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aruanimess · 13 days

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I'd like to know what ur Mikahisu headcanons are

So, uhh, this started out as headcanons and ended up being a micro fic. Sorry about that...

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Their love story begins soon after the Rumbling.

After the final battle, Mikasa is broken. She has lost Eren, she has lost her purpose in life and she left all her friends behind to mark her own path forward. She’s a mess. She meanders from one place to the next, trying to find a way back to Paradis to return Eren’s remains to his final resting place.

Historia isn’t doing any better. She’s suffering from postpartum depression while dealing with the uprising of the Yeagerists and the unstable political situation Eren’s departure has caused. She has come to question almost every decision she’s made in her life, and most tragically she regrets the birth of her own daughter. After all, she chose to have her to avoid inheriting the Beast and that led to immeasurable devastation and destruction, so how could it have been a sound decision? What’s more, she’s half a child herself and she’s expected to raise another, while her role as a queen is more vital than ever. She’s worried that she’ll end up acting like her own mother, cold and distant and indifferent to her child, so she overcompensates by never letting her daughter out of sight and accepting no help, despite hating herself for bringing her into this world because of a failed and misguided political agenda.

So when Historia first hears about Mikasa arriving at the island, she sends word for her immediately. “Come to me,” she writes, “I’m desperate for a friendly face.”

But Mikasa doesn’t come.

How could she? She has no help to offer, no friendship to extend. She betrayed her oldest friend, and abandoned Armin and the rest in the middle of the desert. No, she’s not strong anymore, she wonders if she ever was…

She returns to her family’s cabin, which is miraculously unscathed by the Rumbling. She takes it as a sign that this is indeed the right place to be, where everything started. The blood has long dried off the floors and fungi has grown all over the walls and furniture.

Her new project begins.

She dusts the place, sands the wood and polishes it, replaces broken windows, shoos away the spiders and mice that have found shelter there, gets new furniture from nearby villages, and generally makes a home for herself. Meanwhile, she fishes in the stream for her own food, staring idly at the wind rustling the grass; she gathers firewood and forages in the forest, the scent of old tree and moist earth in her nostrils; she buys wool from a local shepherd and weaves herself a shaggy rug to dig her toes in on a cold winter.

Without her leave, she heals.

One crisp morning, on the verge of autumn, she’s peeling an apple in her garden. As she bites into the juicy flesh, she recalls the night after Historia’s coronation—rosy lips wet from cider, delirious laugh, kind blue eyes. Suddenly, she doesn’t remember why she kept her distance.

She picks up parchment and ink, and composes what she hopes is a heartfelt letter to Historia, explaining where she’s been this whole time and why she hasn’t replied for so long. At the end of the letter, right at the bottom, there’s a hesitant invitation for Historia and her daughter at her place. “But no guards, if you can help it,” she adds. “I have no taste for soldiers, and I can keep you safe enough.”

She seals the letter and sends it on its way, expecting nothing to come of it.

She’s wrong.

A fortnight later, Historia appears at her doorstep, cradling a pink, squealing bundle in her arms. “I came as fast as I could,” she says. “I made arrangements. No one knows I’m here.” There are dark circles under her eyes, but her face is flushed with joy. Something tells Mikasa that this is the first time Historia has smiled in a while.

She ushers the queen inside and settles her in the guest bedroom—Mikasa’s own childhood room. Historia sleeps soundly for the night, cuddling close to her baby, almost like she’s afraid she might lose her.

For breakfast, Mikasa serves mint tea and butter biscuits she baked herself. Historia eats it all as if it was the rarest delicacy.

After she’s done, she sighs. “I’m tired, Mikasa. Everything on this island is either ruined or run by Yeagerists. They’ve shut me out. I’ve lost public support. There’s nothing for me to do, but to quit.”

Mikasa is left speechless. Even at her darkest moments, Historia always had the willpower to go on. She never imagined she’d see her so defeated. Not knowing what else to say, she squeezes her hand. Her delicate knuckles are covered with calluses. “Take your time,” she says. And then to change the subject: “What’s her name?” She gestures to the little girl playing on the carpeted floor.

Historia smiles with some effort. “Maria,” she answers. “For the Survey Corps’ victory.” She pauses and takes a sharp breath. “For our victory.”

Mikasa smiles back. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

The months pass and with them winter. Historia learns how to make wine and bake apples. She spends her evenings lying on the sofa with her feet bare, resting beneath her, and her sewing project on her lap. She reads books and picks up folk songs and sings them to Maria as lullabies, even though Mikasa insists some of them are too dark for little ears.

For her part, Mikasa knits tiny hats for the baby and a red shawl for Historia. She gets acquainted with the local doctor, despite the lump that forms in her throat when she thinks about Dr Yeager, just in case Maria catches the flu. She carries the baby in a wrap fastened around her torso and she talks to her while she cleans the cabin. She learns that Historia loves roasted chestnuts and she makes them as often as possible just to see her smile.

(She promises herself to plant a chestnut tree come spring, and then pauses in shock as she realizes she’s making long term plans that might never come to be.)

Little Maria takes her first step in the cabin, her small chubby feet buried in the shaggy carpet Mikasa made. She learns to sleep through the night and eat solid foods. She says her first word, which is of course ‘mama.’ Only, confusingly, a few weeks later, her mutterings of ‘mama’ get interrupted by a jumbled ‘mi-a’ here and there.

It takes Historia a day to realize she’s trying to say ‘Mikasa.’ It takes Mikasa a little longer.

Mikasa and Historia share a bed. At first, Mikasa offers to sleep on the sofa, while Historia takes the bed, but after a few days Historia argues that there’s no point in her back developing knots, and that there’s enough space for both of them. It makes sense, in a completely practical way. It’s just for comfort and warmth. And if Mikasa wakes up sometimes with Historia’s arms wrapped around her frame and an insistent desire building in her core, that’s for her to deal with.

They share clothes as well, and on occasion they bathe with the door open, just in case someone needs the bathroom while it’s occupied.

Little by little, their feelings shift.

There are lingering glances and secret smiles and touches that last a moment too long. There are fluttering heartbeats and shy handholding and warmth rising up on cheeks as they speak with each other. Mikasa almost has a fit when Historia cuts her hand while cooking. Historia throws a blanket on Mikasa when she finds her passed out on the couch. They both fuss over each other almost as much as they fuss over Maria.

Their first kiss comes with the first stirrings of spring.

The snows have mellowed out around the cabin and the almond tree at the edge of the grove has sprouted its first blossoms. A robin is chirping away at the young rays of dawn. Historia is sitting on the porch, clutching a steaming mug of mint tea in a gloved hand, just like the one she drank on her first morning here. Unlike that first morning, however, her smile is effortless, wide, content. She breathes in the morning breeze and lets her lungs fill with the icy chill.

Mikasa emerges from the cabin. A warm gust of air escapes from the hearth burning away inside. She drapes the red shawl around Historia’s shoulders. It looks good on her. Soft. She tries not to think of her choice of color, of how she came to associate red with love and affection, and what that choice might mean for her. “It’s still cold out,” she chastices. “Don’t let the robins fool you.”

Historia hands her the mug. It’s a little crooked as she molded it herself from clay, but it does its job and it’s a testament of her ability to create something useful.

Mikasa takes a sip. She tastes mint, honey and Historia. She sighs.

“I know,” says Historia as she watches Mikasa intently. “I wanted to enjoy this for as long as I can.”

Mikasa looks around the semi-frozen grove. “Winter will come again,” she dismisses. “No need to freeze to death.”

Historia smiles sadly. “Yes, but I will not be here next winter.” She laughs at Mikasa’s uncomprehending stare. “Come spring, I’ll leave,” she explains. “It’s high time I assume again my duties to my people, now that I’m able to. There’s much work to be done. I left them helpless long enough as it is.”

There are no words in Mikasa’s mind, only bitter disappointment. “Oh.”

Historia grabs her hand. “Come with me.”

A blink. “Historia… I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I have no place there…”

“You can come live at the orphanage or at my place. Or I can give you an estate of your own if that’s what you prefer.”

“That’s not what I meant. I have no taste for politics. People will question me, if I show up. The way I left…”

“I’ll protect you!”

“Historia, please… I can’t.”

And Historia knows a rejection when she hears it. She lowers her eyes and wraps the shawl tighter around her body. “All right, if that’s what you want.”

Mikasa’s heart is breaking. She aches like she’s losing a limb seeing Historia so unhappy—Historia, who is about to leave her and take sweet Maria with her. Yet, she can’t return to that place, full to the brim with schemes and machinations and memories of her past.

But Historia’s eyes are so sad, so dull and disappointed. It feels like history is repeating itself; like she’s back on that dark hill, glimmering lights flickering from the tents below, the wind in her hair, and her love is leaving.

She opens her mouth. “Historia…” the words die on her lips. Historia looks at her, expectant. “Historia, you…” she stops again, and swallows around her nerves. “Historia... you’re family,” she finishes lamely.

Before she has any time to curse herself for her foolishness, Historia is upon her. She grabs her by the lapels of her robe, brings her close and smashes their lips together, painfully, violently.

When they break apart, Historia is beaming. “I’ll come to you then,” she says. “Like I did before. You’ll see! I’ll take Maria and sneak out of the palace and visit you as often as I’m allowed.” Her chest is heaving as she speaks. “And when I deal with those morons who think they can run my country, I’ll appoint a new government and retire here. With you. What do you think?”

Mikasa smiles. It’s a lovely thought. A peaceful life, here, in nature, with Maria and Historia by her side. It sounds like an impossible dream, but damn her if she doesn’t want to believe in it, body, mind and soul. “It sounds perfect,” she says.

Historia nods, eyes shining with tears and hope. She rises to her tiptoes and kisses Mikasa, deep and long.

Mikasa tastes mint, honey and Historia.

#asks #mikahisu #hisumika #historia x mikasa #mikasa x historia #mikasa ackerman #historia reiss #femslash #long post

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