i think i’ve commented a few times on ao3 but i just want to say again how wonderful a fic red orchid is!!!! not only is it so well written but the dynamic between jean and reader-mc makes me bite my knuckles (good way, great way even). the friendship is soooo close to romance they’re just both too stubborn/scared for their own good i love them both they are so endearing 🫰🫰plus the mummy issues i- ugh- that hits 💔💔 i chat wait to read about what they get up to in trost it’s lowkey meet the parents (jean’s) loll live ur fic again 🫶
omg ty for hopping over here and leaving this message!! i love love love toeing the line between friends and lovers and seeing just how far i can push them to keep that tension—it’s been my fav part of writing RO so far!!
im super excited for orchid girl to meet his parent and hometown friends — im glad you are too!!! one of my friends was saying that visiting her bf’s family deepened their relationship and really showed her a version of him that she never even realized was there, which she really liked :) this is a huge inspiration for where im planning to take this chapter (wink, wink!)
a/n: a/n: VERY inspired by the movie Bone and All, but with a different twist? kinda idek. I want to write it but like lowkey haven’t even finished the other fics but I really wanted to share this with you. also sugar is a nickname for her! does this count as DD:DNE? lmk
tw: Blood, Cannibalism (but not detailed), lmk if I missed any!
!Grammarly was used to check for errors!
Sugar, that’s what everyone on the farm called her. It was a fitting name for a girl (who was almost 21) with such a terrible sweet tooth.
She loved hard candies that cracked between her teeth, cakes piled high with buttercream, blackberry pies fresh from the oven… and flesh. The hunger always came quietly, like a thought she hadn’t invited. Sometimes it whispered that just one bite would be enough.
Her parents never let her leave the farmhouse alone. They feared that if the hunger found her at the wrong moment, she’d sink her teeth into the neighbor’s son before she even realized what she was doing.
So the doors stayed locked.
The keys were always hidden somewhere Sugar could never find them. Her parents had learned long ago that locks were easier than another move, another town, another lie about why they had packed up in the middle of the night.
Poor, sweet Sugar.
From her bedroom window, she watched people her age race through the fields, laugh until dusk, and come home with grass-stained knees. She wondered if they knew how lucky they were to run without someone watching over their shoulder.
Her parents knew exactly why she was the way she was. They knew no amount of candy or kindness could satisfy the ache inside her. It broke their hearts to accept that their little girl, gentle as spring rain, might never live an ordinary life.
Then, one afternoon, a new farmhand arrived.
He was all sun-kissed skin, dusty boots, and an easy smile. Sugar watched as her parents spoke with him at the front gate. She couldn’t hear every word; only her father’s warning carried across the breeze.
“Stay out of the house.”
The boy laughed as though it were an odd little rule, tipped his hat, and promised he would.
Sugar rested her chin against the windowsill, studying him.
He was charming. Sweet-looking, even.
Strangely… She wasn’t hungry.
She could almost imagine the warmth of his hand in hers, the sound of his laugh up close. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she looked at someone and didn’t wonder what they tasted like.
Her teeth didn’t shake in need or bite the side of her cheek until they bled for an ounce of satisfaction.
Instead, she wondered what it would feel like to feel his tongue against her mouth like he needed to eat her whole.
might i suggest an even more complicated and emotional au...widower!Jean
don't make me cry??? :"((
goodness, jean would have such a harder time if his wife, i'm assuming mikasa here, DIED???
the way he would put her on a pedestal, nobody can ever measure up, literally the only thing that would keep him going would be their child..................................... this man would have dead wife syndrome.
gosh this would make things so complicated with reader too, if she still has the same divorce story line, i can see her feeling so inadequate. at least in second chances, she has some solace that jean fucked up too. but in a widower!jean au, good lord, i can't imagine being in her shoes, feeling like a failure and then feeling like she could never measure up to Dead Wife. but on the other hand, reader might not feel as much jealousy or competition. so in that sense, the complication eases.
this would be soooo interesting to explore - maybe as a bonus chapter after second chances is done?
back when i had a tiktok account for a month, i put together a few visual examples that inspired/are featured in the fic. i thought it would be a nice thing to have here too, since red orchid is so art-centric. without further ado....the art of red orchid (pt. 1)!
Photo by lyaxsusette, shot on a Canon Rebel T3i
"You take a look at the painting, leaning closer towards it to really take in the details. It's so vibrant that it practically pops out from the stark white wall it hangs on. It almost looks like a film photo, with a grainy type of blur to it. There are four figures standing against a subway entrance by a street. Their figures and the background are all blurred by motion and lights, making them hardly recognizable. Yet, the most eye-catching thing about the piece is the coloring and the detail, with bursts of light and neon streaking across the canvas in flashes. It's like Jean painted it to feel like a reflection off glass, especially with very faint overlays of cars and streetlamps over the main image.
"Your use of color is amazing," you breathe, eyes roving the canvas. "I really love the intense contrasts between the bright reds and oranges and neon-ish pink lighting versus the blues and blacks used for the people and the background. I really love the motion blur too. It looks shaky and lived in, like an unsteady hand taking a picture instead of an insanely detailed painting. I feel like I'm looking at a very artsy film photo, or staring through a dirty window. The graininess and gritty texture of this painting is such a great detail that adds to that feeling, and the overlay of cars and city life is also a nice touch.'" (CH.4)
Still from Fallen Angels (1995), dir. by Wong Kar-Wai
"You do so, and you’re met with a visual experience of paintings and sculptures. You ooh and aah at the pieces he’s posted. There’s not much on there, but what he does have stuns you. His older stuff is brilliantly colorful and full of light and movement and contrast and texture. There's nothing too recent, save for a post with a caption that reads ghost in a city gone by, dated a little over a year ago. It’s a stunning painting, of a boy's torso and partially-covered face tucked behind glowing street signs and illuminated by vivid greens and blues. You can see freckles dotting his cheeks, dark hair hanging over his eyes while a cigarette hangs from his lips. The mood of the piece is painfully lonely and melancholic. It resonates with you, settles deep within your system. You already know seeing it in-person, on canvas would rewire something in your head, leave you thinking about it for days." (CH.5)
Francisco Goya, Saturn (c. 1820-1823), Mixed medium mural transferred to canvas
"You wander away from him, immediately drawn to a massive historical painting appropriating Francisco Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son, of the moment the original work was discovered painted on the walls of Goya's abandoned home. You notice the painting’s chiaroscuro—a sharp contrast between where the light highlights the haunting Goya masterpiece within the otherwise dark home, and the figures in the painting reel back in terror at the cannibalistic violence of the work painted on the wall.
Your jaw drops. Jean laughs as he watches you, the corner of his eyes crinkling as you flit over to the wall text to read it. "You're so excited."
"Well yeah! Do you even know what you’re looking at right now? Shitty ass art major.”
He scoffs. “Obviously. Goya’s Black paintings, right? The scary shit he painted on the walls of his house when he went crazy?”
"Mmh, in a sense?" You look unimpressed, and it makes him want to laugh again.
“You look like you’re dying to lecture me.”
"I am," you admit with a grin. "Can I?"
"Sure." Jean can’t help the amused look that crosses his face as you take a deep breath, eyes boring into the painting like you’re trying to analyze it, like you’re pulling words from beneath layers of paint. He remembers this look when you were staring at his painting back in his apartment, and for a moment, he’s touched. He didn’t realize it then, but it feels really nice to have an art historian (by degree, at least) look at his work the same way they would a masterpiece in a museum, the way you are right now. It makes him feel like more of a legitimate artist, like his work has value to other people besides the ones who know him personally." (CH.9)
Maxim Vorobiev, Oak Fractured by a Lightning Stroke (1842), Oil on canvas.
"'Vorobiev's known for his landscapes, which were typically very pretty and serene—typical Romantic era landscapes, like the other stuff around us. This one's supposed to feel very sudden and harsh. The lightning isn't necessarily his wife, but the act of her dying and the impact of her death on him. Vorobiev’s the oak tree, and the lightning striking is a metaphor for how sudden, intense, and harsh death and can hit a person—or at least, how it hit him. The difference in color highlights the shock and intensity of this too, while the off-center and off-balance tree alludes to instability. Emotionally and mentally, I suppose.”
Jean stares at it. He decides this is his favorite painting in this gallery room, can relate a little too easily to the words that seem to spill from your mouth as easy as water." (CH.9)
RAINB.W, Harbour (c. 2020), Watercolor on paper
“'It’s watercolor. I don’t really use watercolors very often,” Jean mumbles, leaning down beside you to peer at the painting too. You’re right—it’s very pretty. The night shot of the city is enhanced with glowing neon lights, the buildings delicately shadowed within the soft bursts of color. “See how the colors are diffused?”
You nod.
“Watercolor’s really difficult to get the hang of, though it’s a pretty similar technique to create lighting like this. You start with a white color as you center point, since that’s where the source of light is, then diffuse the color outwards. The most opaque part should always be the farthest away from the light source to really get that fluorescent feel.”
“Makes sense.” You nod. “Why is watercolor so hard?”
“Ugh,” Jean rolls his eyes, as if annoyed with the idea of painting, the frustration of the paint not going where he wants it. “Watercolor’s annoying since it’s so difficult to control. It’s really fluid—obviously, since it’s fucking water—which makes stuff like this,” he gestures to the painting, “look naturally soft and glowy. It’s really nice for things like lights or nature scenes or things where colors need to blend really smoothly and naturally into each other, but also, once you make a mistake, you can’t go back. It’s hard to clean up.'” (CH.9)
--
let me know if you want more of these! new chapter (ch 28) of Red Orchid out now :)
Summary: you decided to stalk your crush from your art class. But maybe he isn’t exactly who you think he is.
AN: modern au, reader is a stalker and her behaviour is questionable, Jean is manipulative, definitely slow burn, English is not my first language
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
The first time you notice Jean Kirstein, it’s because everyone else already has.
It’s the third week of the semester. Long enough for cliques to form. Long enough for reputations to settle. Long enough for people to decide who matters.
Jean matters.
He sits by the window in your shared art history class like it’s assigned to him personally. Like the universe angled the sun just right so it hits his cheekbones and catches in his hair. The light outlines him in gold, softens the sharpness of his jaw, makes the charcoal dust on his fingers look almost intentional.
He always has charcoal on his fingers.
Even on days when the class doesn’t require it.
You notice that.
You notice the way he taps his pencil twice against his sketchbook before committing to a line. The way his brows pull together when he concentrates. The way he exhales slowly through his nose when something doesn’t look right.
You notice that he never slouches. He leans forward instead. Engaged. Intent. Like the world deserves his attention.
You notice everything.
The professor calls on him one afternoon.
“Kirstein, would you like to explain your compositional balance here?”
There’s a ripple through the room — subtle, but there. People look up. Some girls straighten. Someone whispers, “Of course.”
Jean stands.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble.
He brushes his hair back with charcoal-stained fingers, leaving the faintest gray smudge near his temple, and begins explaining his piece.
You don’t look at the painting projected on the screen.
You look at him.
His voice is low but steady. Confident without trying to dominate the room. He talks about contrast like it’s emotional. Like light and shadow are in conversation with each other. Like negative space isn’t empty — it’s intentional absence.
You don’t remember the terminology he uses.
You remember the way his sleeves are rolled to his forearms.
You remember the vein that shifts when he gestures.
You remember that he doesn’t look nervous.
He belongs here.
When he sits down, the professor nods approvingly. A few people murmur. A girl two rows ahead of you smiles at him when he passes back his sketchbook.
Jean smiles back.
It’s easy.
Too easy.
He’s good. That’s the worst part.
His work gets pinned to the department wall more often than anyone else’s. Not in an arrogant way. Just… naturally. Like talent follows him without effort. His lines are confident. His proportions sharp. Even his unfinished sketches look deliberate.
People gravitate toward him.
He laughs easily in the hallway. Leans casually against lockers. Flirts without commitment — just enough eye contact, just enough smirk, just enough warmth to make someone feel chosen for a second.
He never chooses you.
He’s never looked at you longer than necessary.
At first, you tell yourself that’s fine.
You don’t want to be one of them — the girls who whisper when he walks past. The ones who “accidentally” drop their pencils near his desk. The ones who ask to borrow erasers they don’t need.
You don’t giggle when he talks.
You don’t stare openly.
You don’t reposition yourself for attention.
You just… observe.
You sit quietly.
And you learn him.
You learn that he arrives exactly six minutes before class begins. Not five. Not seven.
Six.
You test it once.
You arrive seven minutes early.
He’s not there.
You arrive six minutes early the next class.
He walks in thirty seconds later, headphones around his neck, coffee in hand.
Routine.
You learn that on Tuesdays he buys an iced vanilla latte from the campus café — no whipped cream. On Thursdays, he orders nothing. On Mondays, he hesitates before choosing.
You learn that when he’s stressed, he switches to black coffee. No sugar.
You learn this because you start paying attention to the trash cans near the art building.
You tell yourself it’s observational practice. Artists notice details. Artists study behavior.
You’re just being thorough.
You once caught a glimpse of his phone wallpaper when he checked the time — a blurry sunset. Orange bleeding into purple. Probably something he took himself.
You spent twenty minutes that night trying to find the exact spot on campus where the sky looks like that.
You don’t find it.
You start sketching more.
Not him — not directly.
You sketch hands.
Long fingers dusted in shadow.
You sketch the slope of a nose in profile.
You sketch forearms with faint smudges near the wrist.
You never label the pages.
You don’t have to.
You memorize everything.
The cadence of his steps in the hallway.
The way he stretches his neck before starting a drawing.
The fact that he never checks his phone during critiques.
You tell yourself it’s harmless.
It’s admiration.
It’s inspiration.
It’s nothing.
But sometimes, when the classroom empties and he lingers by the window packing his bag, sunlight catching in his hair, you feel something tight in your chest.
Not jealousy.
Not yet.
Just a quiet, growing certainty.
If you keep watching long enough…
He’ll have to notice you eventually.
And when he does —
You’ll be ready.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
You dropped your bag on the cafeteria floor and plopped into the plastic chair like gravity personally offended you.
“There she is,” Hitch grinned, already halfway through her iced coffee. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah, sorry. Professor was giving us assignments,” you rolled your eyes, pulling your hair back. “Annie’s not here?”
“I’m always here.”
The voice came from behind you — flat, unimpressed.
You jumped slightly as Annie Leonhart slid into the seat beside you like she had been silently observing the entire time.
“And how was it?” you asked, leaning your chin on your palm.
“Same as always,” she shrugged, reaching for your fries without asking.
“Kicking asses and stuff?” Hitch teased.
“You are yelling, Hitch,” another soft voice chimed in.
You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.
“Pickiee,” you smiled.
Pieck Finger lowered herself into the chair beside Annie, movements gentle, almost lazy. She always looked slightly sleepy — like she had just woken up from a dream and wasn’t entirely convinced this world was worth the energy.
“Hi, Pieck…” you greeted sweetly.
“And of course your uglier half is here,” Hitch added.
“Always this chatty in the morning, Hitch?” Porco smirked.
You glanced up at Porco Galliard, who stood behind Pieck’s chair, arms crossed, expression permanently caught between annoyance and amusement.
“Relax,” he continued. “I’m just delivering my beautiful girl to her questionable besties.”
“Hey,” you protested with a smile.
“You are manageable,” he corrected, smirking.
He leaned down and kissed Pieck’s cheek softly. She tilted her head just enough to meet him halfway, smiling in that quiet way she does — small, but real.
“See you around,” he murmured before heading off.
Hitch waited until he was out of earshot.
“If my boyfriend called you manageable, I’d commit a felony.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend,” Annie pointed out.
“By choice.”
“Sure,” Annie deadpanned.
You laughed, finally relaxing into your seat as the four of you fell into your usual rhythm.
And then—
The cafeteria doors swung open.
Your body reacted before your brain did.
You saw him immediately.
Jean walked in like he didn’t know how visible he was.
He was laughing — head slightly tilted back — and beside him walked a shorter guy with short gray hair, sharp eyes, and an expression that looked permanently unimpressed.
They were mid-conversation.
“…I’m telling you, that critique was personal,” the gray-haired guy said.
“It wasn’t personal,” Jean replied, grinning. “You just can’t draw hands.”
“I can draw hands.”
“You draw claws.”
You memorized the sound of his laugh.
The way his shoulders moved with it.
The way he pushed open the door with his foot because his hands were full of sketchbooks.
He scanned the room casually.
You lowered your gaze half a second too late.
“Hey, you listening?” Hitch waved a hand in front of your face.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I know that look,” Annie muttered.
“Boy code,” Hitch grinned wickedly.
You shot her a warning glance.
“Relax,” she continued. “You look like that every time he walks in.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” Annie confirmed.
Pieck tilted her head slightly. “Your posture changes.”
“My posture does not change.”
Hitch leaned back, studying you. “You go very still. Like a cat spotting a bird.”
You forced a laugh. “You’re dramatic.”
Across the cafeteria, Jean and his friend joined a table near the windows.
Of course.
He always gravitates toward natural light.
The gray-haired guy — you think his name is Armin? No. Marco. That’s it. — continued talking animatedly.
Jean leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over it, listening.
You could see his profile from here.
You catalogued it automatically.
Distance from your table: approximately twelve meters.
Line of sight: partially obstructed by two students.
Visibility: acceptable.
“You’re doing it again,” Annie said flatly.
“Doing what?”
“Calculating.”
“I’m not calculating.”
Hitch smirked. “You are absolutely calculating.”
You finally turned to look at them fully, offended — but smiling.
“I’m just… observing.”
“Observing what?” Hitch challenged.
You hesitated half a second too long.
Pieck’s eyes softened.
Annie’s narrowed.
Hitch grinned wider.
“Uh-huh.”
You forced yourself to engage in the conversation again, nodding in the right places, laughing when appropriate.
But you were aware of him.
Always.
You noticed he eats slowly.
You noticed he listens more than he talks in groups.
You noticed that when someone across from him speaks, he maintains eye contact fully — attentive, focused.
You wondered what that would feel like.
To have his full attention.
Just once.
“Earth to you,” Hitch sang.
You blinked.
Jean stood up.
Your heart skipped.
But your eyes followed him anyway.
He disappeared through the cafeteria doors, still smiling faintly from whatever joke they’d shared.
And something inside you shifted.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
You didn’t want to be twelve meters away anymore.
You didn’t want partial visibility.
You didn’t want to observe from the edges.
You wanted to exist inside his line of sight.
On purpose.
No rushing.
But today—
Today you started thinking about proximity.
And how easy it would be to shorten twelve meters.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
The hum of fluorescent lights replaces the chaos outside. The mirror stretches long across the wall, reflecting the four of you like a strange, synchronized unit.
Annie hops up onto the wide windowsill immediately, arms folded loosely over her chest, one leg bent, the other dangling. She always claims she hates “girl bathroom rituals,” but she never leaves.
Hitch claims the center of the mirror like it’s her constitutional right.
You step beside her.
Pieck leans gently against the tiled wall, hands folded behind her back, watching the rest of you like you’re mildly fascinating wildlife.
You adjust your bag on the counter.
Hitch uncaps her lip gloss.
“I don’t get it,” she says, carefully tracing her lower lip. “You are pretty. Hot. Smart. Why don’t you just talk to him?”
You pretend to focus on smoothing your hair.
“Yeah,” Pieck nods softly. “You’re charming.”
You tilt your head slightly, checking your eyeliner.
“It’s not that simple,” you mutter, adjusting a strand that doesn’t need adjusting. “I want him to notice me. Not to make him notice me.”
There’s a pause.
Hitch blinks at you through the mirror.
Annie rolls her eyes from the windowsill. “Dramatic.”
You exhale quietly.
“It’s just…” You hesitate. The fluorescent light catches your reflection — composed, polished. Controlled. “I’m nervous around him.”
You glare lightly at your reflection like it betrayed you.
“I don’t get nervous.”
Annie snorts. “You don’t even blink during presentations.”
“Exactly.”
“So what’s the difference?” Hitch presses.
You swallow.
Because he’s different.
Because when he looks at you — even briefly — it feels like your skin is too tight. Because you’ve memorized the cadence of his footsteps but freeze when he says “hi.” Because observing is easy.
Participating is not.
“You don’t even know him and you’re already down bad,” Annie mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Give her a break,” Hitch gasps dramatically. “Our girl has a little crush, that’s it.”
You shoot her a warning look at the nickname.
“Exactly. Thanks, Hitchy.”
Pieck’s eyes narrow slightly — not suspicious. Just thoughtful.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asks gently.
You uncap your own lip gloss.
You smooth it carefully.
You don’t rush.
You don’t rush anything.
“Don’t know yet,” you say lightly.
Hitch makes a noise of disbelief. “Oh, come on. You already have a plan.”
You glance at her in the mirror.
And you smile.
Small. Controlled.
“Of course I have.”
Annie sighs. “Here we go.”
“But,” you continue sweetly, pressing your lips together to blend the gloss, “a magician doesn’t talk about her tricks.”
Hitch bursts into laughter. “That’s my girl.”
Pieck studies you.
“You’re not going to do anything weird, right?” she asks softly.
You tilt your head.
“Weird how?”
“Like… rearranging your entire life schedule weird.”
You blink once.
You already did that.
“Relax,” you say gently. “I’m not insane.”
Annie gives you a look that says debatable.
You ignore it.
Instead, you step back slightly, examining your reflection.
You look good.
Not overly done. Not trying too hard.
Effortless.
That’s the key.
Effortless.
“I just want him to look at me,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.
“He has,” Hitch counters.
“Not like that.”
The bathroom falls quiet again.
Because they know what you mean.
Not a passing glance.
Not recognition.
Not “you’re in my class, right?”
You want weight.
Intention.
You want him to choose to look.
Annie hops down from the windowsill.
“Well,” she says bluntly, adjusting her jacket, “if you’re going to play this game, don’t embarrass yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that now.”
Hitch loops her arm through yours. “Ignore her. This is fun. I support romantic chaos.”
Pieck smiles faintly. “Just don’t lose yourself in it.”
You meet her eyes in the mirror.
There’s something perceptive there. Soft but aware.
You give her a reassuring smile.
“I won’t.”
But when you say it—
You don’t fully mean it.
Because you already feel it shifting.
The way your thoughts orbit him.
The way your day adjusts around his routine.
The way your pulse spikes when he enters a room.
This isn’t just a crush.
But you don’t say that.
Instead, you pick up your bag.
“Come on,” you say lightly. “Let’s go back before Hitch starts fixing her lip gloss again.”
“I heard that.”
The four of you step back into the hallway together.
And as the cafeteria noise grows louder again—
You already know what you’re going to do next.
You just won’t tell them.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
By the time your last class ends, the sky is already beginning to soften.
Late afternoon sunlight stretches long across campus walkways, warm and golden, like everything is dipped in honey. Students scatter in lazy clusters. Someone laughs too loud near the stairs. A bike whizzes past.
You walk home alone.
You like walking alone.
It gives you time to think.
Your apartment greets you with silence.
Small. Cozy. Familiar.
You love the way the sunset paints your room — orange and pink bleeding across the walls, sliding over your desk, catching the edges of your mirror. It makes everything look cinematic. Softer. Almost unreal.
You drop your bag by the door.
Kick off your shoes.
Exhale.
Your phone buzzes on your bed.
Hot messes (4)
Hitch: “If I fail statistics I’m blaming capitalism.”
Annie:
Pieck: “Does anyone want ramen later?”
Hitch: “Yniee?? Still alive?”
You smile faintly.
You don’t open it.
Not yet.
Instead, you sit at your desk.
Open your laptop.
The screen glows in the dimming light.
You rest your chin on your hand.
“Let’s see what you’re up to,” you murmur softly.
You type his name.
Jean Kirstein.
His profile pops up instantly.
And for a second you genuinely forget how to breathe.
There he is.
Profile picture: him mid-laugh, head slightly tilted, gym lighting casting soft shadows across his jaw.
You click.
Scroll.
Photos of his art first. Sketches. Charcoal portraits. Studies of hands. Buildings drawn in sharp perspective. One unfinished painting of a city skyline at dusk.
Of course he’d choose dusk.
There are gym photos too. Nothing overly showy. Just mirrors. Progress. Casual captions like “back day” or “don’t skip legs.”
You zoom in slightly on one.
Not obviously.
Just enough.
Then aesthetic photos — buildings, staircases, streetlights glowing at night. Blurry motion shots of traffic.
You notice his grid has balance.
Three art posts.
One personal.
Two aesthetic.
Pattern.
Intentional.
And then
There it is.
A group photo.
Bingo.
Jean standing with a few guys outside what looks like a late-night diner. Arm slung lazily around the shoulders of the shorter silver-haired guy from earlier.
You click the tag.
Connie Springer.
So that's his name.
His profile is chaos.
Memes. Screenshots. Random blurry selfies. Gym clips with loud music captions. Food photos that look half-eaten before the picture was taken.
And Jean.
A lot of Jean.
Jean mid-workout.
Jean asleep on a couch with a marker mustache drawn on his face.
Jean arguing with someone off-camera.
Jean laughing.
You smile slowly.
God.
He looks different here.
Relaxed.
Unfiltered.
Happy.
Not the composed, classroom version.
You scroll deeper.
Then you see it.
Your stomach tightens.
Jean and a girl laughing.
She’s on his back. Arms around his shoulders. He’s gripping her legs to keep her steady. Both of them mid-laugh, blurred slightly from movement.
The intimacy is casual.
Comfortable.
Your chest feels tight.
You check the tag.
Sasha Blouse.
You click immediately.
Her profile loads.
You exhale.
Relief slides through you before you can stop it.
She has multiple photos with her boyfriend — a blond guy with soft features and an apron in half the pictures.
You click one.
Caption: “Date night with my favorite chef ❤️”
You check his tag.
Niccolo.
You scroll briefly.
Food. Cooking videos. Restaurant shifts. Sasha grinning in the background, holding plates, stealing bites.
“So she’s your best friend…” you murmur quietly to the empty room.
Cute.
You continue analyzing.
Sasha loves food. Obviously.
Connie loves memes and gym.
Jean has a consistent gym buddy tagged repeatedly.
You click again.
Marco.
Freckles. Calm smile. The type that looks like he’d hold doors open without being asked.
A few gym videos show Jean spotting him.
They look comfortable together.
Routine.
Stable.
You lean back in your chair.
The sunset has deepened now — darker orange bleeding into purple shadows. The light hits your face as you stare at your screen.
You start piecing it together.
Friend group structure:
Jean.
Connie.
Marco.
Sasha.
Niccolo (external but included).
You scroll back to Jean’s profile.
Look at the timestamps.
He posts irregularly.
But he’s tagged more often than he posts.
Interesting.
That means his friends are more active than he is.
Which means…
More access points.
You click back to Connie’s page.
Scroll.
Pause.
Zoom slightly.
Your lips curl into a slow smile.
Connie posts stories daily.
Gym times.
Locations.
Diner nights.
Study sessions.
If Jean is with him often—
Then Connie’s account is practically a schedule preview.
You rest your chin on your knuckles.
“It’s starting to get interesting,” you sigh softly.
You’re just… gathering context.
Understanding his ecosystem.
You want to approach him naturally.
Naturally requires knowledge.
Jean posted three days ago.
A charcoal sketch of a hand reaching toward light.
Caption: “Still learning.”
You stare at it longer than necessary.
You want to be something he’s still learning.
You close your laptop slowly.
The room is darker now.
Only the faint afterglow of sunset remains.
Your phone buzzes again.
Hitch: “Yniee where are youuuu”
Pieck: “She’s ignoring us.”
Annie: “Obviously.”
You finally pick it up.
You type one message.
You: “Relax. I’m just studying.”
It’s not a lie.
You lie back on your bed.
Stare at the ceiling.
And for the first time
You don’t just feel like an observer.
You feel prepared.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
Your room is dark now.
The sunset has long faded, replaced by the faint glow of streetlights bleeding through your curtains. Shadows stretch across the ceiling. The world outside hums softly — distant traffic, muffled laughter from somewhere down the street.
You’re lying on your back.
Staring at nothing.
Sleep won’t come.
You turn onto your side.
Then your other side.
The sheets feel too warm. Your thoughts too loud.
It’s not fair.
The words slip into your head uninvited.
It’s not fair.
You are beautiful.
You know that.
You see the way people look at you. The double takes. The compliments. The subtle jealousy from girls who pretend not to compete.
You are smart.
Professors praise your work. You speak confidently. You carry yourself well.
You are sweet.
You listen. You care. You remember birthdays. You show up.
So why
Why isn’t he noticing you?
You squeeze your eyes shut.
You replay every interaction.
The one “hey.”
The casual “you’re in my art history class, right?”
The way he said you’re always drawing.
That’s it.
That’s all you have.
Meanwhile he laughs with other girls like it’s effortless. Lets them touch his arm. Smile too long.
Your jaw tightens slightly.
You turn over again.
This time you grab your phone.
The screen lights up your face in pale blue.
You scroll mindlessly at first.
Stories. Random reels. Outfit posts. Gym videos. Memes from Connie that you now recognize instantly.
You don’t even realize how much you’ve adjusted your algorithm around him.
Then
A familiar name appears.
Your professor.
You pause.
Click.
A new post.
A sleek graphic announcing an upcoming art exhibition.
“I’m happy to announce a new exhibition this Friday at the East Gallery. Proud of my students and excited to showcase emerging talent.”
You sit up slightly.
Your pulse picks up.
You check the likes.
Scroll.
Scroll.
There.
Jean Kirstein liked this.
Your breath slows.
You click the event details.
Open attendance list.
Your eyes skim down the names
And there it is.
Jean Kirstein – Going.
Your lips part slowly.
More importantly
He checked that he will be there.
Publicly.
Which means he plans to stay.
Which means
Your eyes flick to the date.
Friday.
Two days.
Perfect.
You stare at the screen, calculating.
It’s formal enough to dress well.
Casual enough to mingle.
Art-focused — which means conversation is expected.
Which means proximity won’t look strange.
Your thumb hovers for half a second.
Then you click.
Going.
You lean back against your pillows.
Two days.
Two days to prepare.
Two days to choose the right outfit. The right tone. The right timing.
You don’t need to force anything.
You’ll just… exist in the same space.
Under gallery lights.
Where he can see you clearly.
Where you belong.
You imagine it already:
He arrives.
He scans the room.
He notices you.
Not as “the girl from class.”
But as something else.
Something intentional.
You smile faintly in the dark.
“See you there, Jean,” you whisper softly to yourself.
brothers best friend!jean kirstein helps you out after your vibrator broke ❤︎ mdni.
a brief yet unexpected knock came through your door, causing you to sit up in your bed, jean— your brother's best friend— walked in with your favourite drink in hand. “strawberry milk?” he raised his hand with a smile on his face.
usually you’d give him that crooked grin of yours and thank him, sometimes even hugging him tightly that would take his breath away, literally. except this time he was met with your sulky expression that didn't falter one bit, his brows creased in confusion.
“what do you want, jean?” the words came out sharper than intended.
“no thank you?” he placed the strawberry milk by your desk, pressing his back against the door and closing it shut, you spun your head away from him.
he grumbled, not liking how you were peculiarly silent, a rather unbearable contrast from your usual energetic nature. “bunny you know its not nice to be rude to guests.” he crossed his arms, watching.
“well you’re my brothers friend so you’re not really a guest anymore. barging in whenever you want like its your second home!” you spat in irritation.
his expression twisted in grimace. “woah— whats this about bunny? whats gotten you so worked up?”
thats when he saw how you hugged your legs, your brown skin growing flushed as if you were hiding something.
“bunny?” his voice was low, as he steadily approached your bed, gauging your reaction before sitting at the edge of your white bed.
“you can tell me anything you know..” he muttered, peering his gaze towards you. “if its your brother being an ass—“
“no, its not him.” you shook your head, ears growing warmer as you buried your face to your knees.
he blinked,. “okay.. is it university that's bothering you?” he continued to question you further.
you groaned, your hands grabbing a fistful of your curls in annoyance. “no its not fucking uni, or my brother or anyone or anything at all. its me.”
certainly surprised by your outburst, he shuffled closer. “well if you don’t wanna tell me—“
“im horny.” you blurted out.
the room stilled. jeans lips parted in surprise as he stared at you. there was a pregnant, awkward silence that made you regret speaking all together.
“okay—“ “—its because my vibrator broke and my fingers can’t do the work and my new vibrator wont come in for another two weeks.”
assuming it was all the pent up frustration, your mouth unexpectedly blurted out these words. you hadn’t even thought of it.
you watched jeans cheeks warm at your words, scratching the back of his neck as he tilted his gaze away. “uh— okay. damn.”
you swallowed, embarrassed superseded that frustration entirely. “i dont know why i said that jean. im so fucking sorry.” you looked away.
“uh.. d’you need help?” there was clear reluctance in his tone yet he still looked at you, making you swallow in anticipation.
“um.. won’t that be weird? like you’re my brothers friend and stuff..” you toyed with the rings in your finger.
“i think we are way past weird, don’t you think bunny?”
that nickname sent a straight pulse of heat into your cunt despite him calling you that ever since you were both in middle school, but this time it felt more intimate. intentional.
you bit your lower lip, finally looking at him. “can we?” you needed it, you knew you’d never be able to forget about his offer especially if you said no.
he didnt respond, simply he stood up from the bed, walking towards you and gently pushed you down the white sheets, caging you between his defined arms.
his pupils dilated, he dropped his head down to your ears
“tell me when to stop, m’kay?” he whispered to your ears, even though you doubted he’d make you cum like your vibrator did, but his words sent a rush of heat around your body, like it was a promise something great is waiting for you.
you nodded, “mhm.” watching him lift his head and brought his lips to yours, you accepted his kiss by parting your mouth and your eyes closed shut. your hands trailing on his shoulders before finding the nape of his neck, pushing him towards you deepening the kiss, swallowing his groans.
he peeled away, his hands already resting by your hips while his thumb working gentle strokes. “strawberry? seriously?” he licked his bottom lips, tasting the soft lip balm that transferred onto your plump lips.
he continued to trail kisses down your jaw to your neck, pulling down your sweatpants with one hand as his teeth gently nibbled on your skin, earning breathy whimpers from you.
he sat between your legs, spreading them as he peeled off your wet underwear, watching the slick wetness stick between your folds and throbbing in need.
“fuck you’re so wet.” he muttered, eyes fixated on your wet cunt. words sent shivers down your spine.
thick digits worked between your folds, caressing back and forth as your breath hitched. his finger collected your lubricant and spreading it to your clit, gently circling his finger around the sensitive bud.
“youre so pretty bunny.. shit.” he quietly gasped on how your pussy responded to his fingers, your hips tilting to meet his finger.
“mffp.. that feels so good.. jean..” you panted, without his hands faltering, he unbuckled his pants with his other hand, revealing his hard, red cock that he stroked gently a few times while circling your clit.
“dont have a condom..” jean muttered, halting his movements as he looked at you.
“i take birth control.. just.. please..” you pleaded, yet a part of him felt like he couldn’t take the risk.
“i can still make you feel good, okay bunny?” he moved his hand away from your cunt and spread your legs.
you groaned, cunt squeezing around nothing. you were growing agitated at the loss of pleasure. “jeaaan..”
he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a chuckle. “patience, patience.” he grabbed his length, gliding it between your folds instead of squeezing it through your vagina.
you gasped, knees jolting. “thats it..” he affirmed, quite breathless as he continued to move his hips as he slid his length against your folds, hitting your sensitive clit perfectly every single time without you growing sensitive.
“i need your cock.. please… please jean..” you cried out, his grip tightened on your hips, trying to hold onto whatever composure he had left.
“keep the noise down bunny, you’re too loud.”
the sounds of squelching wetness was pornographic, at the sight made his cock throb and leak incessantly. he wasn’t even in you.
your pelvis lifted in attempt to ‘accidentally’ make him slide his cock in you yet he pressed down your hips. “bad girl.” he muttered, hips moving.
before you could protest, you felt your stomach growing warm. “i—im close!!” you gasped, tilting your head back onto the sheets as your lips parted in pleasure.
“fuck.. me too.” he hissed. “come for me, bunny..”
white liquid pleasure escaped your cunt as your thighs trembled, squeezing your legs around him, sticky arousal trickling down your folds before his own orgasm came through, splattering all over your stomach.
he let out muffled moans as he bit his lower lip, sweat trickling down his temple as he pulled his soft length away from your folds, pulling his pants up.
“made a mess. ‘m sorry bunny..”
he turned his gaze to you, your breaths were ragged. he slid his arms around your waist and trapping you with his weight, nuzzling his face on your collarbone.
“you did me a big favour..” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck. a gentle chuckle escaped his mouth. “promise you'll be be a little nicer to me next time, bunny?”
you hummed in response. “as long as you can replace my vibrator.”
his body froze, cheeks turning warm and holding you tighter. “don’t say stuff like that.” his voice muffled against your skin, embarrassed.
“your brothers going to kill me if he finds out.”
you huffed, watching him tilt his head upwards to look into your eyes properly. “he won’t. and im a grown woman so i can do whatever.” you furrowed your brows.
“i know, i know.” he paused, looking at your lips that grew dry after intimacy. “just.. keep it a secret?”
a hesitant yet soft smile made its way to your face. “yeah.”
You could hardly contain your excitement. After being a fan for years, you're finally getting to see your favorite band in concert. You enter the venue, pushing past a hoard of other fans to make it to the barricade.
After what feels like forever, the lights dim and the show starts. You sing along with the crowd as you enjoy the show. Though, the whole time, your eyes never leave one of the band members, Jean.
You watch the way he shows off, spinning his drum sticks intricately between his fingers, as the girls cheer for him. You watch as he blows kisses and winks to people in the audience. And you watch as during a guitar solo, he removes his shirt and throws it in the crowd. The crowd, including you, cheer for the solo, but you don't take your eyes off Jean. For a second you swear he winks at you, but you brush it off and keep enjoying the show.
Throughout the show you notice Jean looking at you, blowing kisses, and winking at you. At first, you thought you were being delusional. No way you're getting attention like that from your celebrity crush...unless.
The show wraps up a couple hours later. The band high-fives and grabs hands of those in the front row. You excitedly cheer, holding your hands out, as the band members quickly come by. Jean is the last in line and when he gets to you, he leans as close as he can and speaks lowly, "Wait by that door over there, yeah,". Jean gestures with his chin to a door next to the stage with the words 'STAFF AND CREW ONLY'. "15 minutes. 20 max." he says as he quickly moves down the line of cheering fans.
Jean's words weighed in your mind as everyone made their way towards the exit. You awkwardly stand by the door, trying not to arouse any suspicion. Each minute that passes you get more and more nervous. After 30 minutes of scrolling on your phone, you are one of the last people in the room. A security guard approaches you.
"Hey, you've got to go. The show ended half an hour ago and the cleaning-"
"Sorry about that. She's with me." Jean says confidently, cutting off the security guard. The guard apologizes and immediately walks off, leaving you and Jean.
He takes your hand and leads you back stage. "What's your name gorgeous?" He smiles at you while you both walk.
"Y/N" you mutter, trying not to sound as nervous as you feel.
You two enter a dressing room. His dressing room. Jean closes the door once you are both inside. "Y/N...Y/N...I like that. It's pretty." Jean smiles which makes your heart drop. "I noticed you during the show," he says as he sit's down on a loveseat in the corner while you stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, "You knew every song. You must be a big fan." He pats the seat next to him, inviting you to sit beside him.
"Yeah, I've been a fan for years. This is the first time I've seen you guys live. It was great. You were great." You smile softly at him. Your nerves seem to wash away, instead of intensify as you sit next to him.
After a few minutes of small talk, Jean leans in close to you, "Are you okay with this?" he says huskily. Speechless, you nod your head. "Nah, I need to hear you say it." he smiled, running a thumb across your lower lip. As soon as you say 'yes', he slowly pushes his thumb in your mouth, you swirl your tongue around it. Jean lets out a raspy chuckle, "Shit...this is gonna be fun".
It's all hazy in your mind. Jean kisses down your body as he undresses you, ending between your legs as you lie on the couch. "You were the prettiest girl here tonight" he says between kisses up your thigh. You let out a small whimper at the sensation. He chuckles and starts working where you need him most.
Your fingers find his hair, tugging at it slightly as he eats you out better than anyone you've ever been with. Stealthily, he slips a finger inside you. "That feel good, baby? You're soaked. I'm flattered." Jean looks up at you from between your legs awaiting an answer, but the pleasure is too much all you could muster out was a "mhm...it feels...so good" between moans.
He continues eating you out while slightly moving his hips against the couch, seeking some kind of friction. "Jean, I'm gonna cum...fuck" you moan breathlessly. Jean stops his movements and smiles as you pout at him. Before you can audibly protest, Jean is unbutton his jeans. "Don't worry beautiful, you can cum on my fingers next time." he chuckles as he pulls you to the edge of the couch.
He slides into you with ease, both of you moaning. "God, you're tight" he mumbles and kisses your neck before moving to your lips. You and Jean moan into each others mouths as the pleasure becomes close to too much. You reach your hand down between the two of you, rubbing your clit. "I'm gonna cum, Jean, please" you stuttered out between moans and whimpers. "Me too baby. Come on, cum and don't hide that pretty face." Jean looks down at you with smile that made you tighten around him.
Once you finish, Jean isn't far off. He pulls out and cums on your stomach. He looks between his load on you and your disheveled face. "You look amazing like this. So sexy" he says, planting kisses on your shoulder.
Jean helps you clean up and you both put your clothes back on. "We're playing here again next month. You'll be here, right?" He smiles as he holds the door open for you. You smile back at him as you go to leave, "Definitely."
Jean watches you walk off. He smiles to himself. You were definitely his new favorite and next time he'll show you.
