littler13

[littler13]

I woke up from a fanfic coma due to endless obligations and started to randomly feel the need of finishing this silly little story after more than six months of leaving it unfinished

What if…

Fem!Reader (Isabel Magnolia’s sister) x Levi Ackerman in a secret affair.

Not a full day goes by before Levi makes his way into the clinic again, locking the door behind him as soon as he gets in. Like a man on a mission, set on what he wants — the only way he knows how to live, an intensity that consumes you entirely. You turn to look at him from where you’re standing in front of the desk, frowning while he approaches.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” you’re cut short and breathless when he reaches you, picking you up and landing you on the table in a swift movement. You hear the sound of objects tumbling to the ground, impatient hands moving them away. There’s not even time to giggle before his lips are covering yours, soft and wet and demanding, but you smile against them nevertheless. “What about Furlan and Isabel?”

“I told them I’d meet them at the apartment later, and that I needed to clear my head or another dumb excuse,” he breathes close to your mouth, closed eyes, hiding the heat that lives within them for this short instant.

You nod and sigh, already crumbling under his hands so easily. There are many things you know by now, about his body as well as your own, all the different ways desire and pleasure can be dragged out and brought to completion. Still, there are some things about the nature of this that you can’t quite figure out, which maybe attests to your lack of experience beyond him: are you supposed to feel your pulse quicken from the sight of him only? Sense his presence like a shift in atmosphere, engulfed by the scent of him from afar? Be consumed by the familiar tugging in your lower abdomen and have heat spreading through your center even before his touch has reached you? Could any man make you feel this way, if not Levi?

It’s been months of this, quick escapades between patients and robberies, secret sessions of stolen kisses and undercover sighs. You’re used to his impatience, the urge he has to reach out and touch after days of carefully crafted indifference. He was never one for physical contact, and you suppose you weren’t, either. You wonder why it feels different, now: is this only the effect that life-long deprivation can cause in people? Is that why you feel addicted to it, while he looks restless and even greedy every time you do this? In spite of your own natures, closeness calls to you, as if you’ve only recently found out that you’ve been starving from the lack of it.

Whatever it may be that causes this, you like it. You like it too much , a scorning voice appears to whisper in your ear. Its insistence makes you pull away, also halting his crumpling hands over your shirt at the sides of your body. It’s only then that you’re able to take a good look at his face, the slight furrowing of his forehead that indicates he’s upset about something.

“Elric withdrew from the deal again, the bastard,” he explains before you even ask. “He said it’s become too risky to conduct business with us, because of those idiots from the Military Police that have been on our asses. As if they’ll ever even come close,” he scoffs. While he speaks, your fingers drift from his nape to the sides of his neck, unconsciously trying to soothe him. You think he likes that — one more idiosyncrasy in your arrangement —, but you never really asked.

That’s a big issue, because Elric is an important client with enough purchasing power to push you closer to the surface with each successful business. His withdrawal is a tough setback, and it also means less money to afford the high-end medicines that Yan requires. Levi has every reason to be disappointed.

He leans in again, making his intentions clear. No more talking . This is what he does: he’s upset, he comes here. He’s particularly satisfied about a deal, he comes here. He’s not feeling anything at all, just drifting through the day and trying to find something to take him out of his numbness, his footsteps lead him to this same awaiting place with open arms and legs. This will never not be a mystery to you: why does he do it? Is it boredom, routine, distraction? And why do you keep letting him in? You can pretend not to know the answer to this last question, even though the truth of it has become increasingly hard to ignore.

His kisses become more pressing, hands working to open the buttons of your shirt, lips falling to your neck — good . He mumbles against your skin, finger drifting to draw patterns on the patches of your body he skillfully exposes. There’s a drunkenness to him that only becomes evident in moments such as these, which makes you think he actually likes this as much as you do. There’s lust in his stance, but also care — right?

You sigh and try to keep up, but the rushing thoughts slow your movements. It’s not that you’re starting to question this; it has more to do with the fact that you haven’t questioned this at all, ever since it started. Things just happened and kept on happening, and you told yourself that it was enough to go with the flow, just following wherever it would lead you. You don’t know what changed, exactly, but something seems to have, as the strong pounding of your chest every time he walks in would indicate; or the way you’ve been struggling to keep your hands to yourself in front of Isabel and Furlan, now, having to be extra careful not to let your excitement show when Levi’s fingers graze your skin or when Levi’s eyes flicker across the room to find yours.

“Aren’t you afraid Furlan will figure it out at this rate? He did say he’s onto us,” you recall the vow Furlan swore to see through only yesterday, trying to sound playful, both arms around Levi’s shoulders. Still holding him close in spite of your unexpected, spiraling doubts, legs opening to accommodate his body. He sighs and rests his forehead over your shoulder, leaning both hands on each side of you over the table. Sensing your hesitancy; frustrated about it? He raises his head to look at a spot beyond you, and you want to kiss his cheek. But you refrain yourself from doing it, because that would be purely affectionate, not at all seductive. Would he like it?

“It took months for him to even start suspecting,” he huffs. He seems tired, as the marks under his eyes would suggest. And he came here. Your heart aches inexplicably just from the sight of him, a disgruntling sensation. “At this rate, we’ll find our ways to the surface long before his slow head figures it out”.

And would that be so bad? , you bite your tongue before you say it. Not telling seemed to make sense when this abruptly started. It was never a decision, but something you ended up rolling along with, since it was easier to just keep it between you than to try to explain — hey, we’re casually fucking, is that cool with you?

But time passed — months that seem to hold the same worth of decades. Isabel is not a training girl Levi and Furlan took in anymore, but a steady part of the gang. And you’re not simply Isabel’s sister, but a close addition to the group and a constant part of their plans and ideas. You can’t see yourself parting ways with them, the closest to family you think you’ll ever get. None of you ever dared say the word to each other, almost afraid to jinx it; but it’s true.

So you want to say something about it, but you don’t know what . It’s been a thrilling secret, and maybe you should feel satisfied with that. But you want more , and you’re afraid he’ll keep getting comfortable with less , until whatever this is will just fade into nothing.

“I’m sorry for the deal,” you whisper instead, trying to remind yourself of why he’s here , convince yourself of a satisfying reason. It’s not just sex, but the comfort that exists in it. Deep down, he must know you understand , and that you’re someone he can share his frustrations with — which has happened time and time again, in the form of disgruntled, scattered admissions. You know him, and he knows you; that’s enough, or it has to be.

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes soften, his hand raising to hold your cheek in a way that is almost tender. When he kisses you again, you can feel the vibration of a hum pouring into your tongue, low and sultry, reaching out to spread through your whole body. Languidness takes over the previous rush, your hands bringing his face even closer, wanting to exist in the way your mouths meld together. He bites your bottom lip hard and licks it within a heartbeat, blurring the line between pain and pleasure until you’re unable to tell them apart. Unable to recognize your own voice, needy and breathy, whimpering his name in half agony, half rapture.

His left hand continues to cradle your face affectionately — you can tell yourself that —, tongue meeting yours in a slow dance. Your fingers dig into his hair, then wander down to feel the expanse of his chest, the shape of his muscles, almost cut-open and bleeding from the sharpness they meet in every corner of him. From the ethereal contour of his face to the honed sturdiness of his body, all of him seems to rip you apart and exposed, an incredibly gentle experience in spite of the deadliness. His hands are soft where they touch you, intent and so warm, drifting to rest on your thighs. Kneading, coaxing, thumbs circling the sensitive region of your lap until you’re dizzy and panting with want.

Your shirt is already half open from his previous efforts, enough of your cleavage showing for his eyes to get caught in it, simultaneously glinting and darkening with lust. He kisses his way down your throat and collarbone, his rhythm building into what it was before, desperate and hungry while he ravages your skin and leaves hidden marks on his wake. You almost cry out when his fingers graze your center, at the same time his lips close around your pebbled nipple over your thin undershirt.

So good , you can hear him mutter from time to time, nodding your head in earnest. He’s not much of a talker when you do this, but his occasional words of encouragement and appreciation are enough to make your insides melt. This is good , your mind repeats in a loop, too damn good , your shirt finally falling all the way down from your shoulder while you work to undo the buttons of his, completely intoxicated in him. His scent, the sweep of his tongue against your lips, the flexing of his arms when they pull you impossibly closer. You have all of this memorized by now, even if it feels new in every repetition.

You’re unraveling with every one of his low groans, the spark in his eyes raising too big of a fire that licks you inside and out, an exquisite burning. This is good , and you know him, don’t you? You know the effect he has on your body, the lowness of his voice, the bite of his clever statements as well as the softness hidden behind the harsh way in which he sometimes delivers his words. But you also know why he holds teacups from the top instead of the handle, the story of how hot liquid stained his clothes and scorched his skin when the delicate china snapped, making him too wary to trust it again. You know how he and Furlan met, the kind of childish alliance that only neglected kids can find in each other, growing into an unbreakable fellowship with every passing week, for years, now. You know that he hates his birthday and the way that it coincides with Christmas, reminding him of the kind of homely celebration he will never experience. The smell of death and the ache in his stomach at the small room he was confined to when too little to escape it, as well as the second desertion he was met with in his life when mysterious eyes turned his back on him for the last time.

You bury your head in the crook of his neck and sigh, letting the feeling of his hands on your breasts take over you completely, the familiarity of it all. The dangerous, delicious familiarity.

[littler13]

For the first time in forever, I (finally) updated my Eremika fic. So, here’s a snippet.

Chapter 4: falling stars, but not quite

Image creds

"Fuck," Mikasa mutters, suddenly distracted. Ice cream melts over both her hands, sticky liquid dripping down her closed fingers, seeping into the sleeves of her jacket. Trying to control the damage, she starts licking at her neglected cone.

Eren’s mind goes blank. Her plush lips and pink tongue standing out against creamy white. He wants to taste it. Her tainted cheeks and silky hair and soft skin. He wants to touch her. Fuck, he wants to-

He’s surging forward before his mind can process his movements. Stepping closer, until his hot breath is fanning over her forehead. His hands twitch by his side, his own tongue poking out to wolfishly lick his lips.

God, if she could only see what she does to him. He could show her. He should.

"... Eren?"

Mikasa looks up from her task, frowning, confused. Her eyes are warm. He’s warm all around, but he bets her breath is cool and sweet and perfect. He leans towards it, and she inhales a sharp breath. But she doesn’t draw away.

Eren raises his hand to touch her cheek, brushing his thumb against her skin. It’s cool, and his thumb strays closer to her parted lips. There’s cream over and around them. He can feel her breath, and it’s cool, and he wants to taste her. He groans.

“Eren. You’re scaring me”.

Mikasa’s eyes are wide, her pupils dilated, her breath hitching. She can’t do much with her hands, still holding ruined cones like there’s a point. But she never draws away, still searching, still waiting. Eren recognizes this hope. She’s not scared, not really, but she should be. He should step away now before he does something irrevocable, something he’ll only later remember that it wasn’t meant to happen. But she’s here, under a sky and a moon and a streetlight. He closes his eyes, trying to reign in restraint. He leans forward until his lips meet hers.

It’s sweet, but it’s only cool for a moment. Then it’s sweet, and hot, and perfect. He kisses her like he knows what he’s doing, and she doesn’t draw away. His hands hold her face, to forget that this shouldn’t happen like this, or happen at all. But it’s okay, because it’s a dream. He’s just dreaming, like he’s done so many times before. Who cares if he’s awake? It’s dreaming, sweet and perfect.

Eren takes his lips away, resting his forehead against hers. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, and he can feel it down to his toes, like his blood is moving in slow motion.

“Eren?”

Mikasa’s voice is a question and a sigh, and Eren knows. She’s dreaming. They’re lost in it, the hazy atmosphere of something so real that can't be happening. His eyes are still closed, refusing to be opened, only to find himself alone and in the dark, wishing for things that he doesn't want to want, but that can't be fought against. He remembers something important, something that he's been wanting to say.

"Happy birthday".

He opens his eyes, and she's there, pale light on her face. He kisses her again.

Her lips are less rigid this time, more welcoming, pliant and soft for him. Good, because he was tired of fighting. He cradles her face and kisses her until she sighs again, her breath hot and chilling and coursing through his body like electricity. In the distance, a crowd cheers and screams over a dull sound that ripples. Eren licks Mikasa's lips to taste more of her, sweet and vanilla-flavored and perfect. She draws away and lets out a tiny gasp in surprise, foggy eyes searching for his, smoldering like molten silver.

"Eren".

[littler13]

torn out pages - a poem

I'm sorry for making myself the villain in your story when I'm the hero in someone else's. We all have pages of chapters, some of which we like, and others we wish to hide, erase, and throw in a blaze. But a story wouldn't be a story with torn out pages. And I'm sorry you read me when I was at my worst.

✰ - k.

not sure what's with me and using books all the time as metaphors, but hey, it works :)

[littler13]

What if…

Fem!Reader (Isabel Magnolia’s sister) x Levi Ackerman in a secret affair.

Not a full day goes by before Levi makes his way into the clinic again, locking the door behind him as soon as he gets in. Like a man on a mission, set on what he wants — the only way he knows how to live, an intensity that consumes you entirely. You turn to look at him from where you’re standing in front of the desk, frowning while he approaches.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” you’re cut short and breathless when he reaches you, picking you up and landing you on the table in a swift movement. You hear the sound of objects tumbling to the ground, impatient hands moving them away. There’s not even time to giggle before his lips are covering yours, soft and wet and demanding, but you smile against them nevertheless. “What about Furlan and Isabel?”

“I told them I’d meet them at the apartment later, and that I needed to clear my head or another dumb excuse,” he breathes close to your mouth, closed eyes, hiding the heat that lives within them for this short instant.

You nod and sigh, already crumbling under his hands so easily. There are many things you know by now, about his body as well as your own, all the different ways desire and pleasure can be dragged out and brought to completion. Still, there are some things about the nature of this that you can’t quite figure out, which maybe attests to your lack of experience beyond him: are you supposed to feel your pulse quicken from the sight of him only? Sense his presence like a shift in atmosphere, engulfed by the scent of him from afar? Be consumed by the familiar tugging in your lower abdomen and have heat spreading through your center even before his touch has reached you? Could any man make you feel this way, if not Levi?

It’s been months of this, quick escapades between patients and robberies, secret sessions of stolen kisses and undercover sighs. You’re used to his impatience, the urge he has to reach out and touch after days of carefully crafted indifference. He was never one for physical contact, and you suppose you weren’t, either. You wonder why it feels different, now: is this only the effect that life-long deprivation can cause in people? Is that why you feel addicted to it, while he looks restless and even greedy every time you do this? In spite of your own natures, closeness calls to you, as if you’ve only recently found out that you’ve been starving from the lack of it.

Whatever it may be that causes this, you like it. You like it too much , a scorning voice appears to whisper in your ear. Its insistence makes you pull away, also halting his crumpling hands over your shirt at the sides of your body. It’s only then that you’re able to take a good look at his face, the slight furrowing of his forehead that indicates he’s upset about something.

“Elric withdrew from the deal again, the bastard,” he explains before you even ask. “He said it’s become too risky to conduct business with us, because of those idiots from the Military Police that have been on our asses. As if they’ll ever even come close,” he scoffs. While he speaks, your fingers drift from his nape to the sides of his neck, unconsciously trying to soothe him. You think he likes that — one more idiosyncrasy in your arrangement —, but you never really asked.

That’s a big issue, because Elric is an important client with enough purchasing power to push you closer to the surface with each successful business. His withdrawal is a tough setback, and it also means less money to afford the high-end medicines that Yan requires. Levi has every reason to be disappointed.

He leans in again, making his intentions clear. No more talking . This is what he does: he’s upset, he comes here. He’s particularly satisfied about a deal, he comes here. He’s not feeling anything at all, just drifting through the day and trying to find something to take him out of his numbness, his footsteps lead him to this same awaiting place with open arms and legs. This will never not be a mystery to you: why does he do it? Is it boredom, routine, distraction? And why do you keep letting him in? You can pretend not to know the answer to this last question, even though the truth of it has become increasingly hard to ignore.

His kisses become more pressing, hands working to open the buttons of your shirt, lips falling to your neck — good . He mumbles against your skin, finger drifting to draw patterns on the patches of your body he skillfully exposes. There’s a drunkenness to him that only becomes evident in moments such as these, which makes you think he actually likes this as much as you do. There’s lust in his stance, but also care — right?

You sigh and try to keep up, but the rushing thoughts slow your movements. It’s not that you’re starting to question this; it has more to do with the fact that you haven’t questioned this at all, ever since it started. Things just happened and kept on happening, and you told yourself that it was enough to go with the flow, just following wherever it would lead you. You don’t know what changed, exactly, but something seems to have, as the strong pounding of your chest every time he walks in would indicate; or the way you’ve been struggling to keep your hands to yourself in front of Isabel and Furlan, now, having to be extra careful not to let your excitement show when Levi’s fingers graze your skin or when Levi’s eyes flicker across the room to find yours.

“Aren’t you afraid Furlan will figure it out at this rate? He did say he’s onto us,” you recall the vow Furlan swore to see through only yesterday, trying to sound playful, both arms around Levi’s shoulders. Still holding him close in spite of your unexpected, spiraling doubts, legs opening to accommodate his body. He sighs and rests his forehead over your shoulder, leaning both hands on each side of you over the table. Sensing your hesitancy; frustrated about it? He raises his head to look at a spot beyond you, and you want to kiss his cheek. But you refrain yourself from doing it, because that would be purely affectionate, not at all seductive. Would he like it?

“It took months for him to even start suspecting,” he huffs. He seems tired, as the marks under his eyes would suggest. And he came here. Your heart aches inexplicably just from the sight of him, a disgruntling sensation. “At this rate, we’ll find our ways to the surface long before his slow head figures it out”.

And would that be so bad? , you bite your tongue before you say it. Not telling seemed to make sense when this abruptly started. It was never a decision, but something you ended up rolling along with, since it was easier to just keep it between you than to try to explain — hey, we’re casually fucking, is that cool with you?

But time passed — months that seem to hold the same worth of decades. Isabel is not a training girl Levi and Furlan took in anymore, but a steady part of the gang. And you’re not simply Isabel’s sister, but a close addition to the group and a constant part of their plans and ideas. You can’t see yourself parting ways with them, the closest to family you think you’ll ever get. None of you ever dared say the word to each other, almost afraid to jinx it; but it’s true.

So you want to say something about it, but you don’t know what . It���s been a thrilling secret, and maybe you should feel satisfied with that. But you want more , and you’re afraid he’ll keep getting comfortable with less , until whatever this is will just fade into nothing.

“I’m sorry for the deal,” you whisper instead, trying to remind yourself of why he’s here , convince yourself of a satisfying reason. It’s not just sex, but the comfort that exists in it. Deep down, he must know you understand , and that you’re someone he can share his frustrations with — which has happened time and time again, in the form of disgruntled, scattered admissions. You know him, and he knows you; that’s enough, or it has to be.

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes soften, his hand raising to hold your cheek in a way that is almost tender. When he kisses you again, you can feel the vibration of a hum pouring into your tongue, low and sultry, reaching out to spread through your whole body. Languidness takes over the previous rush, your hands bringing his face even closer, wanting to exist in the way your mouths meld together. He bites your bottom lip hard and licks it within a heartbeat, blurring the line between pain and pleasure until you’re unable to tell them apart. Unable to recognize your own voice, needy and breathy, whimpering his name in half agony, half rapture.

His left hand continues to cradle your face affectionately — you can tell yourself that —, tongue meeting yours in a slow dance. Your fingers dig into his hair, then wander down to feel the expanse of his chest, the shape of his muscles, almost cut-open and bleeding from the sharpness they meet in every corner of him. From the ethereal contour of his face to the honed sturdiness of his body, all of him seems to rip you apart and exposed, an incredibly gentle experience in spite of the deadliness. His hands are soft where they touch you, intent and so warm, drifting to rest on your thighs. Kneading, coaxing, thumbs circling the sensitive region of your lap until you’re dizzy and panting with want.

Your shirt is already half open from his previous efforts, enough of your cleavage showing for his eyes to get caught in it, simultaneously glinting and darkening with lust. He kisses his way down your throat and collarbone, his rhythm building into what it was before, desperate and hungry while he ravages your skin and leaves hidden marks on his wake. You almost cry out when his fingers graze your center, at the same time his lips close around your pebbled nipple over your thin undershirt.

So good , you can hear him mutter from time to time, nodding your head in earnest. He’s not much of a talker when you do this, but his occasional words of encouragement and appreciation are enough to make your insides melt. This is good , your mind repeats in a loop, too damn good , your shirt finally falling all the way down from your shoulder while you work to undo the buttons of his, completely intoxicated in him. His scent, the sweep of his tongue against your lips, the flexing of his arms when they pull you impossibly closer. You have all of this memorized by now, even if it feels new in every repetition.

You’re unraveling with every one of his low groans, the spark in his eyes raising too big of a fire that licks you inside and out, an exquisite burning. This is good , and you know him, don’t you? You know the effect he has on your body, the lowness of his voice, the bite of his clever statements as well as the softness hidden behind the harsh way in which he sometimes delivers his words. But you also know why he holds teacups from the top instead of the handle, the story of how hot liquid stained his clothes and scorched his skin when the delicate china snapped, making him too wary to trust it again. You know how he and Furlan met, the kind of childish alliance that only neglected kids can find in each other, growing into an unbreakable fellowship with every passing week, for years, now. You know that he hates his birthday and the way that it coincides with Christmas, reminding him of the kind of homely celebration he will never experience. The smell of death and the ache in his stomach at the small room he was confined to when too little to escape it, as well as the second desertion he was met with in his life when mysterious eyes turned his back on him for the last time.

You bury your head in the crook of his neck and sigh, letting the feeling of his hands on your breasts take over you completely, the familiarity of it all. The dangerous, delicious familiarity.

[littler13]

And we’ll hate what we lost, but we’ll love what we find

Featherstone - The Paper Kites

Wake up to the sound of your fleeting heart (2)

When you go, what you leave is a work of art

On my chest, on my heart

She went out to the haze in the morning grace

She went out and got lost in a tall hedge maze

Where’d you go, where’d you go, why’d you leave this place?

On my heart, on my face

And my love is yours, but your love’s not mine

So I’ll go, but I know I’ll see you down the line

And we’ll hate what we lost and we’ll love what we find

Oh, I’m feeling fine, we made it to the coastline

[littler13]

[littler13]

Sharing fanfic updates be like

[littler13]

This is honestly something I struggle with. I crave validation so much that most of the times I feel like if a story doesn’t have an abnormal amount of hits and kudos and comments then it’s simply trash and I’m trash for coming up with it. I’ve been trying to write just for the pleasure of having an idea in my mind and rolling with it, but it’s still hard and I wish I was more like this you know.

“why would you write fics for small, unpopular fandoms? you’re not gonna reach that many hits in fandoms not many people know about” ?? because I’m not writing fics for hits or kudos, I’m writing them for me because these characters are my blorbos and I have so many ideas, so much thoughts about them that my brain might explode if I don’t write them out.

[littler13]

I get emotional fr 😭😭😭

getting comments on ao3 makes me go so power hungry like. oh yeah you read the thing?? you read the WHOLE thing and even took time out of your day to give your WRITTEN INPUT on it???? make out with me.

[littler13]

1989 (Taylor's Version) / New Romantics

[littler13]

New on Tumblr; some eremika fic 'cause why not

Ok I'm three chapters in on this one, here's an excerpt while I try to figure out how this tumblr thing works?

"You gotta put me in, coach," Eren says, legs shaking uncontrollably on the bench, as if he was struck by lightening and the burst of energy chose to find shelter in his veins. 

"No fucking way. Your stupidity already did enough," Levi says in a rare display of anger. 

Their master plan started to crumble the minute Eren arrived with the complexion of a deranged man, unable to stop jumping up and down, eyes almost popping out of their orbits. Not even Hange was able to hide their horror upon hearing he had gulped down the entire bottle of their home-made "energy drink" – as they chose to call it –, even though he had been thoroughly warned to only ingest a small dosage of it every day for adaptation. Now they got fucking Marlo in the field and, sure, he's not the worst, but he's certainly not up to the task, either. 

"I can outrun anyone in this field right now," Eren says, jumping up from his spot and trying to contain his indomitable limbs. "Put me in , I'm serious. We're already losing, what's the worst that could happen?"

"I mean," Connie considers. "He has a point".

"He's in no shape," Mikasa intervenes, frowning. Sweat makes her dark hair glint in an oddly endearing way. "His heart is already working in overdrive, and his limbs can collapse from exhaustion at any moment". The team stares at her, and she tries her best to stand her ground as a scientist instead of an overly protective… friend. "This can end badly ".

"So I'll run these last fifteen minutes until they decide to stop," Eren retorts, still only looking at Levi.

"Mikasa is right," Mina says. "Putting him there is insanity".

"PUT HIM ON THE FIELD!"

A sudden bellow is heard right behind them, coming from the eavesdropping seagull mascot. Levi almost drops his clipboard. 

"Thank you, bro!" Eren taps a fist to his chest twice before pointing at him, and Floch's gloved hand reciprocates the gesture over his feathery outfit. Everyone rolls their eyes. 

"Fuck off , seagull!" Levi moves to scare the atrocious bird away, and Floch runs off to meet the rest of the cheerleading front. 

"Are we high right now?" Sasha asks in a quiet voice.