Dirty your hands, child.                                            For that’s the only way to survive. 

        How was it possible this was the same guy she’d just caught         smoking a blunt and leering through her window like some         clumsy pervert? Erin is waiting for him to finish that sentence.         It isn’t too hard to guess where he was going with it to begin         with, but the fact he couldn’t get those last few words out         seemed to make the implications all the more…genuine? He         actually sounded sweet right then. With his gaze averted, she         shifts around to face him, feet hanging freely in the alleyway.         So he wants a name, and to know about her some more. A         name was easy to give. The latter? Not so much.

         ❛ Like you said, the least I can do is tell you a name. It’s Erin. ❜          She looks at him unwavering, contemplating him still in her          mind. He had honest eyes. An open face. The way he sat          towards her all showing signs of sincerity through body          language. It spoke more for him than the burned out bud laying          a floor below them. Her brow crinkles. ❛ Sorry— I’m all out of          time now. Working the late shift. That metaphorical paper of          yours will have to stay blank. ❜ Erin leans back, about to slip          back into the room and leave him with nothing more. It would          have been the sensible thing to do. But, then again, she’s          never really been the type. ❛ My shift ends at six in the morning.          I usually sleep ‘til after noon. Meet me here around three          tomorrow. I’ll see about taking up some of that metaphorical          space then…❜ She ducks back through the window, reaching          up to close it and pausing to give him one last look.                                                            ❛ — And don’t make me wait. ❜

     Not two hours later, Jean finds himself out in the middle of       town, looking for a friend. Marco had called, said he’d been having       some  trouble  with some guys who looked like bad news and after        trying to shake them off his tail, realized they’d been following him.        Unsurprising in this neighborhood, who you are and what you know       can have its flaws just as equally as it can its perks. It just seemed        that Marco had more of a magnetism toward the non-beneficial side       to it all, and Jean always blamed his face. Too soft. Easy prey. It’s       kind of why they’d been friends all these years, because if it wasn’t       Jean picking fun at Freckles then it was some other asshole, and       that didn’t really sit too well with either of them. On the way out of       school, around the parking lot and behind the gyms, the number of       fights they’d been pulled apart from by the principle had become       an uncountable number. Too many to keep count, much less were       they remembered or cared for. Just like today, Jean finds himself       in the middle of a fight preemptively brought on by his own accord. 

      Only once they’d managed to scramble up and sprint out of sight       does he and Marco take the time to laugh and finally greet each       other. ❛How many times do I need to tell you not to walk that way       at this kinda time on your own, before you get the lesson beaten in       your dumb brain?❜ Jean taps the side of his head and just as fast       regrets it. That was bound to bruise tomorrow. Marco shrugs and        edges him along toward the diner on Fifth saying, ❛It escaped me       you’d upset some people up that way not so long ago. How am I to       blame for your misdeeds?❜ To which, as the bell toned above the       door as they entered, Jean counters, ❛Tell that to them when       you’re being curb-stomped, yeah?❜ What he hates, is he’s serious.

      They slip into the booth nearest the window so they can see what        may or may not be coming after them, and Jean lowers his face        to rest his swollen cheek on the cool surface of the table as Marco       conspicuously pulls the menu up to his nose. ❛Do you know what       they were after?❜ His friend asks and unfortunately Jean could        hazard a guess or two. Though he was reluctant to admit it and        does so with a lengthy sigh that lifts his shoulders first. 

                                                                     ❛ — Money, probably.❜

continued from [ x ]

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          Ｂrows furrowed just slightly, but it was enough of a giveaway to the younger that he was correct in that assumption. Erwin was good at most things, but he had no idea how to navigate Netflix. He had always just went and either rented movies from Red Box, or just downloaded them. Now he had movies and T.V series right at his fingertips. It was too much power for any one person, and as such, he was quite overwhelmed by it. Oh that rather COY smirk on those lips. He knew that Jean was quietly having a laugh at his expense. Kids these days. He almost huffed, but managed to retain his dignity by squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat.

          “Of course I do. I just thought that you might want to watch something with me one of these days. It can be a series or it can be movies—whichever is fine.”

Of course he does. What a liar, Jean thought. While he didn’t say those words, the look he spared back to his boss certainly expressed it for him. The all-knowing rise of an unconvinced brow and roguishly curled corner of his lip, the boy makes no attempt to hide any of these things. Having far too much fun watching Mr Smith souring about his inexperience and outdated knowledge on technology, perhaps his sense of humor could be quite cruel. Because he could just roll over now and graciously thank the man on the future invite, or he could see if he can get him to fumble now and eat his words.  The latter is favored, obviously.

So finally, Jean, with a deep inhale and a puff of his chest, slaps his hands together and circles around the man’s furniture. “Sounds like a plan, I’m free now if you’re up for some Tarantino-- I know Pulp Fiction’s on ‘flix somewheres... You down?”

No rest for the wicked, only now, Mikasa wasn’t so sure which exactly are the wicked. Too many faces, some distorted into monstrous masks, some not so much, some voices just melted off into grunts and huffs and some legitimate screams, calling out even their names. How did they know? She still hears one particular calling out her own. And then Jean’s…

A good amount of time they spend barricading the house. They give it their best, but all she sees are flaws. If anyone wanted to break through, it would be easy. Even for a swarm of mindless, consciousless meatbags. There’s nothing to say about it. They gave it their best. Mikasa thinks it’s pathetic. 

Such restlessness comes only in the quiet hours, when the instinct for survival is dimmed down, when there’s no adrenaline pumping through her veins, forcing her to continuously move forward, push harder, swing and slash more. Be strong, be fast, be precise. Don’t turn back, don’t look back, keep going. Pull everyone with you. However, now, here, in this empty house, there’s only silence, and the horrors she refused to be touched by started to resurface. 

In such state, there was no way she’d be getting any sleep. Mikasa sneaks out of the room, careful not to stir anyone’s sleep. They deserved it. All alone, she explores the house, even if everything was memorized before, while they were barricading the doors and windows. She does it a few times before finally setting down in the kitchen, rummaging through whatever the previous owners left behind, while running for their lives. 

A bottle of golden liquid, recovered from one of cupboards. It’s bitter, and she doesn’t like the taste. But it goes down smoothly, spreading warmth down to her stomach, where it’s been so cold for a while now. And soon the numbness and the voices fade away, and finally, tears flow out. Silent, wordless, without shaking and screaming, without truly crying. Just a release of all the things she’s been gathering, seeing, hearing. 

She flinches at the sound of her name and the clank of the golf club against the wooden floor, but makes no sound, offers no explanation. Just silently thanks that the lights are off and he can’t see all too good. 

“There won’t be many other chances.”

Jean’s downcast shoulders and averted gaze should hint enough that he has no decent retort, because it’s true -- or could be true, if put into a more positive perspective. There may not be many other chances to sit down and unwind, and in any other circumstance they’d hardly be old enough to touch a bottle but it seems with the quick decay of their world society’s bending the rules with so many other things, he doubts underage drinking is a top priority nowadays. But to him, it is. To him, they can never let their guard down. Mikasa, especially. 

Finally, with bated breath and tense muscle aching his back, he steps forward shaking his head. “I know it’s hard, but it’ll only get worse if your head isn’t clear... We set this place up to be as safe as possible, but there’s always a chance it’s still not safe enough.” Reaching his fingers around the bottle’s neck, he doesn’t take it away but waits. What he’s waiting for, even Jean’s not so sure. To cause a fuss isn’t in his interests but to allow Mikasa to continue drinking herself stupid, well... He’d rather she was pissed with him than let her endanger herself further. 

With a tight lip, he lifts his gaze only to pause. His brow furrows, and in this dim light he’s not certain if it’s a trick of the moon’s glow, the alcohol’s influence causing the sheen, or if those really were tears he’s noticed dotted about the counter in front of her. He knows better than to ask, but with that hesitation comes another round of silence, with nothing to say. 

Relaxing his hand, his thumb and forefinger the only two digits looped around her drink, he gingerly taps the loosened three in one smooth succession. He’d had a habit of tapping whenever nerves get the better of him, and as his amber eyes scarcely search for her gaze, Jean finds the beat picks up in the next reflexive action. As timid as the tone in his voice as he has to force himself to say, “If you’d rather talk than sleep...”

                     as a part of a large, prestigious community, faces COME & GO. names                      are usually forgotten or stored into some sort of file to be ripped apart and                      searched for again. and that is exactly what the raven trying to do, narrow-                      ing her eyelids in an attempt to concentrate a bit harder. ’ not officially??                      hm, alright. ’ it was too much of a hassle, whatever. glancing down towar-                      ds the cover of his book for a brief moment after a while eye contact was                      re-established. ’ then i suppose we make it official. my name is nase                      mitsuki, pleased to make your company. ‘ 

                     unbeknownst to her was her very different attitude compared to their                      previous interactions. giving off some sort of TEASING, mischievous                      devil ( which wasn’t far from the truth ) vibe with taunting phrases and                      suggestive remarks in the beginning. it seemed INCREDIBLY different                      from the reserved and stoic manner that was being displayed. though, f-                      rom the attitude of complete annoyance literally beaming off of him, mi-                      tsuki could assume their meeting prior didn’t go so SMOOTHLY.

                     pointing a slender digit at the book, she had already been entranced fr-                      om the beginning. ’ what’s the book called? may i see it? ’ hopefully                      he wouldn’t see the small gleam of excitement on her soft features.

          He hadn’t expected the formal greeting and to receive it, Jean quirks a           pointed brow. Shows he’s surprised but nothing to indicate he’s exactly           interested in keeping up conversation with her. He’d already made his           impression on her upon their first unofficial meeting and Jean’s mind            was not one so easily changed, much so harder was he to please. The           simple exchange of her name only earns her his mumbled, ❛Jean.❜

          And her intrusive quizzing on the book in his hand makes him scoff.            Not only because it was a book on astronomy that he suspects would            be of no importance to this little princess, but because it irritates the            boy that she’s no recollection of their prior engagement -- and for            some reason thinks he’ll just give her what she wants without a fuss.            Nase Mitsuki may not recall but he certainly remembers the trouble           she’d put him through. Again, all he can think is: Brat. 

         ❛It’s called NightWatch, and it’s old.❜ Therefore protected under his           oath to Armin, who only let him borrow it because his love for books            centered mainly on what was still going on in this terrestrial sphere and           one about stars and constellations could be sacrificed for the sake of            shutting Jean up, provided he doesn’t ruin or lose it. So he turns the            back to his chest, letting Mitsuki see the front cover from a distance            and only as such, still with his finger wedged in the crevices to keep            him on his page. He spares her a look as if to ask, Are we done here?

Santa Esmeralda // Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

The bloody middle

– She doesn’t want to talk about this again. About how she’s horrible for bringing back the memory of a traumatic experience. About how she has no right to do this to herself when they’re all getting through their own horrors. But she can’t keep avoiding this conversation. Not with him…

– “…” But she can’t form the words to reply. She wants him to call her a monster, to say that she deserves this. Her eyes burn and she blinks. Silence is heard. Deciding to keep quiet for now, she looks down at nothing in hopes that she won’t break. Fingers fiddle with each other and nails bite into skin.

– Finally looks up and she peers at his back. Proud… Ha, what a joke she is. 

No answer only encourages his turn, to meet Sasha’s eyes if she’d let their contact remain. So he’s learned honesty comes from the eyes most of all, more than anything that comes out from the mouth; people will say anything if they think it’s what another wants to hear. Last night, Sasha had so much to say about the horrors they’d faced and the mess they’d found themselves in and now, not a word spared. 

For one so proud of what they’d had to do, she doesn’t seem so sure of herself anymore. Jean just hopes the thought wasn’t one of wishful thinking, he hopes she didn’t truly mean what she’d said and wants to place its blame on how tired they’d all been lately. He, for one, was far from proud of the life he’d taken. Jean was ashamed, if only enduring the guilt with the conscious that he’d done what had to be done. His comrade, he hopes, is just lost in herself and doesn’t really know how she feels, so he’s took it upon himself to find out. 

❛...Well, are you?❜

         Maybe it was a little pathetic to ‘fight’ over something so silly             and stupid, but if he would stop now, it would be the same as             admitting defeat, and that was something Mello simply wouldn’t             do – something he would NEVER do, even if defeat was inevitable.             At his comment, he couldn’t help but laugh softly – it was a good             one, though he wouldn’t admit it. “No, I don’t need sharp nails, or             else I won’t be able to type at my laptop anymore… and besides,             it would only damage my leather gloves. But you can go ahead.”             He already knew he was the ‘looker’ anyway.

           ❛Hn,  god  forbid.❜   Even  Jean  was  capable  of  implying              sarcasm  to  a  subtle  degree. Does  so  with  a flicker of his              gaze upward and a feigned tone of dread,  wondering  what  it             must be like to have to worry about such materialistic things.              He’s never really had the luxury,  and  here’s  Blondie with a              laptop and leather  and  acting  all  high  and  mighty  like the              world owes him a favor --  What’s his deal?  Is it the scar on             his  arrogant  mug that’s  alluded  him to have this complex?             Maybe that explains the whole better-than-you ordeal they’re             having here, ha. What a character this guy is.❛Y’know, I’ve             been told I’ve got a habit of jumpin’ off on the wrong foot, and             gettin’ off to a bad start.  Apparently my mouth can get me in             a lot of trouble 'cause I dunno when to shut up,  maybe that’s             happened here. Dunno the first thing about you, do I?  How’s             about we take a step back and  try  this  again, huh?❜ Jean              curls his lip and offers out his hand, ❛You  got  a  name?❜

“Alright, alright. It’ll only take a minute.” Or ten. More if there’s a cutscene. “It’s not like I’ve forgotten to eat, you know.” Just that one time. “I do take breaks every now and then.” Albeit short ones. “What you should be concerned about is that coffee addiction of yours. All that caffeine has to be taking a toll on your system. You’re going to end up with high blood pressure if you keep it up.”

❛Isn’t stress related to high blood pressure?❜ he asks,  genuinely curious as he settles himself against Armin’s drawers and folds his arms. If he has to wait, he might as well make himself comfortable while he’s at it. ❛Think I’m done for, no matter how much coffee I drink. Besides, if anything, I imagine the fix calms my--❜ a pause, as Jean so casually clears his throat, ❛--temper levels by some degree. Can’t be all bad, can it? If not for caffeine every morning, who knows, I might’a been some kinda mass murderer by now. You never know.❜ Ending his counter with a shrug, he averts his gaze to the T.V. 

        His teeth click together, a hiss pushed past the unamused smile he         wears. For all the promises he’d made Armin throughout the weeks,         and  all  the  times  he’d  earnestly  said  he’d  never  bring  such  a         situation  about  intentionally;  Eren wants this.  He wants  the tense         atmosphere that has  been hanging around his  head for weeks now         to finally burst.  Because what had been  going on up until  this little         point, all the resentment and anger eating away at him bit by bit, he         can’t handle it the way he can handle a punch to the face. Just hit me!

        ❛ Butt in?  We’re  all friends here, aren’t we?  Unless I’m  getting the         wrong idea this time around too… ❜  It’s so unlike him, this behavior,         the biting tone, while the hostility isn’t unheard of, it’s the way he goes         about it that feels foreign. A taste of the alcohols influence, surely. His         hand raises the new glass towards  Jean, a tilt of his head as if to say,         this  one’s for you,  and he  tosses it  back in one  good swallow.  The         warmth is beginning to spread out from his belly, into his finger tips and         up to flush his face. Eren meets Jeans gaze, smile crooked and tongue         thick. His hands come up, an ‘innocent’  gesture, ❛ Maybe you should         make your  intentions a  bit more clear. ❜  and with that  final  word the         heels of his palms knock to Jeans shoulders in a shove not hard enough         to throw him off balance, but with every intention of pushing his temper         over the edge. 

          Another  slap  to  the  face,  Eren’s double-meaning does not go missed           though  Jean  would  love  to  say it had, a natural desire to spite as he’s            being dipped in sourly measured undertones.   It’s  long overdue,  every            snippet of his  bitterness  has  been  left to age like fine wine in the time           they’ve  spent  apart.  Might not be acting as outright about his anger as           Jean knows he can be, but it’s there.  Poorly concealed under methods           he  would use to  provoke  a  reaction out of the very one in front of him.            He can see exactly what Eren’s  trying  to do, and he doesn’t so much            as blink to the other’s head-tipping gesture.   But it’s undeniable  this is           bothering him. Here, in front of everyone,  he chooses to have this talk. 

          Eyes  stray  from  Eren  as his palms collide to chest, and Jean has to           steal an inhale before he’s comfortable that  his  nerves  are controlled.           It wasn’t a hard shove but he takes  the  step  back  anyway, for both of           their sakes, he will not bite to it here. ❛You’re funny,❜  he  tells  him,           though with how  taut  his  jaw  has  gotten  and how stern his stare has           become,  it’s  obvious  Jean  doesn’t  truly think  so.   And he makes a            show  of  tucking  his  hands into his back pockets  where  they  intend            to stay as  he  says,  ❛I can see what you’re  tryin’  to  do  here, lucky           I’m not drunk enough to  fall  for it.❜ Annoying  as  it  might  be,  Jean            doesn’t  want  to  fight  him.  Like  last  time,  he  can’t  bring himself to            take that swing. A battle of his  pride  against his concern, he knots his            brows and nods at Eren’s empty glass. ❛I’ll buy you the next,❜  and           he signals the bartender to both their glasses before returning his gaze.            Turns his frame back to the bar, away from Eren but attention remains.           ❛Should make it clear I don’t intend to spoil everyone’s night, huh...❜

How to Train an Assassin

●▬▬๑ ♔ ๑▬▬●

         “Ｏh no, you most certainly are not. If you were, I would not have chosen you as my apprentice.” Erwin did not have time to train someone who would never extra attention. His time was short enough as it was. Thankfully Jean was already quite good for being as young and inexperienced as he was. All he really needed was a hand to guide him, a bit more discipline, and he was fine enough as is. This made his job so much easier even if he could already see the roadblocks he would encounter with Jean. The boy was hardheaded; immensely obstinate in his beliefs to a point where Erwin wondered if that might be potentially problematic. Jean did not do things blindly. He asked questions, which in this line of work, was not always a good thing. Sometimes it was best to just be ignorant and do as you were told, rather than trying to figure out the morality of what you were doing.

        Was Jean too soft for this job? He wasn’t sure. Erwin would have to see as he trained the young man. Smirking a bit at the groan he was given in concerns to the ‘running’ they’d be doing now, he said nothing as he pulled himself from his machine as well. They wouldn’t be jogging for too long since this was just day one of everything, and he still needed to get a certain gauge for where Jean was, even if the male was already in rather good shape to begin with. Cleaning off the equipment, he made his way over to the treadmill, setting the speed, the incline, and then running. His attention squarely focused on the large T.V before him, wide screen as newscasters rambled on and on about disasters happening in the world or within the city. It was all the same old thing he heard every day, and so he hardly paid it any mind.

        Sometimes watching the news, he could see who his potential clients might be. Simple phrases said to reporters from men and women of power—little things like that told him he was going to be needed by one of them. The thought had been morbid to him at one time, though with age, he simply ceased to care. He noticed that the older he became, the less empathetic he was as well. Bits and pieces of his heart died away each time he killed, and although he did not regret the path he had taken, nor regret what he was now, he did wonder what his life would be like now if he hadn’t decided to follow in his mother’s footsteps. This profession had a way of hardening you, but his mother had always seemed rather open and loving despite the things she had done in the past.

        Would Jean still manage to find that center?

        Time passed by in a way that felt rather sluggish, but eventually he allowed his machine to go into cool down mode, Erwin’s jogging turning into a comfortable walk until the machine eventually shut itself down. Giving a long sigh, he reached his hand up to wipe away sweat on his brow, Erwin downing a good deal of his water bottle before setting about cleaning where his sweaty hands had been holding onto. “Every day,” he replied to Jean’s words, chuckling softly at the sound of incredulity he heard in that tone. “And my pacemaker was made by Tony Stark, so that’s why it’s rather top-notch.” He could be cheeky too; tease returned with his own as he stretched his arms, muscles straining a bit before he relaxed.

        “You did rather well for a pup. I expected you to be gasping and passed out earlier.”

He barely stifles a laugh, really only a small burst of a chuckle before he’s gulping back another breath and reaching for another sip of his bottle. Tony Stark, huh? Funny, he’s learned today that this ‘old man’ knows a lot more about the media than Jean would’ve given him credit for by just looking at him. Erwin Smith seems very proper, like the kind of gentlemanly figure you’d expect your rich girlfriend to have as a father that’s sort of scary in that eerily calm way and never really says much. The kind of face that says ‘I’m not going to tell you to have her home by eleven, but you’ll make ten thirty just to please me’, and he would. Jean doesn’t look at this man and expect him to know who Tony Stark even is, let alone know of his profession and capabilities. It’s surprising, and actually kind of cool. 

❛Touché, then.❜ He nods, respectfully. Finding himself more often than not on the receiving end of their banter and oddly enough, not knowing what to say back to the things his mentor would retort with. Even Jean can’t tell if it’s because he really doesn’t have a decent comeback or if it’s because he dare not push his luck by crossing a line he’d never consider existing with somebody who wasn’t his boss and would rather not go trampling on thin ice that may break at any minute. He knows he’s callous, has a habit of saying the wrong thing and causing friction among his peers -- the few that he has. Mr Smith, it seems, he doesn’t want to disrespect somehow. He wins this round... again. 

❛But hey, woah, can we not gimme too much credit. I’m already dreading these crunches,❜ he grins, though it’s slightly strained as he leans forward and digs his fingers into his sides. Trying to relieve himself of the stitch that’s coming and already getting uncomfortable with the amount of sweat sticking to his skin. His boss might’ve expected the gasping desperation of a boy exhausted from exertion, but Jean’s pride will forever get the better of him. He might even want to pass out on the ground and stay there for a good while, but to embarrass himself twice in one day isn’t something he aspires toward. Foolishly, he’d rather wake tomorrow with crippling aches and pains in his bones from overworking himself than admit defeat entirely. ❛This pup ain’t used to all the exercise, y’know.❜ 

Yes, Jean had caught on to that little nickname and no, he can’t say he’s all that fond of it. Does things to his ego, he likes to think himself a bit above a pup -- just has nothing to say to the veteran before him to truly back up the claim. 

This guy’s like a real dog of war. He wonders about some of the stories Mr Smith could tell, though it’s too public a place to ask and find out without leaking intel into a world that suspects nothing of them thus far. So instead, he wipes his brow and crouches onto his haunches for a moment as his tone grows curiously quiet. ❛‘Every day’, since when..?❜

——» ◈ «——

               she rolls her eyes at his tone, but certain he can’t see her motion                through the darkness of the night– even with the fire flickering                before them. she taps her fingers against her knees, now pulled up                against her chest as she breathes in his every word. she knew he’d                come around – this stuff is way too important to him. he can act                with apathy, but deep down she knows his heart. she knows all                their hearts. ( she just hopes they don’t know hers )                 the warrior can tell he’s tired, but refusing himself of sleep like she                is. she shrugs. ❝ Sounds busy . ❞ Annie stretches her arms, rolling                her neck as she watches him. ❝ ‘Know who you have in your group ? ❞                it doesn’t hurt to ask. and if she’s in his group she’ll be able to prepare                herself for his usual commands and tricks. if there’s another leader in                the group, things might get shaky, so she’ll have to prepare for that                as well. Annie is perfectly fine being a follower, but it can be stressful                if the proper person isn’t chosen to lead.                 she rubs her hands together, feeling them get a little too hot from the                heat from the fire. she stifles a yawn, watching Jean’s cloth work around                the gear in his hands. it’s a good idea, she thinks, to be preoccupied with                something when your mind can’t seem to stop traveling. a sigh escapes                her. ❝ Maybe you should try to sleep , ❞ she suggests, and nearly                regrets it, ❝ people will probably be depending on you tomorrow … ❞

      ❛Alls I know is I’m headed East,❜  and  whoever  may  be  in  his  group,         Eren is the only name that stands out in his memory.  A  lot  of  complaining         on his end should be  expected  with  that  outcome,  not  to  say Jean  would         behave any differently without the brunet in his  group  --  but  Eren’s  known        to take the  bait  much  faster  than any of the others in his camaraderie, and        their tempers always waver thin in each other’s company.  It’s  likely  they’ll        clash at some point.  They always find themselves butting heads eventually.

       Modesty gets the better of him and Jean can’t help himself but to scoff,  and        he places his gear down in his lap as he shakes his head.  ❛Me?   What’s        that s’posed to mean? Depending on what, my ability to remind every-        one how tedious a task this is every five minutes?❜   It’s all he intends        to do tomorrow, honestly.  Bitch  and  moan  about how hot it is and how the         saddle is starting to chafe, and how they’re really only going from point A to        B just to prove they’re actually capable of following a map -- How hard is it?

      ❛If that’s the case, the less sleep I get, the better. Don’t  you  think?❜         He’s not really asking, just amusing himself and busying his tongue.  More        talking means the more alive he feels, hard to crash out when he’s halfway        through a sentence at least. Itching the corner of his eye,  the boy counters.       ❛Anyways,  we’re all gonna be relyin’ on each other.  Doesn’t  matter        who goes where.  If  you  think  I  should  sleep,  why aren’t you takin’        your own advice and doin’ the same, Annie?   You nocturnal now?❜

☣Cσυитiиg Bσdiєร Likє รнєєρ☣

    The undeniable tingles travel up her spine, and she finds herself uncomfortably disturbed with the lack of Jean’s presence next to her. It leaves an empty spot, but she doesn’t follow up to the passenger’s seat, but signals Reiner to go. If Jean’s doing his part, she’ll have to do hers. Moving away closer to the other two girls that sat next to Jean, Mikasa forces professor Reaves to sit between the door and herself, deeming her own body as a tampon zone. The two were still completely out of it, and there was something about their teacher she just didn’t like and couldn’t trust. Hand gripped tightly at the hilt of her sword, knees pressed firmly together, each and every single of her senses on alert.

    Reaves’ large body was all too close to hers, but as she’d move away, he’d only come closer. It’s when Mikasa decided to stay put and quiet, just waiting for one wrong move, a single gesture that would uncover his intentions.

    No doubt that their professor isn’t stupid. And no doubt that he notices just how tense she is, how ready she is to take him on right then and there. He closes his eyes and leans his head on the window and they continue, now excruciatingly long ride. It feels like seconds drag into hours, but nothing happens. The girls next to her start nodding off, Sasha and Connie float into their own world, while Jean and Reiner’s eyes stay on the road ahead, quietly discussing directions. The dull roar of the engine lulls them all away, somewhere far from the horrors they’ve faced, and even Mikasa finds her attention dropping, with fatigue finally catching up to her bones. It could only mean trouble.

    It’s probably what Reaves’ counting on, but not her. Didn’t even notice he’d shifted again, didn’t even notice that his head isn’t resting on the window anymore, and instead carefully watching her; didn’t notice the hand that slowly traveled the short distance to her thigh, right at the edge of her skirt. She almost jolts upon the contact, mouth open, ready to yell out a warning to get his hand off of her. With a single look, Mikasa quickly realizes how that would be a bad idea. Rage and disgust flood over her as she stares at a black barrel pointing at the back of Jean’s seat. Internally, she curses herself for not noticing any of this, for letting herself lose focus, putting them all in danger. Once again she meets her gaze with his, and her stomach turns when it hits her, the gloating in his face. The man already made peace with the fact he’s going to die. He honestly didn’t care about the zombies, about getting to safety. Some other, disgusting things became and now she sits next to him, with his hand slowly traveling to her inner thigh, closing in to the fabric of her school uniform.

     Mikasa wants to scream, but can’t put them all in danger. If Reaves shoots Jean, they all might crash, losing the vehicle, with a high chance of some of them, if not all, dying right then and there. She can’t be responsible for that. As if in slow motion, she watches his tongue poke out of his lips, stomach making a full 360, and her lip trembles. Rage settles in her fingertips, in the tears that gather at the corners of her eye and a dilemma of letting him do this, or trying to rid them all of this stupid, suicidal plague.

    Eyes close for a moment, painfully aware of consequences of each of her actions, and more painfully aware of the hand getting too friendly with her, and the breathing emitting from owner of said hand. Opening them, in a last attempt to warn at least someone of what’s happening, or what’s about to happen, as well as an apology to Jean, she tries to catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, trying to reach out and find forgiveness if what she’s about to do backfires and kills all of them.

    Perhaps luck on her side makes Reaves read this gesture as acceptance; in her peripheral vision, she sees the grin spreading wider, fingers getting bolder and more intrusive, but that’s a mistake on his part. Before he’d even know what to do, her elbow comes swinging right at his jaw, immediately followed by a fist to the man’s crotch, effectively throwing him off, getting him confused and in pain, long enough to forget that there’s a gun in his hand, long enough to forget that he’s pointing that gun at someone, and should probably grip it tightly.

   The rage takes over, another incredible adrenaline rush, and Mikasa knocks the gun out of his hand, continuing with the angry, random punches. Aware that it’ll only take him a couple of seconds to recover, she acts quickly, using her sword to hit the unlock button on the caravan’s door and swinging them open. What to her seems to have taken so long, only lasted a few moments, and with a final kick, professor Reaves loses balance and falls out, one hand still gripping tightly to the seat. “Don’t stop the car.” The only thing that she tells Jean before a silver light flashes for the second time that day, and the hand that went where it wasn’t supposed to, gets separated from the body that sent it there, once and for all.

   Out of breath, shaken, with the world spinning, Mikasa slams the door shut and settles back in her seat, all leftover energy invested into not throwing up. They didn’t need someone like that. What she did was right.

It all happens so fast in the time of quiet, from the point ambers stay focused intently on the road and he’s listening to Reiner’s uncertain instructions back to his home, to the sudden bustle in the back that distracts him. Jean doesn’t know what the fuss is about but it’s terrifying enough that he whips his gaze over the backseat as the doors fly open. ❛Mikasa?!❜ he screams, seeing their professor’s weighty body project itself out the threshold. The van strays from the narrow path being as he’s in no way concerned about which direction their headed, and after having been through what he’d already endured with the girl, he fears this is an act of her crumbling mentality. It’s crazy.

❛Jean, the road!❜ Reiner yells, lurching forward to get his grip on the wheel and putting them right. He doesn’t know where to look, told not to stop and torn between the decision to follow her command or help the man dangling outside. Why? Why was she kicking him out of a moving vehicle, why was she ignoring the screams of the girls behind her? What the fuck is going on? Seemed nobody but Mikasa had a clue, and if that’s not enough on his plate, the streaks of blood abruptly spraying up the side of his face is. It sends him into shock, it sends everybody into shock, and Reiner’s the only one keeping them from crashing in that very moment. He’s mostly worried about Jean’s footing on the pedals and how fast they’re going, is steering with one hand while the other’s slapping against the boy’s chest to regain his attention. ❛Buddy, I can’t do this forever! Slow it down already, Jean!❜

He gets tapped across his cleaner cheek and with a frantic series of blinks, he turns back and relieves the pressure on the pedal. Jean, after a couple of seconds that, to him, feel like an hour of blank stammered staring, slams his foot on the breaks. No matter what the thought process was, he can’t seem to rationalize the reasoning she’d do that to a man. If he isn’t dead yet, he’d soon die in excruciating pain -- whether or not any of the wandering... infected got to him first, it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change the outcome, if they just leave him there to suffer. Once he’s vaguely sure he’s got his bearings, Jean snaps his eyes back to Mikasa in the back. 

❛What the hell was that?!❜ he barks, confused and angry. Stressed and panicked. Not to mention his sleeve is doing very little to get the blood spatter off his face and his hands are trembling.  ❛Mikasa?❜ Jean prompts, ❛Why’d you do that?! What did... We can’t just leave the guy out there-- Have you lost your mind?❜ 

Looking around, the passengers -- Mina, Hannah, Connie and Sasha -- they’re all looking down, scared and as pale as they were before they’d gotten out of the school gates. Only Annie doesn’t seem to fear looking at the girl. None of them say anything though, none of them dare move or untangle themselves from each other. Nothing makes sense. 

❛Jean...❜ Reiner says, that brotherly air about him that feels as though his voice alone has draped a careful arm over Jean’s shoulder and encouraging him to listen.                                         Is it me or does that guy give off the weirdest vibes..?                                                                                            ❛We should keep going.❜ 

LET’S TALK ABOUT JEAN’S HAIR IN CHAPTER 70

another version of something else, Emma Bleker (via stolenwine)

     She takes a big gulp, hiding the smile his answer brought to her lips. Jean not complaining, this moment should go down in history. “No, you definitely did not.”, she passes the bottle, leaning her head onto his shoulder. Is this sort of public display of affection comformative or not? The cider already went to her head, so it doesn’t matter. 

     “What would you do if you were? From money, I mean…”

❛I wouldn’t be sat on the sidewalk drinkin’ cider, that I can tell you.❜ he scoffs, swirling the kind-of-sickly liquid around in the bottle before necking back another swig. It’s a good question, Jean’s never really thought about it before, and now that he has his chance he mulls over the choices. To be honest, he’s quite happy where he is, with her, but entertains the thought no less. Wondering what he would change here and now, if he could. Humming as he turns to rest his chin atop her head, ambers flick about the street thoughtfully, and soon enough his lip curls impishly. 

❛I’d buy a bench.❜