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theorphicangel · 9 months

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now playing… 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐦 | eren x fem!reader.

“when I look into her eyes, I know that she can never get enough of me…”

#track 001 from ANGEL’S PLAYLIST.

NSFW. minors and ageless blogs DNI.

a/n: repost of a very olddd fic lmao, enjoy

content warning: unprotected sex, oral sex (fem receiving, overstimulation

(If I missed anything lmk.)

“Why’d you have a staring problem all of a sudden?” you muttered, a hand reaching for the bowl of already half eaten popcorn in front of you.

“I don’t.” Eren mumbled. You didn’t miss the pout that sat across his lips in the corner of your eyes once you brought your eyes back up to the screen. Again you felt his vibrant eyes set over your body, piercing into you hungrily. It was only a short matter of time before you got irritated.

You sighed using your hands to push you up into a sitting position on the couch. For a second he almost seemed a little startled, now avoiding your eyes as he sat on the far end of the couch. “Eren, what’s wrong with you? If you don’t wanna watch this movie then fine but quit staring it’s weird.” you complained.

It was obvious he was clearly annoyed by something and that something was starting to annoy you.

He ignored you and stayed silent, eyes watching the television yet his expression was clearly filled with boredom. An arm was placed on the armrest to hold his head up. Then finally, in a quiet voice he merely murmured, “Nothing, you can keep watching if you want.”

“Well I don't want to watch if you're gonna keep sitting there sulking like a baby.” you poked at his thigh with your foot, testing what kind of mood he was in. A guttural sigh left Eren’s mouth as you continued to poke at him, little strands of escaped from his bun drifting across his face.

“Quit that.”

“You first.” you retorted, a smirk creeping across your lips. With a buck of his hips he sank lower into the couch, legs spreading with that bored expression never faltering. The reflection of the movie on the screen glistened in his eyes. You also noticed a slight crease situated between your brows if you squinted.

Slowly, you clambered towards him, the plush and soft couch shifting under your weight until you finally reached your boyfriend. Perched at his side you tilted your head curiously, “Ren what’s wrong?” you whispered purposely using the nickname he oh so loved to gain his attention. And just with the way his eyes flickered you knew you had gained it.

“This movie’s shitty, I don’t even get what’s going on.” he mumbled, still not making eye contact with you. You held back a snicker and instead let out a light hearted scoff.

“Really? That's upsetting you. The fucking film? Why didn’t you just say so?”

His emerald eyes eventually met with your own, “Well you looked into it so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

You rolled your eyes at his statement knowing all too well that what he secretly meant was that he no longer had your attention. After a few months into your relationship with Eren you quickly realized how much of an attention whore he was. Just one minute without attending to your precious boyfriend and a familiar, moody pout would reach his lips.

Your hands grazed over his thigh gently not missing how his muscles tense just for a moment. “If you wanted me to give you attention then why didn’t you say so ‘ren” you teased, hands now slowly moving down to his inner thighs. His eyes were completely fixated on your lips not showing a single sign of faltering as you shifted to sit in his lap completely disregarding the movie playing out behind you.

Just like he wanted from the beginning.

His muscular arm moved to wrap around your waist securing you in your position whilst the other hand reached up your head tucking a lock of stray hair behind your ear. As you leaned in to kiss his plump lips he stopped you with a question that was whispered so quietly you swore you almost missed it.

“Your parents aren’t home right?”

You hummed, voice suddenly ragged and eyes never straying from his as you answered, “Gone for the weekend.”

The silent sputter of the word “Good.” was the last thing that spilled into your ears before your lips crashed onto his. The faint taste of whatever energy drink he had drunk lingered onto your tongue, a short whine escaping from your lips. Without coming up for air eren continued to kiss you, large rough hands now gripping your thigh and kneading the fat of your skin.

You broke away first, lungs screaming for an intake of oxygen whilst he decided to bury himself into your neck desperate to find your sweet spot and of course mark you as his. The friction of your thighs rubbing against him was enough for his hips to jerk against you, erection poking through his sweatpants.

A single moan of his name led to a guttural groan slipping out through his soft lips repeatedly sucking on your skin leaving noticeable marks beneath your jaw. “Please…”

“Please what?” he pressed, lips still latched onto your skin. You could feel a smirk crawl across his lips as his fingers gripped your waist even tighter, rolling his hips into you.

“Ah fuck, I- I need you to fuck me Eren.” you let out a breathy sigh attempting to fuck yourself onto him as the ache between your thighs only grew stronger with each passing second.

“Patience baby, patience.”

In a blur clothes were stranded across the living room, you nothing but bare in front of him as he stroked his length. He simply let out a light chuckle at your eagerness, caressing your lower back as your folds gently rubbed at the tip of his cock.

You could practically hear your heartbeat roaring in your ear as you grew wetter by each second. The fire in your abdomen growing bigger and bigger, your arousal making your whole body shudder under his touch.

With your hands firmly placed on Eren’s shoulders, he eased you in, his cock disappearing inside you with ease. Your mouth shaped to form an ‘O’ and eyes already rolling back as you let out a strangled gasp. Your fingernails now dug into Eren’s skin. It felt as if all the air had been knocked out of you as his length stretched your walls. Your juices dripped down your thigh as your walls clenched around him.

This was it, you were too full to move. One thrust and you’d be cumming all over his cock already. You heard him take a sharp inhale, teeth gritted together as he felt his cock pulsate inside you. “Fuckkk…you’re so fucking tight.” he groaned, both hands now cupping your ass.

The split second you adjusted to his size and became loose enough to move, he snapped his hips up accompanied by the sound of your skin meeting him echoing the room.

It felt so filthy.

But it also felt so fucking good.

Your voice quivered as you murmured his name in warning of your climax and you were met with a soft hand moving up to your cheek. He took in your sweet whimpers every time he pumped into you, his balls meeting your ass as he bottomed out. “S’ good for me huh, my good girl.”

“Uh huh.” was the only sound you could make, you could no longer hear the sounds of the movie over the way your pussy squelched with every thrust.

“So fuckin’ wet, look at you dripping everywhere. Gonna make a stain on this couch huh?” he marveled, eyes pouring into you intensely. Your hips clashed down onto his with every plunge and you could feel him going deeper and deeper, his pace suddenly going faster and faster.

A hand met your breast, squeezing it before he bent down to trail his tongue across your nipple, his mouth soon latching onto it. You threw your head back in pleasure, your clit pulsating as he sucked, tongue lapping at your bud. Another whine escaped from your mouth as he moved to your other breast.

“Erennnn I- I’m gonna-”

You were cut off by his husky voice instructing you, “Cum for me baby, jus’ like that” he purred, watching as your body jerked on top of him, hands still gripping his shoulders. He watched with awe, pure satisfaction on his face as you reached your orgasm. It was a sight that he would never get bored of seeing. He could do this for hours if it meant that he could watch you cum in his arms.

Rough hands gently caressed your cheek as he cradled you from your high. “You did so good for me baby.” he praised pulling you in for a deep kiss.

Now reaching a more relaxed pace you rolled your hips forward, your cum painting his cock. With a groan his tongue messily found your lips as you delved into the exploding taste of passion.

All of a sudden his teeth bite down on your lip, a sharp gasp left you as he gripped your waist. now moving it simultaneously with his. The lazy momentum you had kept was being short lived and interchanged into sudden deep thrusts.

Once again the filthy, vulgar sound of skin slapping filled the room. Your mouth agape, no air in your lungs capable of releasing a single sound as you bounced relentlessly. Hungry pants escaped Eren's mouth as he watched how your cunt swallowed his cock with every pound. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck-”

A choked cry left your mouth as you came undone for the second time tonight but with his cum spilling in your cunt.

But he wasn’t done with you just yet.

His hands guided you to lay down on your couch, supporting you. Your chest heaved as you panted for air, thighs shaking and tensing every now and then trying to fully grasp your climax. You could know without even saying a single word that he wanted more. More cries, more spills of his name as you could barely contain yourself any longer until his name was the only prayer you could ever say.

And you craved it.

A soft whimper filled his eyes, the second his mouth was in front of your cunt. His warm breath somehow causes your sensitive clit to twitch. With a moan of his name, he reassured you.

“I know, I know I jus’ wanna make you feel good baby. Wanna make you all mine.”

He reassured you as coarse hands looped around your soft thighs, dragging your cunt towards him. Slow licks over your overstimulated pussy already made you jolt against him. He hushed you with gentle praises murmured from his mouth.

Eyes were rolled back once again as he hummed, licking your slit with his tongue. Relishing in the taste of his release mixed with yours, cleaning you out before making you cum again. He lapped at your cunt, noises of his hunger and your pleasure flooded the room. His tongue changed from broad strokes to short and quick as you rolled your hips into his face.

“I’m gonna cum eren— you’re gonna make me cum.” you babbled repeatedly, his figure not showing any signs of slowing down. He sucked at your silt hungrily before two fingers entered inside you, quickly finding your sweet spot as your back arched in ecstasy.

In a mere vibration he commanded, “Cum on my tongue for me, just one more be a good girl for me.” his hips too rutting into the couch.

And that was all you needed as you fell apart to his sweet melody of pleads a silent scream torn from your body.

Your hips bucked as your eyes saw faint lines of light and dark, your entire body tensing as he continued to gently lick you clean. Your eyes watered as you came down from your peak, aftershocks following as Eren trailed short kisses across your body finally leading up to your face.

“You were so good for me baby” he whispered, eyes struggling to stay open as you returned his kiss, sweet mumbles of nothing spilling from your mouth.

If anything you’d wanted to do it all again.

reblogs are much appreciated!

#angel writes #angel’s playlist #attack on titan season 4 #aot fic #attack on titan x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren aot #eren smut #eren jaeger #eren x reader #eren yeager x reader #attack on titan #aot x reader #snk headcanons #Spotify

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corner-stories · 7 months

Text

maybe in a past life

Jean Kirschtein. Mikasa Ackerman. Cottages. Injuries. Steamships. Used Bookshops. Reincarnation AU. 7367 words. (ao3.)

A Cottage In The Woods — 876

…

At this time of year it’s technically spring, yet once the sun disappears beneath the horizon the atmosphere immediately reminds her of winter. The cottage in her little corner of the woods has never failed to provide shelter, yet just enough icy air manages to slip inside and bite at her toes.

So Mikasa rummages through the dresser and procures a sweater that’s a size too big for her. She pulls it over her nightgown before heading to bed, happily settling underneath the blankets and basking in the burgeoning heat.

A few minutes of quietude pass, in which she can already rest well knowing that her children are fast asleep in their beds. Then the door opens and she’s no longer alone. She knows it’s him by the sound of his footfalls on the floor. She doesn’t say a word and remains where she is, but on habit she glances over to watch him prepare for bed.

Jean’s nightly routine is nothing out of the ordinary, though nowadays he’s grown too tired to groom himself as regularly as he used to. As a result his beard has grown thicker and his ashy hair is more disheveled, but Mikasa hasn’t a reason to complain. In fact, she’s rather fond of his mountain man look.

She witnesses him unbuttoning his shirt and removing his trousers, stripping himself to his undergarments before he joins her in bed. Like clockwork he slips in next to her and Mikasa promptly moves into his embrace. As to be expected he’s much warmer than her — they’ve been married for over a decade and she still doesn’t know how he does it.

She leans her head in the crook of his neck, the hairs on his chin tickling her forehead, then asks — “How’s Marco?”

“Snoring,” he answers, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Just like his mother.”

Mikasa’s first reaction is to playfully bump her knee against his thigh, making him chuckle.

Parenthood has been an endless ride of ups and downs, yet when she hears news of her youngest son finally falling asleep it makes the slumber awaiting her feel even more tantalizing, a fitting reward after a job well done. Even if the criteria of said job is merely getting through each day.

Marco’s only three months old and can barely lift his head upwards, so his parents dote over him constantly. Of course, it doesn’t detract from their attention given to Sasha and Asher, but Mikasa can admit that a part of her had missed caring for a little baby. The near decade between Marco and his older siblings might have something to do with that — the last baby she can remember swaddling and cuddling had been Asher and that was nearly a decade ago. Even Sasha’s infancy feels worlds away.

Speaking of which, Mikasa can only hope that Sasha doesn’t leave her bed in the middle of the night to guard her baby brother — again. Deep down she knows that the intentions are good — as no one is shocked that a child of Mikasa’s can easily play the part of protective big sister — but after finding her oldest asleep on the nursery floor for the fifth time a mother can only grow concerned. She’s still trying to find a way to explain that little Marco isn’t going to get snatched in the night any time soon.

And if he did then Mikasa and Jean would tear the world apart to bring him back.

But for now Mikasa will not concern herself with hypotheticals. Instead she lets herself enjoy a well-deserved rest and remains against Jean’s shoulder, gently nuzzling his collarbone as she takes in his warmth. Sleep has been coming to her more easily nowadays, whether it be from the inevitable exhaustion that comes with bringing a new child into their home or the fact that her life — from a certain viewpoint — has become a lot more easy.

Sure, parenthood can feel like hell — but if said “hell” has made her feel more content than she ever did in her first nineteen years, then is it really hell?

Under the sheets she runs her toe against Jean’s shin and very faintly hears the sound of her joints popping, an occurrence that has been becoming more common every day.

“My knee is still killing me,” Mikasa sighs. The pain started when she was pregnant with Marco, as the extra weight began putting strain on her aging bones, but seemed to continue after his birth. Perhaps this is what adulthood is all about — finding new ways to keep moving forward while your joints find new ways to kill you.

“Mine, too,” Jean agrees, though the knee he’s talking about is the one still ailing from an injury sustained in his Scouting days.

Soon his hand finds her back as he kisses her forehead. His fingers begin rubbing circles between her shoulder blades, a sensation that has never ceased to soothe her.

“Just you wait though,” he says jokingly. “Soon you’ll be old and gray and have no idea who I am.”

Mikasa doesn’t hesitate to shake her head. “I could never.”

And to that she takes her head off his shoulder and glances up, where she is greeted by Jean giving her a quizzical eye.

“You sure about that, L’amour?” he asks, his pet name for her sounding particularly tender tonight.

She already knows her answer. How could she forget the arms that have held her for over a decade, the lips that comfort her when her grief comes and goes waves, and the father who helped her bring three beautiful children into the world? How can she forget the sight of him holding baby Marco in the crook of his elbow, or letting Sasha ride on his back as they play outside, or cooking omelets for Asher just the way he likes it?

Mikasa can’t imagine letting any part of this existence slip away, not even for a second, so she tells him —

“I won’t forget you, Jean.” She presses a quick kiss to his lips, then to his chest, right where his heart is beating. “Not in this life. I promise.”

…

Shiganshina — 862

…

To avoid the risk of a Titan’s hand, the Scouts — both injured and uninjured — have gathered on top of Wall Maria. Those who need care are given it while those who don’t are looking over the edge to Shiganshina, where a horde of monsters has accumulated below. By the grace of god they are unable to climb up and procure their next meal.

The air is tinged with a metallic odor, an uncomfortably familiar scent that permeates every expedition, good or bad. Some Titan’s blood is still staining her blades and cloak, as it has yet to fully evaporate off her person. Despite the pungent stench, the exhaustion in her muscles, and the sight of red on her fingers, when Mikasa looks to the sky all she can see is light.

From where she stands she can see the world beyond the walls, a sun-filled horizon above the fields of green and the mountains of gray. She knows that somewhere out there is the ocean, the endless body of water that lies in the line between sky and land, a place that had been promised to her in her early days.

But that promise has yet to be fulfilled.

So there she stands, her steely gaze affixed to a sight so serene that one could forget that their existence is controlled by gods and monsters. Sometimes she forgets that such vibrant blues and greens can even exist in her hellish reality.

Mikasa spends a few more moments admiring the beauty of her cruel world, then takes a breath before turning around. She slips back into her role as Captain almost effortlessly.

As she runs to where the injured have been gathered, she can hear the sound of Titans roaming the remains of Shiganshina. Remaining on top of the wall guarantees their safety, but when she looks into the eyes of the youngest Scouts she can see the fear sending chills down their spines.

While her eyes remain as stoic as Captain needs to be, a part of her understands the panic. It’s been over a decade since her first expedition and even she can remember the way her stomach would drop when hearing a Titan’s cry, or how the sound of a horde would give her goosebumps. To be terrified is to be human, even when one must suppress that terror to finish their job.

Mikasa arrives at her destination and sees the various soldiers lying on the wall. Most of them look like corpses, the bandages around their limbs and torsos being stained with red. The fact that they’re still breathing is the only thing that reminds her that they’re not entirely dead.

She looks ahead to see Armin talking with the other Captains and Squad Leaders of the Legion. He’s shorter than them all, but the way his fellow Scouts look at him make it clear that he’s in control — he wouldn’t be the Section Commander if he wasn’t.

Mikasa would join them if her current concerns didn’t lie elsewhere. So she remains with the injured and looks down the line of soldiers still reeling from their wounds.

When she finds him he’s being tended to by a Scout named Louise Lewerentz, a soldier assigned to Squad Ackerman as the designated medic. She’s been enlisted for half the time Mikasa has but is already used to having blood staining the sleeves of her uniform, blood that is rarely her own.

Jean had gotten off luckier than other Scouts, as he had been struck by a barrage of debris and not a Titan’s fist. But enough shards of wood and stone had cut through his uniform and settled into his flesh, causing the Commander to go down. Mikasa doesn’t want to think of what would have happened if she hadn’t gotten to him on time.

The upper half of Jean’s uniform has been cut away to access his wounds. His breathing is labored and weak as Louise adjusts the bandages around his bare chest. The initial dressings lay in a small pile next to him, as they had been stained with so much of his blood that they were quickly rendered useless. As Mikasa kneels down to him she wonders if he’s dreaming, as if upon passing out he processed the last few moments as a nightmare and not their reality.

For once, Mikasa cannot bring herself to care about the prying eyes all around her. Knowing where her heart lies now, the dutiful Captain Ackerman reaches to her Commander and touches his face, gently caressing his cheek with her finger as she lets her gaze soften.

“How is he?”

Louise finishes securing the new wound dressings. “He’ll live, Captain.”

Mikasa’s hand moves up until she’s touching his forehead, then his hair, which is stained with grime, blood, and his own sweat. His eyes are sealed shut and parts of her feel like she’s getting a glimpse of a life where he’ll never wake up.

But that’s not where they are, not for now, so Mikasa lets out a sigh of relief.

“Good.”

Once Louise’s work is done the Scout leaves to give care to the next soldier who needs it.

Despite showing him more public affection than they would ever dare, Mikasa is keenly aware that they’re not alone. They are surrounded by their fellow Scouts, the ones either receiving medical care or administering it. So she resigns herself to keeping a hand on his head, gently stroking his hair like it’ll bring him back to life even quicker. If she could she would even lean down and kiss his forehead.

“You’re going to see this through, Jean,” Mikasa whispers, despite the chance that he won’t remember her saying it. “I promise.”

…

The Ocean — 852

…

The distance between them is not technically physical. He’s nothing more than a laborer, a scum-of-the-earth Eldian paid nothing to keep an iron vessel afloat. She’s essentially royalty, a modern-day descendant of an ancient Hizuran family with a bloodline that goes back generations. She’s often clad in opulent clothing that he could never dream of affording, whereas he’s never been able to completely rid himself of the coal dust staining his skin.

Her place is in the better quarters of the Sina, the ship meant to take her family across the sea to whatever political affairs the Azumabitos must attend. Meanwhile, he has only ever belonged to boiler rooms, where he is to spend his days stoking the fires of the engines that keep the ship afloat.

But as a storm rocks the vessel, causing every surface in the Sina to become unbalanced and restless, the distance between them closes. Perhaps everyone becomes equal in the face of death.

Jean’s only a stoker and the youngest as well, but when Captain Jaeger tells him to find the “Azumabito girl” and bring her to the bridge, his instincts tell him to treat the task like his god-given duty. He dashes around the shaking ship and finds her practically barricaded in her cabin, the turbulent waves having knocked over furniture and rendered a once immaculate room into utter chaos.

The girl who he’s only known as stoic and guarded is sitting on the floor, her knees tucked to her chest as she rocks back and forth. Jean runs to her and between the thunder booming in the sky, he can hear her mumbling some kind of mantra — or perhaps a lullaby — in a language he doesn’t understand.

When he taps her and she brings her face off her knees he can see the look of unmitigated terror in her glassy eyes. Whatever normalcy or familiarity she knows in this cruel world has been stripped away the second lightning began to dance around the sky.

“Mikasa?!?” he asks. His hands are gentle as they touch her head, helping look at him to remind her that she’s not alone.

When she says his name her voice is unsteady.

“Jean?”

“Come with me, please!” Jean says and he takes Mikasa’s hand. Whether it be from a lack of other options or because she trusts the stoker she’s met only a handful of times, she follows him.

Jean leads her through the hallways and out to the deck, where they are immediately hit by droplets so big they might as well be bullets. The sky above the ocean is filled with nothing but darkness and clouds. The lightning strikes only illuminate the world for seconds, and in that brief time all that can be seen in every direction is the storm — the clouds in the sky are still dark and the waves surrounding the vessel are larger than life. If it’s not the wind hitting the Sina at every angle, then it's the swells of water that make every surface shake.

But Jean’s not going to die today and neither is Mikasa, he’s going to make sure of that.

He leads her across a wooden deck that warbles and wavers. Jean’s fingers are clasped around Mikasa’s as he walks, and in turn he can feel her free hand grabbing onto his arm. To stabilize themselves he touches one of the nearby railings, occasionally holding on for dear life during several particularly jarring crashes of water.

Every time the ocean causes waves to soar above the railings and onto the deck, he feels Mikasa’s grip tighten on him — she’s more thankful for his presence than he thought.

“Where are we going?!” she asks him with her voice raised.

Jean keeps bringing her forward. “To the bridge! You’ll be safe there!”

He looks to her and sees her clinging harder and harder to him, something that makes him pick up his pace. Amongst the thunder and chaos he can hear her breathing getting more and more restless — she’s in her own personal nightmare and she can’t wake up.

The Sina continues to tremble as the pair approach the bow, where Jean leads her up the short flight of stairs leading to the bridge. Through the window he can see the helmsman — Onyankopon — with his hands gripping the wheel. His face is locked in a look of struggle as he steadies the vessel in the ocean's wrath. He is not alone, as the elder Azumabito — Lady Kiyomi — is next to him and helps stabilize the helm.

Jean and Mikasa reach the door of the bridge, but just as he grabs the handle a wave strikes the hull from the other side. As a torrent of water splashes onto them the steps underneath their feet suddenly shakes.

Jean’s heart skips a beat when he feels Mikasa let go of his arm. He holds onto the closest railing and turns around just in time to see her tumbling down to the deck. She lets out a grunt when she strikes the wood, then before she knows it the angle of the ship and the flow of water starts pulling her towards the bow.

A quick look through the window of the bridge shows Onyankopon and Lady Kiyomi staring in shock, so Jean doesn’t hesitate — he turns around and runs for her.

The Azumabito clan’s modern descendant is swept over the promenade with the hand of the ocean gods. Mikasa manages to find something to grab onto, a cable attached to the deck to stabilize the crow’s nest. She holds it tight as the water rushes over her, fighting against the forces that are determined to pull her to the depths.

She’s soaked to the bone, seawater soaking every fiber of her overcoat and making it difficult to stand.

“MIKASA!” calls a voice in the storm.

When she looks back towards the bridge Jean is standing amongst the rain, holding onto struggling to balance as he approaches her. The droplets sting her eyes and the darkness obscures him, but he’s there and she knows it.

“JEAN?!”

The deck beneath them continues to quake, but Jean manages to run to her. He grasps the cable as well, keeping his hands on hers as he looks her in the eye. Despite the pandemonium of the storm, his gaze is soft.

“We have to go!” he urges, taking her hand. “Come on!”

Jean tries to pry her grasp from the cable, but all she can do is shake her head, holding herself with the knowledge that this nightmare may never end.

“I… I can’t…” she tells him. She looks down and it seems like all she wants to do is give up and submit to the maelstrom.

And Jean could let her. He really could leave her there, abandon her to the waves and save his own skin. The sea may not show mercy to her, but perhaps it will to him.

He could move on and protect his own life from the hell they’ve been thrust into, but he could never live with himself if he did.

So Jean leans to her, letting go of the cable and cupping her face with his hands. Even in the rain his palms are warm as they touch her cheeks.

“Mikasa… Mikasa, listen to me!” he yells over the tempest. Then his voice goes a bit more soft. He leans forward, his forehead gently grazing hers. “You’re not going to die today, I promise.”

And it’s a vow, assurance, a commitment that he’ll help her see things through to the bitter end.

Mikasa’s heart continues to pound in her chest, but now when Jean reaches for her hands she reaches back, soon letting him lead her across the wobbling deck as the droplets continue to besiege them. There’s more haste in his step this time and in mere seconds they’re nearing the bridge again.

Jean puts Mikasa in front of him this time and with his hands on her back helps her up the steps.

“GO! GO!” he screams as loud as he can, fighting the thunderstorm to be heard.

Somehow he can hear her breathing, how restless and uneven it is, but she rushes up the steps and makes it to the door leading to the bridge. Jean’s hands have left her back, so when she grabs the handle she turns to him to see that he’s only a few steps behind. He takes a quick look towards the sea, internally praying for everything to just fucking stop.

Mikasa slides open the door, but like before the steps beneath them shake. Thinking even more quickly than last time, Jean turns to her and moves forward just enough to put his hands on her back one last time.

“LOOK OUT!”

Before another torrent of water splashes the steps, he gives the final push that thrusts her into the safety of the bridge. In the span of a second he sees her stumbling into where Onyankopon and Lady Kiyomi are, then watches her turn back to him before the movement of the ship throws him off balance.

A rush of seawater — one bigger than any of the splashes before — strikes him from the side, causing his foot to lose traction on the steps and slip.

One of the last things he sees is the look of distress on Mikasa’s face as she reaches for him.

“JEAN!”

The scream he lets out transcends the thunder in the sky.

For a moment he’s caught in the flood, a force that he is unable to fight against. In the chaos he tries to reach for something to grab onto but he can’t. Luck isn’t on his side and his back hits the railing of the ship, the impact breaking him before he is finally thrown to the sea. He falls into the water and sinks like a stone — immediately disappearing under the surface, succumbing to the ocean, never to return.

The last thing he ever hears is Mikasa yelling his name.

…

Toronto, Ontario — 2018

…

At this time of year it’s technically spring, but even on sunny days the chill of winter has yet to wear off. To survive the frigidity of typical Toronto weather, Jean dons his coat during his contractually-obligated rest time.

He often spends his breaks just outside of the shop’s backdoor, the one that leads to an alleyway filled with dumpsters and graffiti. Ever since quitting smoking he had found other things to keep his hands busy — namely, the little palm-sized sketchbook he’s begun to keep in his pocket. With some shit pencil he snagged from inside he doodles his heart away until his fifteen minutes are up.

At first he had drawn whatever he could find in the alleyway, whether it be the cars that pass, the ever-present garbage trucks, or the occasional person just looking for a short cut. But nowadays he finds himself looking inwards for inspiration, often thinking back to whatever dream he experienced the night before or whatever memory appears to be tugging at his mind.

Today it’s a pair of wings, something he swore he saw just before his alarm had roused him awake. He wishes he had snatched some kind of marker or coloured pencil, as even in his dreams he has seen that one wing is white — like a dove’s — while the other is blue.

On the bright side, at least Jean’s making good use of his art minor.

Just as he finishes his doodle he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Upon grabbing it he sees a message from his mother. She’s wondering if he’ll be able to visit Trois-Rivières in April, hoping that he’s not too busy to spend the Easter holidays with her. Right now he doesn’t have the emotional energy to explain that the train ticket would be too expensive, and considering how saving for grad school has been his biggest priority as of late, he’s been trying to be cautious with his spending. So instead of boring his mother with the details he simply puts his device away and reminds himself to reply later, preferably when not in the midst of work.

Before he can put the final touches on his drawing, the door behind him opens and into the dingy alleyway walks one of his co-workers.

“Hey, Frenchie, can you reorganize the back shelves? Some kids fucked ‘em all up.”

Jean nods his head as he closes his sketchbook and slips it back into his pocket. He follows his co-worker back into the shop, the rotting scent of the alleyway being swiftly replaced with the subtle aroma of second-hand books and dust.

As he removes his coat and grabs his apron, he catches a glimpse of himself in a small mirror mounted on the wall. Apparently, his manager really wants her employees to check themselves before re-entering the shop.

Jean had neglected to shave last night, having spent the evening researching what master’s programs that he could afford and calculating the ideal time to apply. Considering how much of his future rode on the outcome of his findings, he ended up staying up a lot later than intended. The end result is him showing up to his shift looking shabbier than usual, along with a general lethargy that had permeated his movements for the last few hours. Additionally, his desperate need for a haircut doesn’t make things better — his tawny strands are straddling the fine line between “fashionably ruffled” and “I don’t know what a hairbrush is.”

On one hand his co-workers don’t judge him for strolling up to work looking like a dumpster fire, but on the other there’s something about their polite silence that makes his predicament just a little more humiliating.

With that in mind, Jean awkwardly brushes his hair back with his fingers in an attempt to look more presentable. Soon he ties his apron around his waist and steps into the main space of the bookstore, walking between stacks and shelves underneath the incandescent lights. He weaves between the various patrons and does his best to exude the energy of a kind, helpful, and charmingly scruffy used bookshop clerk.

In moments Jean arrives at the back of the shop where the “fuck-up” happened. True to his co-worker’s words, several old books have been left on the floor.

“Ah… tabarnak.”

With a sigh, Jean kneels down and begins picking up each aging tome with care. A part of him has always had a strange soft spot for this section, the part of the store where the older — but less valuable — books are placed. More often than not the covers are faded and the spines are frayed — which for some would add to the experience of an old book, but when the text inside isn’t Pride and Prejudice or Shakespeare’s sonnets the chances of them being touched are slim. People are less likely to pick up an old book when all that’s inside is outdated maps or verses from a poet that no one’s heard of.

The fact that he barely sees people taking the old unpopular books to the cashier means that he’s been seeing the covers and spines for the last few months. They haven’t even had the fortune of being promoted to the clearance pile, as their damage is not enough to warrant a discount.

Perhaps it’s a bit childish to project sympathetic qualities onto inanimate objects, much like a little girl who will play with a broken doll under the belief that it still deserves a family. But Jean doesn’t care — caring for the scrappy underdogs of the store keeps his mind at ease. It’s certainly not the worst way to occupy his thoughts during long hours in the stacks, and it even makes him happy to see someone purchasing the older, unpopular books.

He gathers the editions and places them back on the shelf, making sure to organize them in alphabetical order. As he contemplates writing a passive-aggressive sign directed to those who wandered in the depths of the shop — particularly, the ones who think they can just leave shit on the ground — he hears a voice behind him.

“Excuse me?”

As per usual, Jean stands up straight and turns around. “Yes?”

The patron is just about his age. The first things he notices about her are the locks of black hair that she’s tied into a ponytail, the wool overcoat hanging over her broad shoulders, and how her dark eyes contrast with the pallor of her skin. However, in the span of a second he sees something about her that catches him off-guard — namely, the look of utter shock and surprise that suddenly rushes to her pretty face.

Not once had a patron ever looked at him like they were seeing a ghost, it’s particularly unnerving and triggers a nervous pang inside of him, something twists his stomach into knots. The longer she stares at him the stronger it gets.

“Uh… can I help you?” he starts, then he sucks in a breath to calm his nerves. “Is there anything you’re trying to find?”

The awe in her gaze begins to mellow into something more gentle, then ever so slowly she takes a few steps towards him. She looks him up and down, quietly taking him in, and suddenly Jean feels like he’s been caught doing a crime. Her eyes have a glassy quality to them, even when she’s beginning to look at him so tenderly.

“What’s your name?” asks the Stranger.

“Jean.” The knot inside of him persists, so he swallows hard before pointing to the name tag attached to his apron. He then begins adjusting it to make sure it’s not crooked, perhaps in an attempt to keep his hands busy.

The Stranger lets out a breath and nods. She averts her gaze from his, staring at the floor for a brief second and taking a moment to collect herself. Jean is still on edge, but at least now he knows that he’s not the only one dealing with a sudden influx of distress and confusion.

“Right, right, uh…” She then uses all her might to look him in the eye again. “I’m sorry, you…” she begins, then stops for a moment to change her train of thought. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

In a span of a second Jean tries to think if he’s ever seen her face — whether it be in a dream or a memory. He searches his consciousness for any recollections of her pretty eyes, dark hair, and elegant, dainty features.

Even when she’s looking at him like that he can’t deny that she’s attractive — gut-wrenchingly gorgeous is a good way to put it. She’s the kind of lady that makes beauty look effortless, the kind that he would’ve let his gaze linger on back in high school or even his first semester at college. Years ago he would’ve come up with creative ways to earn the attention of girls like her — maybe style his hair a different way or act a little tougher in her presence — but now things are different.

She’s staring at him like they’ve met before, like he’s so much more than some underpaid bookshop clerk who forgot to shave the night before, yet he has no idea who she is. He doesn’t want to disappoint her, yet he has no other option but to answer her question with all the honesty he can find.

“I don’t think so,” Jean answers, a sinking feeling entering his heart as he speaks. Parts of him are wishing that things were any other way and he’s not sure why. “I think I would’ve remembered that.”

The Stranger’s face falls, taking on the look of defeat that Jean had feared. Taking a deep breath she turns away from him and collects herself again. Though stands of her hair begin to fall over her eyes, Jean can see her cheeks getting red.

“I’m so sorry, I…” she tries as she does up her coat. A few seconds pass as her breathing becomes uneasy. When she looks into his eyes again she appears to be regretting her current life decisions.

“This was a mistake.”

She walks away from the back shelves and Jean can’t take his eyes off of her as approaches the door and exits the shop.

…

Mikasa doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, but at least she can say that she’s officially reached a level of lunacy she never expected to achieve in her twenty-something years of life.

Upon stepping onto the busy streets, she hasn’t the faintest idea on what to do with herself. She stands in the middle of the sidewalk as various Torontonians move around her, thankfully ignoring the crazy lady as her mind moves in a million directions at once. She breathes in and breathes out in an attempt to calm herself down, something that doesn’t seem to be working the longer she remains in the flow of people.

Mikasa’s legs begin to walk, though she’s not entirely sure where she’s headed. Her entire day feels like it’s been left in shambles, leaving her without a thought on where to take herself now that everything’s gone tits up. With the anxious feeling currently plaguing her like a disease, perhaps the only thing she can do is walk into Lake Ontario and succumb to the depths.

Fortunately, Mikasa manages to find a bench at the end of the block and sits down before she can do anything reckless. She hunches over, holding her face in her hands as tries to focus on her breathing, concentrating on the feeling of air entering and exiting her lungs. It’s not a miracle cure, but now that she’s away from the crowd the tension inside of her begins to fade away. The decrescendo is subtle, but the fact that it’s there is all that matters.

Despite feeling a little more calm, a small section of her mind is still replaying the interaction over and over again. Truth be told, things could have gone worse — she could have opened with something along the lines of “I’ve seen you in my dreams” and watched everything tumble down from there.

But what else could she have said? Could she have mentioned that the colour of his eyes looked familiar? Or something about how the shape of his face and the shade of his hair reminded her vaguely of her dreams? The dreams that were occasionally so vivid that she swore they were memories?

Mikasa’s head begins to hurt, then deep in her mind she recalls the recurring delusions she’s been getting ever since she was a child. A world of walls, warfare, and giants — a world where she soars across the sky with wings and green capes on her back, paving a road to hell as she fights against gods and monsters. Sometimes she hears a gunshot and sees red staining her hands, and something about the dream will always tell her that it’s that of a friend’s. Other times she’ll imagine cradling something in her arms — once it had been a child, another it was a comrade moments before their demise, and on the darkest nights it was a severed head.

And here she thought being moved around foster homes all her life would be the thing haunting her dreams.

If Mikasa’s lucky she’ll get glimpses of brighter times in a similar world — days in the sun at a cottage in the woods, rolling in the grass with children she feels are her own, and standing on top of a wall overlooking an uncannily bright horizon.

Perhaps Mikasa was wrong earlier — now she’s finally achieved a level of lunacy she never expected to reach. She’s certain that no sane person ever has recurring dreams and nightmares that are a fraction as vivid.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

The familiar voice brings her back to her senses, his Quebecois accent sounding particularly distinct. Mikasa opens her eyes and takes her face out of her hands. When she looks up she sees Jean standing tall in front of her on the busy street. He is still sporting his working clothes, but in his hand is the item she always grabs before leaving her apartment — her lanyard, the one that carries her keys and student I.D.

“You dropped this,” Jean says, handing over the worn piece of nylon that she carries everywhere. It must have fallen out of her pocket.

Mikasa tentatively accepts it back. For a brief second her fingers graze his and she’s compelled to avoid his eyes again.

She wants to thank him properly, but she can’t even find the words.

There is a beat and Mikasa is still afraid to look at him, as if doing so will turn her to stone. She only focuses on the sidewalk and his leather boots, gripping her lanyard like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

“So, uh… Mikasa’s your name, huh?” Jean soon asks. He must’ve gotten her name off her student I.D. “That’s pretty.”

In terms of smalltalk one could make with the crazy lady who bolted from a bookshop with her tail between her legs, he’s doing quite well.

“Thank you,” is all she can muster. She slips her lanyard back into her pocket.

After sucking in another breath, she finally gathers up the courage to look into his eyes. They’re a warm hazel, but the kind with just the slightest specks of green. They’re quite pretty, Mikasa thinks.

Jean’s expression is soft as he looks at her. She’s not sure if it’s pity or something else.

“You go to U of T?” he asks, sounding genuine. It must be another thing he read off her student I.D. “That’s cool. I just graduated from York like… two months ago. What do you study?”

“Ecology,” she answers, then sighs. She doesn’t have the energy to bring up any other details. “It’s very boring.”

Jean lets out a chuckle. “Is it as boring as that goddamn store?”

His voice and his smile is playful. He takes a step forward and sits next to her on the bench, making sure to put some distance between them.

“Probably not.” She spares him a glance, turning her head very slightly to take him in up close. He still looks familiar to her — the sharpness of his jawline, the tawny shade of his unruly hair, and even his short beard. Even the uneven details of his appearance make him look handsome in an unkempt way.

“Why are you talking to me?” she soon asks before she can stop herself.

There is a beat. Jean is slouching forward with his forearms resting against his knees, his hands are clasped together as his brows remain furrowed in thought. At this distance Mikasa notices that he’s sporting a tweed waistcoat and oxford underneath his apron. She thinks it suits him.

A few more seconds pass before he replies — “Because you look like you could use a friend. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Mikasa avoids his gaze again, then her voice goes dry. “I’ll get my meds refilled later.”

Another beat of silence proceeds to fill the space between them, and for a while all Mikasa can hear is the busy sounds of Downtown Toronto. When she finds the courage to look at Jean again, she is greeted with a look of honest concern.

“That was a joke,” she assures. Clearly, her attempts to convince him and herself that she’s not losing it are failing on both ends.

But by the grace of god, Jean manages another chuckle — albeit an awkward one.

“Yeah, it’s hard to tell sometimes,” he remarks, running a hand through his hair.

Despite the utter bizarreness of the last few minutes, Jean is handling the interactions quite well. She can’t imagine any other bookshop clerk reacting the same way he is — in fact, him not throwing her out of the shop the second she opened her mouth is nothing short of a miracle.

Mikasa takes a breath and reaches up to a spot between her chest and neck, an instinctive habit that she does when she’s nervous. Her hand moves like it’s reaching for something, even when all she can feel are the buttons of her cardigan.

“Listen,” Jean soon begins and Mikasa looks at him again.

“I’m off after five and uh… I usually grab dinner at that restaurant over there.” He points across the closest intersection and towards a diner on a street corner. It’s one of those places where its shabbiness and simplicity adds to its charm — she can practically smell the bacon grease and over-steeped coffee from here.

“It’s cheap but it’s great. Killer pancakes,” Jean continues and Mikasa finds it in herself to notice his eyes again. “How would you feel about maybe… joining me?”

She really wishes she could say yes like it’s the easiest thing in the world, but instead she speaks the first thought that reaches her mind.

“Why are you asking?”

Jean’s ability to maintain a casual, affable tone continues to astound her.

“Because you look like you’re having a shit day and… gotta be honest, I’ve been there, too,” he explains with ease. “Also, it’s hard as fuck to meet people in this city, so can you blame a guy for trying?”

Whether it be the sarcastic tone in his voice or the sudden bout of honesty, his words manage to make Mikasa hum, which is usually the closest thing she can manage to a laugh. Her lips — which have been pressed in a straight, unwavering line for the last few minutes — ease into a very mild smile.

Jean notices her grinning and his eyes seem to light up.

“So… would you meet me there?” he asks again, sounding more confident this time. “Some time after five?”

The tension in Mikasa’s chest begins to alleviate and she suddenly stops grasping at her buttons. “I’ll be there,” she agrees, even if just for a night. “I promise.”

The two proceed to exchange numbers and Mikasa notices that he names himself “Jean The Bookstore Guy” in her contacts with the book-related emojis he can fit. Admittedly, it’s quite charming.

They hand their respective phones back and just like before Mikasa feels her finger grazing his knuckles. He’s warm.

Jean slips his phone back into his pocket and gets off the bench. “Alright, I gotta head back to work before they accuse me of time-theft.”

Mikasa nods and does the same. Now that she’s come to her senses a little bit more, she swiftly remembers the bout of studying she had planned out in her day. Wasting her scholarship is most definitely not on her to-do list for the day. But then again, neither was making a fool of herself in some used bookshop, so perhaps the universe is just throwing her curveballs today.

Nonetheless, Jean gives her a friendly nod before walking away.

“See you later, Mikasa,” he tells her. The way he says her name already indicates that he’s getting used to it.

Mikasa nods back. “You, too.” For a second she lets herself watch the clerk make his way down the busy street. But before he can truly disappear into the sea of civilians, something inside of Mikasa compels her to speak up.

“And Jean?”

He stops walking and turns to her again, only a few meters remaining between the two.

“Yeah?”

“I really am sorry for what happened inside,” she decides to say, and perhaps that’s the best way to phrase her thoughts regarding the entire encounter.

Jean is lighthearted as he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You just…” Mikasa continues, then looks him up and down, truly doing her best to take in every detail of him and run it through her memories. Nothing has changed and her feelings are the same as before.

“You really do look familiar,” she remarks. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

There is a beat and Jean seems to be thinking. The smile on his face is friendly and Mikasa wonders if she really deserves to have him look at her so tenderly.

“Maybe in a past life,” Jean says after a moment’s thought. “See you soon.”

#jeankasa #jeanmika #mikajean #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #mikasa ackerman #snk #reincarnation au #modern au #snk reincarnation au #i really wanna post a playlist for this lol

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