Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
i haven’t posted any writing since jan, because my phone unfortunately had died, permanently due to overheating. i usually write on my phone because it’s convenient and easier to access + my laptop has a glitching screen which can be a hassle to work with. plus, i was doing my internship until it ended earlier this month.
because of this, i wasn’t very motivated to write anything, and i also don’t feel connected to my stories at this point in time.
i still think about mwagtc everyday, but idk when i’ll return to writing. i do feel motivated when i see the lack of jean ff, like someone has to do something about this! a lot of the fics i’m subscribed to haven’t been posting too.
i always think of the one comment on ao3 that said they didn’t know they needed the kind of representation i was writing until they read it. those kinds of comments are why i started publishing online 💚
i feel like one thing that also holds me back is that i haven’t proprly studied jean as a character yet, so i feel like i can’t write yet until i have mastered jean’s character completely. but then a lot of people change jean’s personality anyway, right? interpretations are valid, but i like to keep him as closely to canon as possible because that’s the character we all love.
a lot of the times, i read ff for a long time and then get back to canon jean, i seriously get whiplash at how different his canon personality is.
anyway, thank you for reading and have a great day!
tysm for answering!! i didn’t want to say this at first because i didn’t want to unintentionally sway any answers but i’m also in the majority opinion which is that jean is neurotypical! i wish people elaborated on nd jean tho, i wanna know more about that!!
i haven’t read the rest of the manga yet and watched the anime in a long time so i was wondering if i had missed out on any clues, cues or hints that could possibly be so, or if people think that he’s high masking/functioning
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
as someone who doesn't want kids but is a kirstein lover no. 1 and constantly reads in every fic how much he wants kids i need you to understand how huge your fic same page, all the way is for me
yeahhh i’m the same as you and so are a lot of people!! i’m glad i’m not alone and that there is a target audience for that fic 💚 thank you so much for reaching out to me to say this, it means a lot!!
my niche is writing husband jean with no kids and i’m sticking to it!
I see a lot of people headcanoning Modern!Jean to be French while an equal amount of people headcanon him to be German, so I propose a middle ground.
Jean is born and raised in Stuttgart but his mother sends him out of the city to live with relatives in France every summer and as much as he complains about being away from the city each year, Jean secretly loves it.
i probably am the winner for most obscure hc but he is an honorary southeast asian to me as in like an immigrant who grew up there who hasn’t quite assimilated (but at the same time i also see him as one with the nationality but not ethnicity)
not all the time though and this is definitely a level 4 self indulgent hc
✦ — summary: When you're at a family gathering and Jean's relatives keep asking you when you'll have kids—even though you've already been married for years and have constantly stated that you weren't going to have any. But that was when you learned that he wanted children before marrying you.
To those whose hearts dropped when you saw his future dream of having a baby when living in the interior—this goes out to all of you!!
✦ — about: 2.4k words. jean kirstein x fem! reader. modern au. married couple. implied neurovidergent+poc reader if you squint but anyone can read!
✦ — tags: hurt/comfort. angst with a happy ending.
✦ —cw: expectations of having kids. reader has a nightmare about being pregnant (briefly mentioned).
✦ — a/n: “This is for—" checks notes, "all my ladies who want to marry Jean Kirstein but don't want any children, but a lot of fics with husband! Jean include them."
Actually all of my fics are husband! Jean without any kids, but this one just emphasizes it because unfortunately it's a part of life that relatives question you for making different choices.
The step of having children and raising them had been raised as a mandatory step in life when you were growing up.
Your parents bought you dolls to take care of and look after; expecting you to be cradling the plastic in your arms, changing its dry diapers, and feeding it a hollow bottle of milk.
But even since you were young, before you learned how to read or write, the thought of going through physical pain for months and having to raise something dependent, loud, and messy was not appealing to you—even though you were barely older than the demographic you didn't find appealing (nor were you that different).
“You'll change your mind when you're older” made you scrunch your nose in confusion. No you wouldn't, why would you?
And years later, you never did.
A crying child was taking staggering steps towards you, mouth hanging wide open as wails came out, the other tiny hand rubbing his eye that was brimming with tears.
“Oh–um,” you kneeled, hands waving in the air, unsure of what to do, “Hello?”
“I got it,” Jean bent down and picked up the little boy, combing his unruly brown hair back with his fingers while talking in a softer voice, “What's wrong?”
As the child babbled, pointing at the group of kids from afar, Jean listened attentively.
One of the aunties cooed as they watched him care for the child in awe, “Jean used to tell everyone how much he wanted to be rich in order to take care of his wife and kids, it was so cute.”
You hadn't known that.
“So when are the kids coming? It's been a long time already, don't you think?”
“We already said that we won't be having any,” Jean replied with a stern voice, turning his face away from the child to show a deadpan expression.
“But you said you wanted children, before her.” The woman then turned her attention to you with a scolding voice, “You know, it's selfish to keep him from that dream. The pain is normal, beautiful even—”
Another auntie held your shoulder, appearing out of thin air, starting to whisper prayers about God blessing you with children soon.
It happened too quickly for anyone to react, and you were frozen in surprise, unable to react or pull away before she did so first with a satisfied expression.
That made your stomach feel sick, even though her intentions were good, and that it was just a prayer, it didn't stop the pit of unease forming in your stomach. It was just a prayer, it wasn't like there was automatically a child coming on the way, but someone praying for something you didn't want, setting that expectation on you—your anxiety spiked.
There was another hand on your shoulder, but the comforting voice of Jean's mother pulled you out of your thoughts, “I'm awfully sorry, may I borrow you for something?”
“I can—” Jean spoke up, not wanting you to do anything after that peculiar moment.
“No it's fine, Jean-boy. You take care of the little one.” Your mother in law replied, waving her hand before carefully guiding you to a room—her room. It was somewhere no one would dare to step in, unlike Jean's childhood bedroom, in which a random baby was probably already sleeping there.
The master bedroom had a faint smell of rose powder and the scent of old wooden furniture. It was definitely a time-capsule of a room with old style furniture and stacks of boxes on top of the wardrobes carved with intricate patterns.
Your mother in law turned to you after closing the door, touching your arm lightly, her soft brown eyes looking at you, “Are you alright? I'm sorry that she said those words to you.”
“It's alright. It's not the first time.”
“Still…it's not right for her to keep saying these things.”
“Is it true? That he wanted kids before he married me?” you bit your bottom lip in worry.
She looked down, eyes looking to the side as she contemplated the best answer to not cause any turbulence, “I think it's best if you ask him that yourself. Meanwhile, you can stay here and come out whenever you're ready.”
“Alright, thank you.”
Your mother in law didn't reply, but gave a pat on your shoulder before standing up and leaving the room.
The buzz of many relatives talking, laughing, and kids running and playing could be heard outside the door, barely muffled by the walls and wooden door separating you.
You let out a sigh of relief and laid your upper half on the bed. Social gatherings weren't ever your thing, especially with family. If you could, you wanted to stay there until the event ended. You just needed a moment to catch your breath and process what had happened, and rebuild the mask you'd have to wear when outside, even though it was never quite right. It looked so easy when other people did it, asking the right questions and saying the right jokes.
You wish you were more assertive and confrontational, but as much as you tried, that was more of Jean's specialty. It's the consequence of being raised to be a people pleaser, especially as a woman in your culture— to never be direct, never cause a scene, always think of other people's feelings and needs before your own.
A knock at the door— your husband called out your name, “It's me, can you let me in?”
You raised your head up, and quickly went to unlock the door, Jean slipping inside before you shut the door again, “You okay?”
You nodded in response, going to follow Jean and sit on the bed.
“I talked to those women, so don't worry about them anymore.”
“You didn't have to do that, we only ever see them once or twice a year,” you sighed, thinking about how you accidentally may have caused a rift in the family.
“She knew what she was doing. I couldn't stand seeing her make you uncomfortable on purpose.”
“It's difficult to change their minds.”
“Oh, no, I don't think she changed her mind, just that she'll be keeping it to herself from now on,” Jean smiled, too proud of being able to be convincing (maybe even coercing).
“Jean.”
“I was very respectful about it, though!” he raised his arms up in surrender.
That made you laugh. You wanted to have that conversation later, when there weren't people around to notice the redness of your eyes when you came out of the room.
“So do you want to come with me or stay here?”he pointed to the door with his thumb, head tilting in that direction.
“Sure, I'll go.”
When you went outside again, people were almost afraid to even look at you, looking at you with the side of their eyes. There was no doubt you were going to be the topic of their family's debriefing: ‘the problem child and his sensitive, spoiled wife’.
After the party ended and the extended family left, you and Jean were cleaning up the house while his mother was in the kitchen washing the dishes.
“Why is it only us two?” you grumbled as you picked up fallen bits of rice from the carpet. “Why couldn't you have siblings?”
“At least we have the whole house to ourselves now,” Jean replied as he moved the couch for you to pick up any paper plates, utensils, or fallen food.
You found a green homemade envelope held up with yellowed tape labelled “To Future Me — Jean K.” with crayon.
“Is that where that was?” his eyes widened as he took the letter from your hand.
“What's that?”
“I'm not telling you.”
“Why? Is it about your first love?” you teased.
“Nope,” Jean replied seriously while carrying it with him.
You narrowed your eyes, but decided to leave it until later when you were getting ready to sleep.
His childhood bed didn't do either of you any justice, but you both declined the offer when his mother offered her queen-sized bed. It was a single sized bed with the bedsheets still having the pattern of stereotypically boys things, like sports equipment and cars.
Jean rested on his side propping his head with one hand while the other read the letter found under the couch.
“Whatcha readin’?” you raised your head and rested it on his bicep, looking down at the letter he was holding. You knew that if it were something truly private, he wouldn't let you see, even though the words would've been blurry to your eyes.
“It's an old assignment I did back in elementary. You know, write what you want to be and keep it for when you're older.”
“You don't want me to read it?”
“It's embarrassing.”
“Must've said something cute then.”
Jean sighed, head dropping onto the pillow in defeat as he passed the letter over his shoulder to you.
Your eyes scanned the yellowed paper with bloomed stains on it.
“When I grow up, I want to be a policeman so I can protect people from bad people and stop bad things from happening.
I also want to marry someone and have four kids. Two girls and two boys so that they have at least one friend each. So it would be boy, girl, boy and girl in that order. The older two can be each other's friends while the younger two can be their own friends. And they can also be friends if they have boy problems or girl problems, then the boys can talk to each other, and the girls can talk to each other. But if they ever need to be divided at least it is equal and they are not lonely.”
“I got bullied for writing that,” you heard Jean's muffled voice from the other side.
“It's cute, and you could at least spell correctly.” Your voice turned playful, “Why four again?”
Jean turned around the bed to face you, trying to stay in one spot like a hot dog on a gas station roller in order to not bump his broad shoulders into you, “Nah, it's just that when I was younger, I was very lonely so I became fixated on the idea of ‘when it's my turn to have kids, I want four so they won't be alone’. And yeah I used to tell my family about it, but then they always asked me to repeat it since it was apparently so cute to hear.”
You couldn't sleep that night, as much as you tried. It haunted you, the words said haunted you.
Jean was the last and only child of his bloodline. He was also good with kids too, he clearly enjoyed taking care of them. And he admitted he did want them when he was younger.
Sometime in the middle of the night, you were tossing and turning, constantly bumping into Jean's back as you had a nightmare.
In your sleep, that auntie was grabbing onto your arm, the words she said to you echoing. It wasn't just her, but your own relatives as well, and your parents. Everyone's hands were on you, trying to literally pull you on their side.
When you looked down, your belly started to grow like a balloon—there was a flash of white, and suddenly you were carrying a newborn in your arms, the crying ringing in your ears, causing you to shut your eyes. You opened your eyes again, and there was another baby in your other arm.
The crowd made way, and standing in the center was Jean, holding the hands of an older pair of a boy and a girl.
The worst part? Everyone else in that dream was happy. You were the only one in that nightmare who looked at it as an actual nightmare.
You opened your eyes, adrenaline rushing through you as your shoulders were gently shaken.
“What's wrong?” Jean's hands held you up, making you rest your back against the headboard. His voice was gravelly as he'd also been woken up suddenly.
“Just a nightmare. I think the bed might be too small,” your throat was dry as you ran a hand over your face.
“Yeah, how do you think I feel?” Jean scoffed, but it held no bite. He hopped out of the bed to go find a comforter among the stacks of blankets next to his cupboard, “I'll sleep on the floor.”
Jean tossed a few pillows onto the comforter he set on the floor before sitting down and going to lie down again. And you brought your own pillows onto the floor, laying down next to him.
“You just want to kick me in your sleep now, huh?” your husband teased, mouth curved to a slight smirk, making space for you despite his words.
You smiled wryly, “I had a dream about what happened.”
“Well that explains it.” Jean's voice was teasing, but then turned serious without missing another beat, “I'm sorry I couldn't stop what happened.”
“I'm fine, but it made me start to think…” you sighed, breathing in and letting go, “I'm scared that I'm preventing you from having the life you want—the future you wanted.”
“You think I haven't thought of that already?” Jean's eyebrows furrowed, not upset at you but at the fact that you became insecure with your decision because of his relatives, “I appreciate you thinking about me, but I already made my choice. And it's being with you.”
“What if you'd be happier with kids?” you asked, picking at the stitches of the comforter below.
“I'd rather be with you, someone who's real, and right in front of me than the idea I had since I was a kid.” Jean fully faced you on his side to make sure you knew he was being serious, his amber eyes glowing in the moonlight, “A future without you in it, kids or no kids, is not the one for me. Understood?”
“Yeah.”
“Think you can sleep now?”
“Mhm.”
“Good,” Jean raised an arm up like waiting for a hug, “Now c'mere.”
You smiled, resting your head onto his chest and wrapping your arms around him, reassured that you were both on the same page, all the way. You whispered against his shirt, “I love you.”
“Yeah, I love you too,” he replied, eyes closing with a small smile on his face.
[tumblr can you please fix the glitch, this is embarassing.]
✦ — a/n:
- Jean wanted to be a policeman when he was younger as a modern counterpart of the military police, but he didn't end up as one just like in the canon au
- the whereabouts of his father is up to reader interpretation
- I don't want to break reader immersion if I chose a name that anyone would think is unsuitable, but I love seeing the different names people give Jean's mother (lmk yours if you have any)
- Adding on, I learned that it's not in French culture to call your MIL 'mom' so that's why I didn't do that
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
✦ — about: 2.8k words. jean kirstein x fem! reader. modern au. hanahaki disease. married couple.
✦ — tags: angst with a happy ending. relationship issues. lack of communication. requited unrequited love.
[insert green border here because apparently there’s a glitch where tumblr doesn’t let you post images.]
Jean left you alone after you ran away, assuming you ran away to cry. After sighing, he turned around and continued going up. His foot was almost on the final step of the stairs when he heard a loud thud, causing his head to immediately turn. He may have been upset, but he was still concerned for you.
He searched downstairs, and it didn't take long for him to notice that the guest bathroom door was ajar, light shining through.
That was when he saw your figure laying face up on the floor, breathing raggedly. Jean immediately dashed towards you, holding your shoulders, calling out your name, “What happened?”
Your eyes were half lidded, even though you were conscious, you were clearly out of it, not being able to respond.
Jean shook his head, shaking your shoulders, “Hey, stay with me!”
But it was clear that you weren't responding anytime soon.
Panic set into Jean, but he took out his phone and called the ambulance. As scared as he was, you needed help right away, and it needed to come as soon as possible.
While the ambulance was on its way, Jean held you, your upper body splayed across his lap. He called your name many times, trying to keep you awake even if you didn't respond. Jean shook his head in denial when he saw how close your eyes were to completely shutting.
With one arm supporting your back, his other hand went to hold your face. It was still warm when he gently ran his thumb over the side of your face—when was the last time he held you like that?
He was too focused on your wellbeing, he noticed the blood staining your lips, but he didn't notice the black flower petals or the garden you left in the toilet bowl.
On the way to the hospital, he was holding your hand the entire time, never once loosening his grip.
Of course he wasn't allowed inside, so Jean sat outside of the ER while the hospital staff took care of you, eyes kept on the door and the blaring red jewel on the wall. In his hand, he was holding onto your wedding ring, running his thumb over the ridges to ground himself as he waited.
“Your wife has had a flare-up. We tried our best to remove the petals congesting her lungs,” the doctor said after they had moved you into a private room to recover.
“Petals?”
The doctor explained to him: Hanahaki was a disease caused by unrequited love.
Unrequited love? Did you catch feelings for someone else while he was working hard to make your life better?
“Hanahaki can be cured, ideally by requited love, or if the patient loses their feelings,” she continued explaining patiently.
“And if they're not?” Jean asked, holding onto the arm of your bed, glancing at your resting figure.
“Surgery is another option, but it has greater risks. Not to mention it is also expensive.”
After the doctors and nurses had left, he couldn't bear to sit on the cushioned seat beside the bed—he didn't deserve softness. So Jean sat on the cold tiles, knees pressed against his chest and palms pressed to his ears. His back was pressed against the side of the bed where you rested.
It was at that moment that Jean felt as though he were finally present, coming to his senses—work completely leaving his mind for the first time in months. He could only focus on the moment, and tracing back to when it all went wrong.
His only desire was to provide you with a comfortable life. His mind was tunnel visioned into the future, your ideal future, living a comfortable life in a fancier house, being able to afford whatever you wanted.
When did that promise become one that was made for you, into a reason to keep away? Because the harder he worked, the less sleep he got, the more tired his mind was.
When you told him that you wanted him to be there too, he felt like he was already pouring out of an empty cup, but he did it for you anyway.
At some point he began to wonder, were you even worth it? Even after his efforts and wearing himself thin, you still decided to start sleeping in the guest bedroom.
But marriage was a commitment, so he pushed through regardless with discipline.
Deep down inside, he grew tired of being the one always keeping it together.
But because of his neglect, you had been fatally injured. It now made sense to him, even though it made him upset. Of course you hid it from him—how could you tell him that you were suffering when it was because you had fallen for someone else?
He thought that you were being clingy, but maybe you were overcompensating for wanting someone else.
But now all he could do was wait for answers.
—
When you opened your eyes, you could see the orange glow of the afternoon light filtering through the window. The house reeked of freshly dried paint, the windows were still covered up with newspapers, your things still loaded up in piles of unopened boxes.
You were sitting on a couch, leaning on Jean's shoulder, as he was resting his head on top of your own. He was sleeping, letting out a slight snore every time he breathed in due to his head being tilted slightly forward.
You didn't want to disturb him yet.
Looking around once again, you remembered this day—the day you first moved in together in your new house. It was tiring, despite all the help you could get from your friends and family. There were still boxes to unpack, furniture to build, rooms to clean, floors to mop, but this was a new chapter for both of your lives.
You pulled away, and Jean woke up as his head fell forward without you there to rest on. “Hm?” he groaned out, eyes opening slowly.
You sat back far enough to look at him wholly while he adjusted, leaning back and rubbing his eye with a bent index finger. His bangs fell over his eyes, making him look much younger than he usually does than when he combed back his hair—a style he preferred the older he got.
“I missed you,” you knew it was a dream, but you felt like you wanted, hoping that this Jean would still understand. You felt your throat constricting and the corners of your lips curve down to a frown as you tried to hold back tears as you looked at who your husband used to be.
Jean let out a laugh, but it wasn't to make fun of you. He brushed his bangs back, but a few strands still fell across his face. His eyes looked up to yours, warm and filled with adoration, shrugging, “I was just asleep for 10 minutes.”
You couldn't explain to him, nor did you have the patience to in a dream. Your arms reached out and you embraced him in a tight hug, hot tears cascading down your face. All of your sadness poured out in that dream, it felt so real when you were struggling to breathe because of how hard you were crying.
—
When your eyes opened to reality this time, you squinted from the harsh white lights. The blanket draped on you was thin, and the mattress was firmer than you remembered. You felt sweat run down your face, your body feeling fuzzy, and your heart racing.
Your eyes squinted at the mop of hair at the side of your bed. You weakly called out, your voice hoarse, “Jean?”
Your husband immediately turned around, looking at you with an expression of pure relief. He stood up, “You're awake.”
“What happened?”
“You passed out, had to get the petals removed from your lungs. They told me you have hanahaki.” Jean looked at you with disappointment in his face—a far cry from the ones in your dream, “Why didn't you tell me?”
“I'm sorry,” you gave up before even trying to explain yourself. Your sunken eyes didn't move away from the spot on your lap.
Jean was afraid to hear the answer, but he wanted to know, so he asked the question like he was ripping off a bandaid. “Who is it?”
“What?” this time, you actually looked up, needing to look at him, confused.
“You're hurt from unrequited love, right? So have you fallen in love with someone else while I was too busy to give you any attention?” Jean spat, clearly failing to hide his bitter tone.
You shook your head, denying the accusation, “No, there's no one else. What are you talking about?”
For the first time in a long time, Jean looked at you properly. Your eyes were filled with genuine bewilderment at the idea of having someone else, loving someone else, when the cause of your problems was standing right here in front of you—and he could see that. All that pain, the dark circles around your eyes, and how the light in your eyes were gone.
Contrary to what he thought before, it was entirely his fault. No matter how distant he was, or how he treated you, the words he said, your heart still held onto him—to the point that you could have died.
Jean rarely cried, at least in front of you. You could probably count the times you've seen him cry with only one hand, even after years of being married. His knees weakened, and he kneeled beside the bed, palms pressed against his forehead. Tears dropped onto the bed as his shoulders shook.
In those times, you would have reached out and consoled him with your words and actions, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and leaning your head on it, just being there for him.
But now, all you could do was stare at him. Not out of apathy or as revenge, but because you weren't sure if he was still the same man who would accept that from you anymore.
“I thought that I was working hard for you. But along the way it turned to resentment. Before I knew it, I was working myself to the bone without even knowing why.”
You listened to his side of the story for the first time intently, eyebrows furrowing.
Jean continued, raising his head up from being hung low, “I've lost sight of what I already had, took you for granted, and I'm sorry.”
Your chest felt lighter again. The pain was still there, but it was much easier to breathe.
“If you want the surgery, I'll pay for it. I worked hard for you. It's how it should pay off.”
You woke up from a nightmare only to be confronted by your husband, who then started to cry and change his demeanor from how he acted just moments ago for you, telling you he'd pay for surgery that you were too terrified to undergo.
“I…need time to think about it,” you answered, still looking down at the side and focusing on the light from the window, covered by the thin, beige coloured curtains.
—
You were discharged from the hospital but still needed more time to rest at home, staying in bed while Jean took care of you, taking a week off of work— something he hadn't done in a long time.
He would cook everything for you, unless you requested something from a restaurant or a cafe.
As nice as it was, you were still upset at Jean. An ugly voice gnawing in the back of your mind bitterly whispers that the only reason he started caring for you again was because you almost died. It took him nearly losing you forever to realize what he had almost lost, and now he was trying to repair it.
And you couldn't just accept his kind demeanour after dealing with him being so cold to you for so long that it felt like this version you've been wanting back felt wrong. Especially when the words he said that night of your anniversary that almost took your life still haunted you. That was the power he held over you with this disease, and you were terrified of it happening again.
While he did already apologize at the hospital and was clearly making an effort to fix his mistakes, it was still maddening to see him act like the person who told you he didn't love you anymore was gone.
At first you assumed that your heart felt lighter because Jean was finally loving you again. But with the voice in your head that kept criticizing him, you also wondered if maybe…were you the one falling out of love this time?
It was a morbid thought, but also a sign for you and Jean to finally talk properly.
So you did, when he was placing your tray of breakfast on your nightstand as usual. Jean already was back to working again, but he still made the effort to wake up early and cook you something.
“I don't want the surgery.” you said while watching him set up your meal on the bed tray. With a little bit more vulnerability, you added, “But, at the same time, I don't want you to love me because of this.”
Jean was a bit startled to hear you talk out of nowhere, especially since your words with him have been sparse lately. Then again, it was normal for you to start a conversation out of nowhere. He was almost relieved to see a familiar trait return to you once more.
“I'll love you anyway. I'm your husband, I promised that from the day I married you, with or without the disease.” Jean set the final plate on the tray, looking down in guilt, voice low, “I'm sorry that it took me up to this point to remind you.”
You added in your own thoughts, “You're enough, Jean. I'm sorry I didn't say that enough.”
“Yeah. I was, for your future, but I wasn't for you.” Jean sighed, his breath almost like a wry, self-deprecating laugh, “I should've been there for you when you needed me the most. I promised to take care of you, too.”
“What you said that night…”
Jean immediately knew what you were talking about from how sad you looked when you said that. Regret twisting his heart. He kneeled beside the bed so he was eye level with you to make sure you knew that he meant every word, “I don't want your forgiveness, not until you really mean it. Until then, I promise to keep making it up to you.”
You hummed in response, slowly nodding your head. While you grazed your left hand, you were now reminded of the absence of your wedding ring. Well, you noticed before, but of course you didn't want to ask Jean at the time. “Where did my ring go?”
“Oh, I got it.” Jean took the ring out of his pocket, and then looked at you with a timid expression, one he rarely wore on his face, “May I put it on?”
“Sure,” you replied, extending your hand for him to take, and he did, gently taking your smaller hands to slip it back on your finger.
Before Jean could pull his hand away, and he did that despite himself because he was unsure if you were averse to his touch, you held on. It wasn't a tight grip, just a resistance to him moving away. You looked at his face as you did, watching for signs of discomfort or disgust, but of course now Jean just kept his hand there.
You observed him, comparing him to the dream. He was just as tired, but not from picking up boxes and furniture to move into the house. Months of overworking and exerting himself to his work caught up to him, but his eyes were now a soft yellow ochre, looking at you curiously.
“I…” you started, throat constricting again as you failed to hold back the tears, squeezing his warm hand, “I've missed you so much—”
Jean opened his arms, a sign that he was giving you permission to embrace him, and you immediately wrapped your arms around his shoulders as you cried, tears making a mess on his shirt.
“I know—I know, I'm sorry.” Your husband held you securely even as your body trembled from crying to hard. His other hand stroked your back in a gentle manner, looking up at the ceiling to keep his own tears from falling. “I missed you too.”
For the first time in a long time, you think that things might be okay after all.
[insert green border here because apparently there’s a glitch where tumblr doesn’t let you post images.]
✦ — summary: you and jean had a loving marriage, until he gradually started to work himself to the bone. he insisted that it was because he was busy, but the flowers suffocating your breath didn't quite reassure you.
✦ — about: 1.9k words. jean kirstein x fem! reader. modern au. hanahaki disease. married couple.
✦ — tags: angst. relationship issues. misunderstandings. lack of communication. temporarily unrequited love. arguing. near death experience.
✦ —cw: mild body horror and mentions of throwing up because this is a hanahaki fic.
not described in great detail, but proceed with caution if you decide to read
Eternal love doesn't exist, and there is no such thing as loving someone unconditionally.
You heard once that love was like a burning flame, it would either burn out after years of being together, or turn into a comforting, quiet warmth rather than fireworks. Some even claimed that their love was still as fiery as they'd first met after decades of being together.
As a hopeless romantic, of course you'd hope for a timeless love that stayed the same. After never being cherished, you prayed that at least there would be one person in your life who loved you, who chose you first.
It was very idealistic, you admit, maybe nothing more than a pipe dream.
That was what you had thought before meeting your now-husband Jean, who made it seem like loving you was as easy as breathing, and you felt the same way about him.
It started gradually, when Jean was too busy to eat dinner together. Once was fine, but you noticed it becoming more frequent.
Jean: Go ahead and eat without me
Jean: I'll be home late
You read the text from your phone and sighed, typing a response and looked up at his empty seat in front of you.
Gradually, he didn't spend time with you on the weekends anymore.
“You deserve to rest,” you said from the doorframe of his office.
“I'll be fine, I'm just catching up on some things,” Jean replied, eyes never leaving his computer as he typed away like a robot.
Turned into—
“I made coffee for you.”
“Thanks.”
Then—
"I brought dinner for you.”
And there were no more replies.
Like a tap losing water, the love flowing down narrowed into a thin line, then into drops, before ceasing completely.
And like a frog in a pot full of gradually boiling water, you failed to notice the change of temperature until it hurt you. Although, the only reason why the frogs didn't hop out of the pot was because they were lobotomized, which of course hindered their abilities. You, however, really had no excuse.
—
There would always be something wrong with your body. You couldn't remember a time when you didn't have some sort of medical visit for any reason. It almost felt like there was a yearly comeback of some sort of injury.
So when flower petals floated in water dyed with red swirls in the toilet bowl, you couldn't have been more surprised. Bleeding hearts, how ironic.
Hanahaki was a chronic hereditary disease you had since you were young. There was no medical cure except surgical removal— which you didn't want to risk. Other than that, there were medicines that helped to relieve the symptoms, also prevention methods such as romantic abstinence.
The flare ups were horrible.
You stayed up late, the feeling of needles inside your lungs accompanying you as you were looking up your symptoms on the internet.
Jean's spot on the bed was empty, the slight dent in his shape was the only evidence that he used to share this bed with you.
After clicking on many websites, forums, and videos, you reached a conclusion. There was a common answer for the stage you were in, and it was the one she dreaded the most—surgery.
This situation was all too familiar to you, but it didn't lessen the pain every time. You couldn't sleep, hyper aware of the uncomfortable, suffocating feeling of the vines attached to your lungs. It was only after crying, and being exhausted by it, that you finally succumbed to slumber.
Since that morning, you decided to not tell Jean. If he learned that you were becoming a burden, you feared how much faster he'd fall out of love with you.
You started to miss the mundane and domestic moments you had taken for granted once. It seemed small at the moment, when you were able to see him first thing when you opened your eyes, having idle conversations while he cooked breakfast as you waited at the counter, the dinner night out you had at least twice a month.
Now his only routine was to go straight to his office room after coming home at late hours into the night.
It worried you when he couldn't even send a text to let you know that he was coming home late, but not that you needed it now. Despite knowing that he would come home late, you still stayed up, making sure to hear the front door open.
But you were getting sick of waiting in worry every night, so much so that you decided to wait in the living room.
“You should be asleep.”
“I couldn't,” you shook your head.
“Are you okay?” At least he had the decency to pretend to care.
“I'm not okay.” You answered truthfully, and asked a question of your own, tone softening, “Why don't we ever have dinner together anymore?”
“You know why, I'm busy, that's all. It's nothing personal, don't worry about me.”
“How can I not be concerned? All you ever do these days is just sit at the office working nonstop,” you paused, waiting for him to explain himself or try to brush off your concerns.
Jean closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. He then walked forward to embrace you in a tight hug, muttering, “You're right. I'm sorry for worrying you.”
You were pleasantly surprised, and you missed the warmth of his embrace. You hugged him back, digging your chin into his shoulder. “I miss you.”
From the other side, you didn't catch how his face contorted into a wry expression, his hesitant tone missed by your ears, “I…miss you too.”
Ignorantly bliss, your chest felt a little lighter as you sighed, leaning into his embrace and feeling the being in the presence of your beloved.
The next morning, Jean was already gone. But, you found notes waiting for you on the kitchen counter alongside the lunch he packed for you.
He texted you whenever he was on a break, telling you what lunch there was in the cafeteria, asking how things were on your end, and ending with saying how much he missed you.
He started to buy you small gifts; a new flower went into the vase on the dinner table, a box of your favourite chocolates, takeout from your favourite restaurant as a treat.
While it was the bare minimum, you couldn't be more happy when things started to feel like normal again.
His words were there, so were his gifts, and his notes, but the disease never lied. You could tell by the bloodied snapdragon petals looking back at you, and you stared back bitterly.
Jean lied. Maybe he didn't mean to, but his actions did not reflect what he was truly feeling. Maybe it did at first, but then it started to be another part of his routine, something to distract you enough to not notice that he wasn't there physically.
Some people wanted to rip their hearts out to numb the pain, while you wanted to literally rip it out, and it would numb the pain—the physical pain that came along with your illness, at least.
Were you really that hard to love? Or maybe, Jean had finally seen how much of a burden you were, his rose tinted glasses fading colour, and seeing the real you made him tired, distant. Maybe living with you has finally got to him, and he's become bored.
Either way, you should've known it was too good to be true.
One night, you woke up, violently coughing petals in your sleep. Fortunately, Jean wasn't home, so it was easier to clean up without suspicion. But after that, you slept in the guest bedroom, and Jean never even asked you why. Did he even notice you were absent from bed, or was he too tired to notice that your side was empty?
While you were washing out the bloodstains on the bathroom tiles, you started to think. Not that you liked to, but your mind wandered to your husband, trying to think of why he was like this.
If he's coming home late, staying at work, distancing himself from you, those were suspicious patterns, weren't they?
Maybe he was falling out of love with you because he was falling in love with someone else.
You needed answers, because the doubts were killing you, literally.
—
“What are you doing up this late?” Jean asked again, it was not so long ago that he was greeted with the sight of you in the living room.
“I was waiting for you,” you replied, standing up to go to him.
Jean sighed, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up, “I told you not to wait for me anymore.”
“Did you eat already?” you crossed your arms.
“Of course I did. What time is it right now?” His heart sank as he read the date on his lockscreen. It was a day past your anniversary due to midnight barely passing.
“What's going on?” you asked him for the truth.
Jean sighed, trying to walk past you—not even sparing you a glance. “I need some space.”
“I feel like I haven't seen you in so long already,” you turned around to see him walking up the stairs.
Jean paused, turning around when he was a few steps in, raising his arms up in defeat, “I'm working hard for you, isn't that enough?”
You took a few steps forward towards the stairs, one hand on the rail, “I don't need you to work hard, I want you to be here.”
“Well you can't have your cake and eat it too. If you want this comfortable life, I have to work hard for it.” Jean shrugged his shoulders, as if to make it seem that that was just how life was.
“I work just as hard as you do, but I also want to spend time with you.”
“These days, I don't,” he muttered, seemingly an accidental confession on his end, a slip of the tongue, thinking out loud.
You felt your heart shatter, or maybe the shards of glass were the thorns pricking inside your lungs. You sighed, voice defeated, “Do you not love me anymore?”
“Maybe,” Jean answered coldly, bluntly, worst of all—he didn't hesitate.
“Maybe? What does that mean?” your voice broke, but you still tried to face him.
“What do you think?” His eyes narrowed, the question asked in a defeated, annoyed, and sarcastic tone, golden eyes glaring at you.
Your lungs congested, you felt your throat being suffocated as you gasped, so you turned around to run towards the guest bathroom, pushing the door open and immediately leaning over the toilet seat. Black rose petals fell from your lips attached to the teeming thorny vines pouring out of you like thick ropes.
After a while, you fell onto your back on the tile floor, looking up at the singular warm light as your vision began to blur. You felt like you were getting weaker as you heaved painfully, every breath feeling like a razor being grazed to your insides.
Was this the end? The end of your love, or your life? Maybe it was both.
You felt tears falling down the sides of your face, thinking about how the last moment was your husband telling you he didn't love you anymore on your anniversary, and worst of all—your last place alive would be on the cold tiles of a bathroom floor.
Definitely not the best way to go.
[insert green border here because apparently there’s a glitch where tumblr doesn’t let you post images.]
I like Jean being a bit of a bookworm, both because reading helps him pass the time and helps him unwind. Whereas Armin reads to learn, Jean reads to simply de-stress.
Jean's not particularly picky with his choice in reading material, aside from preferring fiction over non-fiction and having a soft spot for poetry. Growing up in Trost, his mother would often read to him on days where the weather made it hard to be outside. And on the numerous occasions where Jean would be excluded from playing with the other kids for his size, he'd pass the time by reading a book.
And Jean's a bit aware that he doesn't have the kind of "bookworm energy" that Hanji and Armin do, yet his squadmates can confirm that he genuinely reads the most books per year out of all of them. His habit of reading a chapter or two of whatever book he has before bed has helped him rack up an impressive list.
I feel like Jean, of all the surviving Scouts and Ambassadors, actually has the most trouble coping over the years. Mainly because he's so used to having to be "strong" for everyone else (as a good leader should) that when he's left to his own devices, he doesn't know how to be strong for himself.
Additionally, he has the most trouble compartmentalizing everything he's had to do during every conflict and battle. The weight of what he's done combined with his own sense of morality makes everything harder and harder to carry. And on top of that, his habit of suppressing his emotions just makes it difficult for him to open up to anyone, even if his loved ones give him the space to.
Jean may be very emotionally intelligent, but only in regards to other people's emotions and not his own.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
