astutior - Tumblr blog

[astutior]

spooky threads for spooky season? 👉👈

[astutior]

I'm being dragged out to do fall things, but I managed to update my verses page (finally). Still have some titles to come up with (and change) but we're getting there!

[astutior]

|| Private || Jean Kirschtein || Selective ||

❝ It's a story of sacrifice and betrayal, and good people dying in stupid pointless ways. ❞

Jean Kirschtein rp blog from snk // covering canon and divergent, modern and reincarnation, original ideas and inspiration off other media // written by Key, they/them, est. 2014 and resurrected in 2024, 21+ only

[astutior]

What does your heart look like?

Broken, missing pieces that once were there.

Your heart has been torn before, chipped and maybe even shattered. Some pieces will never be recovered, and you are shaped by the loss. But it can still be shaped into something tangible, something good, even with its flaws and imperfections. You don’t have to do all the work of rebuilding by yourself. Allow other hands to leave their fingerprints on the new heart you create from the remnants.

Tagged by: @calcitration

Tagging: @kxrsch @ausdauer @desolxte

[astutior]

bertholdt huber. — i lived my life as a monster. my only hope is to die like a child.

nsft. 21+. dark and triggering content. based on snk canon. written by lani.

[astutior]

While Armin dumps some antiseptic onto a clean piece of gauze, there's a blessed moment in which he thinks he's successfully shut the subject down. But as he goes in to finish up treating the injury, Jean decides to open his mouth yet again. Perhaps even more frustratingly, he turns his head at just the right moment, so all Armin's gauze comes into contact with is empty air. The blond frowns. At this rate, they're going to be here all evening.

"Alright, alright. You're welcome." I'd do it again, if you needed me to. "That's what you want to hear, isn't it? Now, come here and stay still for a minute."

A hand finds its way to Jean's face, fingertips grazing his jaw, gently pulling him back into a position in which Armin can see what he's doing. Blue meets gold, intent on a stern expression that instead fizzles into something almost shy when he realizes just how close they are. Whoops. Armin backs off, clears his throat, and swiftly brings his focus back to the wound with a mumbled, this is probably going to sting a bit.

His hand remains cradling Jean's face as he dabs at the slice through his brow, just in case he tries to pull away again. Doesn't let go until he's finished with the antiseptic and needs both hands to apply a makeshift bandage with medical tape and more gauze from the stockpile on the table. It's not the prettiest bandage, but its neat and should be effective in keeping the wound clean while it heals.

"There." The blond takes a short moment to admire his handiwork before he nods to himself. Acceptable. "Finally done."

Jean ticks back another glance, even though (or, especially since) Armin isn't looking back into the very depths of his soul right now. Still more focused on fixing up the bust in his brow, even as he plants that proverbial hand over his mouth and effectively pushes the topic right back down Jean's throat with that one simple line: It's what friends are for, isn't it?

"Yeah..." His response comes quickly, of course, and with a soft little laugh so Armin knows that he knows that. But Jean is soon back to staring at his fidgeting hands, trailing the tip of his thumb under the subtle curl of his dancing fingers, before he swaps just to do the same with the other instead.

Probably says a lot about his arrogance, still, doesn't it? That he even has to wonder about that... Because Armin says that like it's something he'd do for anybody, for any one of his friends, and it's not as though Jean doubts that he would—but Armin hasn't actually done it for just anybody, has he, he's done it for Jean. More than once.

What friends are for...

He shifts in his seat, subconsciously steering his head away from the approaching sting of the antiseptic, at the same time that he grouses, "But jeez, Blondie, it's not as if you've just done me a little favor and gave my boots a damn spit-shine or somethin' like that—y'know, it's only my life I'm talkin' about here..."

[astutior]

“If only my heart were stone.”

— Cormac McCarthy, The Road

[astutior]

"Hard to say..." He scans the surrounding area and spots a few broken bottles on the ground at the building's base, but not much else in the way of living activity. Save for the sound of occasional birdsong in the trees, it's quiet too. No voices or footsteps to be heard, at least not from where they're standing. They're still a fair distance away from the building itself. "I don't think we should rule that out just yet."

Other than the windows, the structure itself looks pretty solid. All brick, meaning the chances of decay— on the outside, anyway— are slim. Assuming it has doors that close properly, and locks that function, it could potentially make a secure place to spend the night. As long as it hasn't already been claimed.

Armin weighs their options in his head. There are only a few hours at most before the sun sets. Moving on and coming across another decent place is a possibility, but definitely not a guarantee, and he can't remember the last time they actually got a full night's sleep that didn't involve waking up every couple of hours to take turns keeping watch.

"What do you think?" He defers to Jean, fairly certain his companion has already mulled over the same things in his own head. "Do you want to chance it?"

That is very true. Jean spares back a glance and a bounce of his brow for his unspoken agreement before flicking his attention to the spacious gap in the chain-link fence that Armin's warily eyeballing. If only it were the undead they had to worry about, Jean might have suggested kicking up some noise and seeing what it disturbs. You know, before they get themselves stuck inside someplace that's already falling apart.

"Y'think there could be other people inside?" He asks, steering his eyes back to the building in question. Looking up at the windows, the ones that aren't boarded up or blocked off by overgrown weeds anyway, and trying to see if he can catch any movement on the other side. "Still alive ones, I mean."

[astutior]

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Blondie.

The nickname is like the gentlest of wake up calls, clearing a portion of the haze all that crying had left in his head. A sense of normalcy amid the chaos of the last few days. Armin raises his head to finally look Jean in the eye at the sound of it, even though his own are still red-rimmed and waterlogged. Under different circumstances, if it were someone else standing there, he wouldn't let them see.

It takes him a beat to process what Jean is saying about his shirt. Knowing how much his friend's appearance tends to mean to him, the words come as a surprise. Until he actually looks at the sad, tattered thing. It is filthy, adorned with rips and tears from a battle hard fought. The damp spot Armin left behind really is the least of his problems.

"Oh—" He breathes a small, shaky breath that could have been some semblance of a laugh if he had the wherewithal for that. His fingers find their way to a particularly nasty tear in a futile effort to push the limp fabric back into place. Just to add emphasis to his point. "I guess not, huh? This is pretty bad..."

It prompts him to look Jean over for the first time since the battle ended. He's all cuts and bruises. Blood stains, filth, and tired eyes. But he's still here. Solid and real and alive. Thank god for that. If Armin had been forced to mourn one more friend—

"Jean?" Armin doesn't look him in the eye this time. Instead, his gaze finds its way back to the tear in Jean's shirt where his hand still rests. Pale skin speckled with dirt and grime to match the fabric beneath it. "I'm glad you're here."

Jean stares over Armin's head and down at all the debris and rubble scattered about the ground. His eyes sting, hardly blinking, focused on nothing but the sounds of his shaky, hitched breaths and the grief-stricken, heartbroken little sobs he buries into his shirt.

It's over now. The Rumbling, they'd finally put an end to it. But that had meant putting an end to Eren, and that had meant killing a friend. A friend that would've destroyed the whole world for them. Just for them. Jean's hurting, of course; all of those that actually knew him fully for who and what he truly was, are hurting. None of them have lifted their heads or taken part in the timid beginnings of too-soon celebrations.

But Armin was Eren's best friend. Even as far back as Jean can recall, they had always been closer than most—and from now on, everyone will know him as the one that killed Eren Jaeger... That's got to be weighing down on his shoulders as well...

He must have been in deeper thought than he realized though. Regardless, Jean hadn't exactly been counting the minutes before Armin eventually lifts his head from his chest and looks at him. Thank you, he croaks, confessing he may have needed that—to which, Jean spares him a halfhearted, just the barest breath of a laugh. Unwinding his arms when the blond brings up his sleeve to swipe over his cheeks, returning that little bit of space even if one of his hands still remains on his shoulder.

"My—?" His shirt. Jean blinks at him before looking down at it and the large wet patch where the blond's face had been buried. A big damp spot on top of all the dirt, and the dust, and the blood, and the rips and tears that decorate the rest of it too.

"Blondie," he says in a quiet tone that's only mildly exasperated, with a small squeeze and slight sway of that shoulder still in his grasp. A look like 'come on now' written all over his face. "Y'really think I give a damn about my shirt right now, of all things?"

[astutior]

Giovanni’s Room, James Baldwin

[ Text ID: Look at my books – I often wonder what I’d do if there weren’t any books in the world. ] 

[astutior]

𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ♡

“I never noticed your eyes were this [colour].”

“Your heartbeat’s really loud.”

“You asleep?”

“I like this, being so close to you.”

“Your hair keeps falling into your eyes, do you know that? Here, lemme just—”

“You’re so, so, so pretty.”

“I just — I’m breathless, okay? Whenever I’m with you, it happens.”

“You make my heart beat so quick.”

“You always know how to make me smile.”

“You’ll always be safe with me.”

[Kisses the other on the cheek]

“Always.”

“I can’t imagine being anywhere but here with you.”

“All my choices lead me to you.”

“I’ll never give you up.”

“I sleep better if you’re around.”

“You snore in your sleep. But… it’s adorable, okay?”

“I like this. A quiet breakfast with you.”

“There’re billions of people on this planet, and I love you. How incredible is that?”

“I trust you.”

[Holds the other’s hand when they think the other won’t notice]

“You keep staring at me instead of watching the film. What’s up?”

“Let’s push all of these stuff away. I wanna dance here right now with you.”

“Are we really doing this? Are we really slow-dancing?”

“When you laugh like that, it just — you’re so beautiful, you know that?”

“No, sorry, you laughed. I … I never saw it before. It’s — pretty.”

“You haven’t laughed in a long time, and I guess I was staring ‘cause I forgot how that looked like.”

[Puts head on the other’s shoulder]

“I will never let you go.”

“You’re the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

“You wrote me a song?”

“You’ve got a fever. Of course I’m not going anywhere.”

[Suddenly feels around the bed to search for the other’s hand / body when they’re sleeping]

[Extends a hand when they see the other was searching for it while they’re sleeping]

“I just feel calmer. When I’m with you.”

“You’re not in bed. I came looking for you.”

“What are you doing up? Come to bed.”

“It’s weird. I never thought I could feel like this, but you showed up. Now, it’s like I don’t wanna go on knowing I might lose the feeling.”

“I don’t mind sharing the blankets with you.”

“You’re cold. Come here.”

“You always do that. You always warm me up.”

“Stay.”

“It’s getting crowded. Here, hold my hand.”

[Hugs for a very long time]

[Puts feet on the other’s lap]

“I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

“I love you.”

[astutior]

@centuricnis sent a prompt: ❛ why didn't you say anything earlier? we could've avoided this whole mess. ❜

Levi is right and Armin knows it. Has already considered it and felt guilty for it. He should have spoken up immediately, right after the expedition. If he were to be honest, by that point, he already knew. He simply didn't want it to be real. To think that one of them could be so ruthless as to kill all those soldiers so mercilessly, with nary a shred of hesitation.

Annie always came off as anti-social, cold. A bit intimidating in nature, perhaps, but Armin never thought her cruel. She'd helped Eren excel at hand-to-hand combat back in their trainee days, after all. And never asked for anything in return. Someone with ice in their veins wouldn't go out of their way to do such a thing, would they? Armin recalls he once went so far as to tell her to her face, you're actually a kind person, aren't you?

Maybe he was wrong.

"I..." He hesitates under Levi's steel gaze. The question held no malice that Armin could detect, only the captain's usual monotone. Yet it weighs so heavily on Armin's shoulders. "Annie is— was— my friend. I just... wanted to be wrong. It was selfish of me to hold off for as long as I did."

[astutior]

what are you the patron saint of?

PATRON SAINT OF BONES patron saint of frameworks. of structures. of solidity. patron saint of things that break. patron saint of things that are left behind. the bones survive long after the body, the building: what is there left for them, when the rest has gone? what do bones do, with nothing to hold around them? who holds the bones?

tagged by: @kerothi tagging: @praesidi @polishedforsurvival @calcitration @centuricnis

[astutior]

The bowl is warm in his hands, but Armin can't help wrinkling his nose at it. He knows Bertholdt is right. He hasn't eaten anything all day and he really should make some effort try to keep his strength up, but food is the farthest thing from his mind right now. Naturally, Eren is at the forefront at the moment. How and why did he end up inside of a titan? And what's going to happen to him as a result? Armin is doing his best to stay positive, both for Mikasa's sake and his own sanity, but there's really no telling which way things will go once the trial takes place.

"No, nothing." He shakes his head sullenly. "I'm not even sure where he's being held right now. But it's no surprise they're keeping things underwraps."

His gaze finds its way to Bertholdt's perpetually nervous face. Sometimes he wonders what made a person like him decide to join the military. Not that Bertholdt is lacking in skill— quite the contrary, in fact. He's just... such a gentle person. And so full of anxiety. The military hardly seems like the right place for him. Not that Armin has room to talk.

"What about you?" Bertholdt had been kind enough to check up on Armin. It's only right for him to do the same (even if the soup he's been given is inevitably going to go to waste). "Are you feeling alright? Have you eaten anything?"

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He isn't sure what makes him play nursemaid. The guilt, he suspects. The endless mass of bodies, moaning and crying, begging for their mothers, as they slowly crush his mind to pulp. He has been rattling inside his skull so violently, he's surprised it doesn't show on his face. The horror is mistranslated, misinterpreted, by his peers. They see a soldier who watched his friends die, while they are looking at the warrior who killed them. Can two things be true?

Regardless, now he is going around, reminding his shellshocked victims to eat. He wants to turn into dust. He wants to explode. But he cannot stop. He crouches down next to Armin, a bowl of soup in hand. No meat. On account of the memories.

"Here," He says, his voice as gentle droning in his friend's ear, sun-warm wood. "You need to get something in your belly. Starving won't make the trial come faster, either." He speaks as kindly as he possibly can, but his voice does waver. The reveal of Eren's titan has shaken him to his core. Everything has. He is in freefall and every hand he could have reached for has pulled back. No parachute, only the ground to catch him.

He pushes the bowl in Armin's hands regardless. "Have they told you anything?"

[astutior]

Armin matches Jean's pace, content to follow whereever it is he's decided to go. Doesn't put up a fight when Jean pulls him in closer, enough so that he brushes lightly against the taller man's side in the process. There was a time not too long ago when this sort of arrangement with Jean would have made him wary. Back when Armin was still trying to figure out exactly what kind of person he was. These days, there are few people he trusts more than Jean Kirstein. Who'd have known?

Incidentally, the Jean of the past, who often made him nervous, is the same one that Floch was apparently so fond of. He can see why. They shared similarities. Both opinionated and sharp of tongue. Quick to start fights with anyone who saw things differently. But even back then, Jean could be reasoned with and felt guilt when he took things too far. Floch on the other hand...

Maybe he's got a few loose screws rolling around in his head.

A breath of amusement leaves Armin's lungs at the dig Jean makes at Floch's hair, but he can tell by his voice that some part of him was bothered by what Floch had to say. Thankfully, he seems to have come to the same conclusion Armin did: it's good that he's changed. And if that little grin on his face is anything to go by, he's proud of himself for figuring that out.

"You were pretty annoying once upon a time," Armin teases. Playful banter to drown out whatever negativity might be left behind as they wander into town. "Much more tolerable these days."

Tolerable is a massive understatement. In all honesty, he'd be lost without Jean at times. Someone who's willing to listen to his thoughts and help him work through them– knowingly or otherwise. A person he feels comfortable turning to for help when he hits a roadblock. Jean has been present for and seen things the others just haven't, and Armin wasn't left to navigate them alone because of it. The person Jean has become is the kind of person Armin can be grateful for, and Floch Forster can keep his shit opinions to himself.

"So where are we headed?" His gaze travels around the shops and stands like he's trying to figure it out based on their surroundings. Lingers for a moment on a nearby bookshop window before continuing up the street. The question of whether or not there is a destination at all never crosses his mind. He can tell Jean has an idea just based on the way he guides him along.

"Armin," Jean says, in this overly-scandalized sort of way that might suggest this little outburst of his friend's isn't that surprising anymore. No, he'd never consider Armin the violent sort, but sometimes, the stuff that comes out of his mouth is just a little bit darker than one would expect. Encouraging Jean's violence, however, that is new.

So at least it's not just him, then. Clearly not the only one that's been left with a bad taste in his mouth and a strong desire to see Floch on his ass, holding his fat mouth. Thank god for Armin Arlert; it's nice to know someone around here understands him.

Jean laughs again, pulling the shorter man a bit closer to him in his sway—like he'll lose him into the non-existent crowd around them if he lets him go. There's people around, and it's busy, but it's not as though the paths are blocked by a sea of them all. He wouldn't lose him easily, but Jean keeps him hooked anyway. Softening his grin into something a bit more sincere after the blond circles back to what Floch had said to wind him up in the first place, hoping that it hasn't sunk in somewhere that stings.

"Like I care what Toupée thinks," he returns with a bit of a growl, features wrinkling while his irritating voice repeats in his head again. Maybe he cares a little, just not in the way that Floch had probably hoped. "It's gotta be a good thing, anyway, right? Someone like him thinkin' I'm different now, preferrin' how I used to be..." Whatever that means... "I'm gonna take that to mean: I'm not half as annoying as he is anymore."

He peeks back to blue eyes with a refresh of his grin, pulled slightly more in the corner now that he's found a way to turn the younger man's insults around—even if he's not here to hear it. Armin still is. And Armin had already told him he likes who he is now.

For whatever that's worth.

It'll be later, when he's alone and he's got nothing but quiet and time to think, that his second-guessing about all that will come to the surface, Jean's sure. Until then, he's anchored himself to his little savior and intends to waste however much time they've just acquired by dragging him off to find a place where they can get something to eat. Hopefully a full stomach will lighten his mood and refuel him with some more of that aforementioned patience before they'll be expected to return and he has to deal with Floch again.

[astutior]

Paper. Ink. Lamplight. All three vague and hazy in the back of his mind. Drowned out by the light of the sun. That's right, it's midday, not evening. There is no need for lamplight here on the sand, beneath the warm sun. So why does it seem so fresh in his mind? He can almost smell the ink from his pen. Perhaps he really could, if not for the salt in the air. Brows knit together as he stares out at the expanse of blue that stretches on and on, until it meets the sky.

The sea. When did he get here?

Armin doesn't recall. Perhaps he'd been lost in thought as he made the trek down to the shore. It wouldn't be the first time. This is where he goes, after all, when his thoughts are too loud. But... what was it he was thinking about?

A sound to his right— a breath, a movement— steals away his chance to ponder. He turns his head to find the source, only to meet with an all too familiar pair of eyes. For a moment, time stands still. Armin forgets to breathe. Can't feel his heart pounding behind his ribs. And then he sees the shell in Eren's hand. His shell, from the first time they saw the ocean.

This time? His mind almost whispers, as if something is there, rearranging his thoughts. But no, that's already happened. This is... Eren is—

Standing right there. Waiting.

He reaches out, hesitantly, and takes the shell into his own hands. Feels the smoothness of its surface beneath his thumb. Traces the ridges and bumps that give it shape. It feels solid enough. Real enough. If he were to reach out again, take Eren's hand, would it feel real too?

There are probably more out there, Eren says, and Armin returns his gaze to his childhood friend. He's smiling. A smile that Armin hasn't seen in a long, long time. It makes his chest ache. He wants to go with him. Badly. To comb the beach looking for seashells. Wade in the cool water. Dig into the sand. Lay out in the sun and watch the sea birds wheel above their heads. But something feels... off.

"Eren," his voice is small, tinged with something nervous and disoriented. "When did we... get here?"

— for astutior

The waves wash sand over his feet, burying them until he is ankle deep. Sun-warmed shallows and dust-fine sand dotted with shells, or so he thinks that is how it goes. He wasn’t focused on the curious shapes tumbling in the sea's heartbeat currents. He wasn’t comparing how different it was from standing on the shores of the lakes back home. Where the water is so cold it tries to steal your breath and miniscule waves lap weakly at the shore like a tired sigh, rather than a dull roar.

It was a monster all on its own, and he has felt no awe or fear of it the way his dreams once told him he would. Even now, he wonders: Where is the daunting invigoration of staring down a body of water so wide and deep it could swallow you without realizing? Does it even know how many lives it has claimed? Will he? Does he?

The same aching frustration at all the known-unknowns threatens to rear its ugly head. Howling regret. Raging guilt. An unyielding conviction in the face of both. The sea isn’t any more real to him now than it was that day, but he wishes he could dunk his head into the cool depths and scream his grief and anger until it all just stopped.

He breathes in (old habits, useless here) and drags his stare from the horizon to Armin at his side. He remembers enough about that day for this place to be believable. To recreate it in a better light. Make the moment what it should have been.

Eren holds the shell out to him, peace offering, apology. “There are probably more out there.” Has he found them? He wants to ask. The question burns in his throat. A louder, more insistent voice reminds him: What would there have been left to find? He focuses on his eyes. The bluest blue, matching the sky, the sea. It makes it easier to grin, harder to forgive himself for robbing him of the discoveries they once dreamed of sharing. Let him keep dreaming… “Do you want to go looking with me?”