一 catastrophically aware.

It's a story of sacrifice and betrayal, and good people dying in stupid pointless ways.

[kxrsch]

|| Private || Jean Kirschtein || Selective ||

❝ It's a story of sacrifice and betrayal, and good people dying in stupid pointless ways. ❞

Jean Kirschtein rp blog from snk // covering canon and divergent, modern and reincarnation, original ideas and inspiration off other media // written by Key, they/them, est. 2014 and resurrected in 2024, 21+ only

|| RULES || VERSES || PROMPTS || PINBOARD || © ||

[kxrsch]

| Twist his arm, @jxwz says.

His amusement is much easier to be transparent with than the unexpected wash of relief. When had he started hoarding all that doubt-filled anticipation anyways? Maybe somewhere between realizing the warm bump of knees together could make his laugh stutter and realizing that there were ties that bound them harkening back a few several thousand years to an old blood feud. You know, the usual. Funny how the former seems more capable of spiking his heart rate than the latter these days though…

He slips the joint up behind his ear and wipes the clinging condensation off his palm onto his pant leg, an eye kept on Porco’s retreating back. At least he seems to have found the equilibrium with him again. It can’t all be the work of a promising cold beer, anyway. Not when Porco checks to make sure he is on his heels still as if the idea was his own and not Jeans. And there is that relief again. 

“Could be worse.” His first step out onto the balcony challenges those words when his face is slapped with cold wind. 

“Could always be better,” he grumbles, already disappearing inside the defiant yank of his hood over his ears. The small bench with its squashed pillows and weathered wood can hardly bear them both. He fits himself in his usual place, closest to the wall, sheltered by their modest apartment and Porco’s warm bulk.

“This.” The joint and lighter hefted in his hands. “Is better.”

[ahotknife]

oh emily wilson translation of the iliad we’re really in it now

[leatherandmossprints]

‘Silhouette of the Artist’ by Léon Spilliaert, c. 1907.

[kxrsch]

What does your heart look like?

a guiding, golden light Just because you cannot see your own heart doesn’t mean that others can’t. Your heart is blinding, captivating, a fire so bright that others can’t bring themselves to look away. It illuminates the path they follow and cements you as a guiding star for their own wayward hearts. Every experience you’ve lived through has built your lighthouse heart up just a little higher. You are inspirational, a light that doesn’t go out.

tagged by: @astutior

[heichx-blog]

“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”

— Augusten Burroughs, Magical Thinking: True Stories (via wordsnquotes)

[jxwz]

@kxrsch sent from prompts.

The television warbles quietly in the background of his thoughts, illuminating his face with different colors where he sits in the dark on the edge of the couch, staring aimlessly past the oceanic picture on the screen. It's early hours. Sometime around 3, the last time Pock checked anyway, when he'd first given up on tossing and turning in bed and stalked himself out to the living room after getting himself a glass of water.

There's no telling how much time has passed since then. He hasn't been counting the minutes. He's hardly been present inside the room that he's sat in, let alone aware of the things that have been going on around it. If he were, then he might have heard the distant flush of his roommate's toilet and realized that he's wandering the halls.

Instead, Pock's back, again, in the middle of a daze that doesn't belong to him. Rushing through a life at light-speed, hearing the same voices that he's heard time and time again, useless behind the hands (his own hands—but they're not his) that he can't stop from moving. No matter how many times that he's been here, no matter how hard he's tried to will with all his being not to... he always shoves.

In the end, he always does.

He shoves and that's it, that's when the moment happens. When borrowed eyes watch as the darkness spills in from up above, with the sudden stench that chokes up in his throat—and he knows what's coming, he can never forget what's coming—but still the horror strikes him to his very core right before the light disappears and—

Jean asks: How long has it been since you’ve slept?

Pock snaps out of his trance with a shock, shooting his head around to the sudden sound with a sharp breath pulled—but it's only Jean—so he lets it go again. Lets his shoulders go lax and his head fall heavily into the palms of his hands while he's at it.

There are signs that he's tried. Evidence in his disheveled hair, the downward fall and wayward curl of his bangs; the designated joggers that he wears to sleep in, just as much a signature around the place as Jean's t-shirt and boxers combo. There are signs that he's failed, too, beyond the fact he's sitting in the dark. He certainly feels like the creature that he must resemble, all hunched over and haggard, like he's just come back from a fight. One that he lost.

"Couple hours ago," he answers, vaguely, from inside his hands as he attempts to wipe the bags from under his eyes. A futile effort, but he's conscious of these things. He's conscious of Jean catching him in the middle of one of his states. Like they don't already have enough that they're still trying to work out with each other right now.

Like he really wants to share all this shit anyway. Like it isn't obvious by the time that it didn't go so well.

"Migraines," Pock mumbles. Since he's often accompanied by those as well, and is only all too aware of the annoying thrum currently palpitating between his ears, he deems it close enough to the truth. Good enough reason for him to be sitting up this late and looking like hell anyway. Makes it easy for him to raise a believable face back up to Jean when he adds, "Can be a real fucking nightmare."

[kxrsch]

Porco reacts like a hot lance has speared into his side, bolting to attention, his breath sharp, filling lungs in preparation for a fight that doesn’t come. Jean can see the moment recognition, rather than shock, flickers in his eyes before the flared life in him dulls again. Everything about him dulls. The TV’s light saps the color out of his face, cuts deeper shadows into his exhausted expression as it disappears into the shelter of his palms.

Jean fixes his attention on the movie playing rather than the washed out figure that is his roommate half-curled in on himself. He regretted speaking up the instant Porco’s gaze had snapped to him, when it became clear tonight wasn’t a simple matter of poor decisions and movie binging. Or at least he suspects as much. Unless Porco’s umpteenth rewatch of Jaws is responsible for the zoned out state Jean had found him in, that thousand-yard stare, the punched out shadows beneath his eyes. Somehow Jean doubts it…

He doubts Porco’s reason as well. Migraines don’t usually leave you staring endlessly into a blinding television screen in the pitch dark. But what does he know? What does he really know about Porco at all? The thought rankles with bitterness. An ugly, unprovoked feeling that tempts a self-conscious mull to his jaw and the wander of his stare back to the hall with the thought of leaving him to his ‘migraines’ alone. Would he take it personally? Jean would mean it to be personal. As personal as it had felt the day Porco walked away from him, stepped back over a line that had been drawn in the sand during a whole other lifetime.

“Right…” He is too tired, too hurt to hide the hurt, the eye-rolling doubt, to keep the exasperation from his retort: “I’m sure the nightmares don’t help, hm? The real ones, I mean.”

Just a few days ago, Jean sat on this same couch cushion, grappling with memories of another life better left forgotten, the growing assurance he was about to lose a good friend over circumstances so far outside of their control it is laughable. Y’know, in that ‘This is so fucking stupid’ sort of way… He thought Porco wasn’t going to come back and that if he did, it would only be to pack his shit and leave again. Too entrenched in memories of a thousands of years old blood feud to remain friends with an Island Devil. They have fucking stuff-crust pizza and Minecraft now, who gives a shit about Marley or Paradis or any of it anymore? He had driven himself up the wall wondering why he would care so much to just give up the now, the new…

But Porco had come back in the end. In his own time and his own way. Like the bomb had never gone off at all in fact, making Jean just that little bit more insane. He rakes his fingers back through his hair, twisting at the lengths growing to be too long for his liking, and comes around the couch to drop down beside him in defeat. “This gonna be what it’s like from now on?” 

He drops his arms down to lay limp in his lap, staring without seeing the movie still playing across the TV screen. How many times have they been caught awake at odd hours, spilling an excuse for why while keeping the real reason behind a stiff upper lip? Jean rests his head back, weariness quieting his voice, “Y’know it made sense before. The ol’ song and dance. I’m fine, shit. But now? Can’t honestly think ‘migraines’ are gonna cut it…”

[kxrsch]

He’s tired. Not the kind easily remedied by a decent night of sleep, but the kind that clings to the soul. The kind that doesn’t care how many decent nights there have been because they will always be outnumbered by exhausting days. His life has outdone itself this time though. He won’t ever be able to sleep off this weariness or the haunting images behind fluttering lids. Not without help anyways…

The toe of his boot catches the threshold and he staggers forward a few steps, hand outstretched, grazing along the wall for balance. He lost track of the time, too busy nursing a pilfered bottle of cheap Marleyan spirits to notice how late it had gotten. They’ve been back in Paradis only three days, Sasha had been buried for two, and what remained of the 104th had made their homes together in one space. A decision made as much for comfort as it is for security. There were still questions circling over their heads, a wariness affixed to them all by Eren’s actions. Were they aware of his plans? What more did they know? Where did their loyalties lie?

Jean rests his clammy brow to the wall, listening to the quiet, the pops of a fire dying in the hearth. He can see it still, the airship. Can hear the ringing in his ears from gunfire in a confined space, shouts muffled by shock…

@knightinsourarmor asks: where have you been ?

Her voice comes out of the gloom like a specter. Freshly wired instincts jump his hand to a hip bare of the weapon he seeks before good sense catches up through the thick molasses of his mind. He sinks his shoulder to the wall where his head had been resting, breathing deep, willing away the spike of adrenaline her unexpected company had awoken. He doesn’t know how he had missed her, silhouetted by the flickering warm glow of the fire like she is. He can just make out the flames' reflection in slate grey eyes. How long had she been there? He wants to ask, but it feels like an admission of guilt.

“You sound like my mum.” His dirty boots are a safer place to stare than she is right now. There wasn’t time to shore up his defenses. He is all ragged, raw, and exposed edges, the dismissive cut of his tone an attempt at escape. But it comes with a guilt all its own. Just the other night it had been her absence begging that question. Only Jean hadn’t the will to ask, to face someone else's grief while he had no idea what to do with his own. He swipes a palm over his mouth and straightens from his slump against the wall. “Why’re you awake anyways, Mikasa?”

[kxrsch]

with veilguard releasing at the end of the month, i think this is the perfect time to write up my 'former orlesian templar jean kirschtein' au.

[vikingserket]

“After the war, what does a soldier become?”

— The Aftermath - Iron Maiden

[kxrsch]

A breeze disturbs the pages of his book and Jean smoothes a careful hand across to pin them in place. Smudged charcoal darkens his fingers, his palms. Flakes have been smeared into the parchment and once stark lines are softened by his touch. He waits until the wind stops fluttering at the edges, twisting at his hair, the loose collar of his shirt, and frowns at the growing mess that is his art. 

It had begun with eyes, the only feature he can remember still with startling clarity. The rest of the face is starting to fade in his mind, coming to him in disjointed memories, his sketches a haphazard puzzle he has tried to arrange into an imperfect homage.

They never got a photograph of him. The realization had come one morning, unbidden, as forceful as a kick to the chest the way it left him winded, nauseous. But all his grief had been like that. Something that lay in his periphery, dormant, distant and numbed by a stiff drink and the mundane monotony of life as ambassador until the moments it isn’t. Until he is forced to stare down the yawning maw that is his grief, who it is for, the bitterness of knowing the same person is its cause.

The myriad of faces stare back at him. Their eyes striking, set into faces that all bear subtle differences, but beg for familiarity, remembrance. Around the edges are depictions of the long gone titan form. Sharper features, but the same eyes. His final memory is scratched furiously onto the adjacent page, ribs arched into a lumbering cage and pale spines reaching for the heavens taunt him with their perfect clarity.

@astutior asks: what are you working on ?

The balmy day comes back into focus, sounds of quiet voices and the rustle of leaves replacing scorching winds buffeting his face and the thunderous cacophony of battle. Jean closes the book softly before Armin gets close enough. He doesn’t need to see the smeared, desperate attempts to recreate Eren’s likeness.

“Ah, nothin’ special really.” The tension in his body, his meek grin, would betray his lie if it weren’t for the day. He can still taste sweetness on his lips, smell sugar on the breeze. He hopes all Armin sees in him is the ache of another birthday gone by for a friend stuck forever at nineteen. “I get restless, y’know. Sittin’ still for so long.”

He casts a look behind him, further up the way where the headstone lies, loved and meticulously tended. His fingers ache where he clutches the spine of his book. When he faces forward again, it is with some effort that he meets Armin’s eye. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

[mangabean]

[kxrsch]

Puddles have gathered in sagging, neglected portions of the main thoroughfare, frozen over in an uncharacteristically-early onset of poor weather for the season. The thin layer of ice hides a hollowed culvert and it shatters with the sound of fragile glass beneath Jean’s heel. His upset balance only adds to his fouling mood. He rights himself and adjusts the high collar of his coat with one hand while glancing down to ensure the package is still tucked securely beneath his other arm.

“Should go back in there…” Annoyance steams from his mouth like a hiss into the chilling air. His statement is punctuated by the solid thunk of the door closing behind Marco. The muted, joyous tinkle of the shop bell feels mocking. “Talking like he knows anything at all.”

Stitched onto their backs, the Survey Corps and Military Police emblems appear as unlikely comrades. The animosity between the two branches is infamous. Yet there was a time the people of the Walls favored one over the other. Sides easily chosen when one was lauded as sensible protectors of the Crown and it’s favored, the other viewed through a suspicious lens as borderline heretical outcasts. These days, they tend to receive equal vitriol. Trust had been eroded by the events in Stohess. An attack so close to the Royal Capital? Human traitors? All under the noses of the ones meant to serve and protect!

Jean can still hear the shop owner's derisive tone. A portly, middle-aged man with watery, pathetic eyes and an outspoken opinion on the insanity of him and his ilk. Jean had known the first day he donned the Wings that thanks would be in short supply. It wasn’t a responsibility he had taken on expecting vain-glory, not like he had once dreamed of. But Marco? 

He mulls his jaw, staring back over his shoulder into the cloudy shop windows. When the man had turned his ire to Marco, Jean had imagined the satisfying crumple of his fist into the soft, sneering mouth spewing mockery and ignorance. The Military Police have fallen so far. Fresh anger roils beneath his skin. “I shoulda hit ‘im. Some people don’t change otherwise. Some people deserve it. He deserves it.”

@naevose says: can we stop and think about this rationally ?

Jean waves off the concern, eyes and head rolled back forward where his true intentions lie. Marco stands waiting, a fixed figure in his life despite the horrors it took to remain there. The thought only deepens the frown etched into his features, adds a harsh edge to his already snapped retort, “This is being rational.”

It is quickly followed by shame, guilt in the form of his fingers pinched over the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed, the sag of his shoulders that carry an apology before he even puts voice to it. Marco had enough pains in his life now, he didn’t need to be one of them.

[kxrsch]

verses!

[kxrsch]

The argument is stupid. Most of their arguments are. Seemingly endless back and forths, where halfway through even Jean begins to wonder what the hell they’re on about. He has never made an effort to point this fact out. Doing so would feel like losing, if the definition of losing was abject embarrassment. Too often after their hot heads have begun to simmer down does he catch the snickering and eye rolls from the other trainees. It has become a matter of stubbornness now, the way he holds tight to their petty arguments. He doesn’t know why Eren continues on in it with him, besides perhaps his own violently stubborn streak.

Jean digs his knuckles against his temples, doing his best to block out the worst of Eren’s grating voice. Unfortunately, the one thing Jean hates worse than some arbitrary loss, is being proven wrong and he regrettably already knows he is wrong this time.

@centuricnis says: you seriously think i could’ve done this ?

“Alright. Alright!” The concession comes with the added flair of his hands thrown up, spanned wide in exasperation. Around them lies the source of the fight: Horse tack. Bridles and halters and reins, dropped carelessly into the rank mud mixture of the stalls. His accusation had been flimsy anyway. Eren might wear on the last of his patience, but he isn’t careless and he isn’t stupid enough to make or leave a mess like this where Captain Levi could find it.

He plants his hands to his hips to keep from swinging them around in his annoyance and fixes Eren with a sour stare. “But someone—” One of the horses knickers like a laugh. “Someone. Is responsible and since you’re the unlucky bastard to come around, you can help me fix all this up, hm?”

[kxrsch]

character headcanon generator — 10 headcanons! Generate 10 headcanons and share whether they're true or not. Repost, don't reblog.

Jean is awful with technology and doesn't know how to use a smart phone. FALSE.

Jean is smart and resourceful enough to repair broken gear under severe duress during the fall of Trost. Give him a modern setting and spare time, he would probably pride himself on custom building a PC. A smartphone isn't complicated after that.

Jean will remind others in the midst of chaos how good they're being. TRUE.

It won't always be outright praise. He has a sure way about himself during combat that can seep into those around him. If he is confident, if he is focused, then the situation must be under control. Jean does know when a direct hand or word is needed, though. Maybe it won't be given gently, or even 'nicely', but he sees more merit in plain fact and honesty to bolsters someones resolve or confidence. He believes in stoking someones flame, not being the flame for them.

Jean cracks their knuckles very loudly. TRUE?

Jean cracks his knuckles. An unconscious habit. An anxious habit. He doesn't do it to intentionally make it loud or obnoxious. If a particularly stubborn joint happens to pop louder than the rest, he would grimace about the attention it might draw.

Jean instinctively cleans messes in their own house as well as other peoples. FALSE.

Jean lives in organized chaos. His floors are clean, shelves dusted. The bed is not made. That t-shirt he wore yesterday is still laying where he flung it. His bathroom counter has hair and face products left where they were dropped. There are always fresh towels though and you damn well better replace the spent roll of toilet paper for a new one. The mirror is spotless, obviously. All that said? He will sooner drop whatever mess someone left behind into their lap than clean up after them. Unless there is some agreed upon 'you do this on this day'. He won't be washing up someone else's dishes and he does not expect someone else to wash out his coffee mugs. In fact, don't touch his coffee mugs at all.

Jean speaks only in meme references. TRUE.

Jean the resident movie buff. Has an arsenal of TV quotes at his disposal. A chronic social media addict. Knows the newest trends and yet will still vocal stim a meme from ten years ago if something triggers the memory. It does not matter if the person he makes the reference to gets the reference. The jokes he makes are mostly for himself anyways.

Jean is a bottom.

Depends who you ask. Depends who he is with. Depends on his mood. Depends on what he wants on that particular day. Safe to say: It depends. Safer to say: He is a switch.

Jean desperately needs a hug but doesn't know it and refuses to ask for one. TRUE.

He is more than comfortable invading someones personal space when he is younger, being a presence, often an obnoxious one. With time and age and the weight of, well, fucking everything, he is sparse with his physical display. A simple shoulder clap is reserved for those friendships that endured the war. Handshakes are a formality. Hugs? You're dreaming, kid.

Jean believes in ghosts and insists on trying to summon one at every sleepover. FALSE.

Jean believes in what he can see and he absolutely refuses to create a scenario where he might see some shit. Leave the unknown unknown, y'know?

Jean has a very low alcohol tolerance. FALSE.

Jean loves a good drink. Or two. Or three. Or— You get the picture. He can be prone to over-indulgence. Realizing a few sips too late that he's tipping over the threshold of comfortably buzzed into full blown drunk. But as with many things with Jean, the company matters. No one that doesn't, and hasn't known him a while will see him truly sloshed.

Jean is an introvert. FALSE.

Jean is an extrovert with introvert tendencies. He would be the first voice suggesting drinks, a gathering of bodies around food or a fire. The chatter of voices and laughter is fuel for a soul that craves nothing but a carefree lifestyle. But he is prone to sinking into isolation at times. Hitting a wall where it turns into noise he can't shut out. He needs the quiet, the insulation against the world, until he can make it back to baseline and then the noise can resume, insulation against himself.

tagged by: @jxwz <3

tagging: if anyone has not done this, help yourself!

[weltenwellen]

Kim Addonizio, “The Singing”, Tell Me

[weltenwellen]

Danez Smith, Don't Call Us Dead