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hearts4jean · 2 months

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strangers.

✩‧₊˚☾

masquerade chapter one.

jean kirstein x fem!reader, regency a.u.

chapter summary ; how it all began.

chapter warning ; familial issues/abandonment, running away.

a/n ; im trying out a different writing style to match the theme of this au!! :') I don't think it's going that well, so constructive criticisms are always welcome. also lmk if I should continue in this style or just go back to my normal one!! :)

taglist ; @mrsnobodynobody @jeanscremebrulee @holding-infinity-and-a-book @happxme

☾ series masterlist ☾ main masterlist ☾ enter my taglist ☾

✩‧₊˚☾

the ackermans, despite their precedence, were kind to you. as much as they could find it in themselves to be.

their name was attached to authority and harshness; something you hadn't been a stranger to since birth, despite not being one of them yourself - a reality nobody let you forget. but then again, you wouldn't want to forget.

the late january nights were cooling on your cheeks, even as you were stationary, sat on a bench that was illuminated solely by one lantern. it would've been dangerous if you weren't cloaked, hiding your figure from the eyes of the rare strangers that crossed your view from time to time, no doubt for a smoke break, trying to escape their realities.

you didn't blame them. you were doing the same thing as well, sketching out the picture in front of you - a sleeping ginger cat. peacefully, it's belly heaved upwards, then down as it dreamt. your pencil glided across the page, trying to capture its fur. you were, by no means, exceptional. not as great as the artists you would see when you'd sneak out to go to galleries with artists that were recognized, unlike your own pieces. marked off as "anonyomous", without a home but with a creator that painted like it did have one. a home, a place to go back to.

you rub the eraser dust away with your fingers, sinking into your seat, looking back up at your subject who was peacefully unaware of your observation.

"you're here again." a voice remarks.

you know this voice. you look to your right, where it's coming from. his own figure was hiding with a thick long coat, buttoned up till the top. a brown hat covered the top of his head, furling up and away from his forehead. the apples of his cheeks were tinted pink with the cold and his ash-brown hair peeked out from under his hat. his eyes were a halo of gold with the light of the lamp above you. you smile up at him.

"interesting subject tonight." you say, looking back at the cat. he turns to look at it too, humming. he takes a seat right beside you, keeping his own sketchbook in his lap, methodically, neatly. he looks into your sketchbook.

"you've made progress without me," he says. complains, really. it's endearing and you find yourself smiling.

"it's just practice, don't worry."

he scoffs. "I'm not worried." he says, lying straight through his teeth, flipping his sketchbook open to an untouched page.

his first mark is just like him - precise and calculated. you've noticed it, through the weeks you've known him, that his first line always remains. he may go back and erase other strokes, adjust some others, but the first one remained the same, unchanging. he hesitates before drawing it, however, twisting his pencil between the fingers of his left hand before his decision, like he's marking off a territory.

it's routine. you pretend to be asleep in clothes that you're still not quite used to, watch as Mikasa lights a candle, helping Eren up from her balcony windows, making sure that she is distracted with whispered, secret conversations with the man before sneaking out, heading to have your own whispered and secret life at night. most nights it's this - meeting this stranger with honeyed eyes and cleched jaw. he spoke only when prompted to, but it was worthwhile. if you were brave enough, you'd ask for his name. but you werent, and it seemed neither was he. he must be too recognizable in this place, too hard to ignore.

he's too hard to ignore right now as well, when you sit in silence and the only sounds you hear are the gentle scrapings of hard and soft led - the stranger liked more feathery charcoal - against rough parchment paper. your shoulders keep brushing with every stroke, as they did every time. it sends warmth through your body against the cold night, but you don't mention it in words. you're not sure you can, even if you were allowed to, you couldn't dare put it into words and let it be known and tangible.

the stranger sighs. "how did you do it?" he asks. his voice fogs up the air around his mouth.

you look at him. maybe the mystery around his being is why you feel the way you do around him. maybe if you know him, you'd feel less. but how much power can a name even posses? you know everything he'd allow you to, and for now it was enough. you knew that his favourite scent was that of the lavender oil that he'd dot on his collarbone on special occasions only because his best friend had told him to. you know that he did not care much for sweets, except those that his mother rarely made for him and his company, you knew that he had a scar on his ankle after having it be broken running away from a horse as a child, too scared to brave the act of riding one. everything he'd tell you, you'd hang on to like it was your purpose.

he's your friend. the first one you had made that you did not owe anything to.

"do what?" you ask him, tilting your head to one side. his eyes trail down to your unfinished sketch.

"make it feel alive." he asks, again, as his left hand sets his lead down on his lap in favour of feeling your page. you hum in thought as he touches your drawing's fur.

"do not think over it too much. layer, keep adding until it feels right." you say. you don't have much advice to give after doing art for so long. it feels like a muscle memory and not like the power that people would try to convince you it is. it doesn't feel like something you wield to create but something that you had known since you were born.

maybe you were born with it.

he shifts in his seat and his left hand rests on the back of the bench, behind your arms. not touching you, but enough for you to know that he is persistently there, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at his obvious attempt at being a flirt - another thing you had noticed. "it never works the way you make it work."

"blind flattery will not get you far," you tell him, looking at him in his eyes, and he stares back, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"i do not need to go far."

"clearly," you mutter.

he scoffs, falsely offended.

the night continues and so does the light banter and shared smiles.

he feels light. despite your surroundings being dark and clouded, despite there being several thousand things you should have been worrying about, he makes you feel like you are floating in the gently blowing wind.

you were a thing meant to be kept this gently. you were satisfied, greatly so, to be in his presence while doing the one thing you had truly enjoyed. a space that could not be destroyed, understanding without any transaction being made.

if only you could spend more time with him, like this, without his name, without your name, only the small differences that set you aside from everyone else. the two of you existed as mere symbols of each other, mere faces that knew and saw each other despite your last names, the people you were supposed to stand for.

you might've regretted spending all these late nights with the nameless stranger, considering the ungodly hour at which you had to wake up. just before the sun rises, you were required to do the same tasks that concerned your scarce colleagues. helping dry the clothes, helping make sure that everything was set for when Mikasa would eventually wake up to her own morning regrets, setting the soaps for her bath and ironing her dresses, laying out the jewellery she was to wear.

it suited her. you smoothed over her deep wine coloured dress, ridding it of any of its wrinkles, admiring how the colour would bring out her eyes that looked at you kindly under the guise of being indifferent. you'd been glad the day she found you - you were a teen, looking desperately for somewhere to belong to and you found her. crashed into her, really, because she was running away too. you still hadn't asked her what she'd been running away from, but one thing was for certain - taking a single look at her that day told you everything you needed to know - she was just like you. in the sense that she had the same, undeterred resolve of removing herself, finding escape in whatever obscurity she could find it in.

you had crashed into her, dropping the measly amount of bread in your hands on the ground on impact. it became dirtied with the heavy raindrops and mud almost immediately, and you would've berated her. you would've yelled and let out all your pent-up anger if it wasn't for the clothes she was wearing. they were wet but you could tell they were made from heavy material - a material that you had seen only important people wear. even if she tried covering the bottom half of her face with a washed-out red scarf, she looked like how she was supposed to look; the look you had decided to grow out of after running away. like a child.

scared and shivering, you led her to your meagre shelter with an arm around her shoulder, lighting up a small fire to keep her warm for the time being. you spent three days with her there. she left on the fourth day, and even though she hadn't told you about her decision to leave, you knew it would be inevitable.

what you didn't know was that she'd lead her cousin there, too. in your shelter - into the basement of an abandoned shop - the floors of which were scattered with paintbrushes and charcoals and empty tubes of paint. her family took you in and provided you of a newer, better shelter.

but you could not call it a home. it was not home. you never had one, you were sure of it.

the only drawback of this temporary... settlement, you should call it, was that you'd have to work for them. yes, the Ackermans weren't as harsh and cold as their reputation claimed, but that did not mean they were the kindest. surely a stranger could not be of the same rank as their own daughter, a fact you very well understood.

and Mikasa's spirit was as you had expected them to be after you had found her that day. she was stubborn over her softness, and made it abundantly clear that she did not wish for anyone else but you to be her handmaiden.

she is your best friend. but she is also your employer, a line you have to remember to tread lightly and carefully every day.

her drowsy voice calls you into her room from the bathing chambers.

wiping your hands on the skirt of your dress, you make your familiar way to her large room. you greet her squinting eyes with a smile, opening up the curtains to let the morning light in. the sun had made its way up into the sky as you finished your chores with its rays boring into the morning as it did every winter day. Mikasa didn't seem to appreciate it as much as you did, however, her hair unruly and unkept after tossing and turning all night.

"you'll feel less tired once you warm up a bit. i've already ran a bath for you," you tell her, and like clockwork, she lets her feet down on the ground from the bed, rubbing her wrist against her eye. she nods while doing it, letting you know that you are heard.

you strike a smile at her tired state, one that you relate to a little too well. you make your way towards her.

"here," you say, plucking up the hot cup of tea into your hands from her bedside. "this'll help you wake up. it's something new. Sir Arlert brought it for you. something about Doctor Yeager's remedy?" you say, knowing exactly what words to speak to bring her out of her dreamy state.

"Yeager?" she asks, her voice raspy. she takes the cup from your hand.

you know too well about her relations with the two boys. even if his post dubbed him to be "Sir", Armin Arlert was a man who could convince even the stoniest Ackerman to let Mikasa talk to him. even after the Yeager family was left desolate, the two boys never lost their nature, especially with Mikasa herself.

you hum at her question. "i think he called it...coffee? something along those lines. if it's bitter, I'll bring the sugar."

she takes a tentative sip and nods. "it's alright." she says. "thank you." there's a slight grimace on her face and you know what it says even if she doesn't say it; it's bitter, but it's tolerable.

Levi Ackerman wasn't as prude as people made him out to be. yes, he did have the look of a scoundrel who might've had daggers strapped into the inside of his coat, but you had wormed your way into his heart. you knew that for a fact because you had spilled milk on his cotton shirt and had, somehow, gotten away with it. all he did was mumble something under his breath, shaking his head before dabbing it away with a rag.

if it were anyone else, he would've led them to unemployment, but he didn't do so with you. he could have, it was within his right, but he didn't.

of course, you did make up for it. you went out into the darker parts of the town and purchased a small pouch of tea that helped with sleeplessness to help him ease his dark circles out. you knew of his issues with sleep, how he stayed awake into the wee hours of the night, roaming around like a ghost in his robes, reading a book that no-one knew the name of. you didn't know about what nightmares plagued him, but the tea you gave him seemed to help with that. instead of hearing his footsteps creaking on the wooden floors, you heard his sound snoring when you passed his room in the morning.

maybe it was because it was him that found you in that dingy basement along with Mikasa, helped coax you out of there, crouched infront of you and told you that you'd have a house to live in and a bed to sleep on if you follow him and Mikasa. maybe it was because he saw you grow up just like he saw his cousin grow up, from where you came to where you've reached. from wearing clothes that barely fit you, paint marks all over your face from pigment that wasn't safe for skin as sensitive as yours, to here. to clothes that you kept clean and ironed, pigments that you didnt let come near your face to prevent the rashes that you'd eventually get due to them.

you prepared his morning tea just the way he liked it, which was to say, only a dash of milk and no sugar. he wanted to taste as much tea as he could without diluting it, placing the cup on the tray along with all the other assortments.

you snuck a taste of the batter that the cook - Mr Berner - had prepared in advance as he frets over the cook of the eggs. Lord Ackerman, mikasa's stern father, deeply disliked uncooked yolks whereas Lady Ackerman disliked yolks that were solid throughout. thankfully, Kenny Ackerman bad gone hunting, and with any luck, would not be back until later in the evening. his hunting expeditions always extended to something else entirely, sometimes he'd return a little intoxicated. again, thankfully, he somehow managed not to raise any suspicions from anyone else.

"can you help with the juice if you can spare some time? Mrs Ackerman seems to be preferring it now-a-days." Mr Berner asks, turning his head to glance at you. you hum in agreement, helping the poor man by getting started on the orange juice. he has too much to do every day, with the kitchen being short staffed and new hires being dismissed due to silly mistakes that anyone in their shoes would make in their first week. Lord Ackerman had to be the cause of the hushed rumors that surrounded his family because of his last minute decisions made due to mild rage. if it weren't for his only child being on your side, you also would have met the same fate as the maid that left after not being able to remove the clothes from the rack fast enough before a thunderstorm.

in some ways, he reminded you of your own grandfather.

you finished up squeezing the juice our of the fruit as fast as you could before hurrying over to mikasa's bath, getting ready for her to get out.

luckily, she seemed more awake now as she accepted the towel being wrapped around her figure, heading to the closet.

"is there any more of that coffee?" she asks as you brush her hair.

"yes. it's kept aside just for you. was your talk with Mr. Yeager to your satisfaction last night?" you ask her, smiling at her through the mirror as she evades your eyes.

"it was. er- Mister Yeager is... nice." she says, small smile gracing her face that anyone else would've missed but you latch on to quickly.

"you might want to sleep earlier for a little while. so as to avoid suspicion," you say as she hums, playing with a string of her silky black hair. "i just miss him sometimes. after living next door to him for so long...." she reminisces.

"you got used to him?" you ask. in truth, you did not know much about the Yeager boy. all you knew was creditted to what you had gathered from over-hearing. something about his father running away, something about the legitimacy of his birth or lack thereof, something else about his brother forcing him and his mother to move to a more rural part of Paradis. what ever it may be, his life and his secrets and his stories, you hope he could find it in himself to be content. even if everything you heard was false, you knew all too well how a teen felt after being removed from their home with or against their will.

all you knew was that he made Mikasa happy. it didn't matter much to you about where he came from or how much wealth he possessed, all that mattered was that after the day was done, Mikasa could sleep with a smile on her face because of him.

Mikasa nods as an answer.

"his mother was kind to us. she'd make our favourite meals when we were tired after playing." she says, her smile more visible now. you smile back as you apply pigment to her cheeks, blending it out to be more natural, holding her cheeks in your hands after you were done. "beautiful."

she smiles and averts her eyes. "all thanks to you," she says, whispering.

you shake your head. "Lord Ackerman wants to see you." you tell her, remembering what he had asked. "seemed to be important." you say.

she sighs, getting up from her seat at the vanity. "sometimes I wish we could...live in a cottage." she says, smoothing out her dress with her hands, dusting off any stray hair or pigment. Lord Ackerman much preferred it when his family was well presented, even in the confines of their own home.

you smiled wider, indulging in her thoughts. this wasn't something new.

when you were only just getting accomadated to your living situation as a mere fifeteen year old, she'd find you, restless and preparing hot milk to rest better, trying to do the same for herself. you'd look at her with understanding, carrying two cups of milk and some cut up fruit up to her room, hiding under her covers, talking about an ideal life and why you'd like to lead it.

"I could steal some books for you from Smith's library," you tell her, and she breathes out a laugh. "and I'd steal you some good paints from Armin's parents." she says. a compelling case.

"and we'd have a cat. with a ginger coat."

"you know we can't possibly handle it,"

"two cats."

she laughs, a proper giggle this time, her hand coming up to cover her mouth with a fist. "alright. two cats."

"we'd grow catnip in our backyard."

"...I do not think that would work. as long as I get to read, I'll be alright."

Mikasa asked you to stay near the doorway of her father's study. you obliged, knowing that these 'talks' Lord Ackerman requested were more of a lecturing than anything. he prides himself in not being aggressive, but the passiveness of his voice and the looks he shoots his family over dinner for stepping out of an invisible, imaginary line prove otherwise. regardless, he doesn't raise his voice in spite of his anger or lack of it, and his presence in the house made you stand with your back pin-straight and chin bowed down. not because of the respect he so clearly demanded, but because of fear.

even now, standing right outside of his dark wooden door, his voice was nothing but a low hum, interrupted by mikasa's higher pitched voice. you could not eavesdrop even if you wanted to with the thick doors and his voice barely penetrating through them. sometimes you think that this house was built keeping in mind of this fact only - that the Ackerman family needed to keep any and all of their secrets locked up behind doors.

you played with the hem of the waistband on your skirt, digging it under your thumbnail and removing it before doing it again - a trait you had habituated since childhood. you used to do it with a silver necklace chained across the base of your neck, but now that necklace sat in a closed closet along with your other, more valuable belongings.

Mikasa steps out, opening the doors with ease, sighing after they're finally closed. you don't crowd her immediately; you know better than that. you know she needs space, so you keep your distance at a safe arm's length. but today was not like the other days this occured. no, because today, you felt it. the tension in the air, more so than usual, the back of your neck covered in light swear not due to working in the kitchen but due to being here, in this wide, cold corridor that held no windows, the air stiff.

and because, instead of asking for space, Mikasa opens her mouth to speak, as if it's a death sentence. you're sure it is.

"he has decided to marry me off."

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hearts4jean · 2 months

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You know that one trend…

That one trend on tiktok rn... Haha… yeah

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hearts4jean · 2 months

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flower crowns

You twist the stems together, mixing greens and whites with pinks and blues. You figured you had some time before he would wake up. His head laid on your thighs and his arms were wrapped around your middle, burying his nose in your tummy. You had spent the first few minutes playing with his hair, lulling him to sleep while you were reading your book and sipping a glass of sparkling cider. Then, his little snores and even breaths had caught your attention and you had smiled down at his peaceful, sleeping form.

Cute.

The leftovers of tasty foods and a pack of Uno cards were laying out on the thick blanket, long forgotten, and you just finished reading the last word in your book. He was still sleeping, and you refused to bother him while he rested. You mindlessly fiddled with a daisy that had been tickling your calf for the past hour. That’s when you let your creativity overtake you. Gathering the nearest flowers while staying as still as possible, you tried to match the prettiest colours and scents together. You knew he liked daisies, which was why he had chosen this place for your little picnic date. Right here is perfect, with all the daisies, he had said, dropping the little basket of food in the field of white flowers and smoothing the blanket carefully on the ground. You selected a few blue and pink flowers to add to the little daisies and started to craft a flower crown to the best of your abilities. The activity was pleasant and you felt all worries leaving your mind, lost in your task.

Suddenly feeling something soft tickling his cheek and pulling him out of his pleasant dream, his eyes fluttered opened. It took a few blinks before his vision cleared and he noticed you, beautiful, playing with flowers and twisting them together to make a pretty creation, the leaves brushing his skin. He felt a burst of affection ripping through his chest as he stared up at you, so focused on your task that it took you a few seconds before noticing him peering up at you.

"Oh, I didn’t notice you were awake. Sorry love," you smiled sheepishly, your fingers momentarily leaving the stems and going through his hair — him leaning instinctively towards your gentle touch and feeling your nails scratch his scalp in all the right places.

"What are you making?" he asked curiously after a few seconds of enjoying your soft caresses. You beamed.

"A flower crown! Here," you carefully placed it on his head, and it slightly tilted due to the awkward angle of his head on your lap. Nevertheless, he looked breathtaking with the little flowers in his hair, making his features even more handsome and his little smile all the more endearing. The crown in itself was a bit droopy, and some flowers had already fallen on his face, which made him scrunch his nose. You giggled and brushed the petals from his face. He smiled.

"I love it," he sighed, almost dreamily, blissful. "Thank you, love."

Looking down at his sleepy features and cute flowers, you couldn’t help but smile proudly. "I’m glad you like it. You know, I put all my love and talent into that crown," you said playfully, fixing up his hair and misplaced leaves.

His smile got larger, eyes gentler, features softer. He wasn’t sure if he would ever tell you this, but he always felt like the most peaceful and cared for when he was with you. The way you cradled his face, kissed his lips, played with his hair and crafted little things for him — there was no doubt in his mind, he would let you put a thousand flower crowns on his head if it made you happy.

armin arlert, jean kirstein, kamado tanjiro, rengoku kyojuro, kirishima eijiro, todoroki shoto, shinso hitoshi, shoji mezo, nanami kento, fushiguro megumi, okkotsu yuta, akaashi keiji.

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hearts4jean · 2 months

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@alailakim wtf? 😭

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hearts4jean · 2 months

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wdym i am diagnosed with jean syndrome??

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hearts4jean · 2 months

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Shingeki no Kyojin: The Final Season Settei

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hearts4jean · 2 months

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😕 #I miss them #jeanmarco

Thanks to somebody for showing me this, I cannot stop crying about it. 😭😭💔

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hearts4jean · 2 months

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‧₊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

what aot characters during rainy days

- erwin + levi -

The moment it begins to rain and especially if it feels that the rain is not going to let up for a while, Erwin instantly heads to his room to nap. He even just grabs his blanket and lays on the couch if its quiet enough. (This man can probably sleep through anything). Levi follows, not to nap also but to simply just watch over Erwin. Levi has this eerie feeling come upon him when it rains that something bad would happen especially if its heavy rain. It’s just a motherly instinct of his that makes him feel the need to make sure everyone around him is kept safe. Generally speaking, Levi is a big night owl so he’d catch himself doing that for Erwin even on normal nights; Erwin is not aware he does this but isn’t able to sleep without Levi being there for some odd reason.

- jean + sasha + connie + eren -

Jean, Sasha and Connie would have a ‘tradition’ where they play Monopoly only on rainy days and no other time. It starts raining, ‘Connie get the Monoply out!’, rain stops, alright funs over pack it up guys. Occasionally, EMA would also join them which would cut the game short due to Jean and Eren’s drastically similar taste in game pieces; They would fight over the same one for around 10 minutes without either letting up. Jean would think of being the bigger person but still won’t because “he will never hear the end of it” and “he can’t make Eren feel superior.”

- connie + armin + jean -

Playing snap with Connie is a dangerous game, he’d leave his opponents hand red and sore. Even if you were the one to slam your hand onto the stack of cards, nothing is stopping him to continually slap his hand on top. Armin is a prime victim to this, Jean a former victim but he was smart enough to stop playing card games with Connie. Connie would be watching those cards like a HAWK, treats the simple card game like the hunger games. He does not care if you won the round, he would be slapping your hand until you give up and move it away and let him get the win. (Exactly why Jean stopped playing with him.)

- sasha + hitch + pieck + eren + mikasa + reiner + jean -

Sasha would also adore playing Twister as her secret talent is her flexibility. she’d enjoy playing with Hitch, Pieck and Eren who is forced to join in by Reiner, getting to sit back with Jean as they snicker at the sight. Hitch would have the flexibility of the average person, Pieck however is a strong contender, being on similar levels with Sasha in flexibility. As its only them two left in the game, all attention is turned to the intense twister game happening, Eren in the corner writhing in pain like an old man holding onto his back with Mikasa tending for him. Hange had to stop Connie from announcing to everyone to put their money in to betting on who would win between Sasha and Pieck. There ends up being no winner at all due to how long the game has went that even the rain has stopped, both parties were determined to win which caused them to continue to keep up their best games.

- annie -

Annie absolutely loves the rain and she loves her music, the ultimate combination when they’re put together. It’s the perfect opportunity to play her music out loud instead of in her earphones since no one would be able to hear it from the rain. Why no one has any idea of what she listens to and hates music genres she enjoys. When listening to music while it’s raining, she enjoys being away from everyone and just watching the rain from her window. This allows her to calm down and reflect about anything on her mind. The gentle music in the background helps. Her block out whatever is happening outside of her enclosed space.

- bertoldt + historia -

Random duo I know. But I feel that they’d absolutely love baking together. Bert definitely knows how to make some killer sugar cookies. they would be in the same college culinary class and work really well together. Bert would be in charge of the batter and Hisu would be in charge of making icing to decorate which the they would invite everyone to decorate their own little cookie.

what everyone decorates on their cookie

eren: jean but like really ugly and snickers while doing it a everyone tries to guess what the hell he’s doing.

“Why is it’s teeth sticking out?”

“Monobrow..?”

he would be asking for a death wish if he did a horse.

mikasa: little chibis of her and eren wrapped in her scarf decorated with little purple flowers

armin: inspired by his futon in aot jr high

jean: was going to put his artistic integrity to good use but then he saw erens cookie, after snapping erens in half he took his revenge and also did a little ugly eren (also added stink marks above his head)

connie: a really horrible drake side profile thing.

sasha: herself with connie and jean which then smudged and she got super upset over it.

annie: a little sleeping cat :)

hange: her glasses with a light purple background and her name

bert: tried to do something inspired with the weather outside and it doesn’t look that bad

ymir and reiner: historia. they try to get her to vote who did the best one

historia: cute little design with pastel colours and flowers

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hearts4jean · 4 months

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"Jean would listen to Mitski-" wrong. Jean would listen to Wham! 24/7 and get mad when someone doesn't know them

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hearts4jean · 4 months

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‎♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

- jean - art exhibition - modern au -

synopsis: jean makes an art exhibition based off of you; his muse ♡

Think of the relationship between an artist and muse. It is common to assume that the muse’ purpose was to serve the artist as they play a pivotal role in said artists work. This is far from the truth as muses often have great power over their artists they have inspired. The significance a muse stands as for the artists includes bringing emotional support and never-done-before creativity to achieve the artists objectives.

Jean, a struggling artist struck with everything but a hint of inspiration has been stumped with being unable to come up with any art pieces for an exhibition he was commissioned to create and curate; until he met you that is. He got the type of spark that every artist does when they find a specific specimen they desire to be included in their work and further explore and understand it. This first sighting is what made him to be infatuated with you.

While dating, he doesn’t ask if he could draw or paint you, much rather he does it in secret as his art isn’t something he enjoys to blatantly show off. Not only this, Jean is caught up in the fear that he’ll “mess you up” and does not want to deal with the embarrassment of showing it to you; he is fine with the pent-up frustration instead.

On multiple occasions, this has caused him to feel discouraged in his work as he does not to desire to make anything else in his artwork but you. How was he supposed to be the Alfred Stieglitz to your Georgia O’Keefe if he couldn’t even properly capture his accurate perception of you in his work? At least Stieglitz was a photographer, he would’ve had no issues with that. Jean would mainly work in oil and acrylic, ceramics if he feels like it. Any medium except pastels, over his dead body he’d opt for pastels; he says to himself. He takes a wide interest in love stories between artists and their muses as he likes to think that is what has happened with you and him.

This was the case until you found him in the indoor garage in his home he calls his ‘studio’ (which you were not aware of until this very moment), hands and knees on the cold concrete facing a ridiculously large canvas of an incomplete piece. You watch the man express his pent up frustration in spilling a string of cuss words in French, surrounding him a wooden paint palette with a pool of various hues, squeezed and almost finished paint tubes. You examined the space more and pinpointed the scattered photos of you and him together from past dates, you were able to make connections to those photos to the elephant of a canvas. It was you. To Jean, it was not. Not an accurate presentation at least that is up to the young artists standards.

After this coming across this sight, you then find yourself on that same cold concrete in front of Jean with his head buried in your shoulder as you cradle him. He was non-verbal for the time-being. He was embarrassed that you had to see him in such a state but also relieved that you were there with him.

“Please don’t look at the canvas” he utters.

“I won’t, but why?”

“Just don’t.”

“I never knew you were an artist.”

He scoffs. “Some artist I am. I can’t even paint you right.”

You continue paying all your attention to your lover rather than the dreaded canvas he won’t allow either of you to glance at.

“Say, how about you explain the hidden art talent to me later. Right now, do you mind explaining what this canvas is and why you refuse for me to look at it?”

Jean slowly lifts his head from your shoulder and looks at you normally. Even while you both are leaning he is taller than you, only now his posture is slouched more than usual.

“I was commissioned by an art gallery to make a collection they would like to display at their venue in the next year, and the only description they added in with it is if was able to make it personally significant to myself on an emotional level. I asked if that meant that I could do it about someone that was personally significant to me rather than merely basing it purely on myself. They said it’s fine as long as it fits the stated criteria. I wanted to create the pieces based on our relationship. Well, based on my love for you basically” He felt his face getting hot.

“Jean-“

“Will you allow me to make you my muse?” He says with a stern look in his eyes.

“Well, of course. I mean, I’d love to if it’s so important to you.”

You watch his eyes light up. “Really? Oh my god thank you, love”

“No problem, but why am I finding about this whole artist thing just now? You seem very passionate about it all” You state with a short glance at his previous works hung up on the wall like trophies.

“Yeah, no one really knows except my mother and with exhibitions and stuff I go by a code name. Connie and Reiner knew I liked art in high school but those assholes made fun of me for it. I guess that stuck with me and just made me not wanna be able to freely speak up about it. I was planning to tell you eventually but I just..” He sighs.

“Just what?”

“I just wish you didn’t find out this way, especially with a piece I’m not proud of. I mean, look at it. It’s not doing you justice at all.”

You laugh. “You grant me permission to be able to look at it again?”

He laughs back. “Yes, I grant you permission to look at my shitty work”

You both look at the unfinished work for a second. It is a hyperrealistic acrylic painting if you want to get specific on its qualities.

“It looks fine to me-“

“Yeah no, it’s pure shit”

“Jean!”

“That wasn’t towards you, rather it was towards my poor skills of not being able to capture your righteous appearance in my work.”

“Either way I’m not letting you insult yourself like that”

“…”

It goes silent between the two of you for around 20 seconds until he lets out a sigh and returns to his original place of his face being buried in your shoulder again. You don’t mind it at all. It’s a type of habit he has when he’s upset or just simply fatigued.

You speak up. “You know, this could still be presented in the exhibition but maybe in a different manner?”

He looks up again. “How so?”

“You could have this as some type of statement piece, like displaying this whole scene from the dirty white sheet to the worn out brushes scattered in front of the canvas. It could like display your pent up frustration on attempting to perfect this exhibition. It can be called “The Failed Muse” or something along those lines. You can have a little plaque beside it explaining it all.”

He looks at you with a deadpanned expression. “Are you saying I’ve also failed with painting you with that name?”

“OH! No! I’m sorry I didn’t mean for it to sou-“

You’re cut off by his laughter. Oh how you adore it.

“Kidding, kidding. I know what you meant. I’ll keep that in mind actually.

For the rest of that time on that cold concrete floor, the both of you discuss the other works that should go into this exhibition.

You were both able to come up with a few together.

The first artwork he plans to create is another portrait of you that will hopefully succeed in accuracy to your appearance unlike the last one. Assuming it will, it would’ve been because you were there in his presence, and you being there gives him some sort of reassurance that it will turn out fine. Alongside the words and actions of affirmation (little kisses and telling him that he’s doing great) that he will receive from you during the making of it. The way that he intends for this work to be sighted is that it is the first thing he wants the viewer to look at. Jean wants it to have that same captivating aura as the Mona Lisa; you just seem so attached to it and you don’t know why. Similarily to the Mona Lisa, it will be displayed on its own seperate wall that is a diluted version of your favourite colour to make the connection between you and the painting stronger.

The exhibition would also include specific monuments of your time together.

For instance, he would do is something related to your favourite flowers. Since flowers are not man-made, it’s hard to display them in an exhibition setting due to the bugs living inside them and they are considered a threat to the other works displayed. He would instead make wire-works of your favourite flowers as an alternative. Flowers are especially symbolic to your relationship with Jean as he gives you a bouquet every chance he gets. I think we have already settled that he is a huge giver.

Something you personally share together is your music taste. It is one of the things that first drew you closer to one another. In the exhibition, he would have a table set up with a record player and vinyls of albums you enjoy listening to together. The collection would be a mix of his own and a few borrowed from his parents. For instance, The Smiths; give or take.

One of your most treasured moments with him is when he tried to teach you French back when you were still in high school. A table and 2 chairs would be perched up. On the table there is a range of French dictionaries and literature. He will attempt to make it as accurate as possible to your memories of his moment, even down to the very positioning of the books and how they were stacked up on one another.

Another idea you were able to to come up with each other is a sculpture of two figures hugging each other; reenacting your “First Embrace” with one another in which is what the work will be called.

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