#jeankasa but make it jazz

[bluebird722]

After a Long Day

Summary: After a long day of working, a little private and family time are all Jean needs.

Rating: T for nudity

Pairing: Jeankasa

Author's Note: So...I noted in "Beyond the Tree on That Hill" that I was not entirely pro-Jeankasa but liked to read fanfiction and look at fanart. Well...now it's become my OTP, especially factoring in his character development throughout the series! I definitely have more drabbles coming, but this one took only an hour to write.

At last, the day was over. No more paperwork, or catching up on current events. No more writing letters to schedule appointments with overseas officials, or reading up on politics. No more reflecting on past pilgrimages, or reading up on notes from his fellow ambassadors from their previous posts, for future meetings. It was time to call it a day. 

After a nice, hot dinner with his family, Jean eagerly hurried to the bathroom blessed with indoor plumbing, turned on the phonograph, took off his clothes, and dipped himself into a hot bath. Leaning his head back over the edge of the tub, draping his arms over the smooth sides, and parting his legs helped him release the stress from his body. For some reason, he felt like he could breathe easier as though the hot water was like a sponge absorbing all the tension. He kept his eyes closed for two minutes, slid his head into the water, and pushed himself up to wipe his face. 

He swung his legs side to side, alternating between hitting his knees or moving them together. Making himself relax was itself stressful, but the music really helped. He didn’t know the music or composer, just that the genre was called jazz, but he didn’t really care to know the details. It was just something he knew about because Nicolo had the music player at his restaurant and played jazz for private dinner parties. Jean ignored the chill over his wet skin and watched his bent legs move along to the music. 

Knock, knock.

“Jean?”

Only two people would be forgiven for interrupting his private time. He smiled without looking up. “Yes?”

“May I come in?”

Jean pulled apart his legs again and struggled to not smile. “Yes, you may.”

Mikasa–his darling Mikasa, his beautiful wife of three years–walked into the bathroom and hurried to the sink. “How are you feeling? Better?”

“Much,” he sighed. He hung his head back again. “Care to join me?”

Mikasa huffed, though he barely heard it over the running sinkwater. “Maybe later.” After she dried her hands, she walked to the back of the tub and, to Jean’s surprise but overall delight, knelt behind him and wrapped her arms around him from behind. Jean moved his head to touch her shoulder and breathed in her sweet scent. “Better?”

“Much more,” Jean sighed. Her touch was like magic in healing him. She didn’t care that his wet hair was making her clothing wet. One hand drifted over his bare chest and stroked both sides of his collarbone. “I could stay like this forever.”

Mikasa kissed his cheek. “So could I.” She grabbed the shampoo bar and ran the square over his head. Jean tilted his head so she could lather the shampoo throughout every inch of his hair, including his nape and behind his ears. Jean remembered when they were first married, how they used to take baths together and wash each other’s hair out of the love they had for each other. 

Now, he had an even greater reason to love her.

Mikasa took her time with his crown and temples, her fingers massaging his scalp and quick to prevent anything going into his ear. Jean stared at the phonograph playing music and closed his eyes with a smile. He needed to close every day, good and bad, like this. His wife moved her hand, tickled his throat, and snaked down his chest, ribcage, and abdomen to finger the small hairs under his abdomen. 

Jean chuckled and slightly shivered at her gentle, ticklish touch. “That felt nice,” he said seductively. He received a kiss on the cheek and more tender strokes over the hairs around his more intimate region. Reluctantly, he pinched his nose and slid his head underwater one more time, where she helped him rinse the suds from his locks. 

When Jean sat back up, Mikasa patted his hair dry and folded her hands over his heart. “Are you truly happy with your life, Jean?” she asked. “I know today was a stressful day for you.”

“I am,” he said, “but yes, I was ready to be done.” Jean lowered himself into the bath water and stared ahead. “It’s not that all this research is burning me out, but…” He closed his eyes. “I had no idea it would be so hard thinking of compromises when you’re meeting with two countries at war with each other. It seems like every time you come up with a good idea, it could jeopardize even part of the other country’s economy somehow, or it violates their law in another way.” 

Mikasa pouted, something she rarely did unless she, too, could understand the challenge of avoiding catch-22s in peace negotiations. “I don’t know how to help, though,” she said.

“You are now,” he whispered, “by being here…but it would be nicer…if you took off your clothes and came in and let me love you up–”

She interrupted him with a kiss beside his eye but was giggling. She smoothed her hands down his arms to lace her fingers between his. He folded his arms so both pairs of hands were crossed over his chest and turned his head. She kissed him, first gently and then with more intensity. 

Jean kissed back just as hard. He could never tire of kissing her. He kissed her even when she was sick. Every kiss was a promise that more would follow, in good and bad times. He freed his right hand from hers so he could cup her face and deepen the kiss. With her left, she pulled his face to hers, sucking on his lips like they were a juicy fruit. Jean wondered if she suspected how hard he was becoming and that a familiar tugging was growing between his legs. 

A loud wail broke apart the couple and shifted them into parent mode. “She’s hungry,” said Mikasa. “I can tell.”

Jean chuckled. “Nine months in you, and you can tell when she’s too warm, too cold, or too tired. Heck, I still can’t believe you can be in a different room from her and know when she needs changing.”

Mikasa, chuckling, reluctantly stood up and left the bathroom. Jean had one minute to himself and the music, and then she returned with her blouse untucked and her baby girl at her breast. No matter what mood he was in, Jean never felt anything other than pure delight to see the one person he loved more than anything else in the world. 

Mikasa hummed to baby Sasha for five minutes until she stopped eating, and propped her onto her shoulder to pat her back. Jean smiled watching Sasha turn her head and flex her fingers until she let out a soft belch. “Want to say hi to Papa?” Mikasa whispered. Immediately, Sasha lifted her head, and when she saw Papa, she held out her arms to the man in the bathtub. 

Jean happily took her after Mikasa stripped off the baby’s clothes and diaper, and held her up so that her feet touched his chest. “Yes, baby,” he cooed, “even Papa needs bathtime, but not as often as you, because you soil and spit over your clothes every day.”

Sasha, who was already showing signs of her first teeth coming in, still stuck out her tongue between her gums in a smile, like she knew what he was saying. Jean lowered Sasha into the water up to her navel, and then back on her feet onto his chest. He kissed her cheeks and whispered how much he loved her that he didn’t even pay attention to his wife until he heard a splash. She had already disrobed and seated across from him in the tub, her bent legs together. Jean’s smile widen. “At last, you decided to come in.”

Mikasa rolled her eyes, blushing. “She did spit milk over my blouse, so I might as well.” She hugged her legs and watched Jean plant kisses to Sasha’s tiny stomach, the inside of her forearm, and the back of her hand. Watching a father give love to his child warmed Mikasa every time, but seeing the way Jean fussed over and dote on their little girl, their Sasha, made her want to cry in delight.

Normally, Sasha hated bathtime, but she happily splashed her hands into the surface and kicked water to her father’s shoulders. Jean noisily kissed her cheeks to increase her laughter and pulled her up and down into the bath. “We haven’t even had a whole year with you, Sasha,” he said, “but I think I know now the best way to make sure you don’t whine when it’s bathtime. Of course, your mama and I will find out how to make it easier when you’re a little older and more bratty, but we will still love you with all our hearts, and more than anything else in the world.”

Sasha giggled, but then her smile fell. Her eyes crinkled like she was ready to cry.

“She’s hungry again,” Mikasa easily detected. She reached for their baby and sat up to easily guide Sasha’s mouth without dipping her ear under the water. Every time Jean watched his wife nurse their daughter, he noticed that she herself made a face like she was on the verge of tears, like it was the most beautiful way to bond a mother and baby.

“Stay right there,” said Jean. “I’ll be right back.”

Mikasa watched him stand up from the tub (and always admired how fit and toned his naked body was), dry himself, wrap the towel around his waist, and leave the bathroom. He came back with his sketchbook and charcoal. 

“Aren’t you–”

“It shouldn’t get wet,” he reassured her. “I’ll put it away when she starts kicking.” Jean quickly opened to a blank page and stole every detail he could, from the reflection of his wife’s knees in the water, to the curl of Sasha’s fingers, how Sasha’s cowlicks hid her face except the roundness of her cheek, and the adoration on Mikasa’s face when she studied her daughter.

Sasha finished before Jean was completely done, but he finished what he knew from memory as Mikasa patted her back. This time, after Sasha belched (and drooled out a little milk), she nuzzled her face into her mother’s neck and closed her eyes. Jean had enough space on his page to bring to life what he saw but did not want to commemorate with a camera. 

Mikasa waited for Jean to finish to reluctantly stand up, dry herself one handedly with a towel, let her husband tuck it around her hips, and carry the baby back to her nursery. Jean used this opportunity to drain the lukewarm water and pour in clean water, with a scrubbing of soap for bubbles. When Mikasa came back, she discarded the towel and sat across from him again. 

It seemed so long ago, Jean reflected, when he was first attracted to her with all of that long, beautiful black hair and was devastated when she agreed to cut it off. Now, her hair was longer, and he was even more in love with her now. She never tired of hearing him say, “Having Sasha made me fall even more in love with you. I didn’t know how much I could love you more than romantically until I watched you go through labor and give birth.” Of course, Jean had no idea how much he could love or give love until the very moment that Sasha was born. He could only attribute that to the warrior woman across from him, tired from breastfeeding but happy to resume time alone with her husband. 

Jean kissed her knee and stroked the cap under it. “I’m always telling you how much I love you, how you and Sasha are the most important things in the world and in my life.” 

“Yes.” When she reached forward to stroke his wet hair farther from his forehead, he kissed her skin.

“Well, you have no idea how important you two are to me, how you both make me feel after long, stressful days like today.” He kissed her knee again and decided to peck down her shin later that night in the comfort and protection of their bedsheets. “At the end of the day, I remember why I’m doing this and not letting your embroidery become our sole source of income–so that you and I can watch Sasha grow up healthy and happy, no threat to her life or future, and maybe give her little brothers and sisters, in a peaceful island.”

Jean leaned over Mikasa’s knees, put his hands on either side of her, and kissed her. “Then you and I can continue to live in peace, and we can grow old and pass the same, after a long, good life after everything.”

He noticed that her small smile grew wider. “That’s a future that I want to work for as well,” she agreed. “I would be happy to spend the rest of my life and my bed with you.” She put her hands on either side of his face to kiss him deeper; he gently put his hands on her arms. Jean didn’t know if they were going to make love later, either right there in the tub or within their sheets, but he did not want the night to end.

#jean kirschtein #jean kirstein #mikasa ackerman #jeankasa #mikasa x jean #jeanmika #mikajean #fanfiction #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin

[pickalilywrites]

Ereannie - La La Land or Jeankasa - Kubo and the Two Strings for the movie/pairing ask. Take your pick!

Don’t call me out for never watching La La Land I just really liked the trailer and music ;~; (Kubo is also an excellent movie though! Laika studios is incredibly underrated and deserves more recognition!) 

I know the difference between a song and a piece please don’t murder me for using it somewhat interchangeably. 

Who knows? Is this the start of something wonderful and new?Or one more dream that I cannot make true?

“Do you like music?” he asks her once. He taps away on the piano keys, a repetitive but hypnotic melody that keeps her rooted to where she’s standing. She’s never been very entranced by musicians, particularly struggling artists. They reminded her too much of herself and she’s surprised she’s stuck around him so long. She blames the cursed melody he keeps playing, this song he continues to play over and over. It’s the same song, he insists, he’s just adding things here and there so that it feels complete. It always sounds brand new when she listens to it though, and she always feels compelled to stay and listen to the whole thing in its entirety if he ever does finish it. Is he purposely taking so long composing it so she’ll stay? No, he’s not that smart.

She considers his question and doesn’t have an answer. She’s never paid attention to music very much. It’s the sound that plays in the background of movies she’ll never be in. It’s more pleasant that chatter in a crowded diner, but it was completely removed she doesn’t think she’d even notice. “Do you like music?” she asks him. How stupid, asking a musician if he loves music, but the question has already fallen from her lips.

He doesn’t laugh at her or smirk. He simply smiles and says, “Music is the language of love.” He either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice when she scoffs. It’s probably the latter because he’s turned to her now, the piano composition completely forgotten, and he’s gesturing with his hands the way he does when he gets excited. “I’m serious! The movies and the romantics say that French or Italian are, but they’re all lying. Because music, Annie, is universal. It’s eternal.”

“Eternal?” she snorts. But maybe he would know about love and music and eternity since he seems to be the expert on romance and love languages, declaring the other romantics to be fakes and amateurs. “You think your song is going to live forever?”

“I’m not that pompous,” he grins. He turns back to his piano and begins to play again, that slow, mesmerizing piece. It seems to loop over and over in a circle, but each rendition is something she’s never heard before. “No, it’s a smaller kind of forever. It’s like a picture that captures a moment and you return to it whenever you hear those familiar chords.”

And it’s the first time she’s ever really stopped and listened to music. The way he describes it, she thinks that just focusing on a few notes will soon transport her to a memory from her distant past. All she hears is the same melody and nothing really comes to mind. The first time she ever heard it comes to mind and she remembers waking up in his messy apartment and silently cursing herself for not getting up early enough to leave it as a one-night stand. He surprisingly made her breakfast, eggs and toast that were cold and sitting on the counter because he had forgotten to wake her up right after and instead ran to the piano to compose a song that had come to mind.

“Anything?” he asks after a few measures.

“Nothing,” she says as the memory fades.

He’s not discouraged though. “You’ll get it someday,” he says.

She’s not so sure.

Is it their talk that has her listening to all the sounds around her? It used to be just the music in clubs she watches Eren perform in. She used to shrug and tell him it was alright whenever he asked if she liked the show but now she can pinpoint what sections appeal to her most, what instrument she likes best with the piano he plays, or the swells and decrescendos in a piece and how that heightens each piece. And she starts to hear rhythm in the way people walk. Worst of all, she can hear it in the way he talks.

“Annie,” he says, and he must be teasing her because no person should be able to make her name sound like a song. Or maybe he’s always talked like that and she’s never noticed it.

“You were great,” she lies.

“Yeah? What was your favorite part?”

The part where you said my name, she wants to reply, but she lies and tells him she likes the trills after the last run.

The piano reminds her of happier moments, him playing the piano for her and asking her what she thinks even though she hardly knows anything about the technical terms and only knows what sounds good to her. He laughs less often now but when he does it transports her back to a simpler time, back when complaining about her auditions and the rude casting directors would make him smile. And she likes the sound of the door opening and closing at the end of the day because it’s the sound of him coming home even if they don’t enjoy each other’s company the way that they used to.

And she thinks she’s starting to understand what he said about those little eternities that he spoke about so long ago because she clings to the memories that all the sounds bring no matter how little they are. They’re better than everything she listens to now. His sighs are tinged with impatience and hers with frustration. The doors in the house slam too hard whenever one of them leaves. They speak in tense conversations, him about her failing acting career and her about his failing music career, and it’s quiet but she can hear their voices rising with every word and she wonders at what point their arguments will just be a series of shouts.

But she hates the stretches of silence the most. The other sounds, even the arguing and the slamming doors, allow her to see something – her leaving to go somewhere other than there and him staying at home, drinking instead of composing – but the quiet scares her because all she sees in it is her being alone and nothing else.

She doesn’t listen to music very much anymore. She doesn’t like the images they conjure in her head, but she allows him to take her to a small jazz club one night to celebrate. She doesn’t want to celebrate but he’s so excited that she can’t say no. A drink or two wouldn’t hurt anyway, she decides.

Annie sits down beside him, some stupid fruity alcohol in her hand. She doesn’t really pay attention to the figure sitting at the piano, but the first bars of the song starts, and she takes a second glance at the pianist and she realizes she knows the man sitting on stage just as well as she knows the song he’s playing.

It’s that dreamy melody again, quiet and romantic like he had always been. She always thought she had understood what he meant, that thing he said about music being able to capture a moment forever, but now she’s sure she does. As she listens, she can see their past stretched out behind her and the future that could have been laid out in front of her.

A romantic but beaten down pianist meets a cynical but hopeful actress. He takes her home for one night and she unexpectedly falls in love with him. He plays her a melody she will never forget, one that will haunt her until the day she leaves. He supports her in her worst hours and she listens to him during his. He tells her she’ll be wonderful at her at her next audition and she believes him. Except she’s not and she doesn’t even get a callback, all she gets is upset and angry. And he brings her flowers even though she’s not a fan of things that stay pretty for a day before wilting and rotting away. The music speeds up, it’s more frantic now instead of the calm it was before. It’s the arguments and the fights and avoiding each other by pretending to be busy in different rooms. It’s him slamming on the piano keys to fill up the dreadful silence and it’s her opening the windows all the way to let in the sounds of the bustling city so she can forget they’re not talking anymore. How the hell is he replicating that painful silence as the music slows back down again, the key changing to something minor and tragic only to emphasize the moment that she says sorry and walks out the door.

She looks up then and expects it to be over then, but his fingers continue to dance across the keys. It’s supposed to be over, she knows because she was the one who walked away and the one who never came back, so why does it continue?

The piece returns to the beginning, but it’s not the same. She closes her eyes and takes it in, listening to it deeply like she did back when she really listened to music so long ago. At first, she thinks it’s her returning to him. Then she thinks its him chasing her. It’s a mix of both in the end, she realizes, an alternate ending where they fall back together. It’s them meeting halfway, pausing to take each other in before he reaches for her face and saying her name in that beautiful way he had before she interrupts him to press her lips against his. She can see them returning to his apartment – it’s messier since she’s been away – and her sighing but not in the tired and frustrated way she had done in the days before she left. She sees him pulling her into his arms to dance in the middle of the night, celebrating the finished song despite not even knowing if it would ever be successful. They watch her first role on the big screen, a secondary role, but he whispers to her that she’s wonderful and that it’ll surely be the start of something good. He becomes a hot-shot musician, she becomes a big-name star. He travels with her to various shoots, writing songs about all the things they do in between in the beautiful places they go. And they’re together.

Had this song always been this beautiful? It must have been, she just didn’t realize it until now.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the man besides her whispers as the song ends. He claps along with the rest of the audience, but she doesn’t move a muscle. “Should we stay for another?”

She’s reminded that the visions the piece conjures only exist within its notes. So she turns to the man beside her, away from the musician at the piano, and says, “It’s late and I’m tired. Let’s go.”  

It’s a beautiful piece - it always had been, and it still is - but she doesn’t want to say it out loud. Maybe it would make everything about it real, the things that had happened and everything that could have happened if things had turned out differently, and she doesn’t want to dwell on it. It’s too late to do that.

But he already knows how beautiful his song is. He’s played it a hundred times, probably a hundred times more after she left, and went back to those moments in the piece.

And before she leaves she glances back to see his eyes meet hers. He doesn’t smile or nod at her but then again, she doesn’t either. It’s enough though, she thinks, because they used to know each other, and they still do. They know what happened, what they both wanted, and why things are the way they are now.

Too soon, he turns away, counting under his breath like he always did before he starts a new number and she almost smiles thinking about how there are things that she’d always know.

She pushes open the door and follows the other man out, away from Eren, and returns to her life without the beautiful pianist, the melody of his last song forever echoing through her mind.

#snk #ereani #eren jaeger #annie leonhart #tfw all your aus are happy except this one #half of me wanted to write passionate dreamy romantic eren #but another part is like #eren: ya like jazz? #asks #answered #anon #anonymous