#commander kirschtein

[corner-stories]

I wanna Captain and Commander bath time fic! Pretty please…???

(ao3.) <- fic can also be read here!

There are days where her title feels more like a persona, a façade, a mere costume she dons every morning. Yet the mask cannot slip, as the Scouts will always need the venerable Captain Ackerman.

So her face remains as stoic when she debriefs her squad, discussing the finer points of their role in the next expedition. Even in the moments where Sasha does the speaking, Mikasa sits back and allows her Vice Captain to do so, knowing that getting the information across should be the highest priority. 

When the meeting ends the mask still does not slip, the Captain simply salutes Squad Ackerman before moving onto the next beast. 

Mikasa meets Armin at the main training grounds of the HQ, where they are to observe some of the newer members of the Legion practicing the time-tested maneuvers of the Scouts.

As of lately the recruitment numbers have stagnated, neither rising nor falling in the last year. Although such a factoid should not be a priority for a person in her position, Mikasa cannot help but dwell on it, especially as she watches the newbies soar across the sky. Even with Jean and Armin's new riding formations, she can't help but wonder how long each soldier will last — which she knows is such a horrible thing to think of regarding a human being who’s helping humanity’s cause, yet the thought always persists.

Even on the days where humanity gains a bit more territory outside of their walls, not every Scout makes it back unscathed. Even when hope can be seen on the horizon, Mikasa is still helping Jean fill out paperwork regarding those who have perished, writing letters to loved ones and promising that they fought honourably, even to the bitter end. 

When Mikasa leaves the training grounds she does so with a heavy heart, all while reminding herself to not let her persona falter. 

After a dinner where Sasha chats her ear off, Mikasa decides to turn in early for the night. She walks across the torch-lit courtyard and sees the typical sight of the Commander's office window. It's illuminated by candle flame, allowing her to see the outline of Jean at his desk. He is processing paperwork and letters like it's his god given duty, utilizing the fancy dip pen Armin had gifted him a few birthdays ago. It's safe to assume that he's been there all day, which is — unfortunately — quite typical for him.

Mikasa contemplates visiting his office, as the space has always been welcoming to her even after hours. But all day she had been yearning for something she can only find in her private quarters, so with that in mind she keeps moving towards her initial intentions.

She arrives at her room and shuts the door. No time is spared before she sheds her boots, scarf, and jacket. She heads to the bathroom and immediately begins running a hot bath, a perk of her position that she is admittedly very fond of.

As the faucet runs she undoes her ponytail, habitually avoiding her bathroom mirror in fear of what she'll see. The bags under her eyes from the sleepless nights? The melancholic air that the supposedly fearless Captain can never shake away? The burden and weight of humanity’s hope on her shoulders? 

There are days where she reminds herself that if she doesn't fight she can't win — but there are also days where she needs to remind herself to just breathe.

Mikasa removes the rest of her uniform and folds it neatly to the side, then climbs into the bath and sinks into the warmth. Some of her joints crack and pop as she settles in the water, the heat of which alleviates her muscles and causes her to let out a sigh.

Today is not remotely as taxing as it could have been, yet the change in sensation soothes the tension she didn't know she had been carrying. She closes her eyes as she leans against the back of the tub, trying her best to focus on the heat she's been enveloped into.

In the next few moments she drifts in and out of sleep, never truly nodding off yet managing to spend seconds where all she can focus on is her breathing. She's not sure how much time passes when she hears the muffled sound of a door opening.

Even if all she can hear is his footsteps in the main bedroom, she can already envision it — Jean entering her space like he's always belonged there, him habitually looking around to find her, then him slowly approaching the bathroom.

She shifts in the tub and the water sloshes around, then in no time Mikasa's beloved Commander opens the door.

He looks a little less well-kept than he had been this morning. Strands of his once-slicked hair have fallen out of place, the top few buttons of his shirt are undone, and absence of his jacket and bolo tie is hard to ignore. At least he smiles once he sees the Captain in the bathtub, though perhaps not for the reasons one would immediately assume.

"Hey."

Mikasa lets out a quiet sigh before sitting up in the tub. Her facial expression remains unchanged and stony, yet she can't deny that she's relieved to see him.

"Hi," she greets back, and the way she speaks is akin to a whisper.

Jean steps into the steamy room and closes the door. To the surprise of no one he notices the gloominess clouding the Captain's disposition, which is not unusual for her but he can’t stop himself from worrying. 

"You alright?" he asks, concerned.

Mikasa nods her head, yet has to stop herself from replying with her usual lie of "I'm fine" because Jean never lets her get away with saying it. Sometimes it's frustrating how he'll do so, how he won't accept the phrase she uses to hide whatever she's truly feeling, how he may even prod at her to find out what’s truly wrong. But on the other hand his intentions are always good, preferring to find the root of the problem instead of beating around the bush. He's always been fond of honesty, even more so in regards to a person being honest to themselves.

So instead, Mikasa tells him —

"There's a lot on my mind."

And technically speaking, it’s far from a lie. 

Jean raises an eyebrow as he lowers himself to the floor, getting himself into a familiar position. He sits on the spot next to the tub so that his handsome face is in perfect proximity to hers. He leans his arm against the vessel’s edge and the only thing between them is a short copper wall. 

"Like what?" Jean asks, managing a smile.

The way he looks at her is so tender. She often wonders how he manages it, as she's sure that she resembles an absolute mess when soaked in her own bathwater.

Her eyes drift to his forearm, the one resting on the edge of the tub. His shirt sleeve is rolled up, revealing just a fraction of the marks he's collected over the years. Absent-mindedly she reaches to him, gently running her wet thumb over a bit of scar tissue, a spot where his skin is slightly uneven, and he lets her. 

"Like..." she starts, trying to think of the right thing to say. She takes in a breath and pulls her knees up to her chest. "...how I should probably wash my hair."

Jean lets out a chuckle and reaches for her. His thumb and index finger find a loose wet strand near her ear and very carefully pinches it. For hands that she knows can maim and attack, hands that she’s seen covered in blood and much worse, he's exceedingly gentle with her.

"You've got your priorities straight, Captain."

And for the first time of the day she feels the urge to smile, even if it's small and weighed down by the burden of their lives.

The water is still warm and the bath is heavenly, yet Mikasa can only focus on her Commander and his pretty eyes. She reaches for the hand that's touching her hair, her thumb feeling another scar that's been on his palm for the last few years. She's gentle when she brings it to her lips, carefully kissing the mark as if the wound is fresh.

Jean returns the gesture, delicately pulling her hand close enough to him to kiss the back of it. She can't help but smile as his short beard tickles her skin.

"It's late," her Commander soon says, squeezing her hand with affection and care. He places another kiss onto her knuckles. "I'm gonna head to bed."

He stands up, yet as he gets onto his feet Mikasa doesn't let go of his hand.

Confused, Jean looks down. She avoids his gaze, but she continues to hold him. She's still leaning against the edge of the tub, her free hand grasping it tight. 

There is a beat until she asks —

"...think you can stick around?"

Another beat follows, then a slightly mischievous smile comes onto Jean's face. Without hesitation he steps into the bathtub, boots and clothes and all.

It takes Mikasa a few seconds to realize what's going on. Soon the water is rising, where it arrives at the edge and falls to the floor. She can't fight the amusement on her face as she backs up, pulling her knees a bit closer to her chest to give him room.

When she looks at Jean he is still smiling down at her. Soon he is on his knees, ignoring the way the water keeps spilling or soaking into his trousers. He plants both hands on the edges of the tub to brace himself before moving towards her. 

Their lips meet and Mikasa's hand goes up, lovingly pressing her palm against her Commander's cheek. She's unashamed, unbound by their status and safe in his atmosphere, deepening their kiss as her forehead brushes against his.

When Jean pulls away from her he straightens up slightly. He’s kneeling in the limited space of the tub, water continuing to seep into his clothes and especially into his shirt, a detail which Mikasa observes very disrespectfully. He works at the buttons of the garment before pulling it off and dropping it to the floor.

And Mikasa watches in anticipation, unabashedly admiring the way droplets dribble down his chest and abdomen. He reaches down to work at his trousers — when it takes a second too long he suddenly realizes that some elements of his gesture had not been thought through. His eyebrows knit in frustration as he also realizes that removing his boots in such a position will prove difficult as well.

"Ah, fuck..."

"Kiss me," Mikasa says, tugging at Jean's hand to bring him back down to her. “Just kiss me.” 

Jean obliges, moving towards her despite how ridiculous he must appear when sharing a tub with her. Their foreheads brush again, but this time Jean holds himself there, only for a second. He keeps his eyes open and affixed to hers, hazel meeting dark gray. Soon he smiles again before pressing his lips against hers.

And Mikasa embraces him, letting him get close to her while moving her hands upwards. She deepens their kiss, letting her mouth open just enough to taste him. Her fingernails fervently press into his back, all while even more water spills onto the floor. 

[whats-her-quirk]

23 & 25 for the writing asks (i’m a sucker for fic playlists if you have any!)

Hi mac hope you’re having a lovely day

23. What’s your absolute favorite trope to write?

Hmmmm gotta be idiots to lovers. Two characters pining over each other oblivious that their feelings are requited. I fucking love it.

25. Do you listen to music as you write? If possible, link your writing playlist.

I do tend to have music on when I write, but not always the same playlists. I’ll put on whatever I’m feeling at the time that isn’t too distracting. My Pride and Prejudice (2005) soundtrack is my favorite. Also I would link my Spotify but it has my whole ass name on it but here’s a peek at my current playlist.

fic writing asks

[omniswords]

The Dance of the High Ranks [Jean Kirschtein/Mikasa Ackerman]

Did someone say "Commander Kirschtein/Corporal Ackerman powerplay?"

Because that's what you got, buddy.

Take it.

Take it and go.

“What is it, Corporal?”

There is danger in her eyes and cunning in each click of her boots against the hardwood floor as she slowly approaches his desk. “I was hoping to review the plans for tomorrow’s expedition, Commander,” she says, her usual no-nonsense tone laced with something cajoling as she takes a seat beside him. So very like her, he thinks, so very like how she’s always been, as she climbed the ranks, fought alongside him, worked as his right-hand woman over the years.

Jean cocks a brow as he continues to look down at his papers, one hand absently reaching to finger the fringe of her scarf. “That so? I’m sure you were paying attention during yesterday morning’s meeting. You were scribbling notes the whole time.” Without looking, he reaches to flick the brim of her dark red beret, stifling a laugh as it nearly topples off her head.

“I was writing down what needed to be revised,” she shoots back, nudging his papers aside to replace them with her own; in the process, her fingers ghost across his, and he senses every intention in her touch. When he looks to her, she is the perfect picture of a tempestuous queen, aura drenched in blood and molten steel as she sits with one leg crossed over the other, her hat tilted at an angle that dictates authority without egotism. “Do you even understand how many lives you could be risking with an experiment like this? We already know how to kill them. What good will it do to just cut their heads open? Do we know that severing the brain itself will slow their movements?”

“What’s the matter?” Jean turns to her, winds the soft fabric of her scarf around his fingers and tilts her head upward. “It’s funny. Every time we go outside the walls, you always come to me and question my plans. It’s almost like you think you should be commander instead of me.”

“I’m doing what any good second-in-command does,” she whispers back, leaning forward in her seat and pulling her chair closer to his. “I’m confirming that this is the safest plan for everyone, sir.”

The word bites at his core, but he speaks in honeyed tones all the same, eyes falling half-shut as he fixes her with a sly smile. “Don’t you trust me, Mikasa?” he asks.

Mikasa only narrows her eyes at him, and all his triumph lies in her inability to tell him he’s wrong. Their nightly candlelight discussions, her silent admiration when he soars across the battlefield and commands with a fist of iron and gold, the way she coaxes him into corners and closets and empty rooms for the drag of his hands along her torso, it all speaks against her. How easy for them to dance around each other like this, close and apart, trading plans and minds and tongues, utterly tangled in all the right places.

“Listen to me.” His words hover above a whisper, pulsing in the space between them. “Tomorrow, we are going outside. We will follow the formation we discussed yesterday. We are going to find three samples.” With each pause, he gives her scarf a gentle tug, watching her tremble out of the corner of his eye as she balances just above her chair and supports herself on his armrest, not quite his and yet not quite her own. “And Armin will experiment on them at night, give this”--he reaches up to drag a single finger down the middle of her head until it prods and traces light circles at the nape of her neck, a smirk tugging at his lips when her breath hitches--“corpus callosum theory a try.” Silently, he revels in the gradual change in her breath, more erratic by the second, and the shuffle of her boots, no longer dangerous or commanding, against the floor. “If it works, then we’ve got more information for him to work with. And if it doesn’t”--he gives a particularly hard tug, coaxing her into his lap and tilting his head to watch the heat crawl across her cheeks--“then we send you in to keep them under control.”

Mikasa doesn’t say a word, only watches the movement of his lips through half-lidded eyes and breathes as though it’s the only thing she can bring herself to do in the limited space between them. She swallows his plan one piece at a time, close enough to him that his lips brush against hers when he speaks, his words thick and heady and low in his throat. “Are we clear, Corporal?”

She blinks once, twice, hands finding purchase on the armrests of his chair; her hair just barely brushes his chin, and if it tickles, he doesn’t say so. “Crystal,” she whispers, her voice suddenly as painfully sweet as his own, and he wonders what kind of deal they’ve closed as she slithers to her feet and backs away from him, assuming an air somewhere between austere and coquettish as she mentions something about working with the newest batch of cadets.

“On whose orders?” Jean asks, chin resting on steepled fingers; it takes him a moment to cut through the haze of their exchange, and another to realize she’s left her papers in front of him.

She gives him the smile of the victor as her fingers dance along the doorknob. “Yours, sir,” she says, and in an instant she is gone, leaving him to will himself back into top form and tell himself he must not watch her at work.

In spite of himself, he opens the window just a crack--for some fresh air, he tries to convince himself--and as he scans the far-from-haphazard notes she’s left for him, he hears her shout pointed commands, a string of words that lulls him deep into his chair. Where others might wince at how she punctuates her words, he relishes it, loves each second she builds herself up into something more than herself and holds herself steady throughout. In the back of his mind he can see her lean in with narrowed eyes, speak steely questions to particularly unruly cadets, and he smiles, because no one in their right mind would ever dare challenge Corporal Mikasa Ackerman. None but him, of course--but then, he supposes no one knows how to play and be played by her quite like he does. He’s always known, for as long as he’s known her.

He throws himself into his papers, her commands melting into the background as he scratches out counterclaims to her notes where he can, giving a soft laugh every so often at how their words at once clash and complement each other. He tosses a glance out the window only once, swelling with pride at how she takes slow, careful steps that bend the gravel to her will. When she turns on her heel, she meets his eyes, unsmiling, an eerie reflection of her predecessor, and gives a single nod, as if to tell him she'll deal with him later.

He accepts it with a nod of his own and shuts the window, shuts her out. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine her there again, perched upon the crumbling pedestal he's built for her over the years and sighing out what she really thinks of him as her fingers tangle in the lapels of his jacket. In one breath she would question every command down to the letter; in the next she would let him take the lead, standing at the front and lingering at his sides in turns. He lets out a half-laugh at the thought, throwing his pen down, because she works him so well that he would welcome it all.

He doesn’t look up for hours, and when he finally sits back in his chair, the sun has long since set, and Mikasa is leaning against his doorway with her arms folded across her chest. “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”

Pushing his papers aside and tilting his head, he counters, “Not sure what you mean.”

“Your plans, of course.” She strides toward him with all the confidence she possesses, hopping up onto his desk and plucking a sheet of her notes from the top of the pile. “They need work,” she tells him with sugar-laced words, one foot coming to rest upon the space between his legs. “Don’t you have the time to discuss them right now?”

She’s smiling all the while, even as she sets the paper aside, even as he gets to his feet and coaxes her to look up at him, hands planted firmly on either side of her. “You’ll have to make it quick, Ackerman,” he whispers, and he swears he can hear his blood pulsing under his skin to a rhythm she’s molded and called her own. “I don’t have much time.”

“Hm.” Mikasa clicks her tongue, and each click matches the beat of his heart, precise and to-the-point and utterly doing him in. “That’s a shame,” she hums. “I was hoping to go through every detail.”

“You know I don’t have the time for that.” He must stand his ground, he must challenge her. He’s the commander, for God’s sake. Who is he to let another string him around? “Either you get to the point, or we drop this altogether.”

But she raises an eyebrow and lets her palm drag along his waist, his stomach, his chest, and his own breath betrays him. “That’s not like you, Commander,” she purrs, fingers snarling in the cord of his bolo tie and yanking him down to breathe against her. “You’re the one who always talks about how important it is to double check.”

“Fuck, Mikasa…”

“First-name basis?” She laughs softly, the kind that only escapes her when he yanks her head back and licks at her throat when no one is there to see. “Is it already that time of night?”

Papers crumple in his grip, and his mind is a haze all over again, and he must not give in, he must lead, he must win this--

Her free hand curls around his belt, tugging him closer so that she can wrap her legs around him. “About those plans?” she breathes.

This time, Jean is the one to swallow her words. “They could use some revisions,” he grunts, and somehow it is worth it to watch her bask in the light of victory.

She gives him the smile of a woman of the highest tier, nails catching on the fabric of his jacket as she watches the heat crawl under his skin. “I’m glad we can finally see eye-to-eye, commander,” she murmurs, her breath hot against his mouth, and when she persuades him into a languid kiss, he crumbles in the flames and groans. Because she wins, every time, and it cuts him with the sweetest blade.