braunbakery

[braunbakery]

I’m sorry if this is a common request or comes off rude, but would you be finishing Night Shift? :>

hiii!! no problem at all. i’m currently focusing on getting back to bus ride home but i will get to night shift eventually, there is a whole fic plan outline i have for it so i do know what i’m doing i just have terrible time management. :)

[braunbakery]

hackensack (i)

☞ reiner braun x reader [fem bodied] [chapter word count: 2.2k]

☞ sfw, angst, fluff, post ending, flashbacks, post s4, canonverse

☞ cross-posted on ao3 

☞ fic plot: when the war is won, when peace has been offered back to the world at the cost of the lives of many, when it seems that the you and the scouts are finally free, that you and reiner can finally just be, you leave. when you return for the anniversary of the peace accords, you can't help but reluctantly fall back into old habits.

☞ i. when we were young

it’s been a while since you’ve been faced with such familiarity all at once. granted, it has been a while since you’ve been back so close to what used to be marley – the place that afforded you years of war, of violence and now your ‘home.’ well, the closest thing to it. not to say your time away has never once offered you a semblance of a distant memory – a smell, a saying, a sudden sense of déjà vu, but this overwhelming reality of being back in the place you all but whisked yourself out of as soon as it had been rebuilt, reinstated and those you cared about were safe.

those you care about.

it’s rather stupid, you think, to try and bury the fact that as you walk through this train station, your eyes are darting back and forth at the slightest hint of a blonde head or a large frame (or god forbid, both.)

“happy accords day, madam!” a voice cuts straight through your frantic scanning, and you’re snapped back into reality. right, accords day – why you’re here.

“thank you,” you say, and the rather small man who had made his way in front of you, beaming up at you and pushing his glasses back up his nose is taking your briefcases out of your hands and adjusting his grasp on them.

“of course.”

“i’m assuming you’ve been sent to collect me,” you state, and he looks at you confusedly, “…and you’re not just here to steal my belongings.”

“oh! yes, madam,” he almost furiously nods, “my apologies for my hastiness.”

‘madam’. you’re internally laughing. you’re probably less than half this man’s age, yet this sudden guise of leadership and political status thrust upon you since the end of the war has gained you this treatment on many occasions, as it has the other scouts. the difference is they more or less stayed, apart from a few trips away, a few opportunities to explore the world locked away from them for so long.

you didn’t.

(“where do you think you’ll go?” armin asks as you’re all sat around the meeting table, waiting for the global representatives to arrive and offer you the first draft of the accords.

“i’d say i’ll probably sleep a good few weeks before even thinking of setting off anywhere,” jean says, leaning back in his chair and snacking on one of the biscuits offered in the makeshift tea and coffee station at the corner of the room. armin smiles at him.

“east, maybe,” connie offers, more so as a question, like he’s looking for confirmation that there is indeed an east to explore.

“west?” jean chirps back at him, and connie grins.

“i guess,” mikasa starts, and everyone is turning to look at her. she tucks a strand of raven hair away from her eyes, “i guess we really can go anywhere. anywhere that’s left.”

with these people, you have shared many a silent moment. usually they are full of grief, of exhaustion, of pain. but this one, it is an unfamiliar tension that settles as you all stare at each other. like your heart is jolting because you know what mikasa says is true. there is no sudden impending doom, no sacrifice to be made. you can go where you please – and it is as simple as that.

an arm brushes against yours, and you turn to find reiner looking at you, offering you a small smile. his arm does not leave its place next to yours, and although you are happy to have him next to you, this peace -  this non-temporary, non-fleeting, non-false moment -  is one that is shooting enough fear in you to make you jump up and take off running.

you try to shake these feelings of uncertainty, try to focus on the fact that you can share these moments with him now, that you need not stress about what is happening with you as you finally have time, have freedom, to let things play out as they wish to.

“you alright?” reiner says to you quietly as the others settle into murmuring conversation.

“yeah,” you nod intently, swallowing your beating heart back where it belongs. you stare at reiner for another moment, taking note of his each individual eyelash, of the slight pinkish tinge scattered across his cheeks, like you’re memorising his face in case it’s the last time. but it’s not. it’s not – so why do you feel like this? “i –”

before you can finish, the door is practically slammed open and the marleyan global representative steps in, clasping a comically large scroll in his hand.

“right, let’s get to work,” he says, making his way to his seat around the table and being followed by the rest of the representatives trailing in.

you retract your arm from next to reiner’s before he can do it first.)

*~*

you sit in the quarters given to you at the inn nearby to the council building, feet firmly planted on the floor as you wait to be notified of when you should be making your way to whatever meeting has been scheduled for you alongside the other scouts. (should you even call them scouts anymore? should you even refer to yourself as a scout anymore? you can’t help but try to stop the bitterness from slinking its way around your thoughts at the reminder that reiner never really was a scout. that he was something else entirely before and during the time he had spent with you all. but that was years ago. that was years ago. all is forgiven. all is understood. right?)

you tear yourself out of your thoughts by getting up and making your way to the simple circular mirror hung up on the wall next to the door, moving hairs into place that weren’t necessarily out of it in an attempt to make the time pass and make these thoughts stop. it feels like being back here, this city where you once resided right after the war was won, is sending you into a frenzy. (where you all resided. where they still reside.)

being so close to all this again is turning you back into this angry bitter person. and maybe that has a place in war, maybe that is a good driver for battle but now...now you are just stuck with it while everyone else moves on.

now you sit and stew harshly about someone you’re meant to… someone you’re meant to–

“you look nice.”

your head shoots to the door and you find mikasa standing, leaning against the door frame with a small smile playing on her face as she watches you absent-mindedly fix your appearance.

“mikasa,” you breathe out, hands still raised mid-air.

“nice to see you,” she says, and as soon as she places one foot in beyond the doorway, you’re making your way over to her and hugging her softly. this is familiarity that you can accept, the type that doesn’t haunt you. when you release the embrace, still clasping each other’s arms, you feel like you are years behind in time.

“how have you been?” you ask.

mikasa pauses, then nods, “good. really. all is well.”

you’re glad. you really are. and for a moment you think perhaps being back here is not too bad, perhaps this is what you really needed. perhaps you need not leave and escape when this accords anniversary fiasco is over under the guise of ‘exploration’. as you look at each other, it feels like there is much unspoken, much that need not be explicitly mentioned but is understood. like a physical feeling passing between you both.

“we best head on,” mikasa lets go of your arm, then makes her way to the door, “i was sent to collect you for the meeting.”

right. you both still have to enact your duties as the beacons of hope for marley, for the world. as the paradis heroes, the fighters of peace.

(someone is clasping your shoulder. another general you guess, or son of a general made to take his place. or politician. or president. or governor. something along those lines. you’re offered another “good job”, as they pass by and make their way to the other side of the bar where the post-accords signing celebrations are taking place.

you nod almost robotically, like they’re even looking to see your reaction, and lean back onto the bar you were resting on waiting for your next drink, zoned out and staring at the tiles beneath your feet and the multitude of shoes clip-clopping over them.

you don’t even notice when reiner sides up next to you until he’s picking up the drink made for you and holding it in front of you, and you swear he was all the way on the other side of the room just a second ago. you look up at him sheepishly and carefully take the glass FROM him.

“one too many?” he jests, a cheeky smile sprawled over his face that you can’t help but mirror.

“no,” you shake your head, and you’re too buzzed to feel embarrassed about the fact you can practically feel your eyes dazzling as you look up at him, “just a long day.”

“you can say that again,” he says.

“are you having fun?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink.

“i guess you could say that,” he carefully says, “though i don’t know if i really know what that is anymore.” he laughs drily.

“i think this could constitute as it.”

reiner’s hand then reaches out and your heart is hammering against your chest. in a different way, in a good way, you think. you feel like a dumb teenager again, like the fifteen year old recruit who was routinely tangled up in ODM gear and consistently distracted by the big buffoon of a man standing in front of you.

reiner’s hand brushes against your neck and you can’t help but dart your eyes up to him, but he doesn’t budge, fully focused on fixing the collar of your shirt.

“thank you,” you’re practically whispering. reiner looks back up at you, like there’s something begging to come out of his lips but he’s not sure how to sound it out. you’re staring at each other for what feels like minutes on end, completely tuned out to the hustle and bustle around you. you wouldn’t be surprised if you lost your grasp on your drink and it slipped right out of your hand. if you didn’t even notice after it smashed into shards on the floor.

“of course,” reiner says, “do you…”

“yes?”

“do you want to step out for a bit?”)

your body gets back into the swing of things before you even realise it, as you find yourself leading the way along paths of the city to the council building and mikasa following along. you don’t even realise you’re doing it until mikasa says something, and even though you know she’s just joking, that she’s glad to have you here, you can feel yourself shrinking.

when you and mikasa walk into the meeting room, connie, jean, annie and armin are already seated. their heads shoot up as you walk in and you’re met with exclamations of your name and a sudden queue to hug each and every one of them.

“were you not told i was coming?” you enquire, as you make your way to your designated seat.

“we were,” armin says.

“jeez, can we not be happy to see a friend,” jean comments, and you roll your eyes at him as you scoot your chair closer to the meeting table.

it’s the same one from when you signed the accords. the same tables, same chairs, same coffee and tea station at the corner of the room. you wonder if they did this for sentimentality, or if there truly is one meeting room in this building that can fit you all.

the same people as well, although slightly different in appearance, slightly older, slightly more dishevelled. but, also slightly more chipper. slightly brighter. you’re glad. you–

the door is opened once more, and in he walks trailed by some official you’re sure you should recognise and have greeted before albeit a long while ago, but you can’t bring yourself to try recall as you watch reiner like a deer in headlights.

your jaw is tensed and you can hear your teeth grinding, like you’re bracing yourself for something. reiner’s chatter with the official dies down once he situates himself in the room, and he offers everyone a single casual wave, until his eyes land on you.

you’re going to be sick. surely he knew you would be here? you can’t bear his gaze on you, but you also can’t bear to look away. it feels as if you’re stuck in some weird limbo, waiting for the other’s move that may never come. you can practically hear connie’s clothes rustling as he shifts his head from you to reiner and back.

he looks older. (of course he does, what a stupid observation.) he’s clean shaven, you can tell he did it this morning. you could always tell. it’s probably for the occasion.

he blinks.

“happy accords day,” he says, and you can feel yourself sinking back into your seat.

“thank you.”

[braunbakery]

hackensack

info:

☞ reiner braun x reader [fem bodied] ☞ sfw, angst, fluff, post-ending, post s4, canonverse, flashbacks

☞ fic plot: 'if you ever get back to hackensack, i'll be here for you.' - when the war is won, when peace has been offered back to the world at the cost of the lives of many, when it seems that the you and the scouts are finally free, that you and reiner can finally just be, you leave. when you return for the anniversary of the peace accords, you can't help but reluctantly fall back into old habits. ☞ cross-posted on ao3

chapters:

i. when we were young

[braunbakery]

Hii! Just wondering, what's the status on the "Bus Ride Home" fic? Are you planning to continue it some day or leave it as is? (Btw i really love your work!)

the only assurance i can give is that i have not given up and i will not die and leave it incomplete,

[braunbakery]

my name is braun bakery so someone request some mf reiner braun

[braunbakery]

oohh can it be like ‘are we still friends?’ a modern au? that’s one of my favs ❤️

don't delete the kisses

☞ jean kirstein x fem reader [ one-shot word count: 4.2k]

☞ sfw, angst with fluff at the end i promiseeeee, modern college au

☞ plot: 'rewriting old excuses, delete the kisses at the end' - even after you break up - jean kirstein seems to occupy a lot more space in your head than you'd care to admit.

☞ inspired by don't delete the kisses - wolf alice

☞ don't delete the kisses

when you and jean first broke up it was more so a scramble to make sure everything was okay for everybody around you. that everything could resolve to being as close to normal as before without anyone feeling in anyway inconvenienced, awkward, or disappointed due to the rift now between the two of you.

at least, that was what it was like for you.

of course people wanted to make sure you were okay, they were your friends and they cared about you. but they were both of your friends, and despite how much everyone wanted to pretend that that made no difference, it made it all the more difficult to even imagine talking about how you felt. (how you actually felt – which was more than disappointed or frustrated or a little upset – as you had been basically rattling off like a mantra to whoever asked.)

so you adapted.

you made friends outside of this mutual friend group, you adopted new hobbies, you had a means of escape when you no longer wanted to watch everyone laugh over jean’s antics like he was such a breath of joy. when you felt this bitter pessimism sink in at the wrong time, you adapted.

because it definitely wasn’t a dramatic break up. it was perfectly amicable.

(“i’m so sorry,” jean practically sobs into your shoulder as you both sit in his dark car, shrouded by the trees outside and only accompanied by crickets and the occasional distant car horn.

“it’s okay, it’s okay,” you’re repeating over and over, swallowing your own tears, “i’ll be fine.”

“i just can’t do it–” jean hiccups and slightly leans back to hold your face in his palms and nudge his nose against yours, “ i don’t know why...i just can’t. and i’m trying, i swear.”

“i believe you,” you whisper, grasping onto his shirt, “i know you are.”

“i- i’ve never felt this way about anyone else. i’m just not ready.”

you can’t bring yourself to say anything back to that. you don’t want him to see you break and you don’t know if it’s because you don’t want him to tear himself apart with the guilt of what he’s doing to you or from some twisted sense of pride – some desire to make sure he doesn’t think he has as much of an effect on you as he really does.

it seems worse that he can tearfully speak of how much he feels for you yet he’s still unable to actually be with you.

you know that the truth is you probably won’t be fine. that in your heart, in your soul, you would’ve stayed with him for as long as possible. there was no thought in your head of when this would potentially end, no plan in the future that didn’t somehow automatically account for him.

this obviously wasn’t the case for him.

he hugs you tighter than he ever has before and you feel like your heart is about to lurch out of your body and try batter its way into his. why must it be that when you are completely and utterly committed to him, he is hindered by some unexplainable force in his mind to do the same for you? why can’t it be another girl? why can’t it be that he’s moving away? why does it have to be just…him?

“i’m sorry,” he says a final time after he drives you to your doorstep. he holds your hand and gazes at you one last time and you can’t help but offer him a smile to try ease his pain. it is too difficult for you to feel in anyway betrayed, at least in this moment, because you are too busy thinking of how he feels. you want to hold him for the rest of the night as he sobs and sobs about hurting you.

you feel utterly pathetic.

that night, when you are finally in your bed, you let the first feeling that isn’t in some way catering to him through. it is the sensation of your heart caving in. )

eventually it gets easier. the concerned glances go from sparse to none and you follow almost a routine. when you pass each other on campus it’s a friendly smile, when you’re seated next to each other you act as if it is anyone else, and when you’re at the same parties and he kisses someone you turn away and hold your breath and hope no one can tell.

you pretend that it was never you on the receiving end, that it was never you laughing away with him or swaying to whatever stupid song is playing, or holding his hand as you weave through the crowd, or occupying one single corner of the room for the majority of the night or–

you just pretend.

and when the group brings up dates jean is going on that you had no idea about, you do that very thing. you sit and you nod and when he catches your gaze as the boys are practically squawking over stupid jokes about jean and how he is somehow going to mess it up, you rip your eyes away and laugh along.

when sasha and mikasa ask how you feel about it, you pretend it makes perfect sense that he’d be going on dates. that it isn’t so utterly confusing, that you aren’t going to lay awake at night wondering why he couldn’t be with you – why he wasn’t ready for you – but he is ready to entertain the idea of someone else. you laugh and you say you wish him luck.

luck is what friends wish each other.

and when you kiss someone yourself, you bury the darkest feeling of hoping he’d see and feel a pang – feel anything more than the baseline friendliness you’ve both resorted to having for each other. that you’ve agreed to only have for each other.

(“fuck, sorry!” jean exclaims before he even realises that the person he’s just walked into and spilled half of his beer on is you.

“shit,” the sticky liquid is soaking through your shirt and is currently trailing its way down your body. you look up at him and you hate that you can tell the redness lightly painted on his cheeks is more so from his alcohol buzz and less from the embarrassment of spilling his drink down a girls shirt.

because it’s you. why would he be embarrassed around you? he knows–

he knew you inside and out.

“i didn’t see you, i swear,” he says, but the genuineness of his apology is given away by the cheeky smile adorning his face, “suits you though.”

“shut up, jean,” you quickly remark, taking off your jacket and trying to pat yourself dry.

“here,” and jean is suddenly taking off the plaid shirt he has thrown on top of his t-shirt and using it to pat you down. or more so using it for his sad attempt at helping.

“i don’t think that’s really doing anything, jean.”

“no, no. trust me,” he quickly interjects, and you can’t help but mirror the stupid smile he has on his face.

“jean, it’s fine. i’ll just get a paper tow– ”you attempt to side step him, but he’s shoved in front of you, still pushing his shirt to your top. but this time he’s a lot closer.

this time if you just reached up to your tip toes, you could brush your nose against his. and you’re suddenly hyperaware of your proximity and how there is no one else around you and how the blaring music of whatever party your group all decided to go to tonight is all but muffled in this kitchen.

jean’s eyes travel up from the stain on your top to you and you feel like you’re frozen in place. it’s been months since you broke up – a year maybe. you’ve both watched each other kiss other people, you’ve listened to him recount those stupid dates and pretend you don’t harbour some kind of bitter resentment towards him for it.

but right now it seems like no time at all has passed.

it seems like only yesterday you were leaning into each other, just like you are now. it seems like only yesterday jean’s hand slowly but instinctively went up to the side of your neck, like it is now. you’ve never realised how easy it is to fall into old habits.

“jean?” you mutter faintly, and he looks down at your lips mouthing his name and you swear you think your heart is going to stop. his eyes flick back up to you and you can see yourself through them.

“yeah?” he mindlessly responds, “are you okay?”

are you? you could kiss him now. you could let him kiss you now. just for a moment. and tomorrow you’d make yourself forget, tomorrow you’d pretend it was one big blip – something just between you and him.

when you nod your head at his question his hand slides up into the hair at your nape and it feels so familiar, so comfortable, that it is so easy to forget you have not been this close to jean in almost a year. you have not spent this much time alone with jean in almost a year. you have not heard him not speak to you in the same transactional tone you’d speak to a shop assistant with in almost a year.

“i –”

the door to the kitchen is opening behind you and you’re both practically jumping away from each other, hearts beating so fast against your chests and eyes wide and worried. jean watches whoever’s interrupted whatever weird moment you were having rummage through the cupboards and looks back at you.

“i’ll see you–” you start.

“later.” he instinctively finishes off for you, before pausing for a moment and making his way around you and back out into the bustling party.

you don’t see him for the rest of the night.)

it does really start feel like you’re friends sometimes. and you suppose living with that just becomes a way of life. the weird lingering feeling when you first see him still remains – but it starts to feel normal. you start to simply allow it the space to live and hope that on its own accord it’ll leave.

and sometimes, with all the time that has passed and all the other flings with boys you’ve had, it feels stupid. and sometimes, you’re tired of feeling stupid so you just feel it.

you text about assignments in classes you share, you text about carpooling when jean is bringing a few of you somewhere. and, yes, it is the most surface level friendship and the conversation will never really expand from those two topics and maybe you are yet to actually spend any time together alone. maybe there is some hidden agenda between your friends to not let there be moments where you two have to be alone – but this is better than whatever the lonely alternative would be.

however, it seems whatever way your friends have been figuring out to not have you two alone for the past year and a half (disregarding the party incident – they will never know about that) is failing.

because you’re currently stranded at a bus stop for a bus that doesn’t look like it will ever come, trying to make it to connie’s house for his goodbye party before he goes away for the summer and almost an hour late. because you’re staring down at your phone trying to figure out how you feel, trying to reason with your gritted teeth and racing heart that everything will be okay.

staring down at jean’s message into the group chat you all share after you’ve explained your situation.

jean

Only leaving mine now I’ll swing by and get you

fuck.

this is not something you have a plan for. this is not a situation that you’ve dealt with before in the tribulations that have followed your break up. this doesn’t have a solution tucked away in your head. there is no adapting to this, there is no pretending, there is just you alone with jean in his car for the first time since you broke up. the last time you were in that stupid fucking car was when you broke up and oh god, what a joke.

you know he’s driving and he won’t check his phone so there’s no point in telling him not to and figuring out some alternative transport. and you know he’s not waiting for some confirmation from you because…because you know him.

cars are speeding past you and you’re trying so hard to get a handle on your thoughts but you can’t seem to just get a grip. it feels like every next car is going to be him. you turn your back to the road and try to start writing some kind of text to mikasa…but what is there to even say?

you’ve crafted the perfect unbothered-about-jean persona over the past year and a half. you’ve basically mastered a straight face whenever a crude joke is made about him and whatever girl he’s casually seeing, you’ve perfected acting completely normal when asked about him – you cannot give yourself away.

no, you refuse to give yourself away.

“hey!” a voice bellows out from behind you, and you can instinctively tell that when you turn around it’s going to be jean with his elbow hanging out his open car window. so you do – you turn around (and you’re right about his exact pose, but that’s a victory you don’t allow yourself to celebrate) and you make your way to the passenger side, get in, close the door and brace yourself.

“thanks for getting me,” you say as you put on your seat belt and jean pulls out onto the road.

“no worries.”

it’s only when you’re well on your way that you can think of something else to say – any kind of bland conversation to cut you out of your thoughts.

“how come you’re late?”

“how come you are?” jean almost instinctively says.

“no need to get defensive,” you laugh.

“what can i say,” jean smiles, “i’m quite a private person.”

“oh, really?”

“yep,” he swiftly responds, eyes darting to you before he sighs, “i fell asleep watching a movie.”

now you’re cackling, “of course you did, jean.” you try not to notice the corners of his mouth turning upwards as you laugh and he focuses on the road.

“you didn’t say why you were, i can’t be the only one revealing all here.”

“i wouldn’t say this is revealing all,” you say and jean animatedly rolls his eyes, “i was at work.”

“oh,” jean replies, “work…where’re you working now?” he asks with such hesitance, like it’s almost rude for him to want to know anything about your life beyond what he knew when he was with you and the bits and pieces he can put together from everyone else. you try not to think about how you wish you could tell him everything – everything that has changed and everything that hasn’t.

“the same shop.”

“that shop is a shithole–”

“hey!” you’re immediately interjecting and jean is chuckling at your offense.

“it is!”

jean starts swatting your hand away with one hand as you try to punch him in his arm, laughing in a way you haven’t heard him for a while. in a way you haven’t had a chance to hear.

“take it back, take it back” you’re repeating in between lunges and jean exclaiming ‘you’re gonna get us both killed’ and ‘i’m literally driving’.

“fine! i take it back!” he’s saying as the car finally comes to a standstill in a long line of traffic. he looks over to you for the first time this entire ride, turning his entire head and scanning your face. you hope your composure holds, “all i’m trying to say is that it doesn’t deserve you.”

you really hope your composure holds.

“right,” you say after a pause. jean’s eyes flit between yours and you feel like maybe there’s something more you’re supposed to say. maybe there’s something more he’s trying to say. or maybe the ultimately doomed remnants of your feelings towards him combined with his unwavering stare and tapping fingers on his wheel are making you think things and see things that don’t make sense.

jean only turns his head back to the road when a car horn blares behind him and he realises the light’s gone green.

“fuck,” jean raises his hand up to the driver and then glances at you as the car moves again, “sorry.”

“distracted,” you quip, and jean laughs again.

“i guess you could say that.”

“what’s on your mind?” you ask.

“huh? nothing.” his head momentarily turns to you, “beer.” and you both break out into the same smiles you used to wear around each other without noticing.

“not your familiar brigade of girls?” you’re saying without realising, and before you can even begin to regret your stupidly pointed joke, jean is guffawing so loudly you’re convinced he���s going to run the next red light.

“brigade?!” he questions, looking at you with wide eyes, “you’re making me sound like some sort of…” he loses his words and you feel maybe you really did take him by surprise with your unexpected candour.

“some sort of what?” you implore.

jean is silent, then turns to you with feigned annoyance and a twinkle in his eye, “shut up.”

and you’re both laughing and looking at each other and there it is again. that twinkle. that sparkle. you could miss it if you didn’t know exactly where to find it from so long ago.

a comfortable silence settles between the two of you and you can tell connie’s house is nearby. jean speaks first, “i can assure you there’s no such brigade.”

you snigger, “i don’t need to be assured.”

then jean is pulling into connie’s house and you can slightly make out music blaring from inside and silhouettes through the drawn curtains and the last bit of light from the late summer sun. he turns off the engine and you wait for him to take out his keys, yet he never does. you stare at the door handle, yet never go to pull it. neither one of you is making a move and when you turn your head to him, he’s already looking at you.

“i– ” “i–” you both attempt to start simultaneously, and then cut yourselves off with laughter.

“we haven’t spoken properly in so long,” jean eventually starts, “like this i mean.” (your heart is in your throat. you wonder if he can make out its outline when he looks at you.)

“yeah,” you softly say, “i know.”

“it’s nice.”

“it is.”

you’re looking at each other in silence again, and you can tell that his mind is racing with thoughts and he’s waiting to see which one catches onto his tongue and makes its way out. you think he can probably tell the same about you. it’s like some kind of competition, some game on who is going to keep this conversation going so you can stay in the car together for longer. alone.

you wonder if anyone inside has peeked through the window and noticed yet.

“you know…” jean speaks again and you are internally grateful, because you don’t think you can trust yourself to say anything right now, “you know, i notice that you avoid me, right?”

“that is not true.”

jean practically giggles at your immediate denial.

“it is,” he says, “it’s fine. i think i understand.”

“you do?”

“yeah, i–” jean trips over his own words, like they keep getting muddled in his mouth and he has to sound them out in his head before he can continue, “like… i can imagine it’s not easy. it wasn’t for me.”

your eyebrows instinctively raise, “it wasn’t?”

he laughs, and you suppose it is stupid to assume that he wasn’t in anyway upset about breaking up or stressed about having to maintain a friendship with you. you suppose it was easier to assume he didn’t care about you, like he was some kind of heartless villain.

“well, was it for you?”

you pause. a decision: how honest can you be with the person that seems to have haunted you for so long?

“no,” you shake your head, “not really. not at first.”

now jean’s eyebrows raise, “so it is now?”

“i… i don’t know,” the words practically tumble out of you, “why are you asking?”

your phone buzzes in your lap and both of your eyes instinctively dart to the lit up screen.

mikasa

You coming in?

you look back up at the house and can spot the curtain rustling. you’ve been noticed. but when you look back at jean, regardless of whatever audience might be wondering what you two are still doing in the car, you still have no desire to leave. this might be the only chance you have to finally be honest with yourself – with anyone – about how you feel.

you take a deep breath, and jean watches you carefully.

“you…” you try to start, unsure of what you’re saying or what you’re trying to achieve, “you know you really hurt me?”

“i know,” jean nods, regret undeniably flashing in his eyes, “i will always feel so bad–”

“you made me feel…small. like i wasn’t enough–”

“you are enough,” jean looks like he’s almost pleading with you. it feels like you’re back in his car on that damned night. like you’re back walking on eggshells and waiting for one to finally pierce through your foot.

“then…then why would you go on dates when you said you weren’t ready for a relationship? that you couldn’t do it?”

your throat feels raw and tight. you cannot break in front of him again. jean seems surprised to hear his words from that night repeated back to him.

“i don’t know. it was stupid,” he breathes, “i…i was trying to forget.”

“forget what?”

“forget you.”

it feels like if the world was to collapse around you, you would not be able to bat an eyelid if you were to remain in this car with jean. it’s a terrifying thought and it feels like the rush of your blood and the pulsing of your heart is going to get too big for your body and you’re going to burst.

“and did it help?” you slowly ask – and you don’t know why. you don’t know why it matters. you’re over. you’ve been over. whatever he answers doesn’t matter, it doesn’t change anything. it won’t change anything.

right?

jean is staring at you with enough intent to make you want to melt, like he means to take in every part of your face and sear it into his memory. it makes your head foggy.

“i…” jean’s chest is rising and falling and only then do you notice that yours is as well. and you are out of breath.

“you?”

“i was scared. you’re… you’re so good and i’m–” he’s practically mumbling. but you can hear him, you always hear him, “i don’t know what i am. it just felt like i was going to ruin you.”

suddenly a tear is rolling down your cheek. and another and another and jean is leaning into you like he’s meaning to catch them.

“why didn’t you say that?” you whisper.

“because i didn’t deserve you,” he says like it is the most obvious thing, “i don’t deserve you.”

“jean…” your hand is reaching up to his jaw, and you’re cupping his cheek without even thinking, thumb swiping over stubble, “that’s not true.”

“i don’t say the right things,” jean interjects, “i don’t do the right things. i never did. it just feels like i’ve been living in…some fucking limbo around you.” he leans his head on your hand, and then slowly picks up your other one and laces his fingers through it.

his hand fits like always. like it’s meant to.

you sigh, “what do you want from me, jean?”

“for you to not hate me.”

you giggle, “unfortunately, i could never hate you.” you feel his teeth against your palm as he beams at you, eyes watering and heart pounding.

“i… i want you.”

“really this time?”

“there was never a time i didn’t.”

he peers at you, like he’s trying to see into your head and unravel your thoughts one by one to read for himself. this time when he nestles his head into your hand again, he brings his head closer and closer to you, until you feel his breath fanning your damp cheeks.

nose to nose.

“please just let me…” he murmurs, eyes unwavering and hand gripping yours.

“okay,” you say softly, and he’s slowly but surely kissing you like you’re made of glass. like any wrong move and you will crumble right in front of him. you can feel the final tears that were resting on your waterline make their way down your face and he pulls away to let go of your hand and wipe them away.

he presses his lips to the exact spot on your cheek where they once were.

“i’m not stupid anymore,” he says. you laugh quietly.

“okay.”

“and i want you.”

you nod your head and he smiles, then kisses you again.

[braunbakery]

I’m sorry if this is rude but would you ever write a sequel to little sparrow? Like what happens between jean and reader and Mikasa after reader confesses to him?

poison oak

☞ jean kirstein x fem reader

☞ sequel to little sparrow, word count: 3k

☞ sfw, angst angst angst, canon-verse [post aot finale.]

☞ plot: there comes a point where whatever false comfort you and jean are afforded by pretending what you said on the boat never happened hurts more than you can bear.

☞ inspired by poison oak - bright eyes

☞ poison oak

the nightmares will never truly leave.

this is something that you all know full well. know to your deepest cores as the paradis demons, the paradis survivors, the paradis warriors. heroes. it needs not to be talked about, to be acknowledged or discussed.

and yet, they seem almost worse now that you awaken to safety. now that you can awaken to the knowledge of a war victoriously won and finally over. it seems even near the calm flickering and warmth of a fire at your bedside, or the crickets chirping outside a window, your mind cannot forget. it seems easier to have a nightmare when you were living in one.

jean knows this all too well, as he remains between sleep and consciousness tossing and turning until his bedsheets are all but crumbled into a bundle on his mattress. this is the routine – one he knows that he and his friends often undergo – especially in the nights following the end of the final battle for peace.

sometimes he is a young boy again – fifteen and watching his friends be devoured by beasts beyond comprehension. sometimes he is older and wiser, but still inhabited by that same fear and dread that has followed him from his most innocent and tarnished youth just to face enemies that look just like him. sometimes there are guns and sometimes blades. sometimes he is surrounded by comrades and sometimes he is isolated and staring up at the wall that dictated his very existence until countless died to be rid of it.

and sometimes – not often, not nearly as often as he would like – his nightmares are interrupted by an ocean breeze and your blurry silhouette in front of him. back at that boat before the final stretch. you’re speaking – he can hear your voice and make out your figure moving – yet he can’t make out the words.

he doesn’t need to. he knows this scene well enough since the day it happened.

his mouth moves of its own volition and he can barely even see from this cursed blur cast onto his vision – but he knows he is clasping your shoulder and he knows what words will come next out of his mouth.

“i need to go.”

and then he is awake.

*~*

it’s easy to get wrapped up in whatever comes after the war.

months go by and you’re signing treaties and mourning and meeting officials and reinstating civilisations alongside your comrades – but it’s barely ever that you all get to be friends. no, these moments are few and in between yet when they come it is like an air of gratefulness settles into the room until once more you are all interrupted by whatever duties are bestowed upon you next.

you are somewhat thankful for this business – obviously not for the horrors of that final battle or the things witnessed and lives lost – but for this sudden political leadership you and your comrades now share. you do not have time to think of jean and your confession. sometimes thoughts of it do slip in, it is hard not to when you have to see him so often those first few months, but now it has been a year and you have all gone on to follow your respective lives.

that constant underlying ache for him has turned into an occasional sting. you love jean. you do. it is a fact written into the crevices of your soul since your youth – but you owe it to yourself to live. to torture yourself no more with thoughts of him.

(“how have you been?” he says to you in the corner of the meeting room you are all situated in. you’re both currently stood at the small make-shift coffee and tea station set up for you all and pouring yourself a cup.

“oh!” you had not realised jean had sidled up beside you, “good! um…i’m alright.”

jean’s eyes flit between both of yours and suddenly you’re filled with the same embarrassment you used to feel when you would get tangled up in your ODM gear when you were younger and jean would double over laughing at you. he brings up a hand to the back of his neck.

you both have not spoken of that day on the boat and you certainly do not plan to bring it up.

“good…” jean eventually replies, “that’s good.”

“sorry,” you blurt out, “how’re you?” jean is grinning at your perceived impoliteness.

“tired,” he candidly blurts out and now it’s your turn to beam at him.

“i think we all are,” you say, and jean nods at you until suddenly his hand is coming up towards you. closer and closer and you’re frozen to the spot, you don’t even notice that you’ve stopped breathing. all you can think of is his hand’s nearing proximity to your face until suddenly it stops right at your eye.

he lightly brushes his thumb under your eye – the sure sign of your sleepless nights. you’re looking up at him lost for words as he mindlessly stares at the slight darkness painting your undereye.

when he locks eyes with you, it’s like he has suddenly realised himself and with an all too quick motion jerks his hand away from your face and stares at the ground.

“yeah, i’d say that’s right,” he sheepishly mumbles.

you hand him the teapot and both stand in silence until you’re called back to the meeting table.

and then like a well-trained dog, whenever you catch him look at mikasa (whether sparingly, whether a glance or his utmost focus as she speaks), you stare down at your clasped hands in an attempt to no longer involve yourself in whatever wreckage jean kirstein unconsciously makes of your heart.)

sometimes he writes to you.

a meeting of the so-called ‘heroes’ has become infrequent and only once every few months. you’ve all settled in different places some far and some close. sometimes you meet without the guise of peace and restoration, and sometimes that very guise is what’s needed for you all to see each other again.

so, you resort to writing. it’s you that starts it.

you write to everyone. you want to know of their plans, of their news homes, new lives, new directions. armin writes back the most – always lengthy responses and curiosity practically emanating off the parchment paper. in the times you have all met between these letters everyone has expressed their dismay for having to sit and write (‘as much as we’ve gone through together, you know i’m not writing,’ connie quips), yet at least once a month you receive something.

this is excluding jean, who week after week has something to say back to you.

he writes of new friends, new hobbies, new places, new desire for exploration. he writes and he writes and he writes, answering every question you have and asking his own. and it’s hard not to get too wrapped in it – you are childhood friends, you are soldiers in arms. and you have only just been able to resolve the heartache from the boat into a rough reminder that only comes and goes.

so with every letter (every poorly-scrawled joke and sudden idea and ‘yours truly’) you swallow your beaming smile and read as if this were anyone of the others writing to you.

*~*

eventually you do all meet, months later, at a bar.

it’s rounds of beers and dastardly jokes and everyone chortling at connie and jean rough-housing each other like they were teenagers once more. it’s reiner being forced to chug pints with a red face as connie insist he loosen up and ‘you’re the biggest here, you need to catch up.’

jean meets your eyes as everyone cheers and all you can think is that you are so happy to see him so at ease. to no longer see him as that haunted boy on the boat. your eyes meet jeans and all he can think is that he is so happy to see you here with everyone (which includes him. here with him.)

a lull of silence falls over the table eventually and you look up at jean to find him already staring at you. you offer him a small smile, overcome by the smooth buzz of alcohol and the warmth of the bar, and he reciprocates yet neither one of you looks away.

in the depths of your mind, you can feel whatever thoughts of him you have supressed over time come crawling out once more and you wonder if you are both to go on with the rest of your lives without ever mentioning what happened that day long ago. the silence breaks and everyone’s head turns to reiner, who’s holding up his half empty glass.

“to eren,” he declares, and you can practically hear mikasa’s breath hitch in her throat from next to you. around the table you can see the slight glaze over everyone’s eye, the sudden realisation that you truly did all make it out, “and to everyone else lost.” reiner continues.

slowly but surely, everyone’s glasses are raised up to the air and you’re back to years before inspecting jean’s every move like you can practically bore your eyes through his head and read his thoughts. and as your arm is outstretched in tribute to those who should be here with you today, you realise that jean is not looking at you.

he is looking at mikasa, as a single tear slowly trails its way down her cheek. he looks and he looks and he looks, even after everyone places their drinks back on the table with a synchronous clink. everyone is sharing a sympathetic glance at her, but in your most selfish moment you stare at jean.

you slowly watch as he stretches out his hand across the table and gently clasps it over hers, offering her a consoling smile and looking at her in ways you could only dream. sometimes you think maybe this is the look he gives you, maybe this is what you see when his eyes suddenly catch yours across the room or when he had brushed his thumb under your eye or when he tells you he looks forward to your next letter. but no – the look you long for is in front of you between him and her. from him to her.

without even thinking, you clasp your hand on mikasa’s shoulder and make your way off of your chair and suddenly jean is quickly retracting his own from hers. you cannot even spare him a look. you feel so selfish, you feel so dumb. you made it through battle upon battle and monstrosity upon monstrosity yet for some reason you cannot make it through whatever you feel for jean.

“think i’m done for the night,” you blurt out, voice slightly slurred from the amount of drinks you’ve had – though you suspect everyone else’s voices are similar. through everyone’s boos and goodbye’s you can hear jean.

“what?”

but you can barely spare him a glance before you’re grabbing your coat from the back of your chair, crossing the room and leaving the bar with no hesitation.

*~*

it’s only ‘til you’re halfway down the cobblestone street where the bar is that you realise the reason you’re so uncomfortable and cold and wet is because it is raining and you forgot your damn umbrella in the bar. so swept up in thoughts of a man who doesn’t love you that now you’re standing in the middle of the street at god knows what time looking like a fool.

jean kirstein doesn’t love you.

does jean kirstein love you?

why doesn’t jean kirstein love you?

maybe you were fine with whatever lingering glance and weekly letter and small yet fleeting touch. maybe a deep most embarrassing part of your mind thought perhaps he was growing to. maybe some convoluted side of you thought that perhaps with this much effort he put into sustaining your friendship, something else could be there. maybe–

“hey!” a voice calls after you in the distance.

you instinctively turn around and of course, of course, it’s him in all of his glory standing in the rain with your folded umbrella in hand and raised towards you.

“i think you forgot something,” he says and he starts to jog towards you. when he notices your hair dripping wet and your face almost laminated as he reaches you he can’t help but laugh, “though i’m a little late.”

“thanks,” you muster out, but you can’t seem to manage to take the umbrella from him. you can’t seem to move at all. jean frowns. he knows that something is wrong, and you can tell that he knows. it’s not like you (you who insists on writing letters, on meeting every few months, on reminiscing and appreciating and loving those who have come all this way with you) to suddenly leave without another word.

“what’s wrong?” jean starts, staring down at you staring down at your shoes.

you can’t speak until suddenly a hand is lightly touching your chin and tugging your face up. you’re met with his face and you hope – you pray – that he cannot notice whatever tears may or may not have escaped and that he may think your sniffling is from spending time out in the rain and not from this sudden sadness that feels like it’s taking over your every limb.

sadness for what? for something that never was?

“i’m going to bed, jean,” you say, slightly angling your chin away from his hand which remains in mid-air despite your movement.

“tell me,” he repeats, “tell me what’s wrong.”

you stare at his wet hair that has started to stick to his forehead for a moment. for a few. until suddenly you realise that he’s begging. he’s begging. he’s begging for you to tell him…to say it. and surely by now he can tell it’s from all that time ago, when you were bearing your soul to him in what could have been your final moments alive with each other. he must know. he has to know.

it's when he slightly nods his head at you as he watches you rummage through your own thoughts that he does know. he just wants you to say it.

“you’ll never love me, will you, jean?”

“that’s–”

“jean, please,” you snap, “just be honest with me. you owe it to me.”

“i know i do, i…” he feels like he’s barely able to enunciate. barely able to keep the words pouring out of him before they even make sense in head, “i’m sorry about the boat.”

your heart is rising and falling and rising and falling and you don’t think you would’ve ever heard any acknowledgment about what happened that day for as long as you lived. you thought that despite the fact that the both have you have faced enemies larger than life, you would both have never faced that day together.

“yeah,” you barely mouth out.

“i’m sorry i didn’t say anything. i’m sorry i…i just left. i don’t know why i–” he cuts himself off with two hands up to his hair, scrunching and pulling at it like his life depends on it, “the last thing i ever wanted was to hurt you.”

“it’s a bit late for that,” you can’t help but spitefully remark. you hate what this has made you into, this bitter and sad person this heartache has rendered you into.

“i know,” he breathes, “i know. but i…” it’s like it’s paining him to speak, and it’s a miracle you can even hear each other over the raindrops colliding down onto the street beneath you. your chests are both heaving and your breath is evaporating into steam in front of you. your clothes are soaked all the way through and jean’s are certainly on the way to being the same.

“…you?” you urge.

“i think i do.”

what?

“what?”

his hands are suddenly on your shoulders and his eyes are boring into you and you can feel the steam of his breath on your cheeks.

“i think i do,” he says again, voice racing itself, “like, really really do. i know it’s mean to say this now, i know it’s selfish. but i just need time. i just need to let go, somehow.”

you can taste the salt of your tears.

“let go of her, you mean?” and jeans eyebrows scrunch at the fact that you know full well what he means. he’s always known that you’ve know – sure, he saw your reaction at the bar – he just never imagined that you’d speak it aloud. speak it aloud to him.

he swallows, “yeah.”

you’re tired, you’re so so tired.

“i’m going to bed, jean,” and you start turning and wrenching yourself out of his grasp, but his hand is now around your wrist holding you in place.

“wait,” he urgently blurts, “please.”

“jean,” you tearfully sigh. this is not the life you want to live. you did not survive for this. you did not fight and win and go on just to still have your heart dictated by jean and mikasa.

“please,” he says again, slowly.

“jean, i’ve been waiting for you for years, whether i’ve liked it or not.”

“i know–”

“and now we have no war. now we have people, we have lives. we have something more than bloodshed.”

this time, jean lets you when you carefully tear yourself out of his grasp and fully face him.

“and i’m not letting myself spend what we have now waiting.”

*~*

that night, you take your umbrella from jean and walk to the nearby inn that you have all purchased rooms in for your stay without ever opening it. you listen to your feet echo against the empty cobblestone street and thank yourself that you turned and left before you could stare at jean’s back leaving you like before.

when you get to your room, you strip off all of your clothes and leave them in a heaped damp puddle in the corner of the room, then sit at your bed alone staring out the window. the wind slightly batters against the wooden panes and you can hear its distant howl.

it’s then that you realise you are somehow still on that boat. and maybe you are cursed to never leave.

thanks for reading :) feel free to request (please something other than jean dear god)

[braunbakery]

CAN I BE ANGST TO FLUFF AND IF SO CAN IT BE THIS RQ FROM A WHILE AGO

https://www.tumblr.com/braunbakery/706383420548349952/can-i-request-another-something-angsty-for-jean

ok tell me rn if you want canon-compliant or an au

[braunbakery]

SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT ANGST TO WRITE PLEASE

[braunbakery]

i never knew that i was pirating anime and manga as a kid like i genuinely just thought it was free online

[braunbakery]

It's my 2 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

me when i’m 2 years old 😝😝😝

[braunbakery]

can I request another something angsty for jean (unrequited love at first) but he actually falls in love with reader by the end of it ?😭 all the one-sided love with Jean, pls it’s so good but it hurts my heart 🥺

bahhahahah what is your guys' obsession with being unloved by jean kirstein PLS FIND PEACE !!!! but also i will add it to the list

[braunbakery]

i'm in my sad girl hours what characters do u baddies want me to write for next ;)

[braunbakery]

[braunbakery]

little sparrow

☞ jean kirstein x fem reader [ one-shot word count: 2.7k]

☞ sfw, angst angst angst, canon-verse

☞ plot: the world is ending, you are on a boat to your death, and your thoughts are of jean. (takes place on the boat to the hangar in marley season 4, managa ch. 131)

☞ inspired by little sparrow - alan dunham

☞ little sparrow

jean stands at the deck of the ship looking out at the surrounding ocean. you watch him from the other side of the deck. you watch the wind brush through his hair. you watch his jaw clench as he looks up at the trail of smoke the ship is leaving in its path. you watch him.

(you’ve watched him before. you’ve spent years watching him. most times he catches your gaze and shoots you a smirk. a knowing smirk, a friendly smirk, a pitiful smirk? you don’t know. but he looks you right in the eyes when he does it and that’s all that seems to matter to you.

“what you lookin’ at, huh?” he says, knowing full well it’s him. you huff out a smile in response, trying to cover up the speeding of your heart and the dryness of your mouth.

“nothing much,” you say, and he breaks out into a smile that makes you break out into a wider one. you’ve known jean for years, you’ve been through battle and war with him, yet in this moment you still can’t tell if he knows. if he knows the way your heart tugs in your chest when he breaks your stare and looks away.)

he catches you this time too, albeit this time is different. this time the wind is rushing through both of your ears, and even if he wanted to say something, you wouldn’t be able to hear him from how far he is. even if he wanted to say something, he doesn’t. he holds your gaze and looks at you solemnly, looks at you with the kind of exhaustion that makes you want to grab him and whisk him away from all of this.

there is no smirk this time. there is no joke quipped or cheeky smile. he stares at you and it would seem almost blank if you didn’t know him inside out. and then he nods at you (a slight nod, like it’s taking all of his power to do it) and goes back to looking ahead at the waves on the horizon.

“you okay?” a voice softly asks you, cutting you out of your thoughts. you turn to your left and find armin.

“armin, hey,” you say, and offer him a smile despite current circumstances. armin nods at you again, ushering you to answer his question (like you’d tell him the truth. like you’d admit that in the midst of this war and carnage and the end of the fucking world, you’re thinking about jean kirstein and wondering if he’s thinking about you. you’re thinking about jean kirstein and wishing his heart was aching because of you and not her).

“i’m fine, i’m just –”

“just?” armin cuts you off, interrupting your rehearsed response. just looking at the waves, you wanted to say. but you know that just as you’ve know jean for years, armin has known you for those years as well. and even if you haven’t been with them through the same thick and thin that they have all endured, he knows you enough to know that you’re still pining after jean in the wake of corpses and flames.

“…just,” is all you can say back. armin offers you a slight smile (pitiful, almost. you don’t want to be pitied).

“right.”

“and you, are you okay?” you ask armin. armin nods his head at you.

“to the best of my ability.”

“and…” you look back off to your side at jean, who’s still holding the railing of the boat and looking out at the distance, “how about him?”

“he was talking to mikasa earlier and hasn’t said anything to anyone since,” armin bluntly states. you refuse to make eye contact with him.

(the mikasa of it all.

the mikasa of it all is a simple yet utterly painful concept. no matter how much you train, how much you pour your soul into being better, how much you are there for jean, you will never live up to mikasa.

and you are there for jean in an amount that is almost poisonous to you. you watch him watch her pine after eren, you offer him words of support, and in the darkest of moments you offer him yourself.

“jean,” you whisper in the in the night. you both stand leaning against the walls of headquarters, having just come back from a busy day of basically being the backbone behind building the new paradis railway. the chill of the night is biting at your cheeks and fingers and you’re barely able to see each other despite the dimly lit lantern hanging from the wall.

jean’s nose is brushing up against yours, and his breath is fanning your cheek. you had just come out here to talk, to escape the chaos of dinner (you more so believe it was to escape mikasa trying to urge eren to finish his food, but this is something that you can ignore for now as jean softly holds your face in his palms).

“is this okay?” jean whispers back at you, and when you look up into his eyes they are already boring into yours and you’re almost entranced by the reflection of the flickering lantern in them. you wonder if you stare long enough would you be able to make out mikasa’s silhouette in his thoughts?

this is not the first time this has happened. where jean has snuck you away to talk, or to walk, or to on some occasions kiss. and each time you think you feel even more deeply for him and for the way he listens and laughs at what you say. each time you think you disregard the fact that he is secretly wishing you were her more and more. more and more until you simply will yourself to forget. you swallow.

this is all you will ever get from him. that’s okay.

“yes,” you respond.

he offers you a soft and almost fleeting kiss. )

armin nudges you.

“right, okay,” you say, basically mechanically. you avoid armin’s gaze. this is ridiculous. now is not the time to become jealous and insecure of this crush that has plagued you for much too long, and yet here you stand doing exactly that. at the end of the day, you are stuck on this boat until you reach the azumabito hangar. you are stuck watching jean and wondering what it is about you that is not enough for him to be agonising over you and not her.

“maybe you should go talk to him,” armin offers.

“no, i think he’d rather be alone.”

“it’s the end of the world,” armin says. annie slowly walks past the two of you and climbs back down below deck. armin’s eyes momentarily follow her until she’s out of his vision. he looks back at you, “no one should be alone.”

armin stares at you meaningfully, and suddenly your limbs are moving before you will them to and you’re making your way to the other side of the deck. to jean. he turns his head towards you as you approach him and you can feel your stomach tie into a knot. you’ve fought men and titans, and this is what is sending your heart racing.

“hey,” you greet once you sidle up to him. jean offers you a close-mouthed smile. tired.

“hey,” he’s looking at you.

“how are you doing?” you ask as carefully as you can, jean’s smile widens and you both know it’s not out of any rush of happiness.

he laughs sarcastically, “great,” and you feel stupid until he smiles at you again, a real one this time. one that comes from sharing this whole ordeal together, “how are you?”

“fantastic,” you echo a similar sentiment. he huffs out a short laugh and you’re both looking at each other.

out of the context of death and destruction and feeling the weight of the world on your collective shoulders, you think jean looks quite beautiful right now. his eyes are tired, he has scratches across his face, his hair is tousled and there are smears of dirt over his clothes – but you are captivated by this view of him and the ocean. you think it is the most solace you have been offered in the past twenty four hours.

“you know…” you’re suddenly saying, and jean’s eyes are flitting back and forth between yours, “you know you can talk to me, jean.”

jean nods slightly and curtly, sidling up closer to you in what feels like an attempt to make sure you know what he is saying is true, “i know.” he doesn’t break away from your gaze.

“okay,” you say, “just… just reiterating.”

he tears his gaze away from you and stares ahead at the blue once more, and then you hear a slight mumbling from his direction.

“…there really isn’t anyone else i’d rather talk to.”

lie.

(jean always does this thing sometimes. he lies without meaning to, without really understanding the depth of his words. or maybe he doesn’t really understand the depth of how well you know him.

you think he has a habit of saying what he wishes to be true, what he believes to be true through logic and deduction, but not what is actually true.

he’s supposed to meet you straight after dinner outside to go for a walk. it’s not that serious, you’re just hanging out because you’re friends. you’re spending time together because your friends – but unfortunately when it comes to him it is that serious. everything is always that serious and you’re stuck waiting under the same lantern he kissed you at outside (this has become some sort of regular meeting spot now. you wonder if it holds the same significance to jean as it does to you), stuck leaning against a shitty cold wall and wondering what’s taking him so long.

at first, you don’t care – not really anyway. jean is boyish in the way that he has the same boyish stupidity that runs through half of the male population of the regiment under the age of twenty one (even armin). he’s either still eating and taking his time because he’s forgotten, getting caught up talking to someone, or taking a shit.

you venture back into the warmth of headquarters to find him and you know once he spots you he’ll remember and excuse himself.

and you do find him, outside the entryway of the dining hall of course distracted by talking to someone. talking to mikasa. and you know he was on his way out because he’s at the entryway. and some twisted part of you is enraged by the hypothetical of him knowing that you’re being kept waiting and choosing fleeting conversation with her over meeting you. a part of you is enraged by the part of you that is enraged.

and a part of you is slowly sinking back into yourself, hiding in the darkest corners of your body and trying to hold yourself together. trying not to catch onto small snippets of conversation and compare your voice to mikasa’s, your mannerisms to mikasa’s and your flare for conversation to mikasa’s (maybe you need to make yourself smaller and softer and quieter).

and then jean catches sight of you, eyes widening slightly. he holds up his index finger and mouths two words, ‘one second’.

lie.

you feel almost out of your own body when you make your way back outside and wait for ten more minutes.

you know that deep down you are somewhat just a simple distraction for jean from mikasa. whatever he wants you to be, you find yourself already morphed into it. whether a friend to laugh at his jokes or someone to hold. someone to hold him.

that does not make the reminder of it hurt any less. )

“right,” you say, lips pursed.

“what?” jean asks, angling his head to look back at you.

“nothing.”

“oh, come on,” he’s elbowing your side, echoing images of him from when he was just a young cadet, “you can’t hide from me.”

and you can’t help almost laugh to yourself at the irony of that. hiding from him is something you have been doing for years. hiding the true extent of your feelings, hiding the parts of yourself that you think will scare him away (the jealous parts. the upset parts. the angry parts that wish you had never offered yourself to him. that you had kept yourself to yourself.)

“it really is nothing, jean,” you say, placing a hand on his elbow and pushing it back down to his side. you swallow, “compared to all this anyway.”

jean holds your gaze, thinking about your statement and then sighs.

“yeah, i guess everything would be.”

a comfortable silence settles between the two of you, as you both listen to waves breaking and the wind rushing past your ears. you both lean over the railing, eyes squinting as you look out once more. the view does not get old. you don’t think it ever will.

“i hope that with some miracle eren makes it out.”

your head shoots towards jean, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest not to meet your eyes. his jaw clenches and unclenches and his grip on the railing is tighter than necessary.

“yeah,” is all you can say back. you want to give him enough room to speak. to be listened to. even if it means you have to bury whatever it is you may feel or may want to say.

“and i hope we do too,” jean continues.

your heart sinks. the thought that he may not make it terrifies you even more than the thought of your own demise. it’s scary that you feel enough for someone to not even blink an eye at your own imminent death but feel your world may come crashing down at the thought of theirs.

“jean, i –” you’re suddenly blurting out, and the way jean’s head immediately shoots towards you cuts you out of whatever it is you were going to say. you don’t know what it is you were going to say, but it feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of your mouth.

“yeah?”

“i have something to tell you,” you pronounce every vowel and syllable carefully, trying to sound them all out in a way that soothes the way your insides feel like they’re caving in.

jean’s brows scrunch in concern and you can feel him gravitating towards you (which does nothing for your heart), “yeah?”

you can hear hange yelling in the distance and out of the corner of your eye you can make out the hangar slowly coming into view. jean follows your gaze and notices it too, but then he’s looking back at you as more people shuffle across the deck.

“i –” you try to start, but there are more yells. reiner stomps up the steps and onto deck towards hange.

“i –” it gets caught in your throat again as you make out mikasa’s dark hair blowing in the wind and walking over to armin.

jean, filled with sweet concern gently places a hand on your arm, and you wish you could disappear. you wish you could escape this feeling, this aching and this torment. you wish you had never met him. you wish you could be someone else. you wish you could be the perfect someone else for him, the one that is enough.

“i love you,” you blurt out.

you’re staring at him in shock at your own words and he’s staring at you like he’s trying to piece your words together over and over to figure out what they really mean. you swallow and swallow and swallow and your heart runs and runs and runs. there’s more shuffling all around you and suddenly everyone is above deck, chattering and planning and discussing.

but it’s still just you and jean alone at this corner and you can’t hope but pray for this moment between words to go on forever, so you never have to know his reaction. so you never have to plan how to go on after it.

jean’s hand moves from your arm as he now clasps your shoulder. like a comrade.

“i need to go.”

and he makes his way to hange.

you stand and listen to the howling wind alone.

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[braunbakery]

i wanna be used by this man ABUSED by this man I wanna be a house cat and i want him to give me a bowl of warm milk and i want him to be dressed as an old lady in smocks like the dress and the sandals and everything bro i want the sun to be out but it to be chilly so i can drink the warm milk in the autumn winds and have him hit me over the head with a news paper but very lightly because i keep meowing to come in and i want us to build a relationship over several months where he eventually begrudgingly let’s me in and i wanna have KITTENS im tryna be a generational house cat i want his family members to take my kittens and for those kittens to have kittens and for them to remember me as a beloved cat even after a die. i also wanna gargle his BALLS

[braunbakery]

Rip light yagami I know ur oprah interview would've been insane