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milky-aeons · 4 months

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𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄

౨ৎ . . . he's always been cocky. It was that self-righteous bravado JEAN KIRSCHTEIN had which drew you towards him in the first place, like a moth to flame, too curious to look away. It was your own damn fault for getting burned.

warnings: swearing, sexual content, emotional dysregulation, reader is bad at feelings, Jean is no better, enemies to lovers, mdni, w.c 3.9k

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐗𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, at first.

A mindless curiosity. If you were being honest, what really piqued your initial interest in Jean Kirschtein was that ridiculous way he wore his hair.

At least, that was what you liked to tell yourself. On those nights where his golden eyes wouldn't leave your mind while you tossed and turned. Feeling your body heat, your skin stretching too taut across your bones, aching.

It had morphed into something more mind consuming, more tangible, at a speed and stealth you couldn't keep up with. You were always a woman who liked to have a decent reign on her emotions. In a world like this, where you had all been thrown into war and shattered beyond repair, it took only the strong to pick themselves back up and keep going. For so long, that had been your only objective. To keep moving. To never stop, to make it to the other side.

And here you were. The Rumbling had decimated over eighty-percent of the world's population, was the number plastered across every newspaper in Eldia. You had made it. There was no reason to push it all away now in favour of those survival instincts. And in its wake, all your thoughts left untouched, those feelings left unfelt, came roaring up to the surface with a one sure goal of swallowing you whole.

You were going insane.

The first time you had saw him since the War broke out, you almost did not recognise him. Standing there at a newspaper stall at such towering height. He rose above any other male around him.

When you were teenagers, you used to delight in the blush that raced across his cheeks when you teased him about his silly undercut, how it reminded you of the mane of a horse. He would splutter, like a wounded thing, and shout at you in a high, offended voice. You would laugh, and laugh, until his tanned skin coloured the same shade as the roses you collected in your basket.

Back then, you were just an ordinary towns girl, making fun of a trainee soldier because you thought them all the same. Stuck up, boorish, common things for a youth to entertain. You never knew about the frequent encounters you would soon find yourself with the soldier who graduated in the 104th's Top Ten. Who, despite everything he boasted, joined ranks with the Survey Corps and ventured where you could only hope to dream. Who would bump into you on quiet, serene nights as you returned from the flower fields, and offer you a suave smile.

"Never thought I'd see you again. You're still goin' round with those flowers in your basket, huh?"

"Indeed, I am. Would you like me to fashion you a flower crown? It would do well to hide that ridiculous haircut you seem to still wear."

The boat rocked against the lull of the waves. Your vase skidded across the wooden worktop, and you gasped, holding it in place.

You had become distracted, again.

Being one of the best florists within all three walls, and after taking up the family business as your father's prodigy, you were not surprised when a group of militants showed up at your studio a few days hence. Informing you of a campaign to visit the nation of Marley, and that your services would be of great use. Many ceremonies, they had said, a great many. We could use a florist's touch such as you.

And that was the day you saw him again. At the newspaper stand. His hair was longer, his eyes sharp and always cunning. From your workroom here on the boat destined for Marley, you were certain the smooth baritone of his voice had become one with the walls at this point, you seemed so fixated on it.

Insane. That man was driving you insane.

Huffing, you picked up a smooth satin ribbon from your sewing box and fashioned it around the bouquet you had taken longer than usual to put together. The first of many you had been asked to create for a cordial tea that was scheduled for when you first arrived there. Bittersweet, for truth, Calla Lily, to show justice, sharp pops of colour from Gladioli, for strength of their new nations. You sat back in your chair and regarded the arrangement.

It was the need to speak to the Commander about the debrief of events that sent you standing from your chair and meandering down the ships hallways in search of your company. It was not because the soft tongues of pollen from the lilies were just the same shade as his watchful, watchful eyes.

"Excuse me," You spoke after knocking on the door of the main cabin. Armin Arlert's cordial tone beckoned you inside.

All of the main players of Paradis' military were gathered around a small tea service; the Commander and his partner, Annie Leonhart, along with the strong presence of Reiner Braun, sitting at the round table. Armin smiled warmly at you when you introduced yourself into the room with a small bow.

He, was furiously fixing his long hair in the reflection of a wall mirror in the corner of your vision. You refused to look his way. Out of sheer stubbornness, you would not. To prove something to yourself, you would aptly ignore the soldier.

Yet you did notice how his comb suddenly froze in mid air when you entered the room.

"Miss [Name]," Armin greeted. "Can we help you with anything? Is everything to your liking?"

"Everything is just perfect, Commander." You said, smiling warmly. "I have come to tell you that I... have been within two minds about what flowers I should use for our opening ceremony. Would strength imply hostility to the already wounded Marley nation, if I were to use Galdioli?"

Armin tilted his head to the side, his golden hair sliding across his forehead. "Hm. No, I think it's good to be a bit bold, actually. I'll trust your judgement on it, [Name]."

You were surprised that you had asked such a convincing question, after coming to the cabin on a shaky basis. Feeling his eyes on you through the mirror, your cheeks pulled into a tight smile, and you were just about to thank the Commander, when—

"All this talk about flower crap, what ones to use, what ones to stick in your hair," Jean Kirschtein's voice piqued up, and you roiled at the way it slinked across your skin, how it called all your senses to high alert. He chuckled in a smooth timbre. "Really, [Name], you haven't changed a bit."

Stiffly, you slowly turned your posture until you could fully face the soldier in the corner of the room. He had gone back to his task of combing those auburn locks to sit neatly swept, his eyes not looking at you.

Connie Springer, who had previously been leaning out of the cabin window, turned to his comrade with an accusing face. "Says the guy who's been fixin' his damn hair the last hour. What are you even doin' that for, huh?"

In his reflection, you saw how Jean's lips stretched into a cheeky, heart-breaking smirk. It made the flutter of your pulse hum erratically, made every sharp remark you wanted to throw at him bottom out from your mind.

"Because," Jean boasted. "I gotta look good for all the Marley ladies we're gonna bump into, don't I?"

And just like that, your heartbeat stilled in your chest.

It hadn't occurred to you until then, how acutely tangible that feeling inside you had become for the golden-eyed soldier. When it had made that shift from curiously interested to all-encompassing, ravaging, when it had become a need of yours to have him in every way you could. And standing there in the doorway of that small cabin, on that boat destined for Marley, you had felt the weight drop deep against your shoulders.

You were in love with Jean Kirschtein.

It was a barrage of emotions, one coming in torrents after the other. Shock. Longing. A foolish, giddy elation. And then; anger. Brewing, boiling, furious anger.

You were in love with Jean Kirschtein.

"Miss [Name]?" Armin called you softly, his tone edged with concern. You blinked, coming back into the room, only to realise that every pair of eyes were gazing at you curiously. "Are you feeling okay?" He ebbed.

An impressive reign on your emotions you had, indeed. But these emotions were never there before — and you had realised that, all this time, this is what had been trying to rise up and swallow you down. Yet anger, you were familiar with anger, you could shield yourself with that and use it to escape, just like you have always done.

"Yes—Yes, I am quite alright," You smiled, but it was razor-sharp. Then, directing it at him, the man of all your desires, you said, "I have heard there are some interesting technologies in Marley, Kirschtein. One of them namely being the light camera. Perhaps, you should ask them to take a photo of your face, so you can stare at it as much as you want."

Jean's honey eyes went wide. Connie coughed, which turned into a deep throng of laughter that had him falling from the window and into a chair. Perhaps his comrades had joined in on the chortling too, but you did not stay long enough to find out. The moment the sharp words left your tongue, you had whirled around, shutting the cabin door behind you.

The scent of the Calla Lilies were sweet and cloying, and even as you cradled your face in your shielding hands, their pollen still found a way to reach you. Dizzying, half-maddening, just like your thoughts as they spun without mercy in your mind.

You loosed a breath and leaned up so your hands, still clasped, pressed against your mouth. You could feel each pound of your heart, as if it were a hummingbird trapped in its cage within your chest. Any moment now, you were sure it would burst free and fly far, far away. You wished it would. In fact, you wished you yourself could just burst into a thousand little pieces and soar through the cabin window and be scattered within the waves if it meant you did not have to feel like this.

Hot. Angry. Yet scared, upset, mortified at yourself and how you had exploded at him. He—Jean, he did not deserve such remarks. He did not deserve how you had taken your insecurities and made them into swords to fling back at him. Of course, you knew this, and that rational tender part of you wished to corner him in some private area of the ship and apologise. Another part warred with that thought, wishing to grab him by the lapels of his brown suit and shake him back and forth, screaming, furious that he was eliciting such feelings from you.

And yet, a smaller side of you, a dangerous, heated area of your heart also wanted to grab hold of his lapels, but only to rip and rend them from his body. Exposing his smooth, strong flesh that he held himself so proudly with underneath—

You stood up with the intention to pace around your room until you could will yourself to calm down.

That was when you heard the thundering footsteps outside.

They were quick. They were determined, rapping against the wooden floorboards that connected all corners of the ship. Startled, you felt every inch of you still, your senses on sudden high alert. They were close by. Were they coming from—?

The door to your work room suddenly flew open, the force of it strong enough to crack the door against the wall as it did so. And there he stood on the other side of it in all his maddening glory, his large hand outstretched from where he had impacted, his shoulders moving up and down with effort. Before you could even protest, Jean had invited himself into your quarters and slammed the door behind him.

His eyes, wild and stern, found you and locked you in place. Rudely, he jutted his finger in your direction and spat, "Just what the hell is your problem, huh?"

So taken aback at the sudden intrusion of the man you had just been agonising over now standing here, panting and furious in your bedroom — it had taken a second for your mind to really catch up. But when it did, your first reaction was obvious defence, causing you to straighten your spine and gawk at him.

"I beg your—!"

"Oh, don't fuck with me, [Name]. I think it's time we sat down and had this damn conversation." Jean snarled, the muscles in his cheek jumping as he spoke. "Ever since we were kids, you've had this weird hate against me, and I've never understood why. The hell have I ever done to you, hah?"

Heat was quick to rise up the column of your exposed neck and onto your cheeks. He was angry, you could see it in the way his eyes blazed, his broad shoulders bunched and tight. You mirrored him, your eyebrows knotting at what he had just said.

Hate him?

"Don't be dramatic, Kirschtein. I've never—!"

"Oh yeah?" He goaded, his expression mocking. "Bullshit. What was that back there, then? Or yesterday? Or at the newspaper stall before we left? Is that your weird sycophant way of being nice, or are we just living in a backwards world all of a sudden and I didn't get the memo?"

"We've always mocked each other, that doesn't mean I hate you—!"

"Well you damn well make it believable, sweetheart—"

"Will you please, just, calm down for a moment—"

"And you've been more prickly than usual, these days! Getting all riled up over things you usually don't, hell—you won't even fuckin' look at me anymore!"

"Well—that—that—!"

"If I've fucking done somethin' to ya, have a damn back bone and say it to me!"

"Jean—"

"And another thing—!"

"For the love of the Walls, it is because I am in love with you, you foolish man!"

The silence that cut into your argument was so deafening, you could almost hear it ringing in your ears.

Whatever angry words were about to leave Jean's open mouth died on his tongue. It almost looked as if they had been forced right back down his throat, he looked so strangled for air.

None of you dared say a thing. The only sounds that existed within the room was the echo of your laboured, angry breaths, mingling with the sudden inhale of air he took that expanded his chest. He moved his mouth, as if to say something, but nothing came out. His dark brows knitted together. He opened his mouth again.

"What... did you just say?"

It was like a bucket of water had been decanted over your head, shocking you into realising what had passed from your lips. You stood there, dumbfounded, exposed, watching the emotions play across his face. The anger melting into shock, which bled into a distortedly humorous confusion.

He took a step forward, and asked again, "Oi, what was that last thing... you just said?"

"Nothing." You bared your teeth at him. "I said nothing. Get out."

He was eating up the small distance that existed between you two until he reduced it to that of a few steps. On his face there was an expression you couldn't decipher, could not sift through the emotions which held it together. Perhaps the uncertainty of it was what sent you retreating until your back hit the far wall of your bedroom. Perhaps it was the shattering of your defences, your walls you kept up so effortlessly, that fuelled the glare you threw his way when you craned up to see him.

When you saw something simmering in the eyes that haunted you in the deepest, darkest hours of the night, you thought — perhaps it was the realisation between the two of you, that the shift from fun to tangible had taken place long, long ago.

"Leave, Kirschtein." You whispered, but it came out hollow, broken.

He narrowed his eyes, leaning down so you shared breath. "Do you want me to?"

Every aspect of him invaded your senses, made it so frustratingly hard to think, to breathe. With him so close, barely millimetres from brushing your nose with his own as he levelled your faces, you could see the smatter of freckles on his high cheekbones. Could breathe in his scent of musk and sea breeze, quickening your breaths, your pulse. Your fingers clawed into the wood behind, restraining yourself from reaching out to him. Because you were afraid that if you did touch him, that you would never be able to stop.

He shifted to press his hand to the side of your head.

"Do you," Jean murmured, whispering so as only you could hear. "Want me to leave, [Name]?"

Instinct was roaring at you to press into him, crying for a release to an ache deep within your belly that curled low and heady.

Insane. He had already drove you insane.

"Damn you, Kirschtein." You hissed, before reaching up to fist your hands into his stupidly fixed hair and crashing your lips with his.

There was a moment of surprise on his part, as if he wasn't expecting you to be so bold. His lips remained frozen underneath your own, unyielding, a perfect statue of human discomposure. Jean, however, was a never a man who was slow to adapt to any situation, give it in the midst of battle or when the woman he has been pining after for years — who, he was convinced, hated his guts — had decided to smash their lips together.

And this sound escaped from the soldier. Akin to that of a wounded animal, a tortured soul, it rumbled down your throat and you swallowed it greedily. Jean's hand flew to cradle the side of your face, pushing back against your kiss, his fingers steepling into your hair and craning your neck back. Your shared kiss started off as something chaste and unsure — releasing each other before coming back for longer, scared to stop for too long lest they woke up and realised it was all a dream.

Jean grew impatient, he grew desperate for you. In one movement he had snaked his hand behind the small of your back and hoisted you against him — almost short-circuiting at the feel of your body pressed so close, like he had thought about so damn frequently. Every time you passed him, every time he watched the strong swish of your hips as you walked through the market on a sunny afternoon. He'd bite his lip, he'd put his fist in his mouth, anything to distract himself.

But this — right here, right now. This couldn't be real.

And yet, he wanted more. He needed more, he needed you.

A moan tore up your throat when he tilted your head just right to deepen the kiss, his large hand fitting to the back of your neck. You felt his tongue explore your mouth, eager and willing, so ravaged at tasting every part of you. It occured to you that you needed his tongue on other areas of your body. Between your breasts, your thighs, you needed to fist your hand in his hair and tell him where to go.

You let out a small shriek when he suddenly hooked two hands underneath your thighs and hoisted you up against the cabin wall.

The ship rocked as you clawed at one another, unravelling folds of clothing and facets of bravado until you were just two souls, two humans, who had survived it all and were allowed to live, without fearing that tomorrow could be the last. He had fisted the ribbons of your working dress in his hands and ripped them in one pull. You gasped when the air slid across your smooth skin, now exposed, hidden behind nothing but a camisole that peaked where your taut nipples were.

Suddenly, Jean paused. He stared at you as if he were seeing you again for the very first time.

"Fuck," He gasped, holding you tighter, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your sensitive thighs. "Fuck, sweetheart, I'm—do you—?"

You grabbed the knot of his tie and pulled him back into you, kissing him with a wild, chaotic passion that caused him to unfold underneath your fingertips.

It was in that chaos that he held you up fluidly to his body and walked you over so he could splay you against the work table — where the lilies and gladioli and bittersweets lay. He had shoved them somewhere off to the side, muttering something about stupid damn flowers and how they were always in his way.

And you had laughed. In that way which Jean secretly adored, as it upturned your eyes and made them crease at the sides. Like little curving moons in the night sky.

He shucked off his suit pants in a flurry of clumsy movements, palming at your breasts hungrily as he did so. You were driving him half mad with how good you looked, you smelled — fresh daisies and honey, intoxicating him, making his head spin. He splayed his entire hand onto your stomach and asked;

"You sure?"

Something broke inside of you at his vulnerable expression, always the gentleman. You sucked you lip between your teeth and nodded your head, adding, "I believe I will go insane if I cannot have you."

"Well, that makes fuckin' two of us."

The first stroke of him inside you was incomprehensible.

The second ignited your nerve endings and made you bow up and off of the desk, pulling you taut like a bow string and releasing you when he pulled back. There was something harmonious in the ryhtmn you two found, Jean keeping a hand on your stomach while he pushed into you hard and fast. At one moment, he lifted your leg underneath the knee and spread you wider, groaning ferociously as he buried to the hilt.

He kept going until he had fractured your universe. Until the little spots in your vision were like constellations. He was placing tender kisses along your body when you came back down to him, so raptured by pleasure it was hard to move. You could feel the pulse of him still inside you and he too, rode his release.

He swept your hair from your shining forehead and placed a long, lingering kiss.

"I said," You panted, leaning up to nip at his bottom lip. Oh, but you will have him again, and again, and again, until you made no use of your legs and the boat docked on Marley. Perhaps you would not even leave this room. Perhaps they would have no flowers for their ceremonies, after all. "That I dislike your hair even more that way, I'll have you know."

Jean's honey coloured eyes — dazed with pleasure — flickered to you when you said those words. Then, he chuckled, and you felt it vibrate against your chest and deep within your heart — where he had been, all this time.

He leaned down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck and said, "I love you too, idiot."

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein #jean kirschtein x reader #this was is so self indulgent ehe #also??? sat down to write like 900 words holy shit #this became a whole passion project #jean kirsten x reader #jean kirstein x reader #🪄— milky writes #divider by fireflygraphics!#‼️ — spoilers #💓 — thump

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