack her shoulder lightly, seeing her smile as she opened her eyes and turned onto her back. “Hi you.” You say, kissing her lips softly. She kisses back, sighing softly and pulling away. Her eyes stare deep into yours, hands laced in yours softly. “I’ve made breakfast.” You say simply, getting out of bed to retrieve it as she sits up and rubs her eyes. “Oh darling, you didn’t need to.” She begins to argue but you shush her and put the tray in front of her. “I wanted to; we’ve had a busy couple of weeks so I thought we could enjoy some domesticity.” You say, sipping your coffee. It was still warm, the eggs just barely steaming and bacon still crispy. She immediately digs in, noticing her favorite eggs in front of her. You eat with her, the room filled with comfortable silence and the familiar smell of bacon grease.

It's all you could want on a lazy Saturday.  

4PM, Saturday Afternoon

“You’re CHEATING, Stanway!” you yell, grabbing the controller away from her meddling fingers. You both were playing FIFA and Georgia was cheating. She flung her leg at you and tried to mess with your fingers when you were concentrating on beating her ass. You were leading 3-1 and she was not happy.

“I will win, you watch!” she yelled back, almost sitting on you in an attempt to get you to drop your controller but she failed. Your iron grip determined to ride out the last minutes of the game, as your player raced down her half expertly maneuvering around hers.

“GOAL!!!!” You yell as the final whistle gets called, your character shooting a stunner into the top corner just as the timer came to an end. She threw her controller on the couch and huffed, arms crossed and pout on her lips. You celebrated a little more, laughing at her antics. Soon you gave up, sitting beside her and kissing her cheek.

“I’m mad at ya, go away.” She told you, not looking at your grinning face.

“Oh Gee, you’ve beat me hundreds of times. Let me enjoy this you sore loser.” You laughed at her, punching her arm slightly as you see a little smile lift in the corner of her lips which she tries hard to suppress. It just makes you grin harder, leaning in and kissing her nose. She pushes you away, trying to conceal her joy. Finally, she grabs you, pinning you down on the couch and kisses you hard. You kiss her back, tongue darting out and swiping across her bottom lip. She whines a little and you make out for a while.

She grins, pulling away. “I hate you, Y/L/N.”

“Oh please, you could never Stanway.”

[kylo-wrecked]

Name: Ben.

Nickname(s): Occasionally, a friend, a foe, or a love interest will call him Benji or Benny. Obviously, all Bens are united in their hatred of this.

Relationship Status: Verse dependent. Modern!Ben's articulated the words 'I love you' to but one other.

Gender: Cis male.

Romantic Orientation: Exploring or unsure.

Preferred Pet Names: Music!Ben will call you 'baby' if he hates you.

Opinion on True Love: All Bens believe true love exists... but maybe not for hims.

Opinion on Love at First Sight: Music!Ben thinks he's fallen in love at first sight many, many times. Modern!Ben is somehow more suspicious. Ex!Con Ben has never looked another person in the eye (Jk, he's not a believer) and Smuggler!Ben...

How ‘Romantic’ Are They?: He's unpracticed, not unromantic.

Edited for E.: Music!Ben can charm the pants off anyone but I still don’t think that makes him a ‘romantic.’

Ideal Physical Traits: This one is tricky because mun struggles to understand what makes one physical trait more desirable than another :') but we shall try.

Based on copious evidence, mun believes Bens generally prefer longer hair for [women/femmes], short to medium curls for [men/mascs], notable thighs (strong, long, or thick), or other limbs and extremities (Smuggler!Ben). Striking eyes, chest hair for [men/mascs], a nice smile, a brazen or unique laugh (for Music!Ben especially, laughter is physical). Scars and other proof of life.

Because he's 6'4", he prefers his partners tall, but because he's 6'4", he invariably accepts smol.

Ideal Personality Traits: If he likes you, be yourself. All of yourself, preferably, because he's greedy.

All Bens find humility attractive in a person. Music!Ben covets meanness and whatever he interprets as power today. Let's not think about tomorrow.

Unattractive Physical Traits: We're struggling again, and that's okay.

Redubbing this part 'least desired observable characteristics.'

Shaved or bleached brows, dreads on heads where they don't belong, notable cosmetic alterations (Music!Ben specific), literal body language (Smuggler!Ben specific), worm physique (Smuggler!Ben specific), problem skin.

Unfortunately, Music!Ben can veer on fat-phobic (he's certainly weight-conscious himself) and Modern!Ben thinks women should shave their legs for him or something ridiculous like that. Not that he'd ever say it. (Dirty fingernails are fine by him, though. The more, the merrier.)

Unattractive Personality Traits: ☝️ Do not lie to him.

Ideal Date: bullets? Bullets.

Modern!Ben: movie/museum and dinner, in that order, because post-movie/museum-going conversations reveal much about a person.

Music!Ben: goes from 1 to 111. He's not dating you; he met you someplace awful and will never leave you alone again. Hint: He's never the dumper, always the dumped.

Ex-Con!Ben: Somewhere quiet, outdoors, away from the public eye. Said date must make it clear to Ben that he's on a date, or else he'll be utterly lost.

Smuggler!Ben: kidnapped Poe Dameron once—and it was awesome.

Do They Have a Type?: Bens are often attracted to sensitive, mysterious persons... or people who 'yell' at hims (Music!Ben, Smuggler!Ben).

Average Relationship Length: Six inches. One to two years.

Preferred Non-Sexual Intimacy: Smush-

Commitment Level: Fluctuates. Bens are serious about those they care for, but.

Ah, the various buts.

Opinion of Public Affection:

Modern!Ben: Outlook good/You may rely on it.

Music!Ben: Don't count on it/My sources say no.

Ex-Con!Ben: ???/Ask again later.

Smuggler!Ben: *loudly in the cantina* —we're NOT married?!

Past Relationships?:

Modern!Ben: Has entered two serious relationships. The first was young and short-lived. The second ended in California. She cheated on him, and he has never recovered.

Music!Ben: Sadly. And before then, a fling with Rey, which he fucked up beautifully. And before, after, and somewhere in between, a thing with Armitage (verse dependent). It wasn't a romance, but it was certainly something.

Ex-Con!Ben: Nope.

Smuggler!Ben: Verse dependent but primarily occupied with and committed to Not Dying Between Now and Centaxday.

tagged by:// @godresembled <3 thank you, fren, for the much-needed distraction during my moving frenzy.

tagging:// anymun who hasn't already done this meme and wants to share~

singling out, @valkxrie, @debelltio, @itmeanspeace, @themckaytriarchy, @ofthestcrs (muse of choice), @certifiably-i (muse of choice), @ifyoucatchacriminal (muse of choice). @etoilebleu (muse of choice eris).

[be-jargogled]

EOM AU Part 3

So! Finally it's time to describe the EOM crew! I hope this is coherent enough, and don't expect realistic eye colors because if you think I'm going to deprive marius of red eyes you're wrong

Jericho: In this au Jericho is tall and skinny, not completely malnourished persay, but you could see his ribs if he removed his shirt. Jericho in this au is slightly tan, not exactly baby faced but has the quality of someone you have to double take for if they're an adult or not. He has so many scars on his body and always seems to have at least one bruise at any given time. I'd say that Jericho's hair is messy and matted, somewhere between a mullet and a wolf cut, and is an almost brown but technically still dirty blonde. His eyes are between brown and hazel. He stands at about 6'3 and is currently 22.

Lethica: One of the more humanoid ones so not many changes: she is a pale caramel color, like she has melanin but doesn't go outside much. Otherwise I'd say she looks similar to how she does in canon. Stands at 5'10 and is 23.

Farryn: Once again, one of the more humanoid ones, so not much change. Her eyes are more of a brown so dark they look black, and she unfortunately loses her satyrn features, but otherwise not much changes. Stands at 4'11 and is 22.

Yorgrim: I thought about this one a little, I'd place him at the darker side of coffee brown in terms of skin tone. He has messy, short, black hair and green eyes too. Still very muscular and still walks with a hunch, not a lot of change here. Stands at 6'5 and is 23.

Marius: It's hard to describe him as anything but what he looks like in canon, in fact i'd say he looks exactly as he does in canon but with less scars and less muscle as this Marius has not studied the blade. Stands at 6'0 and is 23.

Briggsy: Finally, a challenge, where do I start with our dear captain. He's short and stocky, paler than most of the tropics people, but has a defining honey brown glaze to his skin if that makes sense. He isn't fat by any means, but compared to the rest of the cast he has less defined muscle even if he's still strong and fast, more of an oval or rectangle than a trapezoid. He has a lot of thin scars on his skin from scratching. Taking inspiration from "Midnight Crew" by Lilinbee, Briggsy here has a skin condition, only this time its a severe form of eczema. Briggsy has medium length dark brown hair that he keeps in a low ponytail, in general I'd describe him as a hairy man, his chest, his arms, his legs, he just kinda lets it do what it wants, plus it kinda hides the scars and itchy rashes sometimes. After a long debate I'm giving him blue eyes. Stands at 5'4 and is 22.

Tell me if I'm unclear or if I forgot anything, hope you enjoy my ramblings nonetheless. Feel free to theorize about why our campers are here for at Camp Druskenvald, because I am a horrible person and have added more trauma to their stories than needed probably lmao

[corner-stories]

before the storm, after the flood (act 2)

Jean Kirschtein. Mikasa Ackerman. Post-Canon. Gardening. Borrowed Sweaters. Games of Chess. Collarbone Kisses. 19449 words. (ao3.) || (act 1.) || (act 3.) || (epilogue.)

Now.

The Second Walk.

As to be expected, the trek to Jean's cottage is accompanied by a view of the ocean, the dirt underneath her boots, and a breeze that plays with the ends of her hair. The walk feels longer this time, a feeling that is not helped by the sack currently slung over her shoulder. 

It’s noon when she arrives at his little homestead. She is greeted by the same charmingly quaint cottage painted a lighter shade of grey, the same arid garden beds, and the same coastal sun warming the land. 

Adjusting her hat to get a better view of the building, Mikasa stops in front of the porch and tries to spot the owner through the windows. When she doesn’t see a soul within the empty house, she adjusts the sack over her shoulder so that she's holding it by her side and starts making her way to the barn at the back. 

The door of Jean's shack-turned-studio is propped open with a rock. As Mikasa gets close she spots a familiar furry blob resting inside the workspace, a creature lying on his back in a block of sunlight.

Soon Hugo opens his eyes and spots her on the grass. With haste he flops over and gets onto his four legs, shaking briefly before dashing out of the barn and onto the grass. His entire backside is wagging in a classic expression of unbridled canine joy, letting out high-pitched squeals of absolute delight as he nearly jumps up on her. The same beady brown eyes and pointy ears greet her like an old friend. Unable to hide her own smile, Mikasa sets her sack on the ground and kneels down to acknowledge the dog. 

Hugo squeaks like the goofball he is and licks her face. In response, Mikasa showers him with all the pets and hugs that he deserves, happily running her hands through his short, dark brown fur. 

“Yes, I missed you, too.”

After a minute of playing with the dog, Mikasa grabs the goods she had hauled all the way from the market and heads into Jean's studio.

The building itself is somewhere in between a shack by the sea and a small barn. It's taller than she last remembers, though saying it has a second storey would be generous. She guesses that like the cottage, the place had been halfway built before Jean came along and finished the job, turning the shambles of a building into a space where he could paint to his heart’s content. The wood doesn't look as new as the material of his actual home, but it seems just as sturdy. 

As Mikasa steps in she realizes that she's never been in a painter's workspace before. The place meets her expectations of being some flavour of mess, with a paint-splattered workbench on her left and a collection of dirty aprons and rags hung to her right. Organized on a shelf are the tools of Jean's trade — wooden pallets that have yet to be cleaned, glass jars that have been rendered milky grey now holding clean brushes of every size, and various tubes of watercolour paint — some are fresh and unopened while others have been squeezed and compressed to utilize every last drop. 

Despite the signs of life in every part of the studio, Mikasa has yet to find the artist himself. She can’t imagine that Jean simply left the door open and left Hugo alone in his workspace. 

She looks around until she spots a canvas set up on an easel — his most current project, she guesses. On it is a mix of greens, blues, and yellows that create the image of a vibrant grass field underneath an endless sky. It's unfinished, but as she steps closer she spots a small reference photograph on the closest table, a print placed on top a stack of many. She steps closer to get a better look at the picture. On the new medium is a field of flowers on a sunny day and a castle in the distance far enough to blend with the clouds in the sky.  

As she picks up the photograph, she notes that it's not a sight that she can recognize, so she assumes that it exists off the Island. She wonders what kind of people he manages to get commissions from and regrets not asking him more about his craft last night. 

Soon Mikasa calls into the barn — 

“Jean?” 

“Huh?” 

The voice comes from above. She turns around and looks up, spotting an area of the barn that’s elevated on the support beams, a structure that would usually hold bales of hay had the building been used for its original purpose. But instead of various blocks of dried straw, the loft now holds a variety of canvases, some are fresh and untouched while others are finished works left out to dry.

Napping on the floor of the loft is the artist himself. A meter or two above her, Jean is on his back and looking upwards, his eyes closed as he rubs his tired face. He looks exhausted despite the day being relatively young, perhaps a secondary effect of the work he does. He appears the same to how she left him yesterday — the same head of unkempt shoulder-length hair, the same battered trousers and boots, but his old sweater having been swapped for an even older collared shirt. 

He takes a breath before sitting up and getting into a position where his legs dangle off the edge of the structure. Once his eyes settle on her, she can see the same kind of surprise he showed the day before, this time with a lot less gut-wrenching shock. 

But still, everything in the way he stares implies that he didn’t expect to see her again. 

“Welcome back, I guess?” Jean says, unsure of what to make about his old friend coming all this way again. “I thought you left.” 

“I missed my train,” Mikasa explains. 

He raises an eyebrow. “You did?”

“Well, I didn’t miss it exactly. I just… I didn’t go.” 

“Oh...” Hunched forward, Jean keeps his hands clasped together on his lap, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “...and why’d you do that?” 

Mikasa holds up the burlap sack and pulls out a single, tiny spud. “I got these for you.” 

Jean begins to look even more perplexed. “You got me… potatoes?” 

“They’re for your garden.” 

“I thought you said it was shit.” 

“I did, but…” She takes a breath, slips the potato back in the sack, and tries to fight the wave of embarrassment causing her chest to tighten. “...you could plant these there. Make it less shit.”

“Oh, uh… yeah, that’s a good idea.” His hand goes to his hair again, a habit of his that she’s beginning to get used to.

Jean looks behind him to the various paintings he’s set up to dry, then slips off the loft. 

The drop is short, his well-worn boots hitting the studio floor with a distinctive thump. Undeterred by her presence, he walks past her and goes to his largest workbench, where he gathers up the stack of photographs she had briefly rifled through. As she watches him separate his main reference photo from the bundle, Mikasa swears she sees the view at Eren’s hill in the pile. 

Jean crosses the space and puts the remaining stack on his shelf. “I’m a little busy though.”

Mikasa doesn’t hesitate to pull the sack back over her shoulder. “It’s okay, I’ll do it.”

She walks out of his little workshop and steps onto the grass. A beat passes before she hears Jean say — 

“...well, that’s awfully nice of you.”

Her eyes fall upon the sight of the sea, once more taking in the way the beach looks under the sky — it’s only now when she realizes that she had missed it. As to be expected, Hugo is rolling around in the grass, but the second he sees her he scrambles onto his legs and dashes up to her. She scratches the spot between his ears before hearing the sound of whistling behind her. 

“Hugo! Here, Buddy!”

With haste the dog rushes back to his master. When Mikasa turns around she sees Jean having stepped out of his workshop. On the grass in front of his studio he kneels to greet Hugo, running his hands through his dog’s fur before glancing up towards his visitor. The look of confusion and hesitation on his face seems to have dissipated. Now he appears more amused by her actions than anything else. He gives a friendly smile, a look that she returns. 

But as accepting as Jean appears to be, she’s compelled to ask — 

“You’re okay with this, right? Because if not I can leave and I can-”

Jean cuts her off. “It’s fine, Mikasa. Really.” He stands and scratches his head, squinting slightly in the sunlight. “I’m just uh… surprised you came back.”

Mikasa lets out a stiff chuckle. “I am, too, actually.”

Before she can say anything else she turns around and begins heading to the front of the cottage. Despite the familiar sights, sounds, and scents of Jean’s homestead filling her senses, she swears that she can hear him speak amongst the noise. 

“It’s alright, Boy,” he tells Hugo. “She’s just sticking around.” 

For a reason she doesn’t even know, his words make the smile on her face just a little bit wider. 

…

…

…

Borrowing.

Jean gives Mikasa the tools to help her work, a hoe and shovel from the corner of his workshop, a bucket that’s seen better days, and a rusted spade that looks older than both of them combined. He even offers a pair of trousers from his laundry line that can stand to get dirty, which she accepts without hesitation. Though in hindsight she wishes she thought of something like that herself. The notion reminds her that some parts of her plan had not been entirely thought out.

Nonetheless, she changes from her skirt to his clothes in his cottage. When she emerges onto the porch and pulls the leather suspenders over her shoulders, she expects Jean to have disappeared into his workshop for the rest of the day. To surprise she finds him on the grass near the front of the cottage. 

Jean is playing with Hugo by a tree in front of his home. He waves a stick in front of his dog’s face, then with all his might he throws it as far as he can and watches his faithful companion rush into the grass to retrieve it. 

Jean turns her way and sees her adjusting her hair. As she can no longer wear it in a ponytail, she takes the ribbon off her sunhat and wears it like a headband to keep the strands out of her face. As she fastens the line of silk, she catches Jean’s eye and realizes that she’s starting to get used to the way he looks at her — whether he be slightly bewildered to see her again or elated that she’s here. 

Despite her growing comfort with being near him again, she can't ignore the occasional nervous pang that fills her chest, a sensation that had plagued her for most of last night’s dinner. When it's not tempered by a jar of wine or the distraction of Hugo causing a mess, it’s hard to deny how being in his presence causes something to grasp her from within.

She’s not sure where it comes from or why the feelings are so sporadic. Is it because he's changed over the years? Or has she? Has enough time passed that the Mikasa Ackerman standing in front of him now is no longer the one from his memories? 

Last night Mikasa had learned that she and Jean were not as far apart as she thought, despite the five years between now and then. Dinner had reminded her that he's still the man who she once knew, even with the physical changes. He still holds himself with a distinct willingness to care, a gentleness he obfuscates with his snark, a strength that can build houses and a sensitivity that paints masterpieces.

And he had even forgiven her for everything, having bestowed her a sense of absolution even if she doesn’t think she deserves it. Beyond his words, he delivers it through things like the casualness in how he speaks to her now, the fondness in his eyes, and even his willingness to be around her again.

Even the fleeting feeling that she's wasting her time is halted when she glances across the grass to see Jean looking at her so tenderly, a look that she can recall seeing across the dinner table now under a new light. Suddenly, her thoughts that maybe he’d prefer it if she left him alone for the rest of time are nowhere to be found. 

Now more assured, Mikasa grabs one of the tools Jean had given her — the shovel — and steps off the porch. By that time Hugo has returned to his master's side with a stick in his jaws, which Jean takes before launching back towards the field. 

After Hugo runs off, the affection in Jean’s eyes remains as he looks her way, something that makes Mikasa wonder why she had been riddled with doubts in the first place. 

Soon Jean leaves Hugo with her and heads back into his studio, allowing Mikasa to finally get to work. 

The beds of dirt prove to be as dry as a desert on the hottest day of the year. As she sifts through the soil little clouds of dust get thrown in the air. Even if she knows how to remedy the situation, she laments not being even more prepared to tackle the main problem. Then again, it's not like she had a pack mule to haul supplies all the way from town. 

Hugo proves to be good company as she performs the chore. As he’s more suited to the role of a housepet than of a war dog, the canine opts to rest in a beam of sunlight on the porch while she works, something she absolutely does not mind. Every few minutes, Mikasa will allow herself a moment to admire the loaf napping in the sun.

To fix the issue of the arid dirt, Mikasa digs in the grass far away from the beach and gathers some soil with a bit more life. She takes it to the beds one bucket at a time, a time-consuming act that covers the once-clean trousers that Jean had lent in dirt. As she takes her time building a pile by the garden bed, her thoughts are occupied with whether she can cobble together a wheelbarrow from the junk inside of Jean’s workshop.

At one point of the task she’s tired, rubbing sweat off her forehead, and lamenting how she’s not as strong as she used to be. Barely a decade ago she had lived a life that required her to be at her peak and never anything less. Now she's here and stewing in the fact that even shifts at the Orphanage don't push her this hard.

Before she can get too wrapped up in her thoughts, she sees Jean stepping out of his studio. As he arrives at the front of his cottage she notices the newer bits of paint on his forearms, fingers, and shirt. There's even a little bit stuck in his hair. He wipes his hands with a rag as he approaches her, looking slightly more exhausted than before, but brightening up once he’s in her presence. 

Mikasa is just beginning to dig at the beds as he gets close to her. 

“You need a bath,” she tells him in place of a proper greeting. 

Jean looks her up and down, something impudent coming to his eyes, then reaches towards her. 

His movements are slow yet her heart skips a beat as his hand approaches her face. In another life she would have reacted to such a motion with her fist — but in this one she simply lets Jean’s knuckles caress her cheek and wonders if they’ve been in this position before. 

Jean's hand hovers near her face before pulling back to show her a leaf pinched between his fingers. 

“You’re one to talk,” he says with his own kind of snark.

Her beating heart continues to race. She prays he doesn’t notice the heat on her face as she rakes her fingers through her hair. 

“Thanks,” she says when the only thing she finds in her bob is a very tiny twig. 

“Want some coffee?” Jean quickly asks, a distraction she’s secretly thankful for. “I’m making.”

“Coffee sounds nice,” she accepts as she turns and refocuses on the garden beds. Looking away from him seems to be the only thing to quell the latest instance of her chest feeling restless and tight. “Thank you.”

…

…

…

Then. 

In The Garden.

Every day the Ambassadors are given some kind of respite between peace talks. Most of the time it involves coffee in one of the many dining halls or tea in one of the many sitting rooms, but today fares differently. Instead of enjoying food and drink within the confines of the building, the group are given the privilege to stretch their legs and escape the four walls, something Jean thinks is motivated by the dreadful storm that had plagued Mitras last night. 

Free from the tie around his neck, he sits against a tree in Historia’s garden, admiring just how quickly her housestaff managed to clear the branches and debris. Lying on the grass next to him is Klaus, a dog with black and white fur that the Queen has lovingly employed as a house pet and farm dog. The canine rests under a ray of sunlight, allowing the perfect angle for Jean to balance his sketchbook on his knee and draw Klaus with a stick of charcoal. 

Scattered across the yard are the rest of his comrades. Sitting at a table are Reiner and Pieck, the latter having brought her chess set out for a rematch under the sun. At a bench by a bed of roses are Connie and Historia, who chat like old comrades instead of like a Queen and a royal subject. Underneath the shade of a different tree is Annie, who enjoys a glass of lemonade as Armin rests his head on her lap. Even the de facto leader of the Ambassadors needs time to nap as his lover caresses his hair. 

As Jean shades the contrast in Klaus’s fur, he glances up at the yard to see the heir to the Paradisian throne treating the royal gardens like her personal playground. Princess Maria Valeria Constantina Frieda — or Val, as her mother insists she be called — kicks leather a ball across the grass and cries out in joy as it rolls to her playmate. Mikasa holds a handful of her skirt as she passes the ball back with a lot less force. 

Mikasa looks to be in her element in the presence of a child, easily forgetting the worry of last night and embracing something more bright. Whether the smile on her pretty face be a front for the little Val or a reflection of her true feelings, Jean doesn’t know. What does know is how beautiful the sight of Mikasa playing with the Princess is, a memory he will forever associate with the presence of a bright, blue, endless sky. 

Jean watches Val kick the ball towards the tree that shelters the Ambassador’s resident tiny blondes. It hits Armin’s leg and startles him awake. To spare the Princess the sight of an annoyed Annie and a groggy Armin, Mikasa gestures for Val to stay put and rushes off to grab the ball. 

As Mikasa heads to the other tree, the Princess turns around and runs to Jean. He expects her to kneel in the grass and play with her royal dog, but instead she remains standing and tugs at his sleeve. 

“Up! Up!” Val chirps. "Horsey!"

Jean chuckles but doesn’t resist. “Again, Your Highness?”

Val nods so fast that the ribbon in her golden hair almost goes undone. “Yes! Yes!” 

In no position to resist a royal request, Jean heeds to her commands and stands. For very good reason he towers over the three-year-old. Leaning down, he takes little Val into his arms and lifts her onto him so she is sitting on her shoulders, her stubby feet hanging over his torso. Then like a powerful steed, Jean dashes across the garden with long-legged strides, happily parading the Princess around like it’s his only purpose in the world. 

Jean has done this with the Princess before, as Historia was keen on letting her old comrades socialize with her daughter. Even though each and every one of them had a chance to lift the toddler, it seemed that Val had taken a liking to him the most. For what reason he doesn’t know, but in his years of life Jean has learned that some things in the world just cannot be understood. At the very least he knows that there’s something utterly heart-melting about the way Val looks at him, like a newborn puppy finally laying eyes on its loved ones. That in itself is enough to make him adhere to her every whim. 

As he makes his rounds across the garden, Jean hears laughter filling the air. In the corner of his eye he can spot Pieck politely giggling at him after devastating Reiner in another round of chess. Even Queen Historia stops her conversation with Connie to chuckle at Jean being her daughter’s preferred horse. 

When he finally stops to catch his breath, Jean is in front of the tree providing shade for Armin, Annie, and Mikasa. Still beaming brightly, Princess Val hangs onto Jean by his hair and waves to the trio with her free hand. Despite the tiny fingers clutching at him, Jean can’t hide his grin as he watches his friend’s reactions. Armin goes from disoriented to delighted in the span of a second, Annie hums, and the already serene expression on Mikasa’s face gets just a bit prettier. 

Jean’s eyes linger on her a little longer than the others. To say that the sight of it all doesn’t make his heart race would be a complete lie. 

…

…

…

Sketches of the Past.

At night Mikasa’s quarters are far more quiet. By candlelight Jean sits on the side of the mattress that he slept on last night, noticing how different the room feels when the roof is not being pelted by rain. 

Mikasa sits with her back against the headboard and seems far less stressed than she did before. Having brought over his sketchbook as a conversation starter, Jean keeps his eyes on her as she slowly observes each page. As she looks over the most recent creation — that being of Klaus in the garden — he tries to gauge her reaction to his work, but as to be expected her eyes are still as steely as ever. 

He doesn’t often show his art to people, and when he does it’s usually to ask the subjects of his drawing if he got their good side. There’s a whole section near the start of his sketchbook filled with Connie from different angles, as a year ago the Ambassadors boarded a ship for a week-long journey and Jean had no other way to pass the time. 

Even when he’s not being shuffled around like a piece of cargo, sketching is Jean’s preferred way to stay busy. His drawings may never be as detailed as Armin’s fancy photographs, but there’s something about the sensation of marking a medium that keeps him sane, a calmness that comes with focusing on something in front of him and trying to replicate it on a page. The feeling of charcoal between his fingers will always trump that of a camera, no matter how much Armin raves about the clicky-ness of the shutter button or the crispness of the lens.

After admiring the sketch of Klaus for long enough, Mikasa flips the page and arrives at a drawing of a mountain — a large, snow-capped peak underneath a cloudless sky. Jean notices her eyes widening very slightly, as well as the subtle tilt of her head as she takes the image in. 

“Where is this?” 

“Hizuru.” 

Mikasa meets his gaze. Immediately, he can sense the unease behind her dark eyes.

“... right.” She takes a moment to breathe and calm herself. “Kiyomi may have said something about you guys heading there.” 

“Yeah.” Jean nods his head, mindlessly rubbing his feet against the silken sheets of the bed. “It was a while ago.”

“What was it like?”

“It was…”

Jean’s not sure where to start. A lot of the places he’s visited over the years begin to look the same, the sight of gargantuan footprints where civilization used to be blending into one. Camps of people still working together to tend to the survivors of the Rumbling, passing out any available food and providing shelter to those who need it. He remembers the sky above burning so bright and blue as a sinking feeling permeated his heart, a heavy reminder of how many lives were lost on the ground below his feet. A similar restlessness inflicts him during negotiations for peace, where the side of him that knows unity is worth fighting for is at war with the part of him that fears it's all for naught. 

When he looks at Mikasa she’s still anticipating his answer, so Jean clenches his fist and tries to recall anything about Hizuru that doesn’t remind him of the reality he lives in.

He manages to remember the tree he sat at when he had some time to sketch, when he rested against the trunk and drew the mountain depicted on the page in front of her. At the moment of drawing the world around him felt calm, and at that time of year in Hizuru the trees that remained were slowly sprinkling small, pink petals from their branches. Jean can remember said petals collecting in both his hair, clothes, and the pages of his sketchbook, and how he was still dusting them off his shoes a week after leaving the land. 

“...beautiful,” Jean soon tells her. He unclenches his fist and his hand goes to the sheets again, where he feels the material between his thumb and forefinger. “What’s left, at least.” 

Sensing the dreary look now creeping back to Mikasa’s face, Jean tries to change the subject in any way he can.

“Do you talk to Kiyomi often?” he tries.

“Sometimes.” 

“About what?”

“Usually about how I should visit Hizuru,” Mikasa answers. “And I always tell her that I have work.” She sighs, exasperated. “I don’t know why she keeps trying.”

With the weight of the initial subject matter off his shoulders, Jean chuckles.

“I think that’s why Kiyomi says that you should visit ,” he teases. He's tempted to nudge her playfully like he does with Connie and Armin, but decides against it. “I’m sure Queen Historia could get you some vacation time if you ask.” 

Mikasa looks to be giving it a second's thought before internally deeming it a bad idea. “I guess,” she says before turning the page. 

The next drawing she sees is one that makes Jean grin. Etched in lines of ink and coloured pencil is another dog, one with short yellow fur, a pair of pointed ears, a conical snout, and big beady eyes. He can't remember the exact name of the breed, but the elderly man who owned the dog said that it was native to Hizuru and a symbol of national pride. 

“Check it out,” he tells her. 

He can recall everything from the way the canine ran up to him as he sketched by the tree, to the way the owner rushed over before apologizing profusely. Apparently, after living in one of the survivor camps for so long the dog was dying to greet any visitors, a notion that apparently translated to trying to piss on said visitor’s shoe. 

“That’s Yuzu,” Jean explains, the fondness evident in his voice. “He was a little shit, but he was fun.”

Mikasa brightens up considerably and Jean’s heart soars. 

“I can tell,” she replies, amused. 

She turns the page to find another filled with a variety of doodles, most of which are depicting Yuzu’s facial expressions — ranging from soft and appeased to energetic and excited. 

“You really like dogs, don't you?” Mikasa remarks. 

“They’re nice to be around,” Jean answers, shrugging. “Sometimes more than humans.” 

“Ever thought of getting one?”

As appealing as it would be to have a constant companion by his side, the logistics of the idea makes Jean sigh. 

“I would if I didn’t have to travel so much,” he admits. “But that's not gonna stop anytime soon.”

He's always had a soft spot for dog. Even as a child, Jean remembers being drawn to the strays that roamed the streets of Trost. His mother always advised him against it, but more than once he snuck out to feed bits of bread and cheese to a mutt known to frequent the district's alleyways. The feeling of said mutt happily eating from his palm was worth the inevitable lecture from his mother. 

His little dream had slipped his mind once his life became more chaotic, and not just because Jean had become witness to canines bred to maim and mar and nothing else.

The concept of actually owning a pet had only re-entered his mind more recently, like when he lovingly drew little Yuzu into his book or spent the afternoon sketching a sunbathing Klaus. 

“I could see you with a dog,” Mikasa admits, clearly in approval of the idea. 

Jean smirks. “A big ol’ strong one?”

There is a beat before Mikasa shakes her head. “No… a tiny one. The kind that’s about…” She holds her hands in a way that resembles how one would hold a loaf of bread. “...this big? Maybe a fluffy one.”

Jean scoffs while Mikasa looks serious enough to tell him that she's not joking. He can picture it somewhat, attending peace talks with a little puffball in his arms or trailing after his feet. 

“I’ll think about it,” he decides then and there. 

It’s certainly not practical in his current position, but what does he gain from acting like it could never happen? Maybe for his own sake he could benefit from acknowledging that his life as an Ambassador, an existence distinguished by the tie around his neck and being shuffled around to every corner of the globe, won’t last forever. Even if he doesn’t know how it will end or where he’ll be when it does, what he does know is that he’ll have a whole life to live when everything is said and done. 

The evening doesn’t carry on for much longer before Jean realizes that he's done his job. The thing he had set out to do — that being to check on an old friend and ensure that she won’t be haunted by anything tonight — had been completed. So like a gentleman he slips off his side of the mattress.

“I think we should call it a night,” he tells her. Now standing, he adjusts the unbuttoned shirt currently hanging from his torso.

Although something falters in her once placid face, Mikasa manages a nod. “Right, we should.” 

She closes his sketchbook and hands it over to him, but Jean raises his hand up to refuse. 

“You can hold onto that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” A casualness remains in his voice. “You can keep looking. Just give it back to me in the morning, sound good?” 

Once more Mikasa nods and Jean returns the gesture back at her. He walks to her bedroom door, but looks over his shoulder to keep his eye on her for just a second longer. 

“See you in the morning.” 

Mikasa connects her gaze to his, holding a stronger sense of composure than she did not too long ago. 

“See you, Jean.”

Jean leaves her quarters and shuts the door behind him. It’s only when he’s out of sight does he realize how tired he is. With a yawn he walks barefoot across the hallway, a space illuminated by nothing but the moonlight from the window.

He enters his room as the exhaustion of the day finally catches up to him. Rubbing his tired eyes, he promptly discards his shirt and slips under the sheets, utterly lacking the energy to do anything else. Despite being unused to material this plush, the smoothness of the silk against his bare chest is suddenly able to lull him to sleep. He closes his eyes and rests his face against the pillow, sighing in relief as he sinks into the mattress. Before he knows it slumber washes over him like high tide. 

An hour later Jean hears a doorknob turning. Dazed and confused, he opens his eyes and looks in the direction of the sound. At this time of night the moonlight has gotten dimmer, and thus he can barely make out the sight of the door opening. The hinges creak as a familiar shape in a white nightgown slips into his room. She moves like a ghost in the dark as she closes his door and creeps towards his bed.

Jean goes still, his heart feeling tight in his chest. The sight of Mikasa traversing the floor of his quarters is soon followed by the feeling of her weight settling onto the other side of the mattress. Like the night before she faces away from him, bundled comfortably in the sheets. There’s only a little space between them, something that is occupied by sheets and blankets. He’s expecting her to say something, anything to make the circumstances a little more clear, but as he lies on the mattress with his eyes affixed to her nothing comes. The silence of the room drones on and on. 

For his own sanity and comfort, Jean pulls the pillow out from underneath his head and places it between him and Mikasa. He hopes it will make her more comfortable, even if the nerves he’s looking to soothe are his own. 

He’s tempted to speak up, to say something while he still can. But as the moments pass Jean’s eyelids begin to grow heavy. He breathes in and out, getting used to the unfamiliar sleeping position before greeting slumber once more. 

…

…

…

In the morning Mikasa is gone, just like before, but unlike last time his heart feels less heavy as he embraces the day.

…

…

…

Now.

Prolonged Interlude.

Jean makes enough coffee for the both of them and serves it in ceramic mugs instead of his metal teacups. Just like before they sit on his front stoop so she can admire the view as the heat off the drink warms her fingers. 

It’s only now when Mikasa realizes how tired she is. The chore had taken more out of her than she expected and she wonders if it’s because she lacks the proper tools to make things more efficient or if she’s no longer the soldier she once was. A distinct sense of ache stings her joints as she nurses her coffee.

While she rests Jean sits beside her, his back against one of the porch's supporting beams as he takes a break from painting. Hugo places his head on his master’s lap, happily accepting between-the-ear scratches as Jean talks about whatever’s on his mind. He ends up telling her the story of how he had gotten the furball in the first place, speaking so much that his own drink remains next to him, forgotten.

Two and a half years ago he was in the midst of finishing the half-built cottage just up the coast. During a visit to town to pick up an order of reasonably-priced lumber, he had retreated to the local watering hole to both rest and refuel. It was under the tavern lights that Jean overheard a conversation between Seb the Barkeep and a local man who made his living by breeding dogs. 

Mere smalltalk between a Painter and a Breeder led to Jean learning of the man’s current dilemma. One of the dogs being trained for military work was faltering in the curriculum, proving to be far too docile for what was expected of the breed. The canine was barely a year old, but the Breeder already feared that it was not reaching the standards that the New Eldian Army imposed on their war dogs. 

Despite being saddled with a medley of responsibilities, Jean — or rather, Jehan — asked the Breeder if he could meet the problem dog. 

One thing led to another and now Hugo lives a quiet life by the sea, the biggest problem he’ll ever face being whether he’ll nap in the grass or in the lap of his beloved human. 

The story makes Mikasa smile just before she takes the first sips of her coffee. She catches sight of Jean scratching Hugo between the ears, the fondness in his hazel eyes looking different in this proximity. The loving way he looks at his napping companion makes her heart feel warm, like a proud father to his child. There’s something assuring in knowing that Jean isn’t alone as he lives his new life — that of an isolated existence so far from what she ever thought he wanted. At least when he wakes up in the morning, pre-destined to a fate of being elbow deep in watercolour paint, he has someone to keep him company. 

Jean looks up and the subtle upturn of his lips says it all. At this point she’s seen that look a dozen times last night, when the biggest thing between them was a dinner of seared scallops and jars of white wine. But unlike that evening, Mikasa feels bold enough to ignore her beating heart and call him out on it. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she asks, trying to keep a sense of levity to her voice. 

Flustered, Jean looks down. “Sorry. It’s just… memories.” 

Her heartbeat doesn’t slow. She takes a pull of her coffee before changing the subject to calm her nerves.

“Why do you go by Jehan? Aside from the… obvious reasons.” 

“Because I needed something to cover my ass,” Jean answers, though it feels halfhearted. He finally reaches for his own mug and takes a sip. “And all artists use aliases, it’s a whole thing. It’s a small price to pay for all this.”

He doesn’t even need to gesture around him to tell her what he’s referring to. The ocean view, the wind that tousles his hair, or the cozy home that he had built with his bare hands. 

“It’s a nice place, Jean. It really is.”

He looks away from her again, a blush creeping at his cheeks as the smile on his face gets just a bit wider.

“Thank you.”

Mikasa gets halfway through her coffee before Hugo opens his eyes. He lifts his little head off of his master’s thigh before hopping off the porch and onto the grass. Similar to before, he finds a spot underneath the sun to lie down and rest, a sight so adorable that it makes her nearly giggle. 

Soon Jean is standing with his coffee in hand. He takes a longer pull as he begins to walk.

“I should get back to work,” he says before moving around his cottage again.

Mikasa decides to follow his example. As nice as the view is, she should end her prolonged interlude and continue the job she set out to do, even if she already knows that she’ll have to come back tomorrow. 

But as she stands and finishes her last bits of coffee, she’s unable to take her eyes off Jean as he slowly walks to the back of his property, where he disappears into his studio once more. 

…

…

…

Crabbing.

Gardening reminds Mikasa of when she was young, back when the worries in her world were a lot smaller. She has some memories of planting potatoes with her Mama, but like everything in her life she remembers the sensations a bit more vividly — like the cool soil against her fingers, the sun warming her hat, or the playful way her Papa laughed when she entered the house covered in dirt. 

Things have changed over the years, yet the peace of mind that she associates with horticulture has stayed the same. 

As of now Hugo is at her side, playing in the grass as she toils away in the arid garden beds. Every few shovels she’ll stop her chore to admire his cuteness or give him some much-deserved pets. It’s a good distraction from doing anything more productive, but makes her wonder how Jean gets anything done with such a cute blob around.

Soon she finishes prepping the beds, the lifeless soil having been replaced with something more fertile. She draws lines in the dirt with a shovel, then wonders if she should ask Jean if he has anything she can use for compost. It certainly can’t be hard to procure fish bones around these parts. 

When she goes to the porch to retrieve the bag of potatoes, Hugo suddenly perks up. He stands, takes a second to shake the blades out of his fur, then zips past her and towards the side of the house.  

Mikasa follows the dog and sees Jean exiting his workshop. Hugo goes to his master’s legs and receives some loving head pets as Jean keeps walking. Like a gentleman, Jean gives her a kindly nod before slipping into his home from the back entrance.  

Mikasa returns to the porch and begins fishing through the potato sack in search of the smallest spuds. By now her hands are nearly stained brown, the soil having found its way onto her palms, fingers, and underneath her nails. 

As the thought of scrubbing herself clean comes to mind, Jean walks out of his cottage, the dog slipping through the door soon after. Jean is still dressed in the same paint-stained shirt, ratty trousers, and leather boots that she swears are from their Scouting days. He is holding a steel cage the size of a basket, a bundle of thin rope, and two buckets — one is empty and the other is holding what appears to be inedible fish scraps. 

“I’m going to have to come back tomorrow,” Mikasa tells him upfront. 

Jean nods, unbothered. “Fine by me.” 

He steps off the porch and onto the grass, where he is promptly joined by Hugo. As the dog plays around his legs, he turns to her. 

“Wanna take a walk?” 

“What for?”

“Dinner,” Jean says as he slings the bundle of rope over his shoulder. “Hope you like crab.” 

Seeing no need to refuse, Mikasa nods.

The walk up the coast takes about twelve minutes. In that time Hugo prances around the beach like a deer in a dog's body. He very happily runs into the surf, rolls in the sand, then repeats the process over and over again. 

The sight of it all brings a smile to Mikasa’s face, but every time she glances at Jean she is greeted to the eyes of an exasperated dog-owner who will inevitably have to clean a beach’s worth of sand from his couch later. 

When Jean is not sighing at his dog’s antics, he fills the silences with another story. 

He tells her of how he built the house. As of now he still doesn’t know exactly who attempted to build a cottage by the sea and abandoned it halfway, just that two-thirds of a home had been left to rot on the coast before Jean discovered it. It’s certainly not the strangest thing one can come across when drunkenly stumbling up the beach, a detail that Mikasa isn’t sure she needed to know but will now be trapped in her head moving forward. 

Something about the remains of a dream had struck a chord with Jean, a notion that was possibly aided by the place only needing exterior elements and several coats of paint. Over the course of a few months he had spent days completing the cottage and nights recovering at the local inn, soothing his sore muscles in the bed and bath before doing it all over again. Lumber in this area isn’t exactly expensive, but he needed more than he expected to get the job done. It still pains him to think of how little savings he had left by the time he finished his new home. 

When Jean wasn’t nursing bruised thumbs from wayward hammer swings, he was applying wood stain to the exterior of his home. When he wasn’t calling in favours to help install the windows, he was borrowing horses and carts to help haul everything over. To this day Jean still owes people for all that’s been lent to him, but he doesn’t mind. 

Soon the roof became adorned with tiles, the porch had been freshly stained and sealed, and what was meant to be a shed in the back back had been transformed into a spot where Jean could perform his craft. As he explains how he built his studio with whatever materials he had left, Mikasa wonders if Jean ever considered a career in carpentry on top of painting. 

After completing the cottage, Jean moved in and expected nothing more than a quiet life by the shore and the perpetual weight of a paintbrush in his hand. But barely a week passed before a handful of buyers began walking up to his door, as the formerly half-built home up the coast had suddenly become of interest to those looking for new property. 

And evidently, Jean said no to all of them. Mikasa isn’t sure if it’s because the offers were too low, too high, or because his little corner of the world was never for sale in the first place. She can see it now — Jean still bandaging the nicks on his calloused hands as a well-dressed gentleman from Mitras tries to sweet-talk his way into purchasing a summer home, Jean being given a slip with the offer before shaking his head, and Jean being unbothered as yet another wealthy buyer leaves his property with their pride hurt. 

Mikasa isn’t an expert in the art of real estate, yet her instincts tell her that the value of Jean’s cottage could easily replenish what he took out of his savings to finish it. But no amount of money could convince him that selling the place was favorable to actually living in it.

As the sight of a small dock on the coast comes to view, Mikasa thinks of all the answers and explanations Jean had thrust upon her and realizes that there’s still a lot that she doesn’t know.

As they move forward, a different thought keeps itself tucked in the back of her mind. Mikasa thinks of all the time Jean had spent between the port town and his would-be home, then wonders how truthful he was as he began to settle amongst the locals. Even with the peace accords being signed all those years ago, she knows that a piece of paper won’t change the public opinions on the “traitors.” 

The fact that Jean managed to build a new life for himself at all should speak enough, but the reality of his current existence being so detached from the rest of the world speaks just a bit louder. 

As she looks at him now with his scruffy beard, chin-length hair, and the ill-fitting shirt that hides the build of a former soldier, she gets the impression that the locals knew him as “Jehan” from the start.

Soon the two step on a dock that looks older than time itself, a structure that stretches farther into the sea than those she’s seen at lakes. 

Jean brings her and Hugo to the very end, and at the edge of the sea he kneels and places his crabbing equipment down. She expects him to ask for help, even if it’s just to make her feel useful, but he instead avoids her gaze as he gets everything in order. 

Mikasa has nothing to do but cross her arms and watch as he uses twine to tie old fish heads to the wiring of the ring cage. He takes said cage into his hand, stands, and tosses it forward. It flies in the air for a second before hitting the water and sinking underneath the surface, the only thing tethering it to him being the length of rope in his fist. 

Minutes of silence pass after the trap disappears below the surface, giving Mikasa a chance to admire the ocean from a different angle. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get bored of the way the waves caress the sand and rocks, or how every once in a while a flock of seagulls will let out a cry as they soar underneath the endless sky. 

When she refocuses on Jean she watches him work in fascination. She compares his task of crabbing to the few times she’s fished at the stream near her home, a process that’s not remotely as intricate and often accompanied by the trees of the forest. 

Eventually Jean lifts the cage from the water and inside are three crabs that have been lured by the bait, crustaceans with reddish-brown shells. He is quick to grab them from the trap, toss them into a bucket, then throw the whole contraption back to the water. He repeats this process a few times and she continues to observe him, internally anticipating that he’ll ask her for a hand yet that moment never comes. She’s not sure how long they’ve been standing by the water by the time Jean has procured an entire bucket of shellfish. 

“And that’s dinner,” he says, tossing the last two crabs into the metal container. He starts gathering the rest of his equipment into his arms. 

For a second Mikasa catches sight of Hugo rushing across the dock and back towards the beach, where he hops onto the sand and begins rolling around. 

“Do you do this often?” she asks, looking back to Jean. 

“Yeah.” He starts wrangling the rope, little drops of water slipping down his fingers. “Gotta eat somehow.” 

“Seems like a lot of effort.” 

“So is walking all the way from town two days in a row,” Jean says without hesitating. His expression remains neutral as he stands and holds the bundled rope towards her. “Hold this for me?” 

Mikasa feels her face go hot as she takes the rope. 

“Thank you.” 

He turns away with both the cage and buckets in hand, soon walking down the dock and towards the beach. 

She follows him and they don’t talk on the way back to the cottage. 

…

…

…

Then. 

Chess and Confess.

Sleeping next to her the first time had been an accident, a byproduct of his intentions to make sure she felt safe on a stormy night. It’s something he never expected to happen again, yet the evening after had proved Jean wrong. 

Her slipping into his room had been an unexpected occurrence, as was her climbing onto his mattress and sleeping next to him for a second time through her own choice. They didn't even speak about it in the morning, attending the usual group breakfast on opposite sides of the table. Jean didn’t mind and neither did she, as before either of them would know it they would be drawn to the same old boardrooms to partake in the same old meetings that are certainly taking their sweet time. 

It’s only when Mikasa returns to his room the following night that Jean begins wondering if he should get used to this. 

It doesn’t take long for them to fall into a routine, and by the time that they do the Paradisian Peace Talks have been going on for almost two weeks. As per usual he spends most of his waking hours at a table full of diplomats, politicians, and foreign dignitaries. His tie will often feel tight around his neck as he watches Armin lead their quest for peace, chipping in when necessary like the Ambassador he is. 

Mikasa fares differently, often being present for one meeting a day, a fate that is much more merciful than his own and results in him not seeing her as often as he would like. 

There’s a day where Jean is standing at a window in one of the palace’s sitting rooms, nursing some coffee between meetings as the other Ambassadors continue to chat behind him. More often than not he’ll catch her in the garden, watching fondly as little Val turns a woman worth a thousand soldiers into her playmate. And when Mikasa is not pushing the Crown Princess of Paradis on a swing or passing a ball across the grass, Jean sees her walking through the garden either alone or with company. 

There’s one occasion where he sees Mikasa and Historia sharing a stroll amongst the roses, giving him the impression that she and the Queen had grown closer over the years. 

There’s also an early morning where Jean is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes at the start of his meeting. Upon glancing out the nearest window he sees  Mikasa walking on a path in the garden with Kiyomi. As Jean’s mind begins to wander in the midst of the discussion, he wonders if Kiyomi is continuing her attempts to get the last Azumabito on Paradis to visit Hizuru. He also wonders if his sketches of the snow-capped mountain and the cherry trees may have swayed Mikasa’s opinion on the matter.

Nights are more quiet and gives Jean more time to talk to her in private. Because even if a storm isn’t currently ravaging the land, something compels Jean to help get Mikasa’s mind off of whatever she’s running from. 

He begins showing her the trinkets of his travels that he keeps in his suitcase. He shows her his sketchbook again, where she makes sure to take in every drawing and painting he’s made. He’ll mention the empty cigarette case on his nightstand, lamenting the lack of actual cigarettes inside while joking that import fees are for suckers. He also shows her the travel chess set he barely uses, a version of the game made with little pegs beneath the pieces that fit into the holes in the board. Granted, his set is not as nice as the one Pieck keeps on her for impromptu games, but Jean has spent his fair share of train or boat rides with the board between him and an opponent. 

Unsurprisingly, he and Mikasa end up using the set on a table near the window. Their game is illuminated by candlelight, shrouding the chess pieces with a warm glow on a very quiet evening. He's not sure how late it is, but they're at a point in the game where most of her pawns are gone, both his rooks have been taken down, and one of her knights was sacrificed to protect the queen. In retaliation, Mikasa uses said queen to assure that the loss was not made in vain. 

“I thought you played against Armin,” she says as she takes the black bishop off the board and onto her side of the table. 

“I play against him,” Jean explains. “I don't win against him.” He moves one of his pawns with the confidence of a person who knows the game isn’t over yet. “But I’m better than you think,” he adds, smirking. 

Mikasa eyes the board, then something mischievous lights up in her gaze. “Better than to do that?” 

Jean looks at the board. His act of pushing a single piece forward had created the perfect path for her queen to take down his, a move that was shortsighted on his end but a perfect opportunity on hers. Despite knowing that the tides have turned, Jean doesn’t let it show. Instead he refuses to let his smugness falter and speaks like nothing is wrong. 

“Why not?”

Mikasa is amused at his sudden waggishness. “Because I’ll kill her,” she says in a lighthearted, factly tone.

“What if I asked you not to?” 

“I still would.” 

“What if I asked nicely?” 

Mikasa rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t change a thing.” 

To prove her point she moves her queen and uses it to take down his, causing Jean to sigh. 

“You wound me,” he jests, but continues the game nonetheless. He moves one of his pawns forward — not because he thinks that doing so will put it in a favorable position, but to stall for time until another opportunity arises. “Who’d you learn to play with? Armin?”

“Usually,” Mikasa answers as she uses her queen to take down another one of his pawns. “But sometimes I’d play with…”

“...Eren?” 

A strange kind of chill enters the air, a stark contrast to the candles casting warmth and light onto the old friends. Jean sees the friendly look on Mikasa’s face begin to fall, as if a ghost had suddenly entered the room.

“...that checks out,” Jean continues, unsure how to keep the conversation going. “That you’d play with… him, I mean.” 

Sucking in an uneasy breath, he uses his sole knight to take down her queen, a game-changing move that doesn’t alter the stilted atmosphere between them.

“You can say his name in front of me.” Mikasa's voice is low and grave. “You should stop acting like you can’t.” 

Jean looks up and sees something shimmering in her eyes. Half her face is illuminated by the flame on the wick and the other half is shrouded in shadows — warmth against cold, light against dark. 

“Sorry, I just figured that… that it’d be a sensitive subject.” Jean reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, a habit he does when he needs to do something with his hands. “I… we can talk about something else.” 

Mikasa nods and lets out a shuddery breath. “Yeah… yeah.” 

In silence Jean and Mikasa nudge their pieces across the queenless board in a half-hearted attempt to end the match. Soon Jean gets his knight in a spot to take out Mikasa’s king, a fate that could be avoided if she simply moves the piece in question. But as he waits for her turn he sees the motivation to keep playing fade from her face. 

The glistening in her eyes continues and she goes still. She lets out a wary huff before reaching for her king and laying it down on the board, defeated. 

“You win.” 

She doesn’t look him in the eye as she reaches up and brushes her hair out of her face, her breaths sounding more laboured as she struggles to maintain her composure. 

Sensing the agitation on the other end of the table, Jean begins re-arranging the pieces of the board. 

“Wanna play again?” he asks, then sighs when he realizes that it was a stupid question. “Actually uh… it’s late. Should probably head to bed.” 

Mikasa nods as she leans her elbow on the edge of the table. 

She rubs her eyes and doesn’t speak as Jean puts the game away. He stands from the table to bring everything to his open suitcase. After closing and tucking his luggage back underneath his bed, he straightens up again and looks to his old friend by the window. 

She’s looking down, her hair covering her face as her hands rest on her knees. Her breaths are slow and methodical, air coming in and out of her like a mantra. 

Jean takes one step forward, soon getting down on one knee to be at her level. 

“You alright?”

She nods, still not looking him in the eye. “I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look fine.”

He can’t help but wonder how often Mikasa will insist that everything is okay while everything about her screams the opposite. 

Unable to take his eyes off her, something inside of him makes Jean reach forward, very gently touching his hand to hers. He doesn’t even dare to hold it, merely grazing her. 

In the span of a second he can see realization slip back into her eyes, even if it’s slight, and their gazes meet.

Jean tries to pick his next words carefully, his mind rushing through a plethora of possibilities on what might be the right thing. He wants to say something that will ease her worries, something that will bring her comfort when she’s utterly despondent. 

He sees the pain that she’s been experiencing for the last few years, left alone on the Island to fester in her own trauma — grappling with feelings for a dead man while compounded by a thousand other things at once. He can’t even fathom a fraction of what she had gone through over the past three years, where in a way the war never ended for her. Taking in the sight of her now, the culmination of all that time to sit and stew with her emotions, fills Jean with the guilt of having left her behind.

“He loved you, did you know that?” he decides to tell her. He finally finds it in himself to actually hold her hand. Her skin is soft against his. 

Mikasa runs her thumb across the back of his hand before finally looking at him. Jean feels a strange sense of tightness in his head, a sensation that aches him right behind his eyes. But he ignores it to keep his attention on her and only her. 

“I know,” Mikasa eventually says, a confirmation of what he already knew. 

“Did you…” Jean starts, then stops himself short of asking something he knows the answer to. He breathes in and lets out an awkward, pained chuckle. “Sorry, stupid question.” 

It had been obvious to everyone, even back in the day. Though sometimes it seemed that the only person it wasn’t the most apparent to was Eren himself, which Jean never understood. 

What he does understand now is that Mikasa’s love was reciprocated, but it appeared that knowing such a thing made other occurrences more confusing. 

To say Jean never thought about the harm Eren had put Mikasa through would be a lie. To say he never mused about the time Eren claimed to have hated her was absolutely untrue. On one hand Jean could acknowledge what was fabricated to achieve a certain end, but on the other the lingering misery it had caused was clear on Mikasa’s face. 

“He should have never put you in this…” Jean begins, then loses his train of thought once Mikasa looks at him, her eyes shimmering and welling on the verge of tears. 

From there he doesn’t know what else to say, getting the feeling that anything else could cause more harm than good. 

“Nevermind.” He stands and runs both his hands through his hair, letting out a sigh of defeat. “I… I gotta sleep.” 

Jean avoids her gaze as he turns around, the pain in his own head not subsiding. He blows out the candles, then in a dark room makes way to the bed. He sheds his shirt before slipping underneath the sheets. Positioning himself far from the window, he rests while facing away. 

Time passes and he keeps expecting to hear something in the silence. The creak of her chair as she stands from the table, her footfalls as she steps across the floor, and the door opening — all so she can get far away from the guy who can barely comfort a friend in need without running his own stupid mouth. 

Because after all he’s said, Jean can’t imagine a person who wouldn’t. 

An unknown amount of minutes pass before Jean hears her stand, but to his surprise she doesn’t leave. Instead he feels the mattress below him shift in a familiar way. Mikasa gets underneath the blankets and lies on the other side of the bed, and though Jean can’t muster enough courage to turn around and sneak a glimpse at her, in his mind he imagines that she’s on her back, staring up at the ceiling like she’s looking at the stars. 

The silence continues and Jean feels far from falling asleep. His stomach is still tied up in knots. He keeps his eyes closed and wonders when he’ll finally nod off. 

But soon a soft, tender voice pierces the quietude. 

“Jean?” 

“Hm?”  

Jean opens his eyes and shifts so that he’s on his back. When Mikasa comes into view he’s surprised to see that she's on her side and looking in his direction, focused on him and only him. For once they are no longer separated by a pile of pillows and blankets. Even in the dark he can see the fragility in her pretty eyes. 

“I thought about running away with him…” she begins, her voice barely a whisper. “...back then.” 

For lack of anything smarter to say, Jean nods. He can somewhat remember being told of this before, though he can’t remember from who. Maybe Armin or Sasha.

“It felt so perfect at the time, to leave this all behind…” Mikasa continues. Her hands are holding onto a handful of blanket, squeezing it tight as she tells her tale. A cautiousness enters her voice as she speaks. “...to live far away from all this… to live peacefully.”

Jean nods again, holding onto every word, yet he can’t stop himself from asking the first question on his mind. 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because sometimes I think about what would’ve happened if I actually did it,” Mikasa says like it’s something she’s been holding back for too long. “I would’ve deserted you all just to be with him.” 

Jean tilts his head to the side, then adjusts himself on the bed so that he’s facing her. “If that was what you really wanted, then I couldn’t have stopped you.”

He speaks his truth, even though in his heart he knows it would have hurt to see her and Eren gone without a trace. One side of him acknowledges the weight of dissertation and how the Scouts would charge them accordingly. But another side of him can’t bear the thought of suddenly not seeing her every day. 

“I know, but…” Mikasa starts, then pauses. Even in the dark Jean can see her brow furrowing in thought. 

She speaks like every thought she’s had is selfish, like suddenly she’s the worst person in the world because she has a dream, an ambition, something to keep her moving forward. He’s tempted to tell her that he knows what that’s like, to hold onto a possibility that brings so much joy, even if one must ignore the reality of the world they’re currently in just to entertain a fleeting fantasy. 

Mikasa finds it in herself to continue talking. 

“...I’ve had a lot of time to think about how you guys would feel if we ran off and…” She takes in a breath before meeting his gaze, her voice becoming even quieter. “...I don’t know if I could live the rest of my life with you guys hating me.”

Something about the way she holds herself makes Jean ache. Partially hidden by the blankets, her hair falling over her face, her body slightly curled into a ball as she lies next to him on this very bed. The space between them makes him feel like they’re far apart. 

“Mikasa, I could never hate you,” Jean says without any hesitation. The tension in his head finally starts to subside. In the dark he sees the heartbroken deliberation in her eyes finally disappearing. 

“Good night,” he tells her, hoping that some of his words had brought her comfort, somehow. 

“Good night,” she repeats back, the sweetness of her voice becoming the last thing on his mind before he finally falls asleep. 

…

…

…

Now.

Cooking and Revelations.

Like before, Hugo spends the late afternoon napping in the main living space, picking a spot in front of the unlit fireplace. Like before, Jean cooks for her again, utilizing both what he has in his kitchen as well as what he gathered from the sea. And like before, the sound of the sea is ever-present within the walls of the cottage.

But in contrast to yesterday, Mikasa decides to get a little bit closer. With her arms crossed, she stands in the doorway of Jean's kitchen, watching him work with great interest. The space is not as small as she expects it to be, providing just enough space for a wood-burning stove, counter, and sink — but the tension Jean holds as he cooks makes her wonder if he's not used to having an extra body in the space.

Mikasa observes him standing at the sink, where he rinses each crab under a steady stream of freshwater. As he works she notices the chapped texture on his hands, a roughness that covers his palms and fingers like a layer of dust. She’s not sure if it’s a result of his craft or the errands he performs to keep himself fed, though perhaps it’s a mix of both. 

Every once in a while Jean will check on the stockpot on the stove, where a metal basket is nestled within the boiling vessel, the water below just starting to simmer. In a bowl on the counter are whatever aromatics he has on hand — roughly-chopped cloves of garlic, one and a half lemons all sliced up, and several carrots that look too bruised to actually eat. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?” Mikasa asks, though a part of her can already anticipate his answer. 

“You’re still my guest,” he reminds as he rinses off the last crab. He tosses it into another bowl on the counter before drying his hands on a tea towel. 

He meets her gaze across the kitchen, the slightest hint of concern entering his eyes. “You alright?”

At first Mikasa doesn’t know what he’s referring to, but supposes that it might have something to do with the way she’s wrapping her arms around herself. 

“I’m cold.”

Jean nods and his worry persists. “You can borrow a sweater if you want. There should be one upstairs. In the closet.” 

“Thank you.”

She turns around and leaves the kitchen, thinking about how she was planning on changing out of his dirty trousers anyways. 

In the main space she grabs her skirt off the couch, then slips into the bathroom to dress herself in her usual clothes. After she changes and rinses all the dirt from her face, she exits and heads to the staircase. The steps creak underneath her feet as she ascends. 

The second level of the cottage is far smaller than the first and only consists of Jean’s bedroom. It’s roomier than she expects, but in the corners she can see the slant of the rooftop that would inevitably force him to slouch. His bed is unmade but seems big enough for his frame, a carpet covers most of the floor, and between two windows is a dresser made of aged lumber. 

She spots the open closet in the corner and goes to it. Every garment inside is clean and free of paint droplets, each one hung with absolute care. She even spots his old Ambassador suit hanging unused and untouched in the back. She only spends a few seconds searching for something warm before coming up empty-handed, unable to find something in the collection of dress shirts, trousers, and old leather belts.

Mikasa ends up spotting a sweater on Jean’s bed, the navy blue knitted pullover she had found him in yesterday. She doesn’t waste time and takes it, swiftly tugging it over her torso. When she remembers Hugo’s little wine spilling incident, she curiously sniffs the material. The scent of salt and sandalwood fills her senses and makes something flutter in her stomach. As she rolls up the sleeves so they don’t fall over her hands, her eyes wander and spot something peculiar on his bedside table. 

A postcard lies near an unlit lantern. Mikasa stops herself short of reading the paragraph of text scribbled onto it, but notices the name written at the bottom. Evidently, Jean’s ex-paramour has very pretty handwriting. The sight of it all agitates the nervousness Mikasa has been trying to ignore and causes her to leave the bedroom a little faster than she expected. 

When she descends the stairs and re-enters the kitchen, Jean is lowering a steamer basket full of crabs into the boiling stockpot. He spots her in the doorway and takes a second to look her up and down. 

“You changed,” he notes, surprised. 

“I was going to anyway.” 

He nods as he places a lid on the plot, then crosses the kitchen and takes a knife off the counter. For a few moments all that fills the air is the scent of the steaming seafood and the sound of Jean chopping tiny shallots. 

“Can I ask you something?” she asks after a lull of silence. 

“Sure.”

“What was Loena like?” 

Just like yesterday Jean stiffens, mainly in his shoulders, and he doesn’t look at her. When he glances up it’s to peruse the shelves above the counter, where a variety of jars filled with spices are organized in a neat row. 

“She had red hair, she liked to dance, and she was sweet.” He looks down and begins mincing a handful of parsley. “You know, aside from that ‘lying-about-being-married’ thing.” 

Mikasa notices the flippant way he speaks and leans against the doorframe. “Did she know who you really were?” 

“I never got the chance to tell her. Why do you ask?”

“I saw one of her postcards in your room.” 

Once more Jean stops what he’s doing. This time he turns and furrows his eyebrows when he looks at her. Even if he doesn’t appear angry, he seems alarmed.

“I wasn’t snooping,” she’s quick to explain. “I saw it on your nightstand. It was just there. I didn’t… I didn’t read it.”

Against all odds Jean scoffs, rolls his eyes, and smirks in a way that many would deem playful.

“Thought you’d have more class than that, Mikasa.” He looks back to his cutting board and resumes his task. 

Once she’s out of his sight Mikasa takes in a breath to recompose herself. 

As she watches him cook, she can't help but imagine an even clearer image of Jean’s past tryst. 

In her mind she sees Loena with a smile so bright it rivals the sun, standing an entire head below Jean as they dance the night away in some sweaty tavern, her hair moving like fire with every twirl. Mikasa sees the flagons of ale they consume over the evening and the kisses they share in moments of bliss. She sees the smile on Jean’s face as he connects with a person for what could be the first time in forever. She sees the frills in Loena’s dress swaying in the wind as she walks hand-in-hand through the town with her new lover. She sees Jean happily nuzzling Loena’s neck. She sees Loena kissing the scar on Jean’s collarbone. She sees the hands that now handle paint brushes and ring cages caressing the face of another. 

For a relationship technically built on lies, Mikasa sees the two being happy together, even if for a little while. Fortunately, she stops herself short from imagining what the two had gotten up to in the walls of this very cottage. 

“I hope you treated her well,” she says to keep the conversation going. 

“I like to think I did,” Jean says as he crosses the space in the kitchen. “But I don’t think it would’ve lasted.”

“Because of the whole ‘married’ thing?”

“No,” he starts, and suddenly a strange kind of heaviness enters his voice. He looks at her and holds eye contact for a few agonizing seconds, his expression serious and unmoving. “Because a week before we broke up she said that every time I looked at her, she kept getting the feeling that I was thinking of someone else.” 

His words hang in the air, accompanied by the sound of the simmering pot and the familiar backdrop of the ocean waves outside. Jean goes back to cooking like nothing is wrong, tossing the bowl of aromatics into the steamer basket on top of the crabs. 

It’s in his nature to be blunt and to say what needs to be said, even if it hurts or pricks at her skin. His habit had never been rooted in a desire for cruelty, but a desire for truth — yet that doesn’t stop her face from going warm. She feels exposed, edgy, something that makes her wish he hadn’t spoken to her so brusquely. 

Thankfully, Hugo wanders into the kitchen before Mikasa can think of the next thing to say. She sees Jean glance towards his dog and sigh. 

He rubs his tired face before carrying on like nothing strange happened. 

“Dinner’s in thirty minutes.”

…

…

…

Then. 

The Morning After.

Jean wakes and expects to see what he’s been witnessing for the last few days — an empty bed, a quiet room, and the sun shining through the windows. But in the morning after the heartache, his expectations are only partially met.

Because after Jean opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling thinking about how tired he is, he promptly notices the unfamiliar weight now resting on his chest.

He adjusts himself and is greeted to the sight of Mikasa sleeping on top of him, her head pressed against his torso like she’s always belonged there. Her breathing is quiet, slow, and serene, her pretty face remaining shrouded by her hair. 

Jean takes a moment to wonder if this is really happening. He thinks of all the circumstances that had led them here, the hours of time they've spent in each other's presence all culminating in this. It still doesn't feel real, not even like a dream. 

Panic fills him as he realizes that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He raises them up slightly and they hover over her head. 

Soon he plants one hand on her shoulder and the other on her head, expecting her to flinch at his touch yet she doesn’t. Very gently moves one of the locks covering her face, nudging it with his finger until it’s behind her ear. He does it again, then again, then once more before Mikasa starts to stir. 

She opens her eyes very slightly and Jean's heart skips a beat. Deep down he feels that he's being caught doing something he shouldn’t — because despite the closeness and confession they have shared in the last few hours alone, a part of him knows that she probably only sees him as a friend. The knots forming in his stomach only get tighter. 

But Mikasa manages to surprise Jean again. She doesn’t move, not even to shift and look him in the eye. Instead she remains she is, closing her eyes and getting comfortable with the way her body entangles with his and how her head rests perfectly atop his beating heart. Underneath the sheets her knee is slotted between his legs, keeping her close to him in a way he never imagined. 

Jean still has no idea what to do, but he remains where he is — where he holds an old friend, plays with the ends of her beautiful hair, and inevitably falls asleep for just a little bit longer. 

��

…

…

Now

The Time Between Letters.

The dinner Jean makes consists of steamed crabs and more white wine served in glass jars. Like before they dine on opposite sides of the table while his trusty gramophone in the corner plays a song above the ocean waves. It’s later in the day, meaning that the world outside the windows casts orange light into the home, something that makes Jean’s eyes look a little bit warmer when it hits him at the right angle. 

It’s been a while since she's had crab and she’s sure spends less time eating and more time digging around the husks for the best bites of meat. When Jean’s not politely laughing at her inability to dissect a cooked crustacean, he tells her more stories. And when he pauses and takes a moment to dig into the crevices of the shell, she thinks back to their conversation in the kitchen. 

The persistent visions she has of him and Loena, that being of them smiling in each other’s arms and walking through the port hand-in-hand, are now tainted by Jean’s revelation. 

The reality that things were not as joyous as they seemed creates a sense of agitation within her. On one hand she truly did want Jean to be happy, to have someone to adore and kiss and accompany him in his new life, to have a partner to appreciate him from the start. But on the other hand, a strange sense of alleviation fills her once she concedes to the reality that Jean and Loena wouldn’t have lasted anyways, and not for reasons strictly related to Jean becoming to plaything of a bored housewife.

And in the midst of the two wolves inside of her is a third feeling, one begging the question of whether it’s morally okay to be relieved that Jean’s last relationship didn’t work out. It’s certainly not the first time that her gut instinct is to deem herself a bad person for even thinking such things, no questions asked, and it certainly won’t be the last time. 

At least she finds comfort in Jean’s stories. The sound of his husky voice continues to grace her ears like a warm blanket on a cold night. 

Jean explains that he still keeps up with the Ambassadors despite everyone living in different parts of the world, even if the time between letters is long and arduous. 

All Mikasa knows is that Armin is living with Annie in some kind of seaside abode on the mainland and that Pieck is back with her father, kindly playing caretaker if it will bring her father joy in the time he has left. The whereabouts of the others, however, are a bit of a mystery. She’s surprised to hear that Reiner and Connie have been living together ever since the group went their separate ways — though unlike the other ex-Ambassadors they don’t stay in one place for too long, opting to continue traveling the world and see where their curiosity can take them. 

Last Jean heard they were living in some commune up north, a place so isolated that it’s a day’s walk to the nearest post office and back. The fact that Connie and Reiner are alive and happy is all Jean really needs, but that doesn’t make the literal months between letters any easier. 

As Jean speaks Mikasa can’t help but notice the life in his eyes, the ease of existence that comes with the new air between them. It’s barely been a day since she learned he had returned to the Island but she can already feel herself getting used to him again. 

By the time they’ve both had their fill of steamed crab, the sun outside is halfway below the horizon. The sight is so pretty that Jean asks Mikasa if she would like to finish her wine on the back porch to better appreciate it, an offer she gladly accepts. 

Behind the cottage are empty laundry lines, a delectable view of the ocean at twilight, and a lone wooden chair on the porch. Like a good host Jean offers her the only seat and Mikasa doesn’t argue. 

Once she sits she expects Jean to join her, but to her mild confusion he slips into his cottage again. For a few moments she is left alone to sip her jar of wine and let Hugo curl up by her feet. When Jean returns he is bearing a handful of letters and postcards, which are similar to the one she had seen near his bed except the names signed on the bottom are ones she recognizes. 

Jean encourages her to read the messages from their old friends, confident in the words being as much of a saving grace for her as they are for him. While she peruses the letters he sits on the stoop in front of her, his bare feet rubbing against the grass of his backyard. At this angle the rays of the setting sun hit his hair with a warm glow, enveloping him in light as he sips on his wine. 

As the waves continue to crash against the land and churn clouds of seafoam onto the sand, Mikasa reads the letters and postcards. The first she sees is from Armin and Annie, but mostly Armin if the neat handwriting is any indication. It has been sent from the mainland town that they currently reside in, one close to the sea much like Jean's little arrangement, except Mikasa assumes that they didn’t need to obfuscate their true identities in search of a peaceful life. Armin's paragraph is brief and talks of the alleyway cat Annie insisted they take in, a stray that was looking for a home and found it in the couple living by the shore. They've named the cat “Captain Archibald” and Armin promises to send a photograph as soon as he can. 

The next letter is from Connie and is dated from two years ago. True to Jean’s word, he and Reiner have been living far from the reaches of humanity, so much so that Connie is already apologizing to Jean for taking so much time between messages. The farmwork he and Reiner perform at their commune keeps them more busy than they’d like. As bittersweet as it is to see the distance between the brothers in every way but blood, Mikasa can practically hear the reverence in Connie's voice as she reads his scribbly penmanship. Whatever bond they had formed since they were young had survived the years of war, a life as Ambassadors, and the oceans between them now. 

The final message Mikasa reads is from Pieck, consisting of a very succinct paragraph written on the back of a postcard with the photo of an old lighthouse. She gives an update on her father's health and how at the very least he will have his daughter with him for his final years. Pieck notes that the stress of the situation is giving her the first taste of grey hairs. On one hand, to be able to age should be considered a gift, as she’s been blessed with a second lease on her once-shortened life. But on the other hand, Pieck is far from ready to start calling herself a silver fox. The message ends with Pieck commenting on how tacky it is for Armin and Annie to have named their alleyway cat “Archibald,” of all things, causing Mikasa to curtly snort and wonder if Pieck had the guts to tell the couple themselves.

After Mikasa puts Pieck's postcard down, she notices a photograph in the pile of letters she placed on the chair's armrest. Curiously, she takes it between her fingers and holds it to the light. On the medium is a clear image of a cat on a wall by a rocky sea, a place that doesn’t seem like it exists on Paradis. She's been sent a few pictures of Archie before, but this one is in colour and gives a more vivid look at the cat’s fur than she’s ever gotten. The orange strands burn like fire against the horizon. 

When Mikasa flips the photo around she sees the words “Captain Archibald Arlert-Leonhardt, reporting for duty!” written in handwriting so messy that it cannot possibly be Armin's.

The sight of Archie framed in front of the ocean brings a smile to Mikasa’s face. 

“They really love this cat, don't they?” 

“They do, indeed,” Jean agrees. He’s shifted a bit on the porch, now resting his back against a supporting beam and sitting with his knees pulled close to his chest, a casual position made amusing by his longer limbs. He laughs before eyeing Hugo asleep at her feet, the canine having rolled over to rest on his back at some point. 

“Can't relate though,” Jean says. He reaches over to scratch his loyal companion’s belly. “I still prefer dogs, but don't tell ‘em I said that.” 

Mikasa rolls her eyes. “I'll keep that in mind.” 

She takes the jar of wine placed on the chair’s armrest and takes the last few sips. As it slips down her throat she can feel the ever-present warmth in her chest intensifying.

“One more of these and you'll have to carry me back to town,” she jokes. 

Jean smirks. “Is that an invitation?” 

Mikasa almost chokes on her wine, then something in her heart clenches and her instincts tell her it’s not entirely due to the alcohol. 

“I’m kidding,” he quickly assures, though the initial unease in her nerves has yet to fade away. 

Jean stands from his spot on the porch and collects her empty jar. He finishes what remains of own drink before heading towards the door, making sure to avoid her gaze.

“I'll get you some water.” 

…

…

…

Back at the Inn.

It’s far into the evening when Mikasa returns to the inn, where she kicks off her dusty boots and makes good use of the bathtub in her room. 

She heats up the water and fills the vessel, promptly shedding her clothes and stepping in. The warmth that envelops her immediately soothes her tired muscles, a process that makes her sigh as she lies against the back of the tub. 

She scrubs at the grime on her skin, cleans the dirt from underneath her fingernails, and washes her hair. It’s only now when she notices the way her feet tingle, which she’s not sure is from the walk to the cottage, her work in the garden, or a mix of both. As she remembers that her plans at Jean’s homestead have yet to be completed, she wonders how much her joints will pain her once she’s finally done. 

Somehow, the thought of having to walk all the way back tomorrow brings a smile to her face.

…

…

…

Then.

Visits.

Arielle Kirschtein is invited to the palace two weeks into the Paradisian Peace Talks. She is accompanied by Nora Springer and a handful of the Queen’s royal guards, an unfortunate necessity made to protect the loved ones of the Ambassadors. Three hours in one of Historia’s sitting rooms is far from what Jean expected when he and Connie requested time with their families, but it’s all they can receive given the circumstances. 

Jean tries to make use of the time they have, as little as it is. In the afternoon he stands in a room at the palace’s west wing. Once his mother steps in he lets out a sigh of relief. She looks the same since the last he saw her — a head shorter than he is, a round face, and a pair of hazel eyes that are much softer than his. Jean wastes no time in stepping across the room and pulling her into a hug. 

Arielle rests her chin on her son’s shoulder as she revels in his embrace, a sensation that Jean hadn’t realized he missed until now. 

Once mother and son pull apart she immediately falls into her usual habits. With an affectionate voice, Arielle puts her hands on his cheeks and mentions that he’s gotten taller, that his beige Ambassador suit fits him strangely, then asks if he’s been eating properly as of late. Her usual motherly pestering brings a smile to his face and fills Jean with a kind of levity he hadn’t felt since he first arrived at the palace. 

With Connie and his mother occupying the neighbouring room, Jean and Arielle sit on the couch as they catch up. They are served tea and biscuits as they talk, wherein Jean tells his mother of his adventures abroad and she listens to his every word. He speaks of how the Ambassadors continue to be shipped around like luggage and thrust to every corner of the world. He explains that on some days they are moved so quickly that the only caveat to it all is the sight of the sea outside a ship’s porthole. There are even days where it’s a relief to not have to get a full-night’s sleep in a moving vehicle. 

On the other end of things, Arielle tells her son of what life in Trost has been like for the last three years. Jean anticipates her explaining what the Jaegerists must be doing with their level of control, but his mother surprises him by speaking of other matters. She talks about Nora Springer visiting often, where they will not do much but drink tea and awkwardly skirt around any uncomfortable topic. Any instance of Arielle asking how Nora's adjusting to things post-Titanization tends to be answered with a nod, a hum, then a very abrupt change in subject to avoid dwelling on things for too long. Talking about the weather seems to be Nora’s go-to. 

Eventually, Arielle tells Jean about how she’s been seeing someone for the last few months, a topic that makes Jean roll his eyes yet he still tries to hold himself in a way that says, “Yes, mother, I hear you.”  

A man named Ulrich has moved down the street, having relocated from Karanes to Trost to start a new life. He’s as old as she is, came to the district with the skillset of a blacksmith, and is evidently unbothered by his girlfriend's son being a traitor to the Island. 

The reality of his mother dating doesn’t bother Jean as much as he expected. Ultimately, his reaction is neutral. As he listens to his mother’s recollection of Ulrich taking her for a walk near the mountains, he finds it in himself to be happy for her. There is something assuring about knowing his mother isn’t living a life constricted by his actions, that despite everything happening on the Island she’s making connections somehow, whether it be through Nora Springer’s awkward weather chats or with the kindly blacksmith just down the road. 

Mother and son continue to drink tea, nibble on freshly baked biscuits, and chat to their heart’s content, then before either of them know it their three hours are up. 

Ever the gentleman, Jean remains by his mother’s side as she is escorted through Historia’s palace by a pair of guards. At this point in the stay, walking through the opulent hallways reminds him less of the cushy existence he had dreamed of a lifetime ago and more of a prison. To be unable to leave these very walls without the risk of a Jaegerist exacting their revenge is a heavy burden to hold, and to an extent he can’t imagine what it’s like for his mother to exist while sharing the name of a traitor. 

But he believes in Historia’s ability to keep her and Nora Springer safe, he has faith in the powers that be to ensure protection to those who need it. 

Jean walks out to the palace courtyard with his mother by his side, the sun shining bright above their heads. Ahead of them is a carriage that Connie is helping Nora into. 

“Promise me that you’ll write more, Jean,” Arielle tells her son when they’re a few steps away from her ride.   

Jean shrugs and stops walking to face his mother. “That depends, what’ll happen if I don’t?” 

When Arielle reaches for his ear and pretends to pinch it, a playful gesture she’s done since he was young, Jean flinches with a smile on his face. 

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” He squirms out of her grasp and lets out a laugh. “I will, Ma, I promise.” 

“Are you sure you can’t find a way to Trost after this?” asks Arielle in a hopeful voice. 

With a sigh he shakes his head. “I don’t think so. After this we’re actually needed on the mainland again.”

Arielle looks perplexed. “So soon? For the love of Sina's ass-crack, they really won’t give you a break, won’t they?” She huffs. “What a shame, I really did want you to meet Ulrich.” 

“I’m sure we’ll meet someday,” Jean says, though deep down he knows that his words may not hold their weight. He puts his hands in his pockets as his face falls. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Arielle repeats, pouting, then reaches over to plant her palm on her son’s cheeks. “And don’t make that face, Jean, he’s a nice man.” 

Jean rolls his eyes as he taps his mother’s hand away from him. “Yeah, I get that, I just… I just didn’t think this topic would come up.” 

“It’s not exactly an easy thing for a mother to tell her son, but I’m glad you know,” Arielle admits. “Shame you can’t come home at all — Mrs. Scheer did say her daughter was single…” 

As amusing as it is for his mother to set him up with the neighbour’s daughter, Jean can only chuckle and shake his head. “Not possible, Ma. Not for now, at least.” 

As with everything regarding her son’s crazy life, Arielle seems to understand. “I do hope it will be one day.” 

“You and I both,” Jean agrees. “Life’s a bit complicated right now. But if that changes you’ll be the first to know.” 

From there on mother and son share a hug, Arielle’s arms wrapping tight around him for a blissful few seconds. When they break apart Jean takes her hand and leads her over to the carriage as planned. When she steps in she sits across from Nora Springer, who’s heartbreak is evident in the eyes she shares with her son. Leaving him for a second time cannot possibly be easy. 

Jean gets a final look at his mother in the moment between her settling into the ride and the footman shutting the door. Jean and Connie then step back and watch as the horse-drawn carriage moves around the palace’s courtyard, soon heading towards the shiny gates and driving off the property. They stare until the vehicle turns into a speck amongst the horizon and disappears.

On instinct, Jean looks to Connie to gauge his state. For once his beloved friend is not locked in a constant state of melancholy, a rare sight on its own. The light in Connie’s eyes makes Jean reach over and put his arm around his old friend, pulling him close so their shoulders bump. 

“Feeling good, Connie?” 

Connie turns to him, still looking elated from the visit but unamused at his friend’s antics. “Yes, Dad. ”

He pulls away and Jean laughs, pleasantly entertained. Connie walks forward, rolling his eyes and adjusting his tie as he heads towards the palace. Jean follows, adjusting his hair so it remains pompously slicked over his head. While he moves his eyes wander around the building’s exterior, where he inspects things like the ornate balconies, the row of symmetrically-trimmed potted plants near the entrance, and the various windows that line the building. 

One window in particular catches his attention, a pane in the corner where Jean sees someone standing behind the glass. Even from where he stands he can recognize the figure, a sight that tickles him once he realizes who it is. 

Mikasa stands in a room on the palace’s third floor. While he can’t recall the purpose of said room, it’s apparently an excellent spot to eavesdrop on all the ongoings in the courtyard. 

Despite the distance between them, Jean sees her flinch from her stillstate once she realizes that she’s been caught staring. With all the grace of a frightened doe, the girl who had rested in his arms just that morning scurries from the window. 

Once she’s gone he lets out a laugh and wonders just how long she had been looking at him. 

…

…

…

2ND PASS COMPLETE

Scars and Cigarettes.

In the evening Jean bathes in a tub full of sumptuous soaps and scents. Despite the elation he had felt after reuniting with his mother after three whole years, the feeling of relief had left the second he re-entered the boardroom. The stress of another cycle of meetings and negotiations goes down the drain with the bathwater. 

Dripping wet, he steps out of the tub and dries off with a towel, appreciating the floral scent now wafting throughout the air. The amenities of a Queen differ greatly from what he’s been provided during his travels, most of which start and end with a frigid shower and a bar of soap. In the palace things are different — the suds feel unbelievably luxurious against his skin, the hot water soothes every ache in his muscles, and the provided lotions smell of shea butter and marula oil. 

After Jean dries his hair, he wipes the fog off the mirror and gets a glimpse of his reflection. It’s at this time of the month that his facial hair is starting to veer away from stubble and into the territory of a short beard, a sight that is fitting for a grizzled sea captain but not at all for an Ambassador of peace. As he rubs lotion into his skin, he wonders if he has time to shave before hearing a knock at his door.

“Just a second!” he calls out just as he finishes his task and leaves the bathroom.

Jean drops his towel and steps into the bedroom. He puts on the bottoms of his sleepwear before grabbing the top off the corner of his bed. He pulls the latter garment over his shoulders and lets it remain unbuttoned as he heads towards the door. 

When he opens said door he is greeted by a face he’s seen a thousand times, yet it is not the one he has come to expect at this point of the evening. 

“What do you want, Pieck?” Jean asks in lieu of a proper greeting. 

His comrade, travel companion, and occasional source of irritation stands in the hallway. Pieck Finger is cloaked in a silk robe that goes far below her knees. Her hair is neatly brushed and tied back. The smile on her face feels uncharacteristically bright at this time of night. It’s her usual way of holding herself, but over time Jean has learned that such an expression has a fifty-percent chance of being genuine or is simply a way to obfuscate her true intentions. Lucky for him, it’s probably the former at this hour.  

“I got you a gift,” Pieck announces in her regular half-dry, half-chipper way of speaking. From behind her back she pulls out a small rectangular box and holds it out to him. 

The label tells Jean what the box contains — cigarettes, and the good kind to boot. He takes the pack into his hands and is impressed to find that it’s unopened. 

“Shit, who’d you snag these from?”

“One of the diplomats from the Mid-East,” Pieck explains, shrugging. She begins playing with the sash of her robe. “He tried to sneak them around his wife but to no avail. It’s a whole thing.” 

“And he gave these to you?” 

“Technically his wife did after she confiscated them,” Pieck corrects, chuckling. “Anyways, I figured you’d be desperate after finishing your last stick, so enjoy the gift.”

Jean rolls his eyes and slips the pack into his shirt pocket. “You sure you don’t want one?” 

Pieck scrunches her nose. “No thanks, I’m too smart for that.” 

Before either of them can say anything else, they are interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Jean looks forward and Pieck turns around. They are both greeted to the sight of Mikasa standing on the other side of the hallway. From where he is Jean can see a distinct agitation entering her eyes when she sees he’s not alone. Her hand is still on the doorknob and he notices that she’s holding it tight.

“Hey,” Jean starts, breaking the tension in the hallway. 

“Hey…” Mikasa manages, eyeing him and then Pieck. “...am I interrupting something?” 

The ever-astute Pieck Finger looks over to Jean. As to be expected, it only takes a few seconds for her to read both of them like a book. The confused expression on her face turns into a knowing look. He’s seen this face before, as she wore it when she realized exactly what was going on between Armin and Annie, or when she figured out what Jean was really doing whenever he needed to “step out for some air.”   

She also seems to know exactly what this looks like from Mikasa’s perspective, a situation that is not remotely helped by Jean’s unbuttoned shirt or her silk robe. 

Despite circumstances, Jean can see the playfulness tinged in Pieck’s smile as they share a brief look. His stomach clenches as he becomes overwhelmed by the urge to crawl under a rock forever or throw himself out of the nearest window. Or maybe both. 

Relief washes over him once Pieck looks back to Mikasa. 

“Not at all! I was just leaving,” she insists, slipping her hands into her robe pockets. An sense of informality enters her composure. She steps out from the space between them and faces the two. 

“I’m gonna go… bother Armin and Annie,” Pieck ends up saying, giving Mikasa a rather cheeky grin as she walks off. “Maybe they won’t kick me out of their room this time. Nightie-night!” 

She gives a cheery wave before making her way down the hallway and disappearing into the palace. 

Staring at the floor, it takes Jean a second to glance towards Mikasa again. His heart is still beating fast, but at least the need to curl into a ball and start rocking back and forth is starting to dissipate. 

Mikasa still looks on edge, but manages to speak first. 

“I didn’t know you two were close.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Close friends?”

“Just friends.” 

Another beat follows and the air around them starts to feel heavy. 

“...do you still wanna come in?” Jean tries, stepping back slightly and holding the door open. 

Mikasa nods and walks to him. Her shoulder brushes his as she enters his room. In the brief moment that his face is obscured from hers Jean finally lets out the sigh he’s been holding in. 

When he closes the door and turns around, he sees Mikasa standing in his room like she always does. She’s wearing her same old nightdress, the white one that flows behind her as she walks. As beautiful as she always is, looking at her now doesn’t quell the turmoil inside of him. It’s strange that an occurrence he’s grown so used to still has the ability to make him tense, but at least he’s getting better at hiding it. His first instinct is to take the pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and hold it up to her. 

“Do you want one?” 

She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

Jean hums before opening the box and walking to his desk. Instead of lighting up he simply takes his cigarette case and fills it with the newfound bounty.

“How was your mother?” she asks. 

“She’s good,” Jean starts, then briefly thinks of a way to summarize the visit that isn’t utterly boring. “She’s surviving, thriving, and seeing some guy named Ulrich, apparently.” He can’t stop his tone from sounding just a little bit caustic. 

Mikasa tilts her head to the side. “You don’t sound happy for her.”

“No, I am, it’s just… I never thought that her dating would ever… come up," Jean explains. He sighs, but manages a smile for Mikasa’s sake. “You should’ve come down to see her. She’d like you.” 

“Why so?”

“Because you’re…” Jean begins, but stops himself short of saying what’s on the tip of his tongue. He looks away from Mikasa while words like ‘kind’ or ‘caring’ or ‘the strongest person I know’ dance in his head. 

“...she just would,” he ends up saying instead. 

Judging by the look on her face Mikasa seems inclined to believe him.

To distract himself, Jean finishes filling his case with cigarettes. He expects to make good use of it later, undoubtedly during the day when he finds a moment to himself, but for now he steps over to the closet and pulls out his Ambassador uniform, which has been neatly placed on a hanger. He slips the case into his jacket pocket, keenly aware that Mikasa’s eyes are on him the whole time. 

Before he can say anything else she takes a step forward until she is standing beside him. He turns to her and notices that she’s looking at his torso — that in itself is enough to make the nervous pang within him intensify. She reaches up and moves a part of his unbuttoned shirt aside, just enough to expose a section of his upper chest. 

Jean knows exactly what she’s looking at and is surprised that she’s only noticed it now. 

“What happened here?” she asks, running her finger over the scar on his collarbone. 

“Bar fight,” Jean answers without missing a beat. “It was a while ago though. Just kinda happened.” 

“Who started it?” 

“Connie,” Jean says nonchalantly. “I was just back-up.” 

The incident is so far behind him now that all he can recall was how stupid the whole thing was. 

The fight had been at some tavern in a town at the base of a mountain. Jean had walked in expecting to find Connie waiting for him with a friendly smile and a pitcher of ale. Instead he found his best friend currently engaged in a fist fight against a drunk patron who had the gall to make fun of his hair. Things had escalated at such an alarming rate that Jean had barely any time to grab Connie by the collar and pull him back, something that had unfortunately left him open to an unlucky attack. Though in terms of what injuries he could’ve sustained after being lunged at with a broken bottle, Jean had certainly gotten off easy. He didn’t even need stitches once the fight was broken up.

The only remnant of the night is now etched on his skin, a mark that will slowly fade with time but for now lies atop the right side of his collarbone. 

“Sounds like something that would happen,” Mikasa says. 

Jean chuckles. “Connie getting into bar fights?”

“No, you having his back.”

Jean fights the urge to blush and averts her gaze. “You’re giving me too much credit.” He steps back slightly and approaches the bed. “I’m beat, I gotta sleep.” 

He hears her hum in agreement as he sheds his shirt and turns off the lights. Moonlight fills the bedroom as Jean slips under the sheets. Being freshly bathed, the blankets feel softer against his skin, something that helps him relax as his head settles on the pillow.

As per the last few nights, the sound of Mikasa’s gentle footfalls is followed by the feeling of the mattress shifting. With open eyes he sees her bundled in blankets and lying across from him. She looks to be at peace and once more Jean realizes just how much he prefers to see her this way. 

In the faint light he is drawn to the scar underneath her right eye, a remnant of the past that is far more faded than his. At this distance he notices that it’s not as deep as he remembers it to be. He had never known her to cover it, but wonders if she’s ever been compelled to. 

Jean’s musings are soon interrupted when he sees her reaching out to him. Her fingers touch his collarbone once more and he fights the urge to shudder. 

“Did it hurt?”

“A little bit.” 

She glances up to meet his eyes — for a moment their gazes remain connected as she runs her thumb across his scar. Mikasa focuses on the mark again, then slowly she moves across the mattress to close the distance between them. Something inside Jean clenches when she feels her bare feet grazing his shins, the warmth underneath the blankets feeling like heaven. Then before he knows it she presses a sweet kiss to his collarbone. 

The kiss lasts barely a second and in that span of time he goes still. When she pulls away his eyes are wide and he becomes acutely aware of the positions of their bodies — both are on their sides, both are close like they were that morning, and both are existing in each other’s atmosphere like they’ve always belonged there. 

And Jean is still tempted to pinch himself to see if this is all real. 

Despite his heart hammering hard against his ribcage, Jean reaches to her and touches his palm to the back of her head. Emboldened by their proximity, he sucks in a nervous breath before finding the courage to run his fingers through her hair again. Like before Mikasa doesn’t move. She lets him touch her before looking up again, unambiguously aware of what he’s doing. Her eyes look nearly black in this light. 

Jean’s not sure how much time passes before Mikasa surprises him again. She shifts a bit and her lips touch his. 

On instinct Jean closes his eyes and reciprocates as gently as he can. The kiss, if he can even call it that, lasts a little longer than he expects. 

After a few seconds it’s done. She pulls away and he opens his eyes. There’s only an inch between them now, their noses nearly brushing. From where he is Jean tries to read her expression. He sees the curiosity in her shimmering eyes, then gets the feeling that she’s testing him, experimenting with a gesture to see what feels right and what doesn’t. 

Under different circumstances Jean would let her continue. Perhaps a past version of himself would let her play with him all night, no questions asked. But who he is now isn’t entirely comfortable with the idea. 

He needs a part of this to be real, even just a little bit. So very gently Jean touches the back of her head again and pulls her towards him. The space between them closes again, his lips meeting hers with just a little more intent. 

Kissing Mikasa the first time had made him tense, but the second time fares differently. The second time feels sweeter, quieter, more gentle. As Jean feels her reciprocate his affections against his lips, the pressure that had been plaguing his heart is suddenly gone — in its place is some kind of warmth, something that eases every worry inside of him. He deepens the kiss slightly, tilting his head to the side so he can try a different angle, holding her closer to him than he ever has.

He feels her arms snaking around his torso, an act that is clumsy and unprepared. Soon her hands are running across his shoulders, a movement that is done with enough fervor and desire that Jean realizes she wanted to do this — she wanted to kiss him, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to be close to him. And for what reasons he may never know, but for now that’s not what matters. 

What does matter is that she’s kissing him back. His hands move and play with her hair, his thumb running across the scar on her cheek. He feels her shift on the bed and soon he’s on his back. She moves until she’s on top of him, their kiss remaining unbroken as she straddles his hips, a gesture that’s more brazen than he anticipates. Her hair drapes around them like a veil, their teeth clashing for a brief second as she continues to taste him, to test him. 

And Jean enjoys every second of it, letting her hover over him as much as she wants. The shock of getting to kiss her still hasn’t worn off.

Deep down a part of him is expecting this to abruptly end, like all things in life that are too good to be true. He anticipates the moment where she will suddenly pull away, deem the last few nights as a huge mistake, and to walk away and leave him in the shambles of a friendship he once adored.

But that moment never comes. 

Instead she keeps kissing him and he keeps kissing her back. It only ends for real once she falls asleep in his arms again. 

[blaithnne]

I guess I never posted this here so… here’s Lauren in the style of The Troll comic!! The first in what I hope will be a continued series of style explorations >:O

Check under the cut for me rambling about how she fits in narratively and design wise!

Narrative

The narrative in the show is very different from the comics, not just in terms of the plot but in how the story is told - it’s a different medium so it does stuff differently! In short, the comics are a lot more rapid fire and comedic, The Troll in particular is so quick that it’s TV adaption was literally just the cold open of the first episode. Even Johanna only appears very briefly in this comic, so fitting in another character was already going to be a challenge lmao. But what made it even harder is the fact that Lauren was, obviously, designed to be a character that fits within the series, so there’s a lot about her character that just can’t translate into the comics. For example - one of her main uses in the show is to make the audience ask questions - “Hilda has a big sister? How old is she? She’s an adult, why is she still living with her family? Do she and Hilda share a dad? If she’s an adult then, did she know her dad? Why doesn’t she talk about him? Why does she take on so much?” Etc. This helps get the audience invested! And from everything we can tell these are questions the show wants to answer, but the comics…don’t. The comics don’t want you to question why Hilda lives in the middle of nowhere, they just want you to have a fun adventure with a little blue haired girl! Lauren being there in all her regular show glory makes that more complicated.

SO I had to work backwards, and try and think about what purpose a character like Lauren could serve in the comics, and why she would have been made in the first place, and this is what I ended up with -

Lauren is younger in the comics than she is in the show - she’s somewhere between 15-17, and the basis for her character is “a teenager from the viewpoint of a young child”. You know how you view teens when you’re a kid - they’re scary! They’re like adults except with no responsibilities, they’re aloof and want nothing to do with you but they seem so cool! Like they can do whatever they want! And you have no clue what that even is. I think this age makes more sense for the comics, as it means the audience doesn’t have to question why she’s still living at home or anything like that lmao - she’s just a kid!

Lauren seems very aloof and irresponsible, she’s always wandering off and doing random bits and bobs around the house. Even from Johannas perspective, she sees her as a bit of a liability. She’s kind of a gag character at this point - since there’s really no other way to fit her in at this point. I like the idea of her appearing when Hilda opens the front door, and she’s this terrifying silhouette holding an axe and staring down at Hilda, who screams in terror. Only for the next panel to reveal it’s just Lauren

I’ll get into this in more detail a the comics go on but, the idea with Lauren is that as the comics continue she’ll become more and more similar to the character we see in the show. Not really because she’s changed all that much - but because the other characters (and by extension the reader) start to see her differently. Once she gets more of a spotlight outside from being a one off gag character, she stops being the misunderstood teen and starts being…understood!

So, whilst Lauren seems irresponsible and reckless, she doesn’t mean to be. I think one of the reasons she comes off like this is bc she’s got heavy autism coding in the comics - she takes things very literally. Like, if Johanna tells her to watch Hilda - she will! She’ll watch her walk right off a cliff. Because Johanna never told her to keep her safe, just to watch her!

She still does chores and stuff around the house but, there’s not really any opportunity to showcase that in this comic lol

Design

The biggest challenge design wise was her body type. In terms of human characters, The Troll features just Hilda and Johanna - who appears for as a half body for three panels. Both of them are very skinny and noodle, which was an issue because Lauren…isn’t lmao. She’s buff! That’s her thing! Soooo here’s the solution I came up with -

I decided to make her as noodly as the other characters, but to lean really into the buff aspect of her character despite that. I drew her holding big ol axes and rocks to show that - she’s comically strong! I think that adds to both the gag and kind of mysterious part of her character - this Lauren isn’t intriguing in a “makes you question hildas family history and important elements of the show” way, she’s intriguing in a “what the fuck” way

Another thing I played with was her hair - the art style and character designs change a lot throughout the comic, it takes a little bit before certain characters core features are figured out. So I thought it would be fun to show that through her hair, which is just slightly off from her show design!

Uhhh what else - oh I gave her freckles like Hilda! I think that shows that she’s younger than Johanna quite well :)

I also just tried to use simplistic shapes, and give her an easily recognisable look. Just….tried to make her the kind of character I could imagine appearing alongside some other simplistic Hilda doodles from the concept art pages

OH ALSO ALSO I tried to lean into a 2010s influence with her design, mainly in her hair, by having one eye be fully covered

I thiiiink that’s all I have to say lmao! This was so much fun to make, I love imagining how my girl fits into stuff and this art style was a joy to draw in - it’s so fun! Really grew on me as I drew in it more, I def wanna return to it someday :)

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

If it's cool for us to ask if anyone knows a movie can I take a shot in the dark? I haven't been able to find it since and I really liked it.

Spoilers for it obviously

If the style and quality is to be believed, the movie is somewhere mid-late 2000s or early to mid 2010s. It's told retrospectively by one of the dinner guests getting interviewed by a detective asking about the crazy nights events. It doesn't have a clear location but it's this dinner party hosted by a couple where they recently lost their daughter when she died after falling down the stairs (in reality, the mom was drunk, holding her and dropped her). The guy in the couple was sinning because he was having an affair with a blonde present and the guy's friend had hit someone with his car late at night and hid the body instead of calling the cops.

They invite in a medium which gets the blonde lady possessed and the "demon" says they have to confess their sins or it will kill them. Then the main lady hears her dead daughter when she's comforted by her friend in the daughters old bedroom, they find another friend bloody and strung up outside and they invite in a priest to help the possessed lady. The main lady hits on him and the blonde says a line about m*sturbating with a crucifix (she doesn't actually) and kills the priest. The main lady is only able to end thing when she carves something into her arm and the blonde is killed.

Then we cut back to the interview where we find out the friend was Satan in human form and she killed the detective once he figured it out. She then goes on this long monologue about how we all meet her once and she's known under many names "Belial, Lord of the flies, the morning star, Lucifer" then she walks out of the police station and disappears as a car passes between the camera and her.

The main lady has long straight brown hair and the devil girl has short brown hair. She looked a lot like the actress who plays the protagonist of truth or dare but idk if they are the same actress. Please if anyone knows about this movie! Tell me! I loved it and the twist alot but can't remember the title for the life of me and id love to buy it.

Help a friend in search!

[michirukaioureincarnate]

Lesbian Supernatural Detective TV Show That I’ll Never Write

Wow not me doing a self-insert cuz my life is so boring but whatever cuz here's what I'm picturing:

A/N: Please note that any religious references and depictions are inspired from my own experiences with religion and the supernatural, and are not intended to offend or disrespect anyone or anything. Everything is fictional.

Setting: A quaint yet large Victorian-esque city somewhere in West Europe set in the modern day. It's a hub of creatives, mom and pop shops, students looking for cheap rent, and people who haven't bothered moving out of generational homes.

Sypnosis: Strange incidents are a norm, which explains the low rent prices, and only one person has been able to get to the bottom of the strangest cases since the citie's inception: me >:3

Why? Because I have a secret advantage that no one else does.

A qareen.

Cast

Me/Myca Kahn: 26F | 4'-11" | Pakistani | medium-length wavy-ish black hair, warm skin, medium-dark brown eyes that sparkle from being a cutie patootie A chirpy and delightful forensic science scholar who takes the detective world by storm by solving the some of the most bizarre cases in and around the city | Background: Escaped an Islamic cult-like community in Pakistan to study in Europe (idk where doh, just bear with me) and just wants to live a normal life, but alas, her shadowy counterpart makes it difficult. Very difficult. | Has a very sunny disposition for a detective, which makes it difficult for her to be taken seriously until she's in action. | Changed her name right after graduating.

Saya (means 'shadow' in Urdu): Paranormal entity | distinct colorless and cloudy eyes Myca's shadowy counterpart. May or may not take Myca's form when materializing, but is mostly just a shadowy figure lurking around her out of everyone's immediate sight. Might sometimes be noticed by others in their periphery, but never directly. | Extremely selfish in nature, but can be reasonable as long as their needs aren't directly affected. | Often recites Urdu, Persian, and Arabic poetry during emotionally charged moments, with very poignant selection. | Can notice things Myca can't and guides her with investigations, and offers assistance against paranormal hindrances. | Background: every qareen is invisible, but something the cult did brought Saya out. Deliberately chose to remain bound to me. Motive is unclear.

Hildr: 30F | 5'-10" | Scandinavian/Nordic (nationality: undecided) | straight blonde hair cut short, fair skin, and light-colored brooding eyes | very serious, grumpy, and low-key intimidating Transferred from another city and assigned to Myca for some fckn reason even though she literally can't work with anyone because none of her previous partners could keep up and, frankly, got in the way of pursuing her intuition during investigations. She knows this woman will be no different from them. | Might have an ulterior motive? But it's yet to be decided | Recently been transferred from military service to civil duties after returning from a trauamatic mission to check on a missing military squad, and witnessing some weird paranormal shit during her time.

Themes

Primary: solving mysteries and exploring complex relationships between the three characters | eventual romantic + sexual tension between Myca/Hildr with Saya interfering to create conflict and keep Myca isolated | Saya's existence unbeknowst to Hildr, so the revelation leads to a sense of betrayal and eventual deterioration of trust between Myca and Hildr

Secondary: character backstories and how it influences their personalities and decisions | Myca's corruption arc | Saya's release arc | Myca and Hildr reconciliation

Tertiary: Saya's hold and influence on Myca | fully intended to be controversial: codependent relationship between Myca and Saya that can border on it beng intimately inappropriate, but this is only to depict Myca's abusive upbringing in a symbolic manner and how she must break free from it to accept the sincerity of others that she longs for

Tentative pilot episode (idk how to do scriptwriting so bear with me cuz I might unconciously switch to my regular writing style here and there)

Supervisor at her desk queitly sifting through a file of a case Myca recently solved, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. Camera cuts to a spread of documents under the recent case file with certain parts circled with pencil. It's clear she's caught onto something strange, but she's not sure what exactly.

Door bursts open, startling her out of hyper-focus, and Myca marches in proudly to plant herself before Supervisor's desk, a fist on her hip while her other hand holds up a clear bag filled with dissambled electronic devices.

Myca, smirking: "got yo evidence, chief." Plonks clear bag on the desk. "Time to let this hot commodity—" dramtically gestures down the length of herself "—thaw out that cold case you promised me."

Supervisor, with a dead stare, blinks at Myca slowly with a soft exhale of exasperation as she eyes her assitant at the adjacent work desk.

Supervisor: "You'd think I'd get used to this by now."

Myca, chuckling and crossing her arms: "Please don't. Your reaction's half the fun. Now, about our agreement—"

Supervisor: "That I had a non-negotiable condition for? Yes, let's discuss."

Myca rolls her eyes: "You never even told me what it was!"

Now it's Supervisor's turn to smirk, and her assistant covers his smile behind a clipboard as he picks up the phone to speed-dial someone.

Assistant: "Send 'em in."

Myca narrows her eyes at Supervisor suspiciously. The door creaks open. She turns to watch Hildr walk in with a commanding presence, and a stoic face. She has a visibly athletic build.

Camera closes up and pans over the contours of her toned shoulders, cutting down the length of her visibly strong biceps against the stretchy fabric of her fitted black turtleneck. Cut to a poised hand over a gun at the belt of her black tactical cargo pants that her top is tucked into. Camera pans up her visbily strong forearms that the sleeves are folded over. Cut to her brooding eyes under her low-set brows, looking into the camera with a despondent emptiness.

Camera cuts to Myca's surprised face as she quickly turns back to Supervisor with a serious look, trying to contain her blush. She obviously finds Hildr attractive, although intimidating as well.

Myca, clearing her throat, voice slightly high-pitched: "And what does she have to do with anything?"

Supervisor: "That's Hildr (last name undecided). She's your partne—no, bodyguard, actually."

Myca smacks her palms onto the desk and squeaks: "WHAT?!"

Supervisor: "After your stunt with the recent so-called sting operation, head of department's decided you need extra...protection. You almost got holes put into you."

Camera cuts to Myca's side-profile with a medium close-up shot, zooming in slowly to frame her head and shoulder with a sinister dimness, followed by a soft, drawn-out creepy breath that becomes more audible the closer the camera gets to Myca. Dark, smoky tendrils curl from behind Myca into the frame to brush against her ear.

Saya's deep, dark, semi-demonic whispers: "Holes? Please. We barely got scratched, chief."

Myca clears her throat, breaking the imposing darkness as the camera cuts abruptly to normal shot of her side profile. She straightens up and crosses her arms adamantly.

Myca: "I made it out alive."

Supervisor scoffs: "With a gunshot graze on your neck, Myca!"

Camera looks over Supervisor's out-of-focus shoulder at Myca, who adjusts the collar of her coat to hide the patched wound above her collarbone. "Still alive."

Camera shifts focus to Hildr behind Myca, who has a questioning/curious look on her face. Camera cuts to Supervisor's face, her brow raised in displeasure as her eyes dart between Myca and Hildr.

Supervisor: "Either you accept Hildr as your bodyguard, or you don't get the case. In fact, you won't get to work on any case with high or critical threat levels." Camera cuts to Myca, who is bewildered.

Saya's omniscent whisper that only Myca can hear: "Ooh, that would be a big problem."

Myca huffs defeatedly: "Fine. Not like I have a choice."

She turns to Hildr, who raises her brows and cocks her head slightly to better meet Myca's gaze, a hand still resting on her gun, perhaps out of habit. Myca averts her gaze abashedly and walks towards Hildr. Supervisor holds up a folder in the frame as camera readjusts to focus on it.

Supervisor: "Don't you want the case file?"

Camera switch to Myca's face with the Supervisor behind her. Myca halts and pulls her lips into a thin line, swiveling on her heel to march back to Supervisor's desk. Camera pans along from the side. Maya plucks the file from Supervisor's hand, then turns around again to rush past Hildr and out of the office. Camera cuts to Hildr in medium close-up shot just as Myca disappears past her out of the door, her eyes following Myca. Hildr exchanges a nod of acknowledgment with Supervisor before stepping out of the office after Myca.

[A/N: okay no more camera talk unless absolutely necessary cuz I be sorta tired tonight tbh]

Hildr briskly walks down the hallway after Myca, who's practically stomping off and turns a corner. Lightly jogging to catch up, she turns the corner and the space opens up to the lobby of the police station. It's sort of crowded, and she can't see Myca until a strange darkness (Saya's shaodwy tendrils) in her periphery catches her eye. Her head snaps to it with her heart pounding in her ears, but she's only met with a sight of Myca turning into a doorway down another hallway.

Hildr pauses to breathe deeply, not blinking as she attempts to compose herself before walking ahead. Her jaw is stiff, and her hand clutches the gun on her belt while her other hand tightens into a fist.

Flashbacks to a mission where she saw strange shadowy entities moving eerily across a barren landscape, following it to dead men in the same military uniform that she wore, with hollowed in cheeks and sunken eyes.

[A/N: I'm sure there could be a better depiction of PTSD done over here]

She marches with purpose, as if following after a suspect. People move out of her way, and it's only when she gets to the door and reaches out for the handle does she realize how agitated she really is. Flexing her fingers and exhaling deeply, her hand inches away from the doorknob to knock on the glass panel of the door instead, through which she can see Myca pacing about in the room with arms wrapped around herself for comfort.

The knock catches Myca's attention. Hildr watches her walk to the door and open it, standing before her. Camera points down at Myca a few inches away diagonally from Hildr's head to put their height difference in perspective. Myca's eyes gleam from the flourescent lights overhead as she looks up at Hildr.

[AN: trying to physically establish a sense of emotional and situational naivety that Myca has in order to give viewers a false impression of her being vulnerable before the real action starts]

Myca, moving back from the door: "Sorry for storming off like that back there. Come on in."

Hildr walks inside, and a medium shot from the side shows Myca and Hildr's height difference even more, with Myca's office in the background showing a whole lot of clutter pinned and taped on the movable boards and walls.

Myca, studying Hildr intently yet awkwardly: "Um, do you talk?"

Hildr, in a somewhat tired voice that's slightly deeper than most women's, and with a slight accent (cuz she's European and English is obviously not her first language): "Only when necessary."

Myca licks her lips and immediately looks away, blinking quickly. Her discreet gulp doesn't go unnoticed by Hildr, though she thinks she's making Myca uncomfortable by not saying much.

Flashbacks to Hildr's missions, how she was forced to stay quiet to remain undetected by enemies. Her entire career revolved around being as stealthy as possible, being light on her feet to avoid the sound of footsteps, and always breathing in a controlled way to not be heard.

Hildr, with a thoughtful look on her face: "They said you needed someone to watch your back while you investigated. That things are getting dangerous."

Myca sighs: "I'm perfectly capable of handling myself. What happened recently was...an unexpected situation."

Hildr walks to the movable boards pinned with maps and pictures overlayed with stickynotes of nearly incomprehensible scribbles. "Not wise, following suspects into blocked off catacombs without a plan. There are protocols in place for a reason."

Myca, grunting: "You have to think on your feet to make sure your evidence doesn't get away."

Hildr chortles behind her teeth and points to a section of the map circled in red, fingers skirting along the paths on its outskirt. "Could've deployed a unit." She explains as Myca walks up to her. "Stationed some people on these two exits to intercept them in case you couldn't chase your targets into this dead-end here."

Myca rolls her eyes. "And then what? Tie them up? Torture them for information? You save a whole lotta time and energy by just getting them to trust you, yanno?"

Hildr looks down at Myca with the slightest hint of amusement as Myca turns her way, looking up from under her long, dark lashes with skepticism. Hildr tilted her head as she leaned forward ever so slightly. "You tried to take on an entire team of criminals all on your own," she chides and picks up a document on the table to skim through. "That was reckless," she mutters, eyes flitting over the paper before turning it to Myca. "See? You weren't even authorized for it. Went rogue. I'm surprised you haven't been fired."

"Got my flawless track record to thank for it," Myca retorts with a cheeky, lopsided smile. If she was trying to come off as cocky, she was failing. [A/N: I've heard Europeans can't understand sarcasm for shit, so from Hildr's POV, Myca seems like she's trying to be something she isn't when she's just being playful.]

"Debateable," Hildr mutters and eyes the folder tucked behind Myca's crossed arms. "What about the case you got there?"

Camera cuts to a location outside an abandoned hospital on the outskirts of the city. It's nighttime, a low fog hangs at their feet, and the trees in the area are barren. Dry leaves crunch underfoot, and Myca observes the building in disrepair, with patches of vines crawling up and across walls and into broken glass panes of old windows.

"Some kids went missing back in 2006," she explains. "All we have is a YouTube video from the day before they went missing. They said they were going to camp out here at night and upload everything the next day, but that never happened."

"I read that in the file, yes," says Hildr absently as she assess the building while staying closely behind Myca. "But why do you want to investigate a case this old? You know those kids are as good as dead."

"Their souls would've aged like fine wine for a feast," cackles Saya in Myca's mind. She almost scolded them out loud before realizing she wasn't alone this time.

Behave yourself, Saya, she thought warningly. We agreed on leaving innocent souls alone.

I should be allowed a sweet treat every now and then, Saya insists mischievously.

NO!

Hildr grabs Myca's elbow and tugs her away. Myca stumbles back with a gasp into Hildr's chest, who grunts in displeasure. "Open manhole. Watch your step, Ms. Kahn."

With an embarrassed exhale, Myca straightens herself out and steps sideways to put some distance between them. She's visibly flustered, though tries not to show it to Hildr. "Sorry. I tend to—"

But Hildr's already got a gun out and pointed at the manhole. Myca wasn't sure if she imagined it, but she'd caught a glimpse of a head peeking at them from within the darkness in her periphery before it disappeared in a blink of an eye.

Saya? she asks within. Was that what I think it was?

Merely a distraction, they reply. The real treat is inside the hospital...if these gluttons haven't already consumed them.

"We should go inside," Myca says quickly.

"But there's someone down there."

"Most like a homeless person trying to figure out why we're around the abandoned parts," she insists. "Let's head inside where the real priority is."

[A/N: okay I can't write out an entire fucking episode of mystery at this point so here's what happens without the technical storytelling format]

Working backwards on the mystery, here's what I came up with for this episode:

What I'm thinking is that these boys had stumbled into an organ-harvesting and trade operation in a hidden section under the hospital. The boys were captured by the culprits and were unfortunately harvested for their organs as well. This could explain why the police could find absolutely no bodies or traces like limbs, bodily fluids, etc.

Given that Myca has a supernatural entity, Saya, attached to her, they're able to guide her in the investigation by temporarirly possessing her so she can see energies, entities, and other things not visible to human eyes. When possessed, a notable ability is that she can see through everything like the walls, floor, ceiling, and can find hidden rooms that way or people/entities in covered spaces. But when not possessed, Myca is intelligent enough to find clues on her own to solve cases, relying on creativity to do so.

Though Myca can see the spirits of those that have passed, she can't find the boys' spirits, and she can't communicate with any of the spirits anymore with Hildr constantly in her proximity.

The blueprints they have of the hospital aren't accurate—on purpose. It was created to be misleading in order to hide a section under the basement built around the sewage system, and Myca sees it when she allows Saya to temporarily possess her.

Hildr argues: "Misleading blueprints? For a hospital? That’s ridiculous. Too many people involved, too much risk. One wrong drill and your whole secret’s out."

Myca: "What do you mean?"

Hildr: "How many people's silence can you buy out? And, realistically speaking, how many of them could keep such a secret? We're talking architects, contractors, construction workers, plumbers and electrician."

Myca: "Not if it's part of an original design the hospital was built on. [City name] is really old, and I just dusted my hands off a case in the catacombs towards the city center, remember?"

Hildr, thoughtful: "Ah. Fair. Lead the way, Ms. Kahn."

[A/N: tbh I'm not great at writing mysteries so idk how the episode would progress, what clues they'd find, the red herrings they'd encounter, and what danger Myca could find herself in that would require Hildr stepping in to protect them. I think I'm good at manufacturing chemistry, but I can't do that without a justifiable lead up through this mystery. It's why I've accepted that I can never write this story :( but that doesn't mean I can't put ideas out there to come back to.]

In the end, when this case is done and dealt with, it's revealed that it could also be connected to a case of missing corpses in the city that came up sometime in later years (maybe 2010) which happened after a family realized they possibly buried their kid alive due to some prank the kid had attempted to pull. When the grave was dug up to retrieve him, the casket was literally gone. One of the caskets found under the hospital matches the one that went missing with the living kid.

They also deduce whoever was the person that kept this harrowing operation running. Perhaps a janitor from the time the hospital was still operational who joined the scheme for an undertermined motive. The person's dead now, though.

Myca returns to the hospital alone and allows Saya to feast on punished souls who had hurt people too much to be "dealt with" by Izril (basically Azrael in Arabic, which means "Whom God helps on their way."). The missing boy's souls are nowhere to be found, though Saya speculates that they may not have died during harvesting, but later when being transported away from the site, which means their souls are entrapped elsewhere and will need to be searched.

When Saya is done feeding, Myca asks a question she's asked before: if there's any true religion, and about the existence of heaven, hell, and Barzagh (a place separating the living from the hereafter). In a surprising moment of compassion, Saya says that the energies of the world operate in a way that makes the most sense to the person based on what they know and believe, and proceeds to recite a poem in Arabic called Doubt will Lead to Truth by Abu al ‘Alaa al Ma’arri (that I can't find in the Arabic script so imma just write it in English).

"By fearing whom I trust I find my way To truth; by trusting wholly I betray The trust of wisdom; better far is doubt Which brings the false into the light of day."

After ending credits, a bonus scene:

Myca enters a room in her apartment bound by supernatural constraints. She allows herself to be possessed by Saya to enter this room. There, a sleeping teenage boy lies encased in floating dark spiritual matter.

"I'm sorry for being away for so long, Ameen," she says regrettably.

"He feels abandoned," Saya says outloud through her, but in a different voice layered on top of her own.

Myca scoffs. "He's my brother. I'd never abandoned him."

She approaches her brother and touches the spiritual matter, causing a reaction where the darkness subsides, and Ameen's eyes flutter open. But only for a moment before he falls back asleep. Myca becomes desolate.

"Again, you know your brother's qareen needs a pure soul to latch onto," Saya explains sternly. "The punished ones can only satiate it for so long."

"We had a deal, Saya," she snaps. "I'll find a way to reverse whatever the fuck Murshid Abbu has done to him."

"He did to him what he did to you," Saya reminds her, "and it can't be undone. Have mercy on the child and let him go."

"No."

"He is a victim. His soul will not be puni—"

"NO!" Myca sobs, crumpling helplessly onto her knees as the scene fades to black.

[dei-ryuu]

Symbiosis OCs (as of Chapter 53)

I got asked by @juliadesforges for some descriptions of some of the characters I created for the casefics. Some I don't have the strongest mental images for (especially in terms of how AA designs characters), but here's what I have for most of them. (Notes: If there's a character from another series I think is a good design ref, I'll include their name/series. If I don't specify skin tone, hair/eye color, etc, I don't have one I've settled on. Also leaving out the victims because I have very little in mind for them) Hickfield Clinic - Wilhelmina "Billy" Hickfield - Mid 60's. Fair skinned, wispy, light brown hair that's almost entirely greyed. Falls to her shoulders. Tall, wiry frame. Wearing medical scrubs and a lab coat. (Somewhere between Olivia Octavius and Aunt May from Into the Spiderverse) - Robert Hickfield- Early 30's. Looks very similar to his mother, same frame and complexion to his mother. Also the same outfit. Short, black, overly styled hair. Looks perpetually bored - Nora East - Shorter and curvier in comparison to her coworkers. Dressed the same with the addition of a cowboy hat she wears hung behind her head. Would use medical equipment like stethoscope in her animations. Dirty blond hair in an up-do.

-Rowan Kipper (Alan Ias) - College age. Rust-red hair, several short swooped, back spikes like waves (comes to a point behind his ears). Has a widow's peak. Very bushy eyebrows, dark blue eyes, and small goatee in the middle of his chin. Some kind of jewelry (an earring or necklace) in shape of a fish

Athens Hotel

-Charles Drinker - Early-mid 30's. Similar build to Edgeworth, tanner complexion. Light brown hair, wavy bangs that part closer to the side of his face. Has a green snake tattooed on his right arm, its head near his wrist and wrapping up to his shoulder. Tends to wear short sleeves to show it off. - Sila and Charis - (I honestly don't have ideas for them, they just exist to fill a role and as a mythology nod to Scylla and Charybdis. They'd be that sidekick/minion duo who are polar opposites design wise. Sila is the more active and serious of the two, while Charis reads more passive and can come off as lazy. Wearing some sort of security uniform, probably with some nod to their namesakes) - Argo Notte - College senior. Curly dark hair. Fairly unassuming since he's trying not to be too noticeable. Carrying around a laptop/laptop bag with the image of an ancient sailing ship on it

Museum of Natural History

-Shadow Morrison - Early 20's. Darker complexion, black hair mostly braided back. Wears all black and grey, but business casual style. Carries a clipboard -Xena Stynct - 30's. Short, wears oversized glasses. Always has some sort of slight visible damage on her (bandaids, broken glasses, small rips or stains on clothes) due to clumsiness. Medium length hair that's she's attempted to pull back in a messy ponytail. (Sheska from Fullmetal Alchemist) -Christine Agate - 40's. Very tall, weightlifter's build. Tanner complexion. Short, pinned back hair. Mostly a dark, reddish brown with streaks of grey (like an agate stone). Dressed like a typical detective with the trench coat (Luisa Madrigal from Encanto) Hope this is helpful/interesting and don't be afraid to comment if there's something you'd like me to clarify!

[abyssmalice]

FIRST MEETINGS MEME A meme for first meetings and introduction threads, aka a ‘What you will notice about my muse first’ cheat sheet. Repost, don’t reblog. Bold what applies. Fill in details. (Please do not remove the credit + blank meme link.) credit + blank meme.

GENERAL APPEARANCE

Sex: Masculine. Feminine. Non-Binary.

Race: Human / Human-Iriminsul hybrid

Complexion: Somewhere between the sunless paleness of a Snezhnayan and the toned earthiness of a Sumeran. Essentially, a rather tanned Snezhnayan with a flushed, warm tint to her skin.

Height: 5′1″

Body Type: Endomorph. Mesomorph. Ectomorph.

Body Build: Small. Medium. Athletic. Muscular. Soft. Curvy. Voluptuous.

Body Hair: None. Shaves/Waxes. Trims/Grooms. Untamed.   Color: Brown.

Head Hair: None. Buzzed. Short. Medium. Long. Very Long. Asymmetrical Cut. Color: Brown; turns silvery-white under major stress. Details: Generally ties her hair into two thick braids. Under certain circumstances, her hair can grow out into roots and branches of Irminsul.

Eye Color: Blue; there’s an unnatural emptiness that severely darkens the color, making her eyes look lifeless like a doll’s.

Scars: None.

FASHION

Fashion Style: Vintage. Traditional. Casual. Artsy. Vibrant. Geeky/Nerdy. Tomboy. Sporty. Trendy. Preppy. Girly. Bohemian. Elegant. Formal. Grunge. Punk. Rocker. Gothic. Other: She is often dressed in identical copies of her Harbinger uniform, which has a very sharp and formal aesthetic to it. Outside of work, she prefers to dress in very simple, casual clothing that a Snezhnayan civilian might be seen in. 

Color Palette: Royal blue, gold, white with a touch of grey or black. Occasionally, cherry red.

Typical Clothing: Usually dressed in a custom uniform indicating her high rank as a Harbinger, with the emblem of the Fatui sewed into the fabric. The result resembles a student’s uniform from a prestigious, private academy but with subtle elements of girlish youthfulness and military decorations. On her uniform, she wears a (fake) Vision decorated like a fancy brooch, as well as a bright red mask that is her blatant trademark as the Eleventh Harbinger.

Piercings: None.

Tattoos: None.

Other Information: She generally does not pick her own outfits. A stylist assistant does that for her, ensuring she keeps with the professional image of the Fatui and the royal connotations of her Tsaritsa. If she had a choice, Tonia would go mad in a mess of rainbows and ribbons for ages.

EXPRESSION

General Facial Expression: Disinterested and disengaged with a minor, unconscious frown. Otherwise, a blank look of observation and curiosity. Occasionally looks irritated and petulant, depending on the situation.

Default Body Language: Leisurely but closed-off and protective of herself; potentially tensed depending on the context. Is aggressive and confident when commandeering or bothering others alike. 

General Movements: Arms folded by default; finger tapping and foot tapping occasionally. Some gestures when speaking or referring to something, but otherwise there is minimal (unnecessary) movement. Additionally, her steps do not make any sound by default; if someone hears her approaching, it is more often than not deliberate.

NOTABLE FOR RP

Presence: Surprisingly, unless she wants to make herself known, she can have almost no presence whatsoever; her true default state is to be silent and in the shadows, avoiding attention while hiding any identifying features. In such times, it takes careful observation to realize her presence in the background, thereby breaking her concealment. Nonetheless, due to her rather recognizable position as a Harbinger, she doesn’t get to play that card often regardless - as such, she is more likely to not waste any time in declaring herself to the rest of the room; she will always and immediately express herself in the most loud, snobbiest way possible to everyone around her, whether familiar or not, respected or not, with every word and gesture practically screaming that she’s too carefree and entitled to really take seriously—making her both too easy and too difficult to ignore, with her annoying brand of brattiness. And as she doesn’t really bother to hide her significant affiliations to Snezhnaya’s diplomats and military either, it is very easy to observe that her spoiled personality is the inexplicable product of outrageous political and financial privilege - which just begs the sincere question of how is she even in the Fatui, let alone a Harbinger. Because she sure doesn’t have the dignified air of one in the least. (And if you’re keen enough, you might look past the doubts, and think that her behaviour is just so strongly off-putting - that it almost seems to be on purpose; is this really what Tartaglia, one of the elite Fatui Harbingers, would really be like?)

Appearance: Usually keeps herself neat and tidy while on duty - unless her work mandates otherwise, such as in a fight (in which case she doesn’t care one whit about how she looks, meaning she can easily look like a dirtied, bloodied mess), or in the middle of eschewing work to enact mischief (in which case she also doesn’t care one whit about how she looks, and may very well be covered in dirt, drenched in water, half-singed with fire, or whatever else as she’s in the process of prepping her ridiculous pranks). Off-duty, she loses the sole 5% of care she has in her appearance whatsoever, resulting in her looking anywhere from a regular, casual teenager to a complete slob of a mess who hasn’t showered in three days.

Scent: Most noses will only smell the topmost layer - of sweet perfumes, rich soaps and delicious treats. Her high position ensures a high standard of living, and she tends to smell like the luxurious things she’s often surrounded with; notes of sweet things like vanilla and caramel, strawberries and roses, tend to come through the best. However, better noses can perceive past that artificial layer for a more enlightening truth: blood and Irminsul, faint but absolutely there.

Voice Description: Sound like a typical pubescent girl with a natural high pitch. Her voice will deepen and heighten further depending on the language being spoken, though there is always a slight lyrical rhythm of sorts to her tone, falling and rising in constant consistency.  Notes: Her voice claim is Nana Mizuki - specifically her more girlish, higher-pitched roles like Colette Brunel.

Accent: Has an obvious accent when speaking in Common, but it is difficult to parse due to being a combination of accents from various regions: mainly Snezhnayan, Sumeran, and Natlanic. Local speakers can detect the accent of their respective region mixed in, but overall, her words will always sound inherently foreign no matter which language she speaks in.

Speech: Usually speaks in simple and blunt colloquial, but with an occasional peppering of grammar and terminology that would normally be heard in military settings or in higher circles of formality, including the royal courts. As such, she tends to sound like a mix-mash of childish speech patterns combined with a randomized chance for her to speak like the adult she is not but has to be sometimes. Additionally, she borrows words and meanings from other languages, especially if she’s forgetting the equivalent in whatever language she’s speaking at the moment. Generally, she has a conversational grasp of Common, Snezhnayan, Sumeran and Natlanic, with a rudimentary understanding of Liyuen and Khaenri’ahn; as such, any borrowing and mixing will occur between these languages mainly.

[audiodramatist]

Hey…you also wanna do hardshine 29 🥺 you know cause you love me (I’m almost done with my own fic I can ask a lot of you)

29 ... as a promise

Hardwon dreams of dying.

It’s not always him dying, although sometimes it is, the feeling more a memory than a dream. Sometimes he’s the one who falls and doesn’t get up. Often it’s Gemma– losing her in Frostwind again and again. Sometimes as it happened, with the poisoned dagger. Sometimes she falls from the balcony and he can’t quite catch her. Sometimes she’s bit by Scarlett Montgomery, going pale and bloodless before his eyes. Sometimes she’s just there and then she’s gone, and he doesn’t know how.

And other times, it’s Bev, off the top of The Watcher’s tower or at the sword of Galad or the teeth of a giant crick-rot snake. It’s Balnor falling to a frost giant or an Angel of Thiala or a creature from Hell. But more than anyone else, it’s Moonshine.

He usually can’t tell what kills her. That’s the worst part. She’s alive and well, laughing with him at the crick, picking sticks out of PawPaw’s fur, and then she isn’t. He sees her cold and stiff and missing that spark, that Moonshine something that he would be able to pick out from a crowd if he were hit with both Blindness and Deafness simultaneously. And whenever it happens, he feels like he’s dying too. And he knows what that feels like.

Dying felt a lot like a world without Moonshine.

Hardwon wakes up in a panic, breathing heavy, tossing his light blanket off the bed. No sooner has he sat up than he hears a knock at his stump. Knocking isn’t crick habit. He knows who it is, and he knows she’s only knocking for him.

“Yeah, come in,” he says, and Moonshine does. She doesn’t seem alarmed by his state. She does seem worried, or maybe sad. She sits on the bed beside him.

“PawPaw was thrashing around something awful,” she says. “Figured something was up. He knows things, you know.”

Hardwon smiles. PawPaw doesn’t thrash unless Moonshine’s having a nightmare, and she sleeps so soundly that wouldn’t notice PawPaw doing anything unless she’d already woken up herself. So they were both having one of those nights. 

“What’d you dream of?” he asks as she settles in closer.

“Crickrot again. Got MeeMaw for good. You?”

Hardwon pauses. They all dream of death. He’d never told Moonshine how often he dreams of hers.

“Losin’ people,” he says, instead of anything more specific. “Same as you.”

“Alright, keep your secrets,” Moonshine teases. She leans her head against his shoulder, picks up one of his hands to play with. They sit in comfortable silence as she traces the lines in his palms, the edges of his fingers, the veins on the back of his hand. Hardwon breathes in the damp, dark smell of her hair and feels his heart rate go back to normal.

“Stay here,” he says at last. “Please.”

“One medium bed,” she says in response. He knows it’s a yes. They both shuffle down until they’re lying facing each other, hands still clasped between them. The stump’s lit only by the stars outside and one or two nannerflies that managed to get in, but Hardwon can still see every freckle on Moonshine’s face. Maybe it’s just memory. He’s known that face longer than he’s known his own. Loved it longer too.

“I dreamed… I dreamed you died, Moonshine,” he admits in a whisper. “I dream of you dying, like, more than anything else. And it’s– I’m scared, Moonshine. It scares me to be somewhere you’re not, even if it’s just a dream, even if I wake up right away. I don’t want– I can’t–”

Moonshine pulls his hand up to her mouth and kisses it. She kisses each finger, his thumb, his palm– he knows she’s aiming for this body’s short lifeline, the one she traced earlier and then extended, as if it continued all the way across his hand. The way she took this body from death and gave it to him, so long ago now that it's starting to feel like it's really his. At last, she places his hand just over her heart.

“I ain’t going anywhere, Hardwon,” she whispers. “I’m gonna be right here for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Always, then,” he replies, and it’s something they’ve said before, in one way or another, something they both know, but it feels important to say it now, like this. He moves close enough to wrap his other arm around her waist, her heartbeat still thumping against his fingertips.

“Always, then,” Moonshine repeats, and tucks herself under his jaw. Hardwon’s head fills with that perfect dirt smell again, and he kisses the top of her head.

“Love you, Moony,” he whispers, and hears her hum in answer. Then, a second later, she’s snoring lightly, and he falls asleep soon after.

He doesn’t dream at all.

[kiss prompts]

[maj-araxie]

INFORMATION & STATISTICS FOR LADY MAJ ARAXIE

"My demons tried to drown me, but they didn't know I could breathe underwater" — Jordan Sarah Weatherhead

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Full Name: Lady Maj Sereia Araxie

Nickname(s)/Alias(es): Majpoj, Princess

Date of Birth: October 26th, 1996

Age: 28

Gender + Pronouns: Female, She/Her

Place of birth: Northknot, CA (Mermaid Kingdom)

Parents: Lord Kairos & Lady Nerida

Siblings: None

Relationship with family (close? estranged?): Pretty distant due to conflicting views

Pets: A cat named Stitch

PHYSICAL:

Height: 5′ 3″ (160 cm)

Build: Slender, Athletic with a Graceful frame

Species: Mermaid

Distinguishing Facial Features: Has a heart-shaped face with well-defined cheekbones, a broad, warm smile, a slightly rounded forehead and a soft jawline

Hair Color: Black

Usual Hair Style: Long, loose, natural curls

Eye Color: Brown

Complexion (freckles, acne, skin tone, birthmarks, scars): Warm, medium-brown tone with a natural, healthy glow

Disabilities (physical or mental, including mental illnesses): Anxiety, Major Depressive Disorder (MDD), and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)

What do they consider their best feature?: Her eyes; despite her often tired appearance, her eyes are expressive and reflect the depth of her emotions and thoughts. They’re windows to her soul

Worst they’ve ever been injured (what, how did it happen)?: The worst injury Maj has sustained was when she got into a car accident while distracted, searching for a lead on Edalyn's disappearance. She suffered a broken arm and several deep cuts from shattered glass, leaving her bedridden for weeks. The physical pain was manageable, but the emotional toll of being sidelined from her obsessive search was far worse

APPEARANCE:

Favorite outfit: A pair of comfortable, well-worn jeans paired with a loose-fitting, white button-down shirt paired with a cozy, oversized cardigan in a neutral color like grey or beige, and finish the look with simple slip-on shoes or Converse sneakers with maybe just a simple necklace or bracelet

Glasses? Contacts?: No

Personal Hygiene: She keeps herself clean

Tattoos? Piercings?: Ear piercings, nose ring; Small ocean inspired, short quotes and abstract art tattoos

What does their voice sound like?: Soft, with a slightly raspy undertone from her smoking habit. She speaks slowly, as if carefully choosing her words, and often trails off when lost in thought

Accent?: None

Unique mannerisms/physical habits: Her voice might crack a little when she's anxious or upset. She has a habit of biting her nails or twirling a strand of hair around her finger when she’s nervous. When deep in thought or writing, she might chew on the end of her pen

Left handed or right?: Left

Do they work out/exercise?: Not other than swimming

BELIEFS & INTELLECT:

Known Languages: English, a little French, Various Native Mermaid Languages & can speak to/understand aquatic animals

Zodiac: Scorpio

Gifts/talents: Outside of writing, Maj has a hidden talent for sketching. She often doodles in the margins of her notebooks, drawing intricate sea creatures, landscapes, and abstract designs. Her artistic skills are self-taught, and she uses them as a way to process her emotions

Religious stance: Agnostic; is open to the idea of something greater than herself but skeptical of organized religion

Political stance: Progressive

Pet peeves: Loud, sudden noises that startle her, people who interrupt her while she's deep in thought, and anyone who tries to tell her to "just relax" or "get over it." She also dislikes overly cheerful or optimistic people who don't acknowledge the darker sides of life

Optimist or pessimist: Somewhere in between, with a stronger tilt toward pessimism

Extrovert or introvert: Introvert

INTIMACY & RELATIONSHIPS:

Relationship status: Single

Sexual orientation: Pansexual, Demiromantic

Ideal mate/qualities they look for in a mate: Someone who is patient, understanding, and emotionally supportive. She needs a partner who can handle her complexities and provide stability without overwhelming her. Loyalty is crucial to her, as she values trust above all else, given her past experiences. She'd also appreciate someone who shares her love for the sea and quiet moments, and who respects her need for space when she’s feeling low

Ever been in love?: Yes but is not the lovey-dovey type

What’s their love language?: Quality Time, Acts of Service

Most important person in their life?: Her best friend, Quinn and Stitch, her cat

VOCATION:

Level of education: College Grad

Profession: Writer at the Northknot Tribune (Newspaper)

Past occupations: Worked in a library during college, Freelance writer

Passions: Environmental conservation and mental health awareness

Which is more important – money or doing something they love?: Doing something she loves

SECRETS:

Phobias: Abandonment, the Unknown

Life goals: Her primary life goal is to find out what happened to Edalyn. Beyond that, she wants to write a novel, something that will resonate with others who have faced loss and mental health struggles. She also dreams of finding peace within herself, though she struggles to believe it's possible

Greatest fears: Being alone forever, losing everyone she cares about, and never finding out what happened to Edalyn

Most embarrassing thing ever to happen to him/her: Once she accidentally sent a deeply personal, emotional poem she had written to her entire office instead of just saving it on her computer. It was a raw, unedited piece about her longing for Eda, and having her colleagues read it made her want to disappear

Something they’ve never told anyone: She sometimes blames herself for Edalyn's disappearance. She wonders if her desire to explore the land led to that fateful night, and the guilt has haunted her ever since

PREFERENCES:

Hobbies: Writing, Swimming, Sketching, Beachcombing

Favorite color: Blue

Favorite smell: The salty sea breeze

Favorite food: Clam chowder or fish tacos

Favorite book: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

Favorite movie: The Shape of Water

Favorite song: Sea of Love by Cat Power

Coffee or tea?: Tea

Favorite type of weather: Overcast with a cool breeze

Most used word or phrase?: "It is what it is"

EXTRAS:

MBTI: INFP (The Mediator) - INFPs are known for their deep emotions, creativity, and strong values, often driven by their inner world of ideals and dreams. Maj's love for writing, her obsession with Eda's disappearance, and her struggle with mental health reflect the introspective and emotionally intense nature of an INFP. The Perceiving trait also aligns with her laid-back and go-with-the-flow attitude, as well as her tendency to avoid confrontation and live in a more spontaneous, unstructured manner

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral - Maj’s chaotic nature is evident in her rebellious streak as a teenager, her experimentation with drugs, and her decision to go against her parents' wishes. She isn't evil, but she’s not strictly good either—her actions are driven by her emotions and personal struggles rather than any strict moral code. Her neutrality is shown in how she drifts through life, often acting in her own self-interest without a clear alignment towards good or evil

Enneagram: Type 4 (The Individualist) - Type 4s are introspective, sensitive, and often feel different from others, which can lead to feelings of melancholy and longing. Maj’s deep emotional struggles, obsession with loss, and her sense of isolation all point towards Type 4. She feels a deep connection to the sea but is also drawn to the land, creating a sense of internal conflict and longing that is characteristic of a Type 4

Celtic Tree: Willow - The Willow tree is associated with intuition, emotion, and adaptability—traits that resonate with Maj’s personality. Willows are deeply connected to water and are often seen as symbols of resilience and healing, which aligns with Maj’s connection to the sea and her need for emotional grounding. The tree also reflects her tendency to bend rather than break under pressure, even if it leads her down darker paths

Temperament: Melancholic - The melancholic temperament is characterized by a deep, reflective, and often gloomy outlook on life. Maj’s struggles with depression, anxiety, and obsession with the past, as well as her solitary nature, all point to a melancholic temperament. She is thoughtful, sensitive, and prone to introspection, often lost in her own thoughts and emotions

Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff - Hufflepuffs are known for their loyalty, patience, and dedication, traits that Maj displays in her relationships and her writing. Despite her struggles, she remains committed to the people she cares about, even if it's from a distance. Her love for the sea and the comfort it brings her also aligns with Hufflepuff’s connection to nature. Hufflepuffs are also known for being unassuming and blending into the background, which matches Maj’s quiet, low-key demeanor

Element: Water -Water is the natural element for Maj, given her origins as a mermaid and her deep connection to the sea. Water symbolizes emotion, intuition, and the subconscious—all aspects that are central to Maj’s character. It also represents adaptability and change, reflecting her fluid nature and the way she drifts between different aspects of her life, struggling to find stability

[cheapsweets]

The Beneficent Gerzlaem

My response to this week’s BestiaryPosting challenge from @maniculum

Pencil sketch, then lines in Pentel brush pen. Bit of a tricky one, I had no idea how I was going to approach this until I sat down with it. A little bit of influence from Tove Jannson; there were definitely some parts of this I struggled with, and I think I'm learning some of the limits of the brush pen, but there are also parts of this I'm really pleased with :)

Reasoning below the cut…

"There are said to be three kinds. Of these, the ones which are short in stature, with curly hair, are peaceable; the tall ones, with straight hair, are fierce. Their brow and tail show their mettle; their courage is in their breast, their resolution in their head. They fear the rumbling sound of wheels, but are even more frightened by fire. The Gerzlaem takes pride in the strength of its nature; it does not know how to join in the ferocity of other kinds of wild beasts, but like a king disdains the company of large numbers."

At first I thought we were missing a description of the third kind, until I realised that it was probable somewhere between the two extremes; so we have three Gerzlaem, the tallest with straight hair, angry brows and an upraised and alert tail, the smallest with a more peacable aspect (and asleep - more notes below) with curly hair, and a medium sized Gerzlaem with wavy hair.

We don't get a great deal of descrption, apart from it must be a beast (paws, hair) and my generic beast-shape is something like a wolf or dog (though I ended up taking more influence in terms of the specific shape of the limbs from big cats.

"Those who study nature say that the Gerzlaem has three main characteristics. The first is that it loves to roam amid mountain peaks. If it happens that the Gerzlaem is pursued by hunters, it picks up their scent and obliterates the traces behind it with its tail. As a result, they cannot track it. The second characteristic of the Gerzlaem is that when it sleeps, it seems to have its eyes open. The third characteristic of the Gerzlaem is that when a female Gerzlaem gives birth to her young, she produces them dead and watches over them for three days, until their father comes on the third day and breathes into their faces and restores them to life."

In the background, some mountain peaks. We have a large, brush-like tail for covering its tracks, and on the smallest, dozing Gerzlaem we can see the markings on its eyelids that resemble an open eye.

"The compassion of Gerzlaems is apparent from endless examples. They spare those whom they have brought down. They allow captives whom they encounter to return home. They vent their rage on men rather than women. They do not kill children except in time of great hunger. Equally, Gerzlaems refrain from overfeeding. First, because they drink and feed on alternate days; and often, if their food remains undigested, they postpone the next feed. Then, because they feel uncomfortable when they have devoured more meat than they should, they insert their paws in their mouth and pull the food out, of their own accord. And when they have to take flight, they do exactly the same thing if they are full. Missing teeth show that a Gerzlaem is old. Gerzlaems mate face to face; and not only Gerzlaems, but lynxes, and camels, and elephants, and rhinoceroses, and tigers. Female Gerzlaems, when they first give birth, bear five young. In the years which follow, they reduce the number by one at a time. Afterwards, when they are down to one child, the fertility of the mother is diminished; they become sterile forever."

Just wondering, what kind of animal takes captives? Also, really nice to know that if it does eat someones child, it must have been really hungry…

We see the middle Gerzlaem retrieving its last meal (I tried to make this a fish, mostly because it was funny and more visual, but the size meant I didn't really have the detail to make this obvious).

"The Gerzlaem disdains to eat the previous day’s meat and turns away from the remains of its own meal. Which beast dares to rouse the Gerzlaem, whose voice, by its nature, inspires such terror, that many living things which could evade its attack by their speed, grow faint at the sound of its roar as if dazed and overcome by force. A sick Gerzlaem seeks out an ape to devour it, in order to be cured. The Gerzlaem fears the cock, especially the white one. [Redacted], it is tormented by the tiny sting of the scorpion and is killed by the venom of the snake."

We also have the largest, fiercest Gerzlaem unleashing a fearsome bark or roar! In the background, also a group of terrifying objects and creatures! A campfire! A cart (fortunately with nothing to pull it)! A rooster! A snake! And some other weird creature…!

"We learn of small beasts called Gerzlaem-killers. When captured, they are burnt; meat contaminated by a sprinkling of their ashes and thrown down at crossroads kills Gerzlaems, even if they eat only a small an amount. For this reason, Gerzlaems pursue Gerzlaem-killers with an instinctive hatred and, when they have the opportunity, they refrain from biting them but kill them by rending them to pieces under their paws."

Now this, I have no idea about, but I'm very curious to know what this might be. I have some (very vague) suspicions about the identity of the Gerzlaem, but even then, this 'Gerzlaem-killer' is baffling me…

[flockofcrowsinaturtleshell]

Toby

⚠️ There are a few mentions of child abuse and/or an abusive parent in these notes! ⚠️

I used this questionnaire for the prompts

Full name: Samara Tobias Sage Darner

Preferred name/nickname: Toby Sage Darner

Generally referred to as: Toby; The Crow

Appearance

Faceclaim: N/A

Sex: Female

Height: 5'2"

Weight: 110 lbs

Build: light, lean; "built like a bird"

Hair: N/A

Skin: medium golden; some freckles

Eyes: warm, dark brown; kinda has an intense stare; longish eyelashes

Mouth: small; sharp teeth

Nose: pointy

Hands: long and slender; 4 fingers on each hand; retractable claws

Feet: bird feet; big and black; has talons and scales

Scars: scars across back from beatings

Clothes: white tank top with back open for wings; jean capris; belt with foraging pouches; long trenchcoat

Other features: black wings and tail; black feathers across back, shoulders, cheekbones, bridge of nose, and in place of hair

Other notable features: crowish features; bird feet, wings, tail, feathers, retractable claws

Wings: black crow wings; 4.5 meter wingspan (roughly 14.7 feet)

Speech

Voiceclaim: she sounds like me copying Valka's voice from httyd2

Verbal ticks: tends to get louder the more excited she gets; trills, rattles, caws, clicks

Accent: faintly Norse or Icelandic? Clear and sharp.

Language: English; Bird; Draugr; Icelandic

Articulation: uses simple, easy to understand explanations

Education: prefers to use short simple words

Laughter: rattle/click instead of a laugh

Grump: grunts; makes small claws

Breathing: very quiet

Mannerisms

Face: very expressive when she wants to be, but she spends most of her time wearing a surprisingly solid poker face. She's more expressive than she used to be.

Hands: fluttering/flapping stim

Legs/feet: stomping; clicking talons; bouncing

Emotional outbursts: not rather prone to these; yelling/cawing when upset; rattles when happy

Habits: fluttering/flapping stim; trilling softly to herself; flicking her wings and tail in and out; raising and lowering feathers as a form of fidgeting; bouncing/hopping

Posture: kind of slouched to take the weight of her wings

Walking posture: slouched; either walks or hops

Sitting posture: crouched with her wings fanned out a bit

Personal space: fairly respectful of personal space, but is pretty tactile

Spacial awareness: very aware

Health

Diet: very high metabolism, so she's always foraging and carrying food. She's very opportunistic, and will eat just about anything when hungry; never turns down free food

Sleep: light sleeper; insomniac

Exercise: whenever she's not busy eating, sleeping, or taking care of mystic work, she's exercising

Activity: tends to work hard and exhaust herself; she's pretty busy, especially once the future ghosts show up

Cleanliness: has to preen her feathers for at least 10% of the day to make sure she is flightworthy; she's very picky about cleanliness

Medicinal drugs: N/A (pain meds don't work on her)

Odour: like jasmine

Narcotics: N/A

Addictions: N/A

Illness: chronic pain, The Darner Curse

Injuries: some of the scars on her back ache and sting from time to time; she broke her ankle when she was younger and it aches when the weather turns

Personal

Introvert/Extrovert: Introvert

Optimist/Pessimist: Realist Somewhere in between, leaning more towards Pessimism

Gender: She/They, leaning more towards She

Sexuality: Demisexual

Memory: photographic memory. Can remember faces for years, and can describe appearances in detail

Romantic: can be pretty romantic

Planning: pretty big planner. Always prepared (until she isn't)

Pensive: tries not to think about her past too much. If it's in the past, she can't change it

Intuition: very intuitive. Extremely talented at decision making and figuring things out from minimal clues

Problem solving: very good at solving problems from minimal clues

Goals: she just wants to make it through life. It's very rare in the Darner Clan to make it past 30 years, since their mystic power can't be "turned off" and uses up their life force faster. She's trying to find a cure, but fears that her efforts are only shortening her own lifespan

Insecurities: she comes from an abusive family, so she's worried that she'll grow up to be like her dad. She's also insecure about the Darner Curse affecting her. Usually pretty good at hiding her insecurities

Achievements: creating a potion that allows users to (temporarily?) see, hear, and interact with ghosts; making advancements in a Darner Curse cure

Anxiety: she actually has an undiagnosed anxiety disorder. A lot of things make her anxious, including the Darner Curse, problems with the ghosts, problems with her father, and rushing in without a plan

Overwhelmed: tends to hide that she's overwhelmed until she literally can't

Self-help: she carries fidgets in her bag to help for when it's just too much. She also tends to stim by fluttering/flapping her hands, trilling or cawing softly, flicking her tail and wings in and out, raising and lowering feathers, and bouncing or hopping. Preening her feathers also helps

Comforts: see above. She also likes rainy days, a soft "nest" made of blankets and pillows, a warm cup of sweet tea, and a hood fantasy or sci-fi book

Bad habits: scratching at her forearms; reading or working instead of sleeping; tends to overwork and exhaust herself ; making plans for scenarios that will never happen or overplanning; hiding her emotions; has a tendency to self-harm

Philosophy: the past is who you are; you can't change the past

Triggers: tight spaces; being trapped; not being able to move; deep water (she can't swim)

The Past

Parents/Guardians: her mother disappeared when Toby was fairly young (2), leaving her under the care of an abusive father. She was with him until he died 10 years later

School: "homeschooled", which means she was taught anything her father deemed fit and learned everything else from books she found

Adolescence: once she started getting older, her father decided that she could take more beatings as lessons. He died a few months later, and she left home to fend for herself

Leaving home: see above

Further education: taught herself how to survive in the outside world, how to use her mystic powers for the greater good, and how to create a few potions

First job: picked up a small job for Draxum when she was 14. She basically was the middleman for a ghost Draxum had been trying to contact (he was curious about an artifact they created), and in return he helped her develop her potion-making skills. This happened sometime during season 1.

Life events: left home at 12; found the Well of Seeing at the outskirts of the Hidden City; did a job for Draxum at 14 and developed her potion-making skills; began work on a cure for the Darner Curse; was contacted by Draxum for another job at 16; met the Hamatos not long after the Kraang invasion (the number of ghosts doubled just before the invasion)

Worst day of their life: the day she saw her ghost from the future get turned into a Draugr by her dead father

Best day of their life: probably either the day she found the Well of Seeing and made a home for herself or the day she learned to fly

Lessons: your past is not all you are. (You are also your future)

Looking back: if she could replay her life and do something differently, she isn't quite sure what she would change, if anything

Relationships

Family: she doesn't really have anyone to consider a family (until later) since her mom left, her dad was abusive, and she doesn't really have anyone else

Friends in need: not really any friends, but she's a good listener, and will be there for those who need to rant

Friendships: she has almost no friends (if you count Draxum, Huginn, and Muninn, she has exactly 3 real friends) She tends to be a loner and meets very few people to be friends with. Later, she meets the Hamato Clan and becomes a close friend to them.

Needing a friend: not really any friends, so she's used to dealing with stuff on her own

Annoyances: she internalizes everything and prefers to stay neutral in the moment

Romance: She tends to prefer quality time and trust over anything else

Marital problems: N/A

Adversaries: breaking her tryst; abuse; unfairness; insulting other people she thinks of as friends or family

Enemies: see above, but repeated infractions is what does it

Strangers: fairly respectful, but closed off towards strangers

Fun stuff: the things she likes doing with friends is almost anything; she likes her quality time

Dating: typically likes one-on-one quality time doing activities she would usually do with a group of friends. Talking, watching movies, working on projects, or just sitting quietly and reading are good

Best friend: she's pretty good friends with Huginn and Muninn, but eventually she's best friends with Cassandra

Love: Donnie!

Worst enemy: her father

Respect: everyone but her father, because he showed her none, so she gives none in return

Mingling: pretty bad at making new friends

Comfort levels: not very comfortable with talking, but she's a good listener

Physical: very tactile, extremely touch-starved, but shy about asking for physical affection

Groups: comfortable in a bigger group if she knows everyone personally; prefers smaller groups

Openness: takes a while to open up; you can't just get rid of a lifetime of hiding your opinion in fear of being hurt when someone disagrees.

Generosity: pretty generous with those in need, but also understands the idea that you can't help others if you can't help yourself

Jealousy: can get jealous of others for having an easier life, but the jealousy quickly turns to sadness

Temper: outwardly patient, but internalizes her anger until later

Empathy: typically empathetic, but she has her moments where she's clumsy with her words

Affection: tactile, but also enjoys quality time. She likes to help by being an ear to talk to, but this also leads to her internalizing other's problems

Distaste: she has this Stare. Leo calls it "The Stare of Ultimate Disappointment™". It's where she doesn't say anything, just puts on her poker face, clicks her talons on the floor, and just Stares. If she really doesn't like you, she combines the Stare with a deep thru in her throat and might start puffing up her feathers in a territorial display

Etiquette: sticks to polite norms of social situations best she can for someone from her background

Responsibility: very responsible. She often carries the responsibility of Ghost Therapist and Middleman to the Living, a very taxing job

Self esteem: poor self esteem. She worries that she'll turn out like her father

Confidence: cares what others think of her; gets upset when others doubt her abilities, then tries to prove them wrong. She already has self-doubt, she doesn't need to hear it from others

Honesty: will often keep things private if she feels it might upset someone; but she does her best to be honest otherwise

Leader or follower: neither. She's not used to being part of a group, so she typically does her own thing. She will step up when needed, though

Party tricks: can mimic sounds and voices exactly; uses her photographic memory to impress others

Praise: praise makes her awkward, but she does enjoy it

Failures: sometimes she's too tactile, so she keeps to herself unless prompted. She gets very frustrated when she can't properly convey her feelings

Criticism: she tries to prove them wrong

Insults: passive-aggressively psychoanalyzes the person who insulted her until they back off

Embarrassment: not easily flustered, but she tends to play off her embarrassment as another emotional. She hides behind her wings when flustered

Flirting: doesn't really flirt a lot

Attention span: she has ADHD. The concept of an attention span for longer than 30 minutes spent on a taxing activity is foreign to her, especially when the activity is not something she wants to do

Situations: awkward with social situations, but does her best to stay neutral

Life

Career: "Ghost Therapist and Middleman to the Living". It's very taxing, very stressful, and she didn't ask for it, but it's the best use of her abilities, so she accepts it

Promotion: N/A

Boss: N/A

Duty: listening to rants; helping ghosts and living contact the other; helping people accept grief and get closure

Tech: not very good with technology, but she likes the shiny gadgets and often hoards machinery parts

Politics: no political involvement, since she is technically not registered as an American citizen and lives too far on the outskirts of the Hidden City to interact with the Council of Heads

Combat skills: can defend herself. She often uses her talons and retractable claws in hand-to-hand combat, but she is also adept with throwing knives

Home: a bit of a hoarder. The Nest Isa perfect mix of messy and organized, so she knows where everything is but looks disorganized to the untrained eye. When everything is put up, The Nest feels too empty. When everything is on the floor, she can't find anything

Daily life: can take care of herself and her home

Independence: very independent

Cooking: she can cook, but often doesn't

Building: she built The Nest by herself, so I'd say she's pretty adept

Cleaning: typically a mix between messy and organized. See "Home"

Shopping: only goes to the store when absolutely necessary. Repurposes and fixes when possible. Forages when she can

Driving: she can technically drive a motorcycle

Finances: not really applicable

Marriage: N/A

Kids: more likely to adopt than have biological children

Pets: has a couple crow friends + Huginn and Muninn, but she doesn't think of them as pets

Dependents: N/A

Law: she's stolen a bit, and only when necessary (or when her hoarding instincts get out of control), but has never been caught

Court: N/A

Prison: N/A

Traveling: prefers to stay in one area

Medical: not really any licensed doctor for her type of being, but she can take care of herself

Illness: anxiety, ADHD

Worries: the Darner Curse; bad memories; anxiety; the problems of others (she is NOT a licensed therapist!)

Peace: prefers peace and quiet, but appreciates a good song playing in the background

Partying: prefers to stay in

Hobbies: hoarding; playing in shallow water; flying; talking to birds; talking to Huginn and Muninn; reading a good book; occasionally dances or sings (?); going for a ride of her totally-legally-aquired motorcycle that she totally bought with money, yes sir it is legal, no sir I don't know what you're talking about

[manslaught]

things your muse will notice about mine.

what they look like. lengthy version here, but a summary: the most obvious thing is that she's infuriatingly attractive, because that's aphrodite's whole thing. she's a little taller than the average height for women at 5'7. she's muscular, and though she's lean, you can tell when she moves her arms or legs that she definitely has more muscle than the average person. black hair, somewhere between wavy and curled, looking professionally done at all times (not relevant in verses she's not a demigod, since one of her powers is literally looking good at all times). golden brown eyes. a scar that cuts across her right eyebrow. a scar across her left cheekbone. her wardrobe usually consists of either an orange camp shirt or some kind of crop top, because she's annoying and wants to show off her abs as often as possible, jeans or shorts, and either white air forces or converse. the air forces are creased.

what they smell like. in all verses where she's a demigod, mikayla just naturally smells good without the need for perfume, because everything about her is supposed to be alluring. horrible at describing smells due to the fact that i can barely smell things myself, but her scent is probably a mix of vanilla, lavender, and sandalwood? i don't know. she wears perfume in verses where she's not a demigod, but i'm a cologne lesbian, so i can't name any.

what they taste like. like candy, i guess, which is the only sweet thing about this bitch. or just like mint, right after she brushes her teeth, but i think that's pretty obvious. but again, everything about her (aside from her terrible personality) is supposed to be captivating, so she tastes... good. whatever.

what they sound like. considering her voice is a part of her main power (charmspeak), she actually has a nice voice. her pitch is like? medium? so not too high and not too low, either. maybe one day i'll find a voiceclaim for her but today is not that day. mikayla having a pretty voice is unfair considering she only uses it to say horrible things half of the time, but whatever. after months of going back and forth, i've decided that she does have a decent singing voice, but she only sings when she's fucking around (in the shower, car, etc.) and has absolutely no interest in it other than that.

what they feel like. her arms and legs are hard with muscle. her hair is soft, since it's naturally healthy as fuck at all times. for the most part, her skin is smooth, without many flaws, except for her scars. her hands are probably the roughest thing about her, because while her palms are mostly soft, she has calluses at the base of her fingers from handling weapons so often. her knuckles are worse, with a decent amount of scarred tissue over them; she's also broken a few throughout her life, so some of her knuckles feel more prominent than others.