—Jean Kirstein x F!reader
Me and my Husband— songfic <3 ! TAGS : reincarnation / canon au / modern au / angst / domestic fluff /
Sasha's combing her hair in front of the old, spotted mirror in the cramped dorm shared with Mikasa and you. You're in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a dress that's way too fancy for a bar night along with a faint smile as you admire Sasha like a man smitten.
When she asks you if she looks good with a final brush of her mascara, looking at you with those warm amber eyes and an innocent smile, you know she's gonna believe anything you're about to say—and all you can think of is how you'd take a bullet for her— for your idiot of a best friend.
You've never been too good at keeping things to yourself, so you say it aloud—like a notorious teenage girl who can't keep a secret to save her life.
“So perfect, like I'd take a bullet for you if we got shot mid-marketplace kinda perfect.”
With a roll of her eyes, she goes back to looking at herself in the mirror and then—laughing. Like it's funny, like it's some dramatic declaration of love from a guy she's not interested in.
She doesn’t believe you. Not yet.
Warmth unfurls itself like flowers blooming in your chest. You really would—if that meant keeping girls like Sasha smiling.
“There you go again with your dramatic ass confessions, I wouldn't want that for you,” she says, straightening her hair as she leans in front of the mirror “I wouldn't want that for anyone at all.” she glances at you as she turns her body to face you.
“Especially you, you can't leave Jean alone, that guy would hate me.”
You don't argue back, just smile back as you walk towards her. You take her hand in yours and it feels as though the world softened just for the both of you. You both walk towards the door, Mikasa’s waiting somewhere for you outside the barracks.
This night would be different from the rest, there won't be any war tonight, no blood or smoke hanging in the air. No betrayals or fallen comrades or lost love stories— just a warmly lit bar, the sound of Sasha and Connie yelling unintelligible nonsense as they get more drunk with each passing minute like divorced men with nothing to lose.
And of course, Jean’s soft smile as he takes his hand in yours, the other wrapped around your waist in a way that he feels he can finally breathe, one night where both of you can stay away from this cruel world. His breath is steady and reckless on your skin, whispering promises of tomorrow's as you both move slowly along with the music.
“You like this?” he asks, a small smile tugs over his lips.
“This shitty bar with no proper lighting and Connie and Sasha yelling over the music?” you say, nodding solemnly. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
He laughs, softly— way too softly in a way that you want to draw his laughter out on your skin.
“You know, Jean” you begin, your smile twisting into something sinister, all too familiar “You might as well go ahead and ruin everything by picking a fight with Eren like always.”
He scoffs, his eyes tearing away from yours—first time for the entire night, he looks over to Eren who's laughing alongside Mikasa.
“You hate me, don't you?” he says, eyes meeting yours again, brows furrowed. He can never get used to your uncalled for insults and taunts.
“Yes, and I hate Hange for bringing us to this bar, too.” You frown, your eyes trailing all over the cramped, sweaty bar with way too many people.
“No, this isn't so bad,” he tilts his head down to meet your gaze. Hazel eyes all soft and sincere. “Not like this.”
“Maybe, as long as we're together.” you say and it feels like a prayer whispered against his chest as you press into his warmth, fluttering your eyes shut with a content smile.
You both keep moving along the music that blurs into nothing a few moments later and all you can hear is his heartbeat fast against your ears. He just holds you close, humming along the nonexistent tune.
He rests his chin atop your head, you can't see him but you know he's smiling. Grinning like the idiot he is—probably.
“Mmh,” He hums, voice low and so sure “as long as we're together.”
As long as we're together—I will follow you everywhere. Whether it be a shitty bar or the fiery pits of hell.
That was two years ago. And maybe, an entire lifetime ago by now.
When the shot rang louder than thunder in your ears, you didn't think, you didn't freeze—you just ran. Shielding Sasha from the bullet like nothing else mattered in that moment.
The next thing you knew your knees were buckling and you fell hard on the wooden floorboards of the airship.
The air from your lungs was nearly knocked out and all you could feel was your blood pooling hot beneath you and the numbness in your stomach. It wasn’t painful, just—numb.
Sasha shrieks, her voice raw and unbridled, Connie stops dead in his tracks with horror painted over his face. Worried faces of your friends crowd over you when they come hurrying over to your side, Sasha catches you just in time before your head collides with the floor and Connie keeps yelling at you to hold on. Tumbling and skipping over his own words. That loud, endearingly obnoxious voice of his that had now turned all panicky didn’t quite reach your ringing ears.
Just a few moments ago he had embraced the three of you and told you all that you were special to him, that he can't lose any of you. You remember Jean telling Connie to stop hugging him with the hard metal, how you laughed at his sorry refusal to act soft. Talking about food and making fun of Jean’s sorry excuse for a beard. How you thought those kids never left, tonight though—everything came crumbling down.
Now, the memory tasted like cheap wine in your mouth, too bitter to swallow— too sweet to forget. And Jean? He just knelt beside you, eyes blown wide with shock and tears that won’t come. Jean doesn’t cry much.
“You idiot—why? Why did you have to—” Sasha's voice croaked in a way that never did before, her eyes once so magnetic and radiant, were now blurred with tears that you felt guilty for for a split second.
So perfect, like I’d take a bullet for you—
A sharp pain cuts through your head like a knife cursing through at the memory resurfacing. Fuck. Why now? Out of all times?
Maybe now Sasha would realize that you weren't being dramatic. That it was true all along. That no one gets to doubt your love. That let them question the heavens and the earth and the tides of ocean but never your love, never ever.
You're glad that you took the bullet for Sasha, had it been her she would've been far away from her family, on the airship—what a cruel way to go. But you? you don't have anything back there. No mother to cook your favourite meals when you get back home, no little siblings to pick fights with.
But you never needed home, did you? Not when Jean was around.
“No, no, no, Y/n!” Jean sputters, hands tightening around your shoulders. Knuckles all white like he could hold you together with sheer will. And It feels like anger more than impending grief. Anger for you. “Don’t you fucking give up on me—don’t you dare give up on me!”
“Quick! Stop the damn bleeding!”
By the time you're wrapped in white bandages around your stomach, your vision is a blur of white curtains closing and focusing in and out. Your pulse is throbbing in your head like a ticking clock, each thrum bringing you closer to death. Mikasa’s steady and skillful hands shake for once when she presses the gauze on you. You notice how the blood beneath you matches the crimson red of her scarf as her head hangs low, your mind noticing useless details more than the tragedy of your state.
“Y/n, look at me dammit!” Jean curses, his hands caging the either side of your shoulders, the blare of light overhead blocked by his broad shoulders. “You're fine, you're gonna be fine trust me. We're a few hours away from Paradis, alright?”
He tries to sound comforting, hopeful for you—but you know him too well to realise that the faintest crack of his voice is a giveaway to his world splitting apart. And yet, you wanted to believe him, wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
“Jean” you weakly mumble, the blood in your mouth tastes bitter, heavy but his name? It feels sweet, easy, so easy in your mouth.
Silence. All you can feel is the wind howling outside the ship and the way your friend's faces drop at your voice. Sasha's broken gasps come to a quick halt, Armin rushes to kneel beside you, Connie goes wide eyed and Mikasa’s fingertips tremble over your bloodied bandage. “D-don't you…cry.”
“How can I not?” Jean's voice breaks free, tears spilling over his cheeks, as though your words burned more than they comforted. “Tell me—”
“Because…when my Jean cries,” you cough, once, twice. The taste of blood pools heavier in your mouth. “It breaks my heart.” Your hands reach out to caress his jaw, weakly tracing it. But it's useless, there's no warmth, no familiarity—just numbness slowly taking over your being.
He shakes his head hard, squeezing his eyes shut as he presses his forehead onto yours, shoulders shaking as if something in him finally fell apart. You almost hear the faint whimpers he's trying to constrict for your sake.
Those times you laughed at him for being scared of losing you folded over time and betrayed you.
When my Jean cries, it breaks my heart.
The first time you saw him cry you both were fifteen years old. When the rude, arrogant and hot headed guy from the 104th cadet cried no one knew what to do. Well, you weren't special, either. But for one, you're brave. You're gentle in ways you do not know. And you've never ever backed down from a challenge.
There he was, sitting on the edge of a bench outside the mess hall when everyone had left, back hunched over and palms pressed over his face like he could force the tears back. What would someone like him cry for? Someone who was all snarky remarks and smug grins...it was hard for your fourteen year old mind to understand.
But your heart knows, god—for all you hate it for—it always knows. It knows how to break porcelain and ceramics, it isn't patient with people or things. The cat who keeps coming back for your breakfast's scraps and the pretty flowers that need care that you can't give. But it always reaches out with trembling, tentative hands—it always tries.
You sat beside him for what felt like hours but was 20 minutes and offered him a wrinkled handkerchief and an awkward pat on the shoulder. The classic—please don't cry. He didn't even say thank you, but it was better than being asked to piss off. Yes, the soldier who slices down titans without mercy is scared of rejection.
Your knack for being impulsive has taken you to places anyone would only go if a gun kissed their head. Whether it be comforting a crying boy who'd snap at you if you said something wrong or joining the survey corps on a whim because you were so sure you had nothing to lose. You had nothing, no home to miss, no memories to cling onto, no one to come back for.
Just one, singular stupid resolve to run away from all of it.
Back then, just like Eren, you mistook recklessness for bravery. Impulse for motivation. Loneliness for power.
Ironic how Jean scorned Eren for his recklessness but fell in love with you despite it.
If it wasn't for your recklessness you wouldn't wind up in a place like this—would be something a sane person would think.
But not you, your days spent in the survey corps spent with Jean and the rest overshadowed every bad decision of yours.
Thanks to Jean, you weren't lonely for a single day.
“Jean?” you say, fingers curling in his ashy hair.
“I'm here, I'm here!” he frantically moves his forehead away from yours to look at you. “I think I'm losing strength.”
He leans down to hear you better, brows furrowed in a way you can tell he's taking you in before the life in you is completely gone.
“No, don't be stupid, Y/n.” his lips tremble, vocal chords tight. “I'll start drawing again, I promise.” The words break into hiccups and small gasps. “And I won't make fun of your cooking ever again!”
You wish you could've at least given him a stupid grin and ruffled his hair like always. But you just lay there, eyes dim, words heavy in your throat that won't come out.
“I can't, you're bleeding.”
With reluctance, he carefully slides one arm up your back propping you up slightly off the floorboards, slowly as though you're made of glass. The other holds your head. His chin rests atop of your head as he swallows hard.
And just like that, your lungs emptied and the last thing you felt was Jean’s warmth and the bright blare flash overhead. It wasn't the bullet that cut the deepest. It was him— trembling body and his lopsided grin you never got to see for the last time.
And when you'd finally taken your last breath, your world would feel like watching your life slip away through a thin membrane—drowning under the surf and Jean’s warmth.
It didn’t make the dying stop, it didn’t make your last moments less painful or lessen your guilt for leaving Jean alone. Nor did it erase the mountain of questions you had before you died.
Who's gonna take care of you, Jean?
Who's gonna tell you to stop being full of yourself?
Who's gonna hold you like I do? Love you like I do?
It just laid a soft blanket over you while it all blurred into nothing. And all your seven minutes after your death would be Jean’s furrowed brows and his stupid grin in the warmly lit bar.
Falling in love with boys with jagged edges and soft smiles, laughing so hard till your sides ached, joining the scouts for the hell of it. And then taking a bullet for your bestfriend. Even though all of it ended up with bleeding out on an airship. Did you do this right? You know you did.
Jean will just hold his universe in the shape of your body close to him, still trembling, still blotchy-faced even when the warmth would drain out of you.
“In another life, Y/n?” he whispered, more of a vow than a wish. The answer never came. Fingers tangled in your soft locks as he kept your head from falling limp backwards.
When your casket will be lowered six feet deep in the ground among many other fallen comrades—they'll sing praises and your name in history would go down as a brave and novel soldier among many others.
They sacrificed their lives for their countries.
They did it because they wanted to protect the people back home.
They did it because they chose to.
People forget that soldiers, too, were kids once. Kids who had scraped knees and fell in love with dumb teenage boys before trading their lives for a damn rifle.
Jean will think of all your dreams, dreams that he shared with you the one where you wanted a house with stained glass windows and like, hundred house plants, and all your friends would live just down the street. the one where you dreamt up a child with his hazel eyes and your gentle hands will be forgotten, gone. No one would remember you as the girl who brought disaster everywhere with her clumsiness. Loved so loudly it scared him but also became the reason he fell for you. And all of your memories and dreams will be gone with your eyes, your body, with you—with his heart.
With all of your world neatly pressed into a symbol.
Here rests the glory of a soldier
But this time, he won't cry, he won't fall apart on your grave, not when he would already know you won't be there to piece him together. So, he'll live everyday with the fragments of you pressed like a flower in the folds of his memory. He'll start drawing again, just like you wished him to do all those years but he never listened. When he draws you, your hair will be the length he last remembered, the length he'd always adored over you, and his hands will not tremble anymore when he'll translate your warmth onto the paper.
He'll live everyday with the vow to see you again. Just for once— a shitty bar, the pits of hell, or even a home shared by the both of you wouldn't be so bad.
When your eyes fluttered open, they were already stinging with tears you didn't know what they were for. For a split second, you braced yourself for pain, but none of that came. You thought of blood and smoke and air heavy with regret. And now, you don't remember why anymore.
Your hands caught your head as it spinned around, you woke up to the familiar scent of tea brewing in the kitchen and rustle of white blankets. The light blaring from the curtains drawing open stings you, there's a silhouette of two familiar figures as they turn towards you.
“Dad, why is mama crying?” A tiny figure catches the light, it's Macy, your Macy—her small hands wrapped around Jean’s shoulders and her pink polka dress all bunched up under his arms. She insists on buying pink clothes because she says it's her mommy's favourite color. Then with the biggest grin over her face—she twirls around and asks you if she's pretty, silly girl, ofcourse she is.
So, so sweet, just like her father.
Jean is already moving towards you, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. Has his hair always been this long? With the child still in his arms, he raises one calloused hand to wipe the tear off your cheek. You instinctively lean on his touch. Innate. Flowers to the sun. Like you'd known this touch in a distant life somewhere.
“She's always crying” he says, straight faced as he looks over to Macy. “Sometimes I feel I have to babysit her instead of you.”
Your eye twitches, Macy clamps her hand over her mouth like the kid's in on the joke. Ashy brown hair, hazel eyed and reckless laughter. God, she looks so much like him, so much like him that it hurts. He looks down on you as he softly laughs and your chest feels tight for some odd reason. Why did you miss the sound of his laughter?
“Kidding,” he lets a breath out of his nose, almost a laugh and smiles, softer this time. “Cry all you want.” he brushes a stray stand away from your face and tucks it behind your ears. You flutter your eyes close and grin at the sensation. “I’ve got you.”
And then, your breath hitches and suddenly, your face is already crumpling as you laugh and cry at once. You don’t know why you do it, only that you can’t stop. Not until Jean kneels down and takes your hand in his before he puts Macy down.
He looks up to you, not confused, not annoyed—just smiling as though he’d seen you like this thousand times before. Thumb tracing circles over your skin, steadying you.
You sniff, catching your breath. “It’s just—” you gasp. “I’m so happy.”
His brows furrow in confusion, he tilts his head. “You’re unbelievable.” and you scoff at his words, brows pinching.
But before you can open your mouth and throw any insult at him, he says—“Unbelievably mine.” he smirks, lifting your hand to plant a kiss on your knuckles. Soft and lingering. Your wedding ring softly catches the weak morning light. There he goes again, with his flirting skills equaivalent to a highschool boy, childish and corny and yet—you still laugh. He knows how to get you, always.
“Mrs. Kirstein,” he breathes out a laugh. “I love you.” he says, for the thousandth time, probably. But the words still make your head spin in a way that you feel you’re soaring on cloud nine.
“I love you too, always” you say and it’s more of a promise, an oath than a mere confession.
In this lifetime, you are free from the choke of those walls, you never pick up a blade again and you’ve never known the sound of a gunshot.
Later, Marco Sasha and Connie and the rest are coming over for dinner. Macy will prove to you that she likes her aunts better than you. Mikasa and Eren are about to get married next week.
But the world outside is still fleeting and cruel, everything can fall apart at any moment, so you bet all you have on that furrowed brow. And at least in this lifetime you’re sticking together.
You and your husband, you’ll make it. Always. As long as you’re together.
MANNNNNN this is my fav fic that I've written so far i js love angst w happy endings sm.
