#ada's doing snk stuff

[adalz]

paring - Levi x Reader (use of she/her pronouns once)

summary - a summer evening at the Ackerman’s. Zeke likes you a lot.  And Levi isn’t so happy about that.

tags/cw- high school AU, underage drinking, fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn

word count - 7.4k

a/n - Erwin and Zeke are childhood friends and this is the hill I chose to die on.

"C’mon Kenny…" you whined, giving the older man your best puppy dog eyes as he slumped further into his chair, pouting. The fresh early night air had fallen on the suburbs as the sun started to hide, a cool summer breeze lightly blowing across the small patio in front of the Ackermans’.

"No way. If your mom finds out about that, she’ll fuckin’ kill me," he replied, before bringing his cigarette back to his lips, taking a long drag out of it. On the small garden table, an ashtray and an old pack of tobacco were lost among scattered notebooks and snacks. Zeke, on his right, had seized the opportunity of seeing him smoke in front of you to roll a cigarette for himself, going along with the older man in his smoking effort.

Erwin laughed at your interaction, straightening up in his chair as he reached for his lemonade glass on the table. You and Kenny had been nitpicking for half an hour now, as usual. Levi, who was more than used to this type of scene, looked at you absent-mindedly, his legs crossed and his head resting lazily against his arm.

"But no one’ll tell her! C’mon, it's not like you never let me!"

You had spent the afternoon studying here, Levi, Erwin, Zeke, and you. There was this group project due for the week after, and you were supposed to go study at the town library that day. But when you got there, a red paper had been put on the glass door - 'closed due to unforeseen circumstances'. You all looked sheepishly at each other. Levi was the one who lived closest. Much to his dismay.

"Well, I’ll tell her, brat, so stop insistin’. Why don’t you shut your trap and drink what I got you," he huffed, flicking the ashes beside the ashtray on the table.

"I know you're dying for it too," you said, squinting your eyes at him, "And stop acting like you made fucking ambrosia. Your lemonade is the worst I've ever had. It's disgusting." 

Zeke busted out laughing, his glass indeed left on the table after a single sip, as the only testimony needed for your words. Before Kenny could open his mouth to snap back at you, Erwin spoke up: "I think it's delicious, Mr. Ackerman," he said, all smiles. You glowered at him.

By late afternoon, Kenny had stepped out onto the small patio outside of his house, where you had settled in to enjoy the mild early summer weather, with snacks and bragging about his "homemade lemonade". He'd said it was a reward for a good study session. But you knew he was unused to having his nephew bring classmates over. It was far from his habit to be this considerate. At least with you. ‘You’re so often under my feet that I don’t bother with you anymore,’ he reminded you when you made a mocking comment. Whatever it was, this drink tasted more like a punishment than a reward.

"The second we blink, you're gonna go pour yourself a drink. I'm kindly offering you a deal, that's all," you added, seeing him fidgeting with his fingers, ready to yield. He mumbled a ‘brat��� before stubbing out his cigarette.

"In the sideboard," he eventually said, glaring at you. Defeated.

"I know," you perkily replied as you stood up. And checkmate. As you passed through the patio door, you heard Levi sighed.

You knew the Ackermans’ house like the back of your hand. You could almost say it was your second home; you'd spent so much time there, ever since you were a kid. Well, ever since Levi were living with his uncle, at least. It’s not that you were neighbors, far from it - you lived about 40 minutes away from his uncle’s.

As far as you could remember, Levi had always been there. Even though it never was translated into words between the two of you, he was your best friend. You couldn't discern the first memory you had of him, for he had always been there, his hand in yours at every grazed knee, shared tears, and reassuring presence by your side at every step of your life. He'd never been expressive, but sweetly even-tempered. You’d been told several times that the two of you formed quite an odd team; you were rather outgoing, while he was quietly spoken. You knew most of the other students in school, teachers greeting you as you passed by in the halls, while he preferred to hide in the silence of the library, away from social interactions, which you knew disgusted him deeply.

It was a peculiar friendship, and you thought about it every day, but it was certainly the most important one in your eyes. Everything was so easy with him, his simple comforting presence filling you up with confidence. When you were alone together, you didn't even need to talk.

You opened the small door on the right of the sideboard, kneeling in front of it. Behind the wooden door, like a well-guarded treasure, various alcohol bottles were neatly arranged. They were of different sizes and shapes, reflecting the light of the setting sun behind the window, shining like diamonds. You grabbed the bottle of rum you now knew so well, its label calligraphed with foliage and arabesques. Amber liquid started dancing in the bottle, gently licking the rims behind your fingers. Upside down, safe from the dust, you grabbed two small shot glasses. You thought about how adorable you've always thought they were, even as a kid, the few times you saw adults drinking out of doll's tea set glasses. And then, as you got older, you realized that their appeal was really more in the forbidden liquid that was poured into them than in the object itself.

Kenny rarely drank in front of you, but you knew he was a drinker. He often carried a lingering smell of alcohol and cigarettes that made Levi frown when they got too close. A hardened bachelor, tired of life and work, who knew how to find comfort in little things. And his liquor cabinet was one of them. As you closed the small door, you heard Zeke's laughter echoing from outside.

It was strange to hear it here, in this very personal space. To say that Levi and Zeke never got along was an understatement, but the two boys learned to smooth the rough edges for Erwin’s sake. The two of them were neighbors and childhood friends; and with Erwin's friendship came Zeke’s, the boy wonder, star pitcher of the high school baseball team.

Levi didn't get along with many people, but with Zeke, it was the worst. You always thought it must have been physical, a strong and misty hatred reincarnated in their two adolescent bodies. Something’s off with him, he once told you. It had always been that way, ever since you met the flaxen-haired boy. But you liked Zeke; he was playful, witty. Many people agreed that he was pleasant as he was a clever boy, always well behaved. You liked chatting with him and going to the baseball games on weekends. But all too often you noticed the look in Levi's eyes when you were with him. Black and watchful. Almost burning. When you had offered Erwin to team up with the two of you for the group assignment, Levi had simply rolled his eyes, showing his slight annoyance, knowing that working with Erwin also meant working with Zeke.

As you stepped outside again, you immediately noticed the irritated look on the black-haired boy's face. His eyes were fixed on his uncle and Zeke who were laughing loudly at something they said, their silhouettes surrounded by the smoke of the cigarettes emanating from their hands.

You put the bottle and glasses down on the table, before returning to sit cross-legged on the wooden slats. The sound of the cork against the bottle neck pulled Kenny out of his discussion with Zeke, and he scurried to grab the bottle from your hands.

"Hands off," he said, "I'll do the pourin'."

"You don’t trust me?" you laughed.

"I know you more than I trust you. Don't wanna tuck you in tonight ‘cause your dizzy head forgot how to fuckin’ walk," he nagged, pouring the precious amber liquid into the transparent glasses, unequal amounts but enough to make you feel victorious.

"Oh," Zeke suddenly said, "because you're staying over?" Your eyes meet his as you lifted your head from the glasses in front of you. He was wearing a confused look on his face.

"It’s not like I live next door," you shrugged, looking down at the time on your phone "and I already missed the last train. And clearly Kenny isn’t gonna drive me home either, so... "

His forehead was wrinkled, as if he was missing something, frowning behind his little glasses. Levi called them stupid, but you thought they were cute. Silence fell on the patio, a smell of alcohol and cigarettes wafting around you.

"And… A-are you gonna be okay?" he finally asked, the words slipping out of his mouth. He was almost stumbling.

You didn't understand the question. Of course you were going to be okay. It wasn't the first time you'd stayed over at the Ackermans', and certainly wasn't the last. You must have looked just as confused as he was because he kept on frowning.

Ever since you were little, you and Levi would sleep over at each other's houses. You remembered the little mattress his mother used to lay down next to his bed, tucking you in with fleece comforters and quilted bedspreads, when your mom would let you sleep at their place because of her work schedule. You remembered his room, before he moved out. Colorful books on his shelves. Luminescent stars hanging from the ceiling. Curtains embroidered with tiny astronauts. The blue night light that should never be turned off. And then when Levi went to live with his uncle, everything went away and disappeared with the house.

It was your mom who insisted to his new guardian to let him keep some of his habits. To let her pick him up to take him to school, instead of letting him take the bus alone. To let him stay over, and vice versa, just to be together, often, at least once a week. And when his world had crumbled around him, taking his mother and ripping away his memories within the turmoil, Levi had moved in with his uncle Kenny. Among all of that, it was as if you were the only thing from his old life that was left with him. A particle from before. It was around this time that he started to withdraw into himself, hiding his sweet-tempered mind behind a stoic and disinterested air.

Breaking his usual impassible behavior, Levi suddenly raised his voice, breaking the eye contact between Zeke and you.

"What do you mean, 'are you gonna be okay?' No one ever held her against her will, why don’t you shut up with your bullshit."

"Oh," Zeke said again, a glimmer shining ever so slightly behind his eyes, "because you two do that often?"

"How about you mind your own business?"

"I didn't know you two were," he immediately kept on saying, turning to you, "together."

"Fuck off, Jaeger."

"Levi... '' Erwin scolded, in a whisper. He was looking at them, his head tilting from one to the other, like a too silent referee on a tennis game.

With a smirk, Kenny leaned over to you, "Kid, why don’t you go get Boy Wonder a glass, I think he needs one." He looked quite amused by the scene unfolding before him, mischief in his eyes.

"Kenny!" Levi growled, discerning his uncle's words thrown in your direction, and you made no move to comply with what you were asked.

"Ah, that's very nice of you, Mr. Ackerman," Zeke said, turning his head away from the onyx-haired man, a newfound interest emerging on his features.

"Can I have some too? " Erwin asked.

The creaking sound of a chair against the wooden slats of the patio made you all look up. Levi was standing up, towering over the four of you. His eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes black. He glanced down at his watch, disinterestedly but as he finally spoke, you could see the glint of annoyance shining in his eyes.

"Isn’t it past your bedtime now? Just go home already. Both of you."

"So, you're not inviting us to stay over?" Zeke asked, looking falsely insulted. He turned his gaze toward you, a petty smile drawn on his face. He was certainly not doing anything to endear himself.

"Go fuck yourself," Levi blurted out. He grabbed his stuff on the table before disappearing inside the house. A heavy silence fell on the small patio. Zeke was still staring at you, as if he was trying to figure out something by looking at your face. Kenny had already finished his drink and was pouring himself another. You grabbed yours in front of you and brought it to your lips. The warm liquid almost evaporated on the tip of your tongue, then flowed like a fire stream down your throat.

Erwin stood up first, leaving his empty glass on the table as he picked up the books.

"That’s our cue then... Thanks for the lemonade, Mr. Ackerman." He quickly crossed the space between Zeke and him, grabbed him by the sleeve to force him to stand up. Zeke followed his movement with a grunt, his eyes still fixed on you. Kenny didn't say a word, watching them gather their things.

"See you on Monday!" Erwin greeted, loudly, maybe expecting a reply from Levi, or perhaps to hear him from inside the house. Only silence answered him. With an embarrassed smile, he thanked Kenny again as he put his backpack on his shoulders. Zeke mumbled something to the boy as he pulled him along. Erwin wished you a good night, offering you a smile, and you noticed the odd way Zeke kept on staring at you. 

As they began to draw away, he suddenly tore himself away from Erwin's grip, striding back toward the small patio. You almost recoiled as he threw himself on you, his knees grazing against the wooden slats and the sudden touch of his lips against your cheek. So close to your face, his eyes fixed in yours, foggy behind his glasses, he said in a whisper, "Be careful, okay?", the faint smell of lemon mixed with tobacco in his breath. You barely had time to notice the burning red blossoming of his ears that he was already getting out of your sight, catching up with Erwin who waved you goodbye one last time. You saw them nudge at each other, faint giggles brought by the wind as they disappeared into the evening light.

As soon as they were out of sight, Kenny burst out laughing. You turned quickly to face him as he sank into his chair to the rhythm of his laughter, his chest heaving with each burst of voice.

"What the fuck was that?" you blurred, squinting at him. Unsteady, you brought two fingers to that spot on your cheek. Kenny was watching you, laughing his head off. He eventually wiped the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand, letting out a hoarse cough.

"What would I know," he said between two bursts of voice. He stopped coughing an instant, straightening up. "That’s what I call fucking entertainment. Thank god the midget wasn’t there. Wouldn't ‘ve had the strength to stop him from kicking his ass!" He stood up with a smirk, grabbing the bottle and the two empty glasses, laughter still on the edge of his lips.

"C’mon don't stay here gawking like an idiot, you'll catch a cold, heartbreaker."

"Heartbr-... What? Kenny? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

You promptly grabbed your notebooks and leftover snacks scattered on the table, coming on his heels as he entered the house. Your face was hot and the odd feel of his lips against your cheek was tingling on your skin. You called out to him as you tried to close the bay window behind you, struggling with the handle to lock it, your hands full of your stuff. Before you could even turn around, you heard the door to his room shut. With it, the whisper of a laugh and the bottle of rum.

You felt atrociously dizzy, and you knew for sure it had nothing to do with that stupid glass of alcohol. A long sigh escaped your lips. In your head, strange ideas were already blooming, reminding you of some shoulders brushing, soft looks, and sweet words. Kenny's comment on his nephew left you dubious. Why would he kick his ass? Was it…?

Wiping him from your mind, you walked into the large room, turning off the living room light. Even in the dark, you knew your way around. You walked past the kitchen, setting your things down on the counter. The soft hum of the old fridge echoed in the empty space - on the door you could see a small photo, almost drowned out among sticky notes and bills. You knew it well, that same picture framed in your mom’s room bedside table. These were the only things Kenny had kept from his sister; a few photo albums and some books. Unable to pay the mortgage payment of his sister's house, he had sold the furniture and any other valuables, to take his nephew in. In the small photo, even in the dark, you could see the silhouette of the jet-black-haired woman, her hair blowing in the wind, and between her arms, a small boy just as black-haired, with rosy cheeks and a smile as big as the sun. Their faces were so similar, looking at the lens with the same warm smile. It was your mom who took it.

Your feet led you to the first door on your right, facing Kenny’s room in which you could now hear the muffled sound of the TV. A ray of light was escaping from under the door and you knocked three times before going inside. 

Levi was sitting on the edge of his bed, a towel around his neck and the tips of his hair still wet from a shower he had just taken. He barely looked up at you, his gaze returning to the book on his lap. By the feet of his bed, a mattress had been laid down, with clean bed linen on the padded surface. After you finally took a step inside the room, he simply said, "Close the door." You sighed, glaring at him but he didn't spare a glance at you – you complied and you stood still in front of him. He had no reaction.

"Levi," you said, to get his attention. 

No response.

"The strangest shit just happened." 

He didn't bother to look up at you as he spoke: "Let me guess; Kenny kicked out Erwin and the monkey guy? That’s not strange. I knew he didn't like them anyway. "

"Levi..." you whined in reply, ignoring his comment.

"You’re so noisy..." he said as if to himself, absent-mindedly turning a page of his book.

Without a warning, you threw yourself beside him, landing with a heavy bounce against his sheets. His hands immediately grabbed your arm to push you off. You started laughing at the swift reaction, hearing him grumble "don't get on my bed before you showered, it's disgusting."

It was obvious he wasn't using all his strength, because you would have ended up on your butt before you would even had the time to say 'ow'. You'd learned that the hard way, and he'd since learned to gauge his strength as well. Little giggles escaped from your lips.

"Stop pushing me, don-... Stop it! I'm gonna fall!"

"Then fall," he said, tipping you over. You grabbed his sheets, trying in vain to catch up before landing on your butt, short of breath. Maybe the floor wasn't too bad after all. 

You stayed here a moment trying to steady your breath, head against his mattress as you looked up at him. From where you were sitting, you could smell the cotton sheets, clean laundry, and the faint scent of his shampoo. He was wearing a clean T-shirt and some grey sweatpants.

He returned your glare, the silver daggers in his eyes softer than ever. He had been frowning so much all day long that a line was marked between his brows. 

Suddenly, he shifted, leaning toward you, his left arm stretching, his hand hovering a second over your face. You thought for a second that he was going to skim your cheek, right here, that spot where adventurous lips had touched you. That he was going to wipe it away with a touch. He was close, he could have filled the distance between you with a kiss.

You didn’t have the time to lean forward to meet him halfway when he flicked your forehead. The movement startled you and you grunted at the flashing pain, your hand coming up to massage your forehead. So, it was war he wanted.

In a split second, you grabbed his thigh, pinching at the soft skin on the side of it but he swiftly blocked your wrists. Among the movements of the jostle and your mingling limbs, you saw him smile. The corner of his lips was slightly turned upward, and you could almost see the tip of his tongue sticking out. He was frowning, but because he was focused, not because he was angry. His eyes were shimmering with something different than annoyance. He was looking like himself again. And you’d missed him.

He jolted, grabbing at your fingers, his book sliding off his lap as he tried to keep you still by clutching you with his legs. It fell on the floor with a thud, spilling pages and words. You felt his body lean and twitch, about to get the upper hand, his position much more advantageous than yours. But before he could make another move, you blurted out, "Zeke kissed me."

It somehow had the expected effect. He stopped abruptly in his movement, his gaze fixed on you, the gleam of playfulness in his eyes drowning in his blown pupils. You felt his grip around your hands slowly loosen and his face distressfully fell to pieces. It was as if your heart sank as his eyes slipped away from yours, his face turned towards something on the floor. Averting his gaze. An uncontrollable urge to explain yourself overcame you. You'd have thought he'd laugh at you Maybe scold you. But not that. Anything but that. He looked lost, almost... shaken. It was as if you were six again.

Before you could open your mouth to say anything - anything at all - the bedroom door flew open. You turned your head sharply, tearing your attention away from him. Kenny was standing in the doorway.

"What the hell are you two doin’."

His voice was sharp and very different from the tone he usually used around you - he seemed wound up. It sounded nothing like a question. Mentally, you tried to take the shape of the scene that was unfolding before his eyes. You were on your knees between Levi’s thighs as he was sitting on his bed, both of your wrists still in his hands. 

Levi was looking at Kenny, eyes wide open, and immediately dropped your hands.

"That's not-..." he began, but Kenny cut him off.

"Alright, get your ass out of there," he said with a low tone. He was talking to you, his order given with a wave of his hand.

"What?" you said, straightening up.

"Don’t ‘what’ me! And stop takin’ me for a fuckin’ idiot, both of you. You're too grown up anyway for fuckin’ sleepovers. C’mon, I'm not gonna draw you a map to find the couch."

"I don't wanna sleep on your crappy couch, Kenny."

"I don't think you understand, kiddo."

"Just lemme sleep on the mattress like I always do!"

"I’m not givin’ you the choice."

"But that’s not fair!"

"Well, life’s not fair!" he shouted.

His tone was dry, sharp, quite different from the one he had used while picking with you about the drink earlier. This time, he wasn't joking. You could feel his tired, disgruntled eyes heavy on you. It’s always been his house, his rules.

"Move your ass. Now. "

You thought Levi would say something to his uncle, but he was short on response. You got up quickly, and without giving them a second glance, you left the room. As you passed by Kenny, you felt the smell of alcohol tingling in your nose. 

He said to his nephew, "Go get a blanket and a pillow. Hurry up, we haven't all night". While passing in front of the kitchen, you did not grant a single glance to the photo on the fridge.

You didn't bother to turn on the light, sitting in the darkness on the old sofa. It was uncomfortable, scratchy, and probably moth-eaten. You crossed your legs and arms - there was no way you were going to take a shower just to sleep on this crappy old sofa.

You thought of what just happened. How there was no back up from Levi. How he said nothing. The shaken look in his eyes. Was it sadness you saw flash across his face? Things were hard to understand with him sometimes. As much as you usually had an easy time communicating with him, he had shut down so quickly that you didn't have time to say anything else. Behind you, you heard them leave his room, Kenny’s hoars voice disappearing behind the door of his room as he grumbled at his nephew.

Feet tapped against the cold tile floor, then stopped behind you. You frown as the light flashed in the living room. Skirting the couch to face you, he laid down a duvet wrapped in a cover and a pillow. They were the ones from his bed.

"They’re clean. I changed them this morning."

You sighed, annoyed, grabbing the pillow and placing it on your lap. "This is ridiculous. Why am I being exiled on the crappy couch?"

He sighed in turn, sitting down next to you. He just shrugged his shoulders.

"Don’t you wanna go shower?" he whispered.

"Ew, no way. This couch is dirtier than me."

You saw him smile at the comment, but his brow was still furrowed. His eyes were fixed on his hands.

"If you wrap yourself properly in the blanket, you won't touch the couch. Go take a shower, I'll take care of it." He stood up, waving for you to do the same. You sighed, trying one last time to make eye contact with him, but he was already busying himself with something else.

When you came back into the living room, your skin damp and your head clearer, Levi had turned off the light in the living room, leaving the small lamp on the sideboard on. The light under his bedroom door was also off. As you approached, you made out his figure still sitting on the couch.

The blanket was neatly laid out on the sofa, the pillow resting against the clean fabric. On Levi’s lap was a quilted bedspread. He turned his head towards you as he heard you approach. You saw his eyes slide quickly over you, his gaze grazing your bare legs before quickly looking away. 

You sat down next to him, your arm brushing against his and he didn't move back. Between his fingers, lighting up his face, he was holding his phone. With a single glance down, you noticed that he was staring at his home screen. Seconds passed and no movement of his fingers had betrayed any interest in the device between his fingers. He wasn't doing anything.

"What are you doing?"

He suddenly turned his head to you, shushing you to be quiet. He whispered back, "Kenny sleeps. Keep it up and he'll have you sleep on the patio."

And he was finally looking at you. You felt a familiar, warm feeling as the soft color of his eyes melted into yours. You giggled at his comment, looking briefly toward Kenny's room where you still could hear the TV noise behind the closed door. As was Kenny’s habit, he must have fallen asleep in front of some random show. And even if he kicked you out, you could always climb up through Levi's bedroom window, you thought, amused.

"Levi..." you said again, but quieter this time. Your hand slipped over his to hide the phone screen, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." And he wasn't lying. He wasn't doing anything. But he was doing everything he could to avoid your gaze.

Slowly, you took the device out of his hands, setting it down on the coffee table. You pulled your knees up under you, slightly facing him.

"Tell me what's wrong?" You spoke softly, your voice ever so gentle. It was all about delicacy, so then, with that same gentleness, you grabbed his fingers, drawing his hand closer to you, laying it between the two of you.

He had always been different with you and with others. He tended to talk more, to share what he really thought. It was easier with you; he knew that you somehow understood his thoughts. Sometimes he laughed at the nonsense you’d say in response.

"You know."

You didn’t say a word, letting him take his time to speak. You squeezed his fingers as a silent encouragement, showing that you were, not to rush him. He knew how to use his words; he just had to be given time to do it. Your fingers interlocked with his, in a tender movement. You thought you knew what was bothering him, but you would never have talked about his feelings without him being the first one to do so. It maintained equilibrium, as a well put together play, built up over time - never speak out of turn. 

He sighed, finding his balance in the silence.

"He's such a pain in the ass," he finally said through gritted teeth, lifting his head. He was looking at the wall in front of him. His mouth was drawn as a straight line, his eyes betraying irritation.

You shrugged, trying to conceal a small smile. "At least, Kenny had a blast. He called me ‘heartbreaker’."

His face turned sharply to you, his eyes looking into yours. "That useless old man..." he said, almost raising his voice. You let out a small laugh, pressing your hand against his mouth, your eyes turning towards Kenny's room. Under the door, the light had gone out.

"Why would you let him do that?"

You turned back to him. At first, you heard distraught in his voice. But when you looked at him, a bitter worry had mingled with the gray of his eyes. So that was it…

In his head, the storm had risen. And even though he hadn't said it, you knew it. His hand was gripping yours with force.

"I didn't let him, he jumped on me."

"He did what now?!"

"He was being childish, Levi,” you said, waving for him to lower his voice. There was no way you were going to end up outside. “If you want, I'll ask Mike to kick his butt on Mon-... "

Cutting you off, he said your name in an annoyed sigh, from the tip of his lips, and dropped your hand. He sat up straight, pulling his knees up against his chest, his bare feet on the blanket. His forehead rested there, against his lap, his back round and his face hidden from the light.

"Doesn't it bother you, that he..."

Silence fell again, the sentence hanging between the two of you.

"That he-what?"

He tilted his head toward you, his hair ruffling against his thigh. The lower part of his face was hidden by his arm, but his eyes were vibrant, a cold contrast to his rosy cheeks.

"You know."

"No, I don't." He tore his gaze from yours, grumbling.

"Just say it," you whispered, moving closer to him.

"Whatever."

"Levi, we're not five anymore, you're allowed to say the word 'kiss' without-..."

"Shut up."

You started laughing softly as you dropped your forehead against his shoulder, your eyes closed. He was warm, so warm, his scent filling your senses. As he didn't push you away, you stayed against him. 

His face was still hidden in his lap, and from where you were, you could see the bones of his upper spine peeking out shyly under his shirt. His hair was dry now, but because it hadn't been dried properly, it was sticking up on his nape. You reached out, fingers hovering over his neck.

"Y’know," you broke the silence, in a whisper. You were so close to him; you knew he could’ve heard you even if you had mouthed the words against his arm. Maybe it was time to snap him out of his intrusive thoughts. "He only kissed me on the cheek," you finally said as you rubbed your cheek against his shoulder, trying to catch his eyes. 

Your heart flinched as you felt his shoulders rise, the movement of a deep breath taken. You straightened a little, your knee rubbing against his ankle. He wasn’t saying anything, but you could almost hear him thinking it.

And then, like a flower blooming at the first light of morning, he unfolded himself, opening to your light, his limbs unbinding themselves from a strange torpor. His gaze was straight on the wall opposite, only his furrowed brow twitching.

"I’ll ask Mike too. To kick his ass."

The thought sounded like a confession; his tone gentle, almost amused. Seizing the opportunity, you replied in the same tone:

"Y’know, we can’t really ask him to kick the ass of every guy who's ever kissed me."

The carefree comment made him push your head back, with a shudder of the shoulder in an unsatisfied 'tsk'. You slid majestically against him, laughing softly, resting your head on the comforter that covered the backrest. 

"I didn't know there were so many," he finally said, glancing at you. His cheeks still had that rare rosy tone. You thought about pointing it out to him, but the idea seemed too absurd; he wouldn't talk to you again for months.

"Are you worried for Mikey?"

He let out a small laugh as an answer, sinking back into the sofa. With the tip of your foot, you tapped his calf, as if testing the waters. He said nothing. 

The question was burning on your lips. You could have asked him if he was going to bed. If you should sneak into his room and lay down on the mattress as you usually did and continue to talk about nothing and everything there. But you felt that if you broke off the conversation now, you'd never go back to it. Taking your courage in both hands, you said, "Did you ever kiss someone?"

You expected him to grab the pillow and throw it at your face. Maybe that he would get up and walk away. That he would have given you a look so black you’d have died on sight. Instead, he let his legs slide off the couch, his feet flat on the cold tile, his hands on his knees. And, in a small moment of silence between you, in a shared breath, he gave you the answer you never expected to get. 

You straightened up, in one quick movement. From the corner of his eyes, you knew he was watching you. You didn't expect anything, least of all a sincere answer. You suspected it, but he usually avoided this kind of subject with a burning passion. You were used to waiting for the slightest sign, the slightest opening, and yet he was offering himself up to you willingly. 

A small ‘oh’ escaped from your lips. His jaw was tense, twitching at times as you watched his profile, hoping he would finally turn to you. All you could see was his furrowed brow, drawing a wrinkle along his forehead.

You were so close, and you knew that any word coming out of your mouth at this exact moment would be out of place. Why? - he was more than charming. He had a certain way of looking at you, dim light playing with the silver color of his eyes that made him look attractive, even… pretty. If only he could show that side of him to others. Why had he never shown it to others? Anyone with any common sense would have offered him a kiss if he'd ever asked. All he had to do was ask...

"And would you," you said in a whisper, "like one?"

His face remained stoic, as he turned to you. In a split second, you saw the storm rise in his eyes. Darkened by hazy clouds, reflecting thoughts in turmoil. And without a word, in that too frail balance to even pronounce a word, he nodded.

Gently, your fingers came to seek the softness of his skin. They caught his wrist and his gaze fell on your lips, before returning to your eyes. Impatient for your touch, his lips were parted, jerky breathing escaping from his mouth. Slowly, you came closer, afraid to deter him, to act too quickly, but it was him who came to fill the distance between you two.

His breath lingered a moment against your face, nose bumping into yours as he let out a sigh against your mouth from the anticipation. As a forbidden gesture held back for so many years, he carefully placed an innocent kiss on your lips. You raised your eyes towards his, but they were close, brow furrowed with focus as he timidly tasted your lips. A chaste kiss, lips against lips, dancing gently in an uncertain rhythm. 

In your stomach boiled a raw bliss, flowing in your veins like this amber liquid flowing in your throat earlier. Your air, your breath, your oxygen was his, burning from his lungs to yours, and you took a breath against his skin.

You felt his fingers tighten around yours, and you pulled away from his mouth. You opened your eyes to his lips, to his soothed face, pulling back slightly. His face followed yours for a moment, searching for your lips and he opened heavy-lidded eyes. His heady gaze dived into yours as his hand reached out to your face, sliding to your jaw, curling behind your ear. In one last stretch of his body, he drew closer to recapture your lips and you indulged his movement.

You wondered how long he’d wanted this. 

You wondered how long you’ve wanted this.

You could swear that the possibility never occurred to you - then why were there so many things you'd always wanted to do to him? Like sliding your tongue against his lips, kissing the warmth of his mouth. Like sucking on the tip of his tongue as it met yours between your lips. He moaned tenderly as you pushed your hand into his smooth hair, and clenched your fist in it, and he jammed his face forward.

He was letting you guide him, just grasping, breathing you in and took, took everything you gave him.

He wasn’t trying to imitate your movements, when you moved your chin, or when you tilted your head. He just let himself go. It was so soft, and so eager. Never before had you needed him so much, so close, always nearer. 

It was greater than the need to have him by your side, than the need to know he was safe. Greater than all the conflicted feelings you once thought you had. It was more radiant than that. It resonated in your head and made you sigh with desire against his lips. And his breath responded to yours, as if in harmony. 

Outside, the rain was pounding, or maybe it was that senseless buzzing in your ears, that melody of mingled breaths that echoed straight in your stomach. Everything was overwhelming, overflowing, leaving you like a river in flood. His scent was hypnotic, invading your senses, so familiar yet awakening something newer. And his skin was so warm, so soft, and he devoured yours, pinching and kneading at your skin. There was an urgency, an unconditional need, unacknowledged promises, to kiss his skin, every inch of him, as if to make up for that thing that eluded you all these years.

You felt his body jolt against you, his hands more urgent under your shirt. Before you could realize it, he took things in hands, heaving you off balance and down on his lap, your knees, now framing around his thighs. The movement had pulled you away from his mouth, your breaths ragged and hungry. He pulled you in, claiming your breath again, in an addictive intensity, and you let your weight rest against him. Cupping the side of his face, you felt his neck tense to meet your lips.

On his nape, his skin was sweaty from all the movements of his mouth and heart. Your fingers slipped there, under the collar of his shirt, dancing on his soft skin, tracing the sinuous shape of his spine, sliding lower, as much as the opening of his shirt would let you.

The movement of his lips, of his tongue grew more pressing. It was like a seal, unbroken against your lips, too fragile against the words he was trying to let slip; needy, so needy, he spoke, his mouth and hands full of you. And in the deafening breaths he called you, your name thundering on his tongue, echoing in the dark room. The rain stopped immediately, seal broken, your eyes trying to focus on his face. You found no guilt there, and you lightly laughed at the sight of the corners of his mouth, betraying the flutter of his heart, fighting against his normally stoic expression.

He watched you for a moment, his eyes caressing your face, the words useless in the silence, speaking in looks and smiles. His face was flurried, looking for something you only could give him. You resigned yourself to lay your lips at the hollow of his temple as his mouth slipped gently in the neck offered to him, spread under his eyes, his hands traveling from your tights to the length of your back. 

His forehead rested here, against your shoulder in peaceful intranquility. Your chests rose in unison, and you rested your cheek against the top of his head. Distractedly, your fingers caught strands of his black hair, sliding along its length. His hands stayed firm against your shoulder blades, holding you close, your heart pounding in his ears. His voice was muffled against your skin, waking you from the torpor, and the words wafted between you for an instant, beads of rain suspended in the air, sticking to your clothes, sliding over you in slow motion, drowning the breath you had left in you. It was pure, abrasive. A languid confession.

"I missed you."

Your fingers slid against his neck, tearing off from your embrace. Seeing him, hearing him. Making sure you hadn't made anything up. That the caresses and the words were real. That the taste of jasmine on your lips was not an illusion. He raised his head up, his eyes lowered. You wanted to see the December sky color of them. You wanted to see that spark you had kindled. Your hands slid against his cheeks, and you drew his face towards you. His eyes stayed on your swollen mouth for a moment, moving shyly up your nose, and then, as if in a rush, he looked into both of your eyes. In turns, as if lost in their familiar color, it was as if he could read all your thoughts. And he held you so preciously, with a familiar delicacy, yet, of the two of you, he was the blooming dahlia - a new elation, heart raw with love, not knowing what to do with it. He was frowning, eyes almost imploring. And in a breath, in a slip of a tongue settling everything, he pleaded – "I missed you so much, it hurt."

If you want to be put on (or taken off) my taglist, feel free to fill the form or let me know !

[adalz]

oh no but are we the same person? When I first watch SNK, I was the biggest Levi simp around town and now that I've watched it again, I- ...my heart....and my brain... is full of Bertie... baby deserved so much better, I love him so much it's not even funny. 

You know, when I started AOT in middle school, I simped HARD for Levi. But now rewatching in the present day,,, my tastes have changed

[misercndvs]

@praevari​ asked ;  all the odd numbers!

   SCRAMBLES AROUND 2 ANSWER–––

1. Who has been your favorite muse to play?      if i HAD to choose, it’d be akutagawa. i’ve been writing him for years now, and in my care he’s developed a soft, dumb boy side that’s very endearing to me and i love him so mUCH.

3. Are there any particular aus or plots that you’d really like to write?      i haven’t mentioned it on this blog, but i’d LOVE to write the akutagawa siblings with an ADA au. siblings 2gether and trying to be good warms my heart. but to doesn’t stop them from pulling out weapons wheN SURPRISED––– 

5. What is the most difficult thing about writing your current muse?      i’m gonna apply this question to cloud, since he is my newest muse added. i’d say the most difficult thing so far is keeping an eye on the remake and how he acts while trying to stay true to the original ffvii game. but it’s only a matter of time before he starts developing with me and i make him my own.

7. Who was the very first muse you ever wrote?      the very first muse i wrote here on tumblr was actually levi ackerman from snk! but some stuff happened while i was friends with a particular person in the fandom and it lead to some anon hate sent to me when we fell out, so i don’t associate with the fandom anymore.

9. Do you write fanfiction, or have you in the past?      i have written fanfiction before! i used to publish on wattpad lmao, but now when i write i usually do it in my spare time and keep it private or share with a few people.

11. When did you start roleplaying?        when i was in sixth grade! i used to roleplay on theN.com on the one roleplaying game they used to have. that being said, I MISS SLASHER.

13. Who are five of your favorite characters? (In the rp community or otherwise)        oh my god i have so many. in no particular order ;  akutagawa ryunosuke, nakahara chuuya, dazai osamu, atsushi nakajima, and cloud strife lmfao.

15. What sort of muses do you tend to write?        apparently i attract to dark murdery types?? or fools who don’t know who to use their emotions properly???

17. Do you prefer winging it or plotting everything out?        i don’t have a preference, really! i like winging it on smaller threads, but when it comes to huge, plot point important threads, i’d like to plot it out somewhat.

19. Have you received anon hate? If so, how do you deal with it?        unfortunately i have, as i stated earlier i received some while in the SNK fandom. it got so bad i had to delete my blog(s) related to it and completely start over. i went by a new alias and everything. but i get it few and far in between now. i tend to delete them, but if i think they’re funny i’ll post them lmao

[adalz]

pirates don't go to school

pairing: dad!Erwin x mom!Reader

cw/tags: big time fluff, established relationship, use of petnames for reader (sweetheart) and use of 'mom/mommy'

words count: 1.1k

a/n: three daughters, and they're all named after the walls (but.... i made it extra)

You came home a bit early from book club night. When Erwin said he could handle the girls for the night, you thought it was going to go smoothly - he was more than a capable father, food was in the fridge, you left right after bathtime, and the girls were already wearing their pj’s, ready to go to bed.

You didn’t expect to go home to a battlefield.

“Mariana, come back here this minute!” you hear your husband shout from the kitchen.

You close the door behind you, assaulted by the screaming of the television, giggles, cries and shout of your husband - and you've never heard him raise his voice.

“Hi Mom,” says Rose, running past you, toward the living room. She’s holding Sina’s favorite doll over her head. 

“Hi Rose,” you say as you snatch it from her hands before she disappears, giggling in her pirate costume.

Well. It clearly didn't go smoothly.

On her heels, Maria is shouting at her sister, her face all scrunched up. She has paint all over her cheeks, and up in her hair. When she sees you, standing in the doorway, her eyes light up. “Mom!” she screams.

Her tiny hands grab your waist, and you lean over to pick her up.

“Good evening baby,” you say, wiping her face with your thumb - what appears to be lipstick smudges on her grinning cheeks.

“Mom,” she says, “hide me.”

“For the love of God, turn the fu- freaking TV off, Roseline!” Erwin yells - actually yells-.

Maria looks up at you, her innocent eyes wide with mischief. 

"Daddy said okay to watch Pokémon earlier." 

“But aren’t you all supposed to be in bed by now?” you ask your daughter, as you carry her in the living room.

You find the remote hidden under a cushion, between an empty bottle of fruit juice, half a dozen of Legos and Erwin’s phone (the screen is lit by notifications of your unread messages) - and turn off the tv.

The house is suddenly calm, and you can now discern Sina sobbing from the kitchen.

From the couch, Rose turns towards you, a pout on her face. You stretch a hand to her, and her fingers grab yours as she gets off the couch.

“Rose didn’t want to eat her vegetables and-" Maria stammers.

"That's not true! -"

"-and then after Daddy let us play pretend-"

"-Mommy look, I'm a pirate!"

"I can see that baby." You smooth Rose's hair, as she hugs your leg.

"And me, look, I'm a dragon!"

"Oh!" you say, "hence the face painting and mommy's makeup."

Not sure whether she's being scolded or complimented, she simply nods.

"Don't baby dragons need a big night's sleep to go to school tomorrow?"

"Pirates don't go to school!" Rose says, looking at the two of you from below.

"Yes they do!" nags Maria to her sister, sticking her tongue out. Rose rubs her eyes, frowning.

"They do indeed, buttercup."

Maria grabs your face and squeezes your cheeks for you to listen to her.

“And then, and then Daddy got angry because we wouldn’t stay in bed, so he said okay to watch a Pokémon episode but then he fell asleep on the couch and Sina started to get angry because Maria took her doll to play hide and seek." She marks a pause. “And then we played hide and seek, but Sina wouldn't hide and Maria was playing by herself.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, it was fun,” she says slowly. She starts snuggling in your neck, her voice suddenly tired. Her eyes are almost closed. Worn out. 

You carry her in the kitchen, Rose still holding your hand and taking small steps by your side.

Erwin is pacing, a small pajama bottom thrown over one of his shoulders, his hair is sticking up on his head, and Sina is in his arms, hugging him tight, inconsolable. You can hear him hum a song, patting her back while he tries to lull her out of her exhausted tears.  

He stops when he sees you. His eyes light up just as Maria's did when she saw you.

"Sweetheart?" 

He looks like he's just been rough up in an alley.

Sina is sobbing, her tiny hand stretching in your direction when she sees you. Erwin is still looking at you like you're some kind of mirage. 

"Hi," you say with a smile. 

He smiles back, looking exhausted. 

"Elsina..." Erwin scolds lightly, as he catches the little girl trying to jump towards your hand. You hand her her cuddly doll, and her fingers linger on your hand, the sobs subsiding almost immediately.

She looks at you with a smile and watery eyes while Erwin runs a finger against her cheek to wipe away her little tears.

He scoops up Rose with an arm, and he lays a kiss against her cheeks as he whispers ‘Got ya’. The little girl giggles, rubbing her tired eyes and she finally snuggles in his arm, her arm around his broad neck.

Tenderly, you push the girls’ hair out of their faces. 

“G’night mommy,” Rose says quietly, and Sina whines for a kiss. 

While Erwin disappears toward the girls’ room, you take a towel and wet it with warm water in the kitchen sink. On your shoulder, Maria is fighting off sleep, her eyes half closed and her thumb in her mouth. You rub the warm cloth against her face and the paint fades a little.

"Let's wash your face now and we'll deal with the rest in the morning, okay?" She nods her head.

Erwin is waiting in the hallway and comes closer when he sees you. Despite the fatigue, his eyes are shining as he looks at the two of you. Leaning closer to the little girl in your arms, he says softly, "look at you, finally sleeping in your mommy’s arms, baby."

He takes Maria, gently cradling her, and she doesn't say a word while cuddling up to her daddy.

A few minutes is enough to make sure they’re in bed and asleep safe and sound, and he finally comes out of the room, closing the door carefully. 

You are leaning against the wall, looking at him, at his disheveled look. He looks exhausted.

You stretch your arms toward him and he falls in your embrace, his forehead against your shoulder, grabbing your wrists to put them on his waist.

"Never again," he nuzzles in your neck, his arms crossed in your back.

You chuckle lightly, rubbing his back.

“We can always call Hange to come give you a hand next time?”

“No.”

“No?”

Just like Sina did, he starts to whine in your neck.

“Next time, I’m coming with you. I never want you to leave me again.”

If you want to be put on (or taken off) my taglist, feel free to fill the form or let me know !

[adalz]

Levi was being reluctant at the beginning of your relationship, to let Zeke in his life, to the idea of having to share you with a guy like him and yet, slowly catching feelings for this tall sarcastic goofball ... but never ever wanting to admit it...

They’re always hanging out at your place, and on Friday nights, Levi’s usually the one cooking and Zeke chooses the music and they are nitpicking at each other playfully and you just sit there, relieving tension from your shoulders as you sip some wine, staring at them in wonder… They have no idea how everything became so sensual between them, sweet gestures and words not only directed to you anymore, as they suddenly started to see the other part of the big picture. Levi became sweeter with time, indulging in pet names, and stopped kicking Zeke in the balls every time he got touchy. And they started to like the endless possibilities of being together, and got used to the idea there was ideed a stupid king size bed in your apartment (in which everyone silently agreed to meet in everytime) and the idea of how comfortable it must be, and how cute you were when you one day said it be nice if they both were to stay the night.

It was more than difficult to get to the point where they got comfortable around each other enough to get intimate. And even though the first time you did it they started arguing in the middle of it, it was the best experience you ever had - to feel this loved, this warm and wanted. To be able to give, to show them unconditional and impalpable love with the tip of your fingers. To love them enough and together.

Levi understands how complementary the three of you are, how the inner workings and dynamics of this particular relationship works and how soothing it is to have an ally, a friend and a lover in each of you. Zeke knows how happy you are to have them in your life, how you cherish the way they're able to show love and affection in very distinct ways and how grateful you are for them to have indulged with your desire, allowing them to listen to their own.

They've never asked you to choose, never asked you to pick a favorite because they found a balance, they fell in love with the way you love them both, how you showed them they could love, truly love, outside of what they were taught what love was. and being just the three of you is like building a universe with every second and every word, with every kiss on the palm of your hand and every strand of hair you tuck away from their foreheads and with all the notes of music echoing in your home, all the fond looks and words, when it's just the three of you.

It's not a fight to know who gets to have the biggest part in a play; it's a team moving in harmony. It's a race against the world and against the others and against conventions and you're determined to win it with them. You're decided to make it to the finish line with both of their hands holding tight to yours.

(Or how Levi brings a hand to his lips when he laughs when Zeke says something silly, and how Zeke's eyes wander on his lips and the cute way he frowns as they stare at each other and you just chuckle, telling them to get a room)

(Or how they jerked each other off one day you were away because of work and everything went great after that)

[adalz]

pairing: Porco Galliard x f!Reader / (mention of) Erwin Smith x Reader

summary: you thought that this was your life - doomed to eternal boredom, nostalgic for an absent husband - until you met a charming skipper with golden eyes

tags: modern AU, skipper!Porco, husband!Erwin

cw: infidelity/adultery/cheating, nsfw (or at least very very suggestive) minors pls dni :)

world count: 2.8k

As far as you could remember, Erwin had always been passionate about sailing. You still had vivid memories of the day you met him for the first time. It was a warm summer afternoon; you were meeting with some friends on the port. He was the first person you noticed among the crowd. His blond hair was blowing in the wind, his open shirt flapping gently as he chatted with one of his friends. Your friends made fun of you as you listened to him ramble on and on about boats all afternoon long, pointing at the sailboats passing in the distance. It was the summer of your 18th birthday, and that same evening you made love in his little room overlooking the harbor. 

You married sometime later, both of you cradled by teenage love, overwhelmed by dreams and by the idea of a bright future. Indeed, you made a beautiful marriage, far from being loveless. But you both drowned in habit, in routine. He made a career for himself in finance, far from the sea and its mirage, while your fragile health forced you to rest, to live carefully. 

He had bought a huge house on the cliff, even as you were no longer talking about children. There was still the ocean breeze, to soothe your aches and your dark thoughts. At first, he often came home, curling up in your arms, breathing in your clothes the sea air, his fingers sliding on your bare skin. You opened wine, he sometimes smoked, and, in honor of your past years, you used to make love before the view of the ocean.

Then obligations became more pressing, more urgent, and slowly, you had found yourself alone there, in that villa, Nifa by your side to assist you and the ocean as the only mirror of your boredom. Sometimes, you would receive packages from the other side of the world, from forgotten places. On them, his lovely writing traced “Mrs. Smith”. It was often jewelry, dresses. Sometimes even paintings. And with each of his gifts, you felt the weight of time passing, and your marriage fissuring a bit more. It was just taking a step back for a better jump.

On his 35th birthday, Erwin bought himself a sailboat. There were lots of guests in the villa's grand salon that day, and you were finally living again. The hubbub of guests was soothing, and the stifling attention, here, in your own sanctuary of boredom was delightful. People were laughing, moving from one room to another, illuminating the garden and the terrace with their presence. You recognize old friends, colleagues from the past. All evening long, your husband hand was in the small of your back as you almost waltzed between the guests. 

Below the cliff, in the middle of the calm waves, a boat had appeared, its large sails stretched out in the late afternoon wind, and everyone applauded. She was a competition model, you were told. The best sails, you were told. But when Erwin leaned over to you, whispering in your ear, "We'll go for a trip, okay?", then nothing else really mattered.

You believed it at first. You looked forward to the weekends with unusual excitement. Nifa often told you that you were looking brighter. Happier. But the promises died with the wind. Under your windows, the best boat of all, the one everyone had sung the praises of, abandoned to the solitude of the waves. Such beautiful sails down, waiting for someone to use them, waiting for Erwin to come home. In the end, it was just one more accessory to dress up the beautiful coastal picture. A beautiful villa by the sea, a longing wife dressed in the most beautiful fabrics and a boat mooring by her windows. Leaning against the railing, you looked at it. You were two to be alone. 

It was Nifa's idea to hire a skipper; to make sure the boat would not rust, that it would be in good condition if one day, someone wanted to use it. She was the one to call your husband. Erwin agreed; she made a few other phone calls and one morning, in the middle of the living room, a man appeared.

From the top of the stairs, you gazed at him before he could see you. He was a young man, maybe in his twenties. His skin was prettily bronzed, and his blond hair lightened by the sun reminded you of something familiar, an impression of déjà vu.

He suddenly stood up when he heard you coming down the stairs and his eyes widened on your figure before either of you could say a word. They were of a warm color, sweet like honey, and unconsciously, something in you had given way. He introduced himself, speaking softly, in a suave voice: "The name’s Porco Galliard, Mrs. Smith. I’m the skipper. For the boat." 

You couldn't help but laugh at his formality, asking him to simply call you by your name. He smiled at your outburst of laughter, and, almost whispering, he breathed out your name, sliding on his lips, clenching your heart. In a tender gesture, he grabbed your hand and kissed it softly. 

At first, he was discreet, calling you "madam" whenever he saw you, hardly hiding his smirk, which made you frown before laughing. And every time he met you, he couldn't help but gently take your hand and place a kiss on it. One afternoon, after you offered him a cup of coffee as you sat on the old stone stairs leading to the small beach, you asked him where he lived, and he told you he rented a narrow room in town, near the harbor. You allowed him to stay on board whenever he wanted to. 

From your bedroom window you sometimes saw him, pulling in the mainsail, shirtless on the deck, the reflections of the water playing with his broad figure. Sometimes he saw you too, his hand protecting his eyes from the sun, bright smile as he waved his hand in your direction.  

Somehow, he reminded you of a cat, lounging in the sun before disappearing for days, and reappearing one morning. When he was tired of canned food, he would come knocking on the door for a meal, almost begging for attention. Free and endearing, that was the kind of man Porco Galliard was.

One evening, as you were about to have dinner in the garden, bathed by the setting sun, he appeared from the stairs leading to the beach. Surprised to see him here at such a hour, you asked him where he was going, and he answered that he was going to meet some friends in town. You invited him to have a glass of wine with you and with the brightest smile you had ever seen in your life, he accepted.

And as you leaned against the railing, the sailboat below you still vibrating with its new life, the warm skin of his arm brushing against yours, you realized that you were no longer alone. You talked about everything with him. About boats, about cats. About journeys. Strangely, he reminded you of moments already past. With a warm smile, he said: “With a sailboat like this, you'd probably already saw everything!”

You told him how you had never been on a boat. He turned his head toward you, frowning in incomprehension. How could that be? Mr. Smith had never taken you to sea? You sighed, your heart heavy with the realization. He must have noticed your melancholic expression because he caught your hand.

"Come with me tomorrow," he said, softly, his eyes melting into yours. His fingers slightly slid against yours. He was captivating.

"I- I can't I have to-..."

"Just tomorrow morning. Before it gets too hot. We can eat on board. If you’d like. I'll show you around the coast."

The morning after, you put on a summer dress and a hat to protect yourself from the morning light. On the beach, Porco helped you climb into the tender, pulling you gently with one hand, the other one behind your back. Once boarded, the fresh wind caressing your face, you watched him maneuver the tender toward the sailboat, anchored a little further away. The still timid sun reflected its fiery colors on his face, dancing on his bare arms.

He was in a perky mood, his delicate attention always turned toward you, holding you close to him to help you on board. His hands lingered against your sides as he led you around the sailboat, helping you down the few steps of the companionway, to the cabin. The space was narrow, a small table on the left, next to a space for cooking and on your right, a padded bench -or maybe was it a bed? - with some cushions to rest. You could feel that the place was inhabited, some clothes and books poorly hidden. The sunrays filtered through the high windows overlooking the deck, warming up the room. It was even warmer near him.

-

"Do you want to take the helm?" he shouted, his hair blowing in the wind, his voice echoing through the air. The sails hit the ocean wind as you sat on the cockpit bench. You laughed at the suggestion, shaking your head sharply, one hand on your hat to keep it from flying off. He motioned you to come closer and said again, "It's not hard, I promise! C’mon, I'll show you!"

Grabbing your hand, he pulled you behind the helm, positioning himself behind you. He pointed at the floating tell-tale and tried to explain everything you needed to know to sail correctly. He didn't have to speak too loudly, so close to you. His voice was warm against your ear, his body solid against your back. His arms framed your body on either side of the helm, firm under your sway, making sure you were balanced. In a swift movement, he removed your hat, his lips sliding briefly against your hair, there behind your ear, and he whispered, "I can't see in front of me, sorry." A vivid feeling came over you at his words, blood rushing to your ears. The sun never looked so great in your eyes, and he was shining just as brightly behind your back. You could guess the smile in his voice as he shouted in the wind, "That's life!" 

In the late morning, he dropped anchor in a calm, shady cove. The calm movements of the hull and the ocean breeze made you sleepy. You urged him to go for a swim, seeing him eagerly looking at the calm, warm water. He smirked at you, before stepping over the cockpit, walking onto the deck. You glared at him as he checked a few knots and he stood up. He pulled his shirt over his broad shoulders, revealing his finely sculpted body, his skin sinfully tanned. With a kick, he removed his pants, a pair of swimming trunks underneath. In all his beauty, he turned to you, the sun in his face, asking you one last time if you didn't want to come with him. You assured him that you would rather rest and with a last smile, he dived forward, his body sinking into the turquoise water.

Lying on the little bed in the cabin, you felt the boat shake slightly as he probably climbed back on. You heard the splash of the water, and then his footsteps on the deck. As he descended into the cabin, you stood up slightly, eyes on him. 

"Sorry," he said carefully, " I didn't mean to wake you up."

His body was still damp, drops tracing grooves down his neck, down his stomach, his shirt probably discarded somewhere on the dock. He approached in the narrow space, and you stood up abruptly. You could feel the heat of his body, the smell of sun and salt on his skin. The sea air in his hair and the sun having kissed his nose and cheeks a thousand times and you were dying, dying to do the same. 

He stuttered something, apologizing for being so close, your quick movement having surprised him. But for nothing in the world would you have let him be sorry for that. He probably thought you were indifferent to his charm, you, the long-forgotten wife hidden away in her villa by the sea, but that was far from the case. You were burning for him with a flame that you thought had been extinguished long ago.

You had felt the sea your whole life, from behind your windows, the one that crashed to die below, on the beach, but never the one that stretched forever, immortal, the one that was free, always so free.

Almost against you, he said in a breath, "You’re beautiful..." and you understood that he was burning with the same fever as you. He was staring straight into your eyes, so close, the languid honey of his eyes and you were overwhelmed with unrealistic thoughts. His usual smirk had left him. He leaned in, his breath short against your mouth and whispered, "May I?" 

It was you who filled the distance between you, your lips crashing into his. He grabbed you by the waist and pulled you against him, and nothing was yours anymore, you were losing yourself in a spring you never expected, there on board of a failed promise. His breath was short against your skin, and you could feel that he wanted more, even more, the same desire deliciously consuming you.

His hands danced forgotten refrains on your shoulders, on your neck and on your cheeks. In one swift movement, he lifted you up, your hips clinging to his, as your back met the wall behind you. His lips assaulted your neck, his fingers sliding down the straps of your dress. His hands were quick to grasp at your breasts and he coaxed sighs from your mouth, himself grunting, intoxicated by your scent, your skin.

You felt him against you, proud and glorious, against your stomach. And when his hands lifted your dress, finding the fabric of your panties, you let him do it with a smile. When you felt his slender fingers waking you from a longing intimacy, you shuddered. Sighs died on the opal sea, sweet words of praise as he started thrusting into you, growling with wild desire, his hips slamming sensually against you. His hand was pressing against your core, taking you further away to the seventh heaven. His arms could have merged with your hips, his body anchored into yours in a heady back-and-forth and your last doubts died in the grueling heat. It was a dance you never wanted to stop, your body reacting with instinct, and finally, finally you came back to life.

Intoxicated with the warmth of his skin, your hands slipped in his hair, kneading at the skin of his shoulder as he kissed every inch of your skin, drawing secret signs against your breast with his teeth. On his lips died tender words as he slowly rested his head against your shoulder. There, answering to the butterflies in your stomach, you felt his lashes beat against your skin before he came to taste your jaw with his mouth.

Your mind was lost as your body awoke to blissful renewal, feeling the abandonment coming, the gradual movement of his pelvis against you, and his husky, sensual voice against your throat. An intoxicating dance that threatened to sweep everything away. You could feel his muscles pulsing, shaken by something strong, by a growing pleasure and there, between his arms, you let him take it all away in a wave of devastation. 

Perhaps you cried in unison, your arms tightening around his shoulders. Perhaps you clawed at his soft skin. Perhaps you did, but you didn't remember, blown away by a slow, twisting pleasure. 

When you came back to your senses, sensations on the surface of your skin, one of his hands remained against you, drawing small circular movements, accompanying your descent. Your breaths mingled, your hearts beating attuned. You were still vibrating with pleasure, and oddly, you started to laugh. He was still frowning, and he looked at you with confusion before bursting into laughter in turn, laying a multitude of kisses against your face. Your knees buckled as he put you down, and he barely caught you. Slowly massaging the bottom of his back, you pulled his shorts up, as he smoothed out your dress.

"That was..." he tried to say but you waved him to silence, a finger against his lips. He looked at you in wonder, his bright smile drawing a small dimple on his right cheek. You came closer to him, placing a soft kiss on his nose, and breathed, "’That's life’, right?"

[adalz]

There is a light that never goes out

pairing: Zeke Yeager x gn!reader

summary: end of a date, charming old books, a shrink-wrapped vinyl and whiskey on the rocks.

warning: none, sfw

genre/tags: modern au, officeworker!zeke, officeworker!reader, fluff, making out and sloppy kisses, the cure/the smith discourse 

world count: 3.1k 

This was your third date. That evening, Zeke had taken you out to a small restaurant downtown, where you were warmly welcomed by the waiters. Even the chef came out of the kitchen at some point to greet you and shake Zeke’s hand. It’d been such a nice night, a warm and friendly atmosphere all around you. He was playful, you knew that, but you discovered he had this caring, delicate interest in everything around him, his eyes glimmering at everything you’d said.  

This whole thing between you two started a month ago, with impromptu encounters at the photocopier and silly whispered gossips, or cigarettes shared under your umbrella when he forgot his upstairs, in his office. Then it was random coffees appearing on your desk after breaks, sometimes accompanied by sticky notes with impeccable handwriting; it was long silent glances exchanged during meetings, awakening absurd laughter from you - and then one evening, he asked you out for a drink. You were simply colleagues after all, and after an evening out, even with drinks shared with an odd complicity, it could have ended there. 

It was getting late, and you missed the last bus, so naturally, Zeke offered to walk you home. You told him it wasn't necessary, but he insisted. You both had been drinking wine all night long, so he left his car parked on the street outside of the restaurant. You didn't live far away anyway.

There was something mesmerizing about the way he carried himself, that slow, proud way of walking. His shoulder was brushing against yours as you walked through the empty streets, the cool breeze of the night making his flaxen hair dance on his forehead. He was so easy to talk to, about everything, always having a witty word to say, compliments casually thrown your way; a smile on his lips and eyes twinkling with mischief. 

 "Well…" you said with a smile as you climbed on the small stone step, in front of the big wooden door of your building. The street was silent and deserted, and as it was late, you spoke softly. 

 "Thanks for tonight, Zeke. If you keep this up, I think I'm going to get used to it."

You heard him chuckle at your comment. Gently, he reached for your hands, grabbing at your fingers as he started stroking your skin with his thumbs.

“I have to tell you something,” he began, his body moving closer to yours. You could feel the warmth emanating from him. He cleared his throat, as if he were about to recite a speech. “I don't want you to think that I do all of that for...”

You wanted to pay attention to what he was saying, but the way he kept eyeing at your lips disconcerted you greatly, expecting at any moment his lips on yours. Instead, he talked. He was closer to you than he had been all evening, your eyes leveling with his, so close, and all he had to do was to lean toward you. You knew he wanted it too, because he kept on glancing down at your mouth, before quickly coming back to your eyes. He did it, once, twice, three times. It was ridiculous, he could have kissed you already, and you would have taken him upstairs to have another glass of wine. And kiss him some more. Four times. You just wished he would stop talking and use this pretty mouth of his in another way. But he kept on talking when all you wanted was that-

“... I guess what I’m trying to say is that I really like you.”

You looked at each other for a moment, the words echoing between you. Well, that was a development. He almost looked like a teenager, being all serious and self-conscious, and you couldn’t help but find it cute. He was awfully cute for someone who spent his evening acting all confident in front of you.

"Okay," you finally said, seeing his forehead furrow at your lack of response. He was looking quite confused, not knowing what to make of your reaction.

“Hell, I really, really like you… and I, I just don’t want us to rush things.” 

It was getting ridiculous. You’d been flirting for weeks and you couldn't take it anymore. You growled between your teeth, releasing your hands from his to cup his face, your lips crashing against his. You wanted more, and he was just trying to be his insufferable self. He laughed softly against your mouth, his lips lingering against yours as he caught one of your wrists between his slender fingers.

"And what was that for?" he whispered.

You frowned, drawing little circles with your thumbs on his beard, "You didn't think you could say things like that and expect me to keep my mouth still?" 

The twinkle that’d been in his eyes all evening long was gone and replaced by something different, something scorching, something eager. Your wrist held tight in his hand, he climbed up the step on which you were perched. His head moved towards yours, and you saw his eyes slightly closing as he tilted his head toward you.

The next moment, his mouth was back against yours, deep breath taken against your skin. You felt his hand running up on the skin of your wrist, caressing the fingers staying against his cheek, as the other curled up on your lower back. You were soon pressed against the large door behind you as your bodies pushed against each other in an almost abrupt movement. You smiled at the sense of relief engulfing you, at the feeling that he wanted it as much as you did. There were no more witty words, only hands and lips and shared breaths.

“Zeke,” you moaned against his lips.

“Yeah?” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“I happen to have some really nice books upstairs...”

“Oh yeah?” he laughed, his breath lingering on your lips.

“Yeah, they are... very old...and charming…” 

You slid your forearms against his broad shoulders, pulling him even closer to you. His lips found the skin of your jaw, leaving a tingling sensation from his beard, setting every inch of you on fire.

"And... I have this vinyl, and it’s still shrink-wrapped so I thought... Maybe you'd want to come upstairs and help me with...," you paused, closing your eyes as he reached down to kiss your neck, his hands playing with the hem of your shirt, "We can take it slow if you really want to, and read books and-"

"And I can help you take the plastic off your vinyl? That's tempting..." he whispered, smirking against your throat.

"Yeah, I know..."

He suddenly took a step back, tearing himself away from your warmth. Even behind his foggy glasses, you could see the way he was staring at you, at your face in the darkness of the doorway, devouring you with his eyes. He said, looking serious again, "I'm serious about the whole-"

“Not rushing things? Yeah, I figured, but we are literally making out in the street, so…” 

You ran a hand through his blonde hair, gently caressing his temple. “I’ve whiskey too. And ice. In the freezer.”

He groaned, quickly filling the distance between you, resting his forehead against your shoulder, breathing out, "Not fair..."

You laughed softly, interlocking your fingers with his, but he stepped back again, down the small step this time. His cheeks were flushed, his hair now a mess. 

“Whose vinyl is it?” he asked, genuine smile spread across his face.

“The Smiths.”

“Urgh...”

You laughed, straightening up from against the door, “And what’s that supposed to mean, now.”

“Well, I’m more of a The Cure guy, you see…”

"And why don't you come upstairs to moan about my music taste?” His hands held tighter to yours. This time it was you who leant in, leaving a chaste kiss on his lips, and he just stood there, at your mercy, heavy lidded eyes transfixed on you.

It was his choice after all, and the last thing you wanted was to scare him off by rushing him into anything; you had an incredible evening, perhaps one of the best date of your life, and you even managed to get a few kisses out of him. But this was turning into a stolen and unsure make out session, and you could almost feel him struggling with his own thoughts. Sure, you wanted more, but you first and foremost wanted him. Not rushing things just meant being patient, didn't it?

Bubbles of excitement popped in your stomach as you felt him respond languidly to your kiss, even though you could feel he was stiffer than the moment before. Maybe it was time to stop insisting. Putting a gentle last kiss on his bottom lip, breath lingering on his mouth, you took a step back, watching him reopen his eyes as you reached into your jacket pocket, pulling out your keys. 

"Since you're not coming up with me, I'm going to go to sleep," you breathed softly, gently stroking the skin of his hand. He didn’t try to pull away though, watching you do so, a look of confusion spread across his face. 

“Good night, Zeke.”

The key slid into the lock, and you pushed the heavy door open with a shove, stepping into the hall, but your body was held back, your hands still locked. He stood immobile outside, his feet solidly fixed on the ground.

You smiled at the realization that he wasn’t going to let go of your hand. The way he stood sheepishly in your building doorway made you conceal a laugh, and you tried to pull your hand free from his grasp. He was looking at you, conflicted and you heard him whisper "wait" as he grabbed your wrist with his other hand.

"I thought you were eager to go home!" you said, feeling the giggles trying to escape from your mouth. You jerked your hand for him to let go of you, but he suddenly followed the movement, stepping into the hall with you, taking advantage of the impulse to throw himself back on your lips. 

The violent yet tender touch of his body against yours made you lose your balance backwards and, in the rush of the action, you both found yourselves propelled against the mailboxes along the narrow hallway, a loud thud echoing up the staircase. He laughed softly against your mouth and you waved him to silence, shushing against his face, one of your hands trying to press against his mouth, his body still so warm against yours. It was an old building, full of equally old inhabitants and it was so late. You'd rather have died than have the concierge peek out of her apartment to find you making out in the hallway. The front door closed softly behind you, the last glimmers of light from the street disappearing, leaving you into darkness.

You felt his hands slide down your thighs and suddenly, with a little grunt, he lifted you up, making you hook your legs around his waist. Behind you, the mailboxes rattled against your back. His name slipped out from your mouth in an attempt to tell him off, but his lips were already on yours, resuming their breathless dance. 

He moaned softly as you ran your hand through his hair, grabbing flaxen strands between your fingers. He felt so good, against you, in the crook of your arms, his smell so familiar and filling your senses. If it had been up to you, you would have taken him home on that first date. 

He pulled you out of the mailboxes, starting to head for the stairs. He was holding you so tightly against him, and you began to laugh as you imagined him trying to carry you all the way up to your apartment. He reached the second floor, and you chuckled as quietly as possible against his face. One of your legs slid from his grasp, your foot now onto the floor. The movement caused him to lose his balance, resulting in a loud bang against the second-floor door. The concierge door. You gasped, both of you now motionless. He understood immediately when he saw your face, slowly straightening up. You were a mess of limbs, one of your thighs still held by his large hand, his forearm pressed on your back as you head was against the door, your arms around his shoulders. You slightly tried to turn around, putting your ear against the door. The wood was cold. Inside, silence. You let out a sigh of relief. But as you were about to face him again, telling him to shush and let go of you, you heard a sound of footsteps. The rattling of a bunch of keys.

"Okay, Zeke now you run." you said out loud. No time to pay attention, you had to escape before she could even see you.

You grabbed his hand, climbing the spiral staircase two at a time, and felt him take over, laughing. You heard the door to the first floor fly open, the concierge appearing in the light of her apartment, wrapped in her robe. Despite your rush, she leaned over the railing, and your name rang out on the landing as she identified you, the sound of her raspy voice going up the stairs and ricocheting off the walls. Perfect, you thought, so now the whole building was awake.

You heard her threaten to call your landlord, but the two of you were already disappearing in the upper floors. The door slammed, silence and darkness falling on the staircase. You stopped for a moment, trying to catch your breath. 

"What have we done?" Zeke said under his breath, leaning against the wall.

"We woke up the demon, that's what we did. All because you didn't take the elevator."

"Wait what, there's an elevator?"

You tried to laugh at the scowl on his face, but your breath was too short, and you were almost struggling to breathe. That breath, you thought, had been way too short ever since you walked into your building. Zeke reached up to you, arms sliding around your waist as he nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin. Between giggles, he placed a kiss behind your ear. 

"Are The Smiths still far away?" he asked, pulling you against him.

You probably never walked up the stairs to your apartment so quickly in your entire life. The few remaining steps flew by under your feet, your key in the lock, pulling him inside, the door slamming behind you.

When you turned around, ready to get back to where you stopped, something felt different. He was standing in the clumsiest way by the door, looking at you, clearly waiting for something. His hair was ridiculously ruffled, his cheeks flushed by the race, perhaps by something else.

The mere contrast between the confident man from an hour ago, almost posing, and the man standing in your doorway was screamingly funny, but you said nothing. You had worked too hard for him to stand there.

He was looking at your place with curious eyes, lingering on the books in the bookcase, on the pictures framed on the wall. You took his hand as you walked into the living room, throwing your jackets on the couch. 

“It’s nice,” he said, quietly. You smiled at the carefree compliment, eyeing at his chest heaving with the rhythm of his breathing. You wanted to put some distance between you two, just for a moment, to retain some restraint, to prove to yourself that you weren't so needy. You wanted to offer him a glass of water, maybe some wine. The whiskey that coaxed him so well earlier. You could have put some music, detached yourself from him, from his scent, from his warmth. But all you could think about was his hand in yours, and how big and wide they were, how he grabbed you and carried you over a few feets. How these hands would feel in your hair, how they would fit so well on your body.  

Then you approached, pretending to flatten the collar of his shirt and his eyes returned to you, his interest for the decorated walls of your apartment suddenly dropping. You slid your hands flat on his chest, feeling his warmth against the palm of your hands. Your eyes indulged into his. You wondered if the eager look in his eyes was back, or if it had ever left him. The excitement of running up the stairs, of getting out of the concierge's field of vision as quickly as possible, had taken over from the carnal desires from a few minutes before. But it was most certainly there, in his eyes. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. His eyes were transfixed on you, waiting for a sign.

"So, where do you want to start?” you said, playfully, “as promised, I've here charming old books... a vinyl you told me you hated..." 

"How cruel of me," he said with a smirk. He grabbed you by the hips, pulling you closer to him, eyeing your lips.

 “You’re just very rude, but I got used to it, don’t worry.”

 “You better stop flirting with me.” He faked a sulking pout. 

“How am I even flirting with you?” you answered, chuckling, your hands cupping his cheeks. 

“You got used to me being an ass, and now you find it cute. How’s that not flirting?”

It put the biggest grin on your face. You’d been openly flirting with him for weeks, and you knew he knew it. You even wondered if he was truly interested at some point, if it wasn’t for the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

In a delicate movement, you grabbed on one of the arms of his glasses, pulling them off his nose. You placed a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. He repeated, quieter this time, a smile in his voice, “and how is that not flirting?”

“I’m glad you finally noticed.”

“Well,” he said, his lips caressing yours, without pulling you into a kiss, just for the sake to feel them stick to each other, “and what other activities do you have to offer?” 

"Mmh," you pretended to think, not picking up on his daring allusion, "I guess we still have the whiskey drinking, Mr. let's-not-rush-things." 

He merely grunted his disapproval, his lips sliding against your jaw.

“Is that a yes for a whiskey on the rocks?" you asked, busying your hands over his shoulders, massaging the nape of his neck, pulling out small groans from him. You felt his finger running up your back, slightly grabbing and pinching your skin.

 "I think I'll start with a whiskey. No ice. Maybe later..."

[adalz]

into my flesh

pairing: Porco Galliard x gn!reader

summary: Marcel’s best friend is the most beautiful creature Porco has ever seen

warning: none, sfw

world count: 0,7k

The first time Porco saw you, you were standing in front of the school gate, laughing at something his brother had said. The sight of you took him aback, stopping him dead on his tracks. He stood there, abashed, among the crowd of students, mesmerized by the way you carried yourself, a hand lazily thrown over your mouth while you chuckled. The warm spring breeze played with your hair, with the hem of your skirt, brushing over your knees, your uniform probably having been taken up. He thought of an apparition, eyes stuck on your figure, devouring you with his gaze from afar, his cheeks hot from the sun in his face.

He snapped back to reality when Marcel caught a glimpse of him, waving at his little brother. He saw your body slowly turning toward him, prettiest eyes landing on him. And everything fell apart. 

When he went home with Marcel that day, he asked his brother about you. You were a year older than him, in Marcel’s class and he and you ended up in a group project together and got along well. His heart started thumping hard in his chest at the mention of your name, replaying in his head your pretty figure against the late afternoon light. He whispered it, like a secret, just to see how it slipped on his tongue. 

At first, you were just Marcel’s stunning friend, at whom Porco liked to gaze at from a distance while he waited for his brother after school. But emotions started to grow thicker, stronger in him. You made him feel things, unusual feelings blossoming in his chest as he saw you hanging out with his brother, in school hallways, during lunch time. At first, he thought it was because you were hanging out with his brother, but quickly enough, he started realizing it was more likely the other way around.

He thought he could easily bottle up all of these new emotions, thinking they would disappear by themselves. Except they wouldn’t.

One Saturday afternoon, as he went down from his room to grab a bottle of water, Porco froze in the middle of his kitchen at the exact moment your eyes went up to his. You were standing there, unreal, and you greeted him, a pretty smile on your lips, your school uniform replaced by more casual clothes. Your eyes were so pretty, it was ridiculous how sweet they were, but they were not supposed to be in the middle of his house, not right now, not when he was not expecting you. He remembered the confusion building up within him, turning into annoyance, bursting out of him instead of the words stuck in his throat. He snapped, started yelling at Marcel who was sitting at the kitchen table, holding him accountable for your presence, waves of anger radiating through him. He remembered the way you frowned, confused at the fit of anger, a hurtful look on your face as you went to get your things to leave. 

That night, as he was laying on his bed, Marcel's mumbled voice still lecturing him from behind his bedroom door, his thoughts were focused on you, replaying that horrible scene, again and again, embarrassment and confusion echoing through him, his heart clenching at the way you left because of him. He felt horrible, really, feeling so embarrassed by his action and his words, acting like a child in front of you, when all he truly wanted was for you to see him.

He couldn’t help that feeling in his chest, his heart clenching knowing that he was just your friend's little brother, cursing every moment you spent with Marcel, jealous, so envious of his brother to have you so close to him.

It eased with time, resignation coming his way. But somewhere within him, he always found it reassuring that Marcel and you were not together. He apologized to you for that day, and you smiled at him. Gradually, he started hanging out with the two of you, during lunch, or for a study group at the library. 

He would beg Marcel to let him tag along when he was going out on weekends to meet his friends, knowing that perhaps you'd be there. He knew he couldn’t be more that Marcel already was for you, protective, stable and trustworthy. But he knew that one day, you would see him, more than just Marcel’s bad-tempered little brother. 

He made a promise to himself, that one day when he’ll know you’ll be able to see him, hear him out, for all that he is, he would tell you he had fallen in love with you at the moment you had set your eyes on him.

Ron Hicks - Amoureux en peinture, 1965

[adalz]

For the Summer Solstice collaboration hosted by @odmlevis! Thank you for letting me join! ☀️🎣

pairing - fisher! Zeke x nymph! reader / Zeke x Reader (she/her)

summary - On a hot summer afternoon, Zeke decides to go fishing and makes a forbidden encounter.

content warnings - fluff, kind of modern! au, kind of mythology! au, suggestive, very brief mention of reader characteristics (round-faced; skin kissed by the sun)

word count - 4.5k

a/n - first part is Zeke’s pov / second part is yours ~ this piece is brought to you by the entire Poses album by Rufus Wainwright, and more particularly by the Greek Song / funky enough this (this ↓ ) somewhat talks about Greek mythology, oh isn’t it fitting?

The Mortal

“Don’t you forget something?” said a voice behind Zeke, stopping him in the middle of the wide steps of the country house.

He turned around from the bottom of the steps. Dina, in the shadow of her house's large front door, was looking at her son. She tilted her head to the side, slightly tapping her cheek with a slender finger.

He ran up the stairs, smiling, and said softly to her, “I'll be home before sundown, mother.”

“That doesn't stop you from kissing your mother goodbye.”

He took off his hat as he crossed the threshold, immediately embraced by the darkness and coolness wafting through the house. But here was the thing: it had been almost a week since Zeke alighted at the small-town station of his childhood home, back on his mother's estate, and a week locked inside the house to hide from the sun was a week too long. The academic had caught the first train to get away from the capital and enjoy the little respite he was given in the summer, and he refused to stay stuck in the house for another afternoon.

He placed a soft kiss on Dina's cheek, and she stroked his cheek affectionately, the fabric of her summer dress tickling down his neck. Her pale skin betrayed her confinement, stating the refusal to expose herself to the burning rays of the summer sun. Instead, she chose to hide behind the heavy curtains of the huge windows to protect herself from the oppressive heat of harsh days. She, who had grown up in the south of the Island where the heat waves were common in the summer, had difficulty tolerating the great warmth. Zeke, on the other hand, loved nothing more than to be rocked by the fiery breaths of the earth.

“Mr. Ksaver probably prepared the boat and set up your fishing gear like you asked him to this morning,” she said, smoothing out the collar of her son's shirt, “he should be waiting for you on the dock.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Mother.”

Zeke tore himself away from his mother's embrace, throwing himself back into the scorching air of the early afternoon summer. He walked down the steps again, already taking the direction of the park behind the house.

“Don’t forget to wear your hat, buttercup!” he heard Dina say behind him. He turned around one last time, giving a look to his mother's silhouette and waved his hand.

The short walk through the park to the back of the property was already making him sweat under his shirt. The green grass of a bygone spring had given way to a yellowed carpet and only the flowers in the bushes offered some life to the garden. The sun was blazing, beating down on his temples, and he hurried toward the grove. There, he took the small, shady dirt track that would lead him down to the valley river, to its cool, clear water, and to the old boathouse with its wooden dock.

The temperature there was already more pleasant, sheltered by the small wood edging the river's banks, the sunrays thinned by the leaves of the trees. He walked down the path, and before he could discern the aged wood slats of the boathouse, he heard the flow of the water, the lapping licking up the banks. Hidden by the ceaseless song of the cicadas, he thought he heard a laugh.

He raised his head toward the sound but saw no one. Perhaps it was coming from downstream, a shout from a hunter or some villagers who came to seek the coolness of the river. 

“There you are!” greeted Tom when he noticed Zeke coming his way. The man rose from the edge of the dock where he was seated and came to tap him on the shoulder.

“What a heat today, son!”

Tom helped him settle into the small wooden boat, briefly taking inventory of the fishing gear.

“Ah, indeed!” Zeke said with a smile. “But I’d much rather suffer the summer heat than be cooped up one more day in this house. I need some fresh air.”

“You're quite right. Enjoy it while you can!”

“And I'm convinced it will do you the world of good! You will be back with a clear head to work on your thesis!”

Zeke crinkled up his nose at the comment.

“Absolutely,” he replied, pushing the boat off the dock with a kick.

“Oh, and Zeke,” Tom called out to him, “be careful out there!”

“Careful?” Zeke laughed, grabbing the oar, and already moving away from the dock. “You're hurting my feelings, Tom! I know I’m certainly not the best swimmer on this Island, but still, I'm not going to drown!”

“I don't doubt it," the older man said, louder, for him to hear his words, “but I heard some odd rumors in town a few days ago. About accidents.”

“Accidents? Here, at the river? I don't understand-...”

“The Bott's son disappeared,” he shouted, “nobody knows what happened to him. The poor boy went hunting and never came back! All sorts of stories are going around, you can imagine! Not that I would give in to any of the wild rumors but be sure to keep an eye out!”

“Understood!” Zeke shouted back, waving at his friend, whose figure was already disappearing into the distance. 

Letting the force of the water pull on his arms as he sank his oar into the water, Zeke remained a moment lost in his thoughts. He imagined what kind of rumors were going around about this place.

The river’s current was weak, letting the boat sail gently on the flow. The air here was breathable. Humid. Silent. Devoid of the plaintive ticking of clocks. Of the clattering of his mother’s China dishes. Of her obsessive questions about his thesis and his studies. About female suitors and marriage. He needed to get away from it, just to clear his mind. To let himself be overwhelmed by limpid, shallow thoughts.

Zeke set up his tackle, fixing the bait to the hook at the end of the fishing rod. His hands recalled the exercise without difficulty, faint memories guiding him through each step, in a calm, almost instinctive rhythm. It was Tom who taught him how to fish, when he was still a boy, taking him out on the river and showing him every knot, every technique he had himself learned from his father. It wasn't something Grisha had ever been interested in anyway. 

He always found something exciting about fishing, the building of a curious anticipation. It was not the result that mattered to him, but the surprise of the achievement. The excitement of the line suddenly stretching. He cast his line out, fixed it to the boat's support so his hands were free.

The heady freshness of the water flowing beneath the hull made him drowsy. Tiredness was weighing down his limbs and the weather from the last few days was stifling. Taking advantage of this respite, he settled down comfortably, arms behind his head, taking off his hat. Slowly, he surrendered to somnolence, flames of the sun licking his face behind his closed eyelids, the warm breeze caressing his face.

He probably fell asleep, he realized only as he came back to his senses. Something had pulled him from his torpor - it was a voice, sweet bursts of laughter, like the one he heard before, back on the shady bank. As he opened heavy lidded eyes, Zeke straightened up a bit. He was getting closer to a song, a sweet and saccharine melody. At first, he thought of a villager, but the unique voice had a feminine tone, and he knew that few women ventured so far away from town, or at least, never alone.

The voice was getting closer, or perhaps it was he who was getting closer. He couldn’t assert with conviction as he suddenly felt lost, senses drowned by this melody that transported him into another realm.

And then, at the riverbend, he felt an arrow run through his heart. Here, the current was slower as the river widened, marking the riverbank of coves of still water. Like wildflowers growing in a windy garden, a field of water lilies spotted the water mirror with their pale flowers, rooting in the shallow water.

He stood still; his breath stuck in his throat. Some distance in front of him, among light and flowers, a woman was bathing. Naked as the first woman, her skin kissed by the sun and strands of hair sticking to her round face, she was playing with the lapping of the water, in a vibrant innocence, oblivious to the eyes intently running over her.

Was his mind playing tricks on him? Was he having a heatstroke? He thought of an apparition, an ethereal being taking human form to punish him. But there was no punishment. How could it be? Never a punishment had been so sweet. She was magnificently, so glorious, of a rare, mystical beauty, her skin shining like precious stones under the reflections of the sun.

Of all the women he was ever given to see, of all the suitresses he had been presented to, he had never, ever, seen such a beautiful creature. She was half immersed in the cool water, droplets sliding down on her body, caressing the shape of her breasts. Tied in her hair, a myriad of flowers fell like a waterfall down her backbone, skimming over the arch of her lower back. She was singing a song to herself, speaking in a whisper to herself, laughing with a cheerful tone to herself. And her face was turned toward the sky, lonely eyes looking beyond the treetops. She was splendid, inhabited by an incredible solitude.

He understood suddenly, shaken by a sweet revelation, that it was no mere woman. But the one that he had sought for his whole life. The one he had waited for in his loneliness. The one he dreamed of at night, when lives were fading away and he let himself die in the torpor of the night. It was you.

The Naiad

Perhaps it was the sound of the small boat hitting the ripples that pulled you out of your recital, or perhaps it was that sensation of having been seen, of being watched. You turned abruptly, responding to your instinct, and, in the horror of the realization, you saw a man. He was alone, his eyes, the colors of the sky, open wide on you. Alone on his wooden boat, he was equipped like the villagers, those who caught the fish offered by the river.

For a second, you thought one of them came to visit you. His disheveled garment was tight around the shape of his shoulder, and his golden hair reminded you of the stories your sisters used to whisper about. But he was sweating - his hair was stuck to his nape from the heat. On the surface of the water, his pleasant image was reflecting with panic. He was no Olympian.

The realization that a mortal was seeing you as you were seeing him abruptly struck you. And if the doubt about his nature had deprived you of a few seconds to react, conscientious not to anger a god, you suddenly stepped back.

He seemed to be panic-stricken at your sudden movement, and as if distraught, he stood up on his boat, seeing you trying to run away.

“Wait, don't go!” he shouted, holding out an arm toward you.

His voice echoed an instant between the trees, ricocheting off the water to you. The sudden movement broke the balance of the small boat on the clear water, tilting dangerously, dragging his weight backwards. He tried to catch himself, grabbing the wooden edge of the boat, but it didn't have the anticipated effect; the boat flipped over, sending him overboard. The last thing you saw, before his body slammed into the cold river water, was the panic in his eyes.

Like a mother protecting her child, the river swallowed him whole. You knew the punishment for looking at one of her beloved daughters all too well, although you never experienced it. It was the first time you saw a man - you rarely ventured far from your sisters’ presence. But this time, it was they who had failed you, leaving you all alone as they swam to the river source, up in the mountains, catching the freshness of the flows with their hands. 

Perhaps he would manage to swim with the current, all the way downstream, toward the sea. Perhaps the river, full of grace and goodness, would let him reach the bank. Perhaps he would find help.

But you did not see him surface. The swirls of the waves calmed down, making his presence disappear under water. Seconds passed, carrying his little boat and his belongings along the waves. Small bubbles came to agitate the water mirror for a moment, then, a last breath reached you.

For a strange reason, you felt your heart clench as you imagined his panicked eyes losing consciousness in your mother's arms. Perhaps you lacked pugnacity against your own heart. You could only remember the story of the mortal who could not be saved, the one your sisters kept on talking about. But in your head, a sweet injustice resounded; he had seen no goddess bathing. It was only you. Perhaps you could do something.

You dove into the water. The river welcomed you, sliding you along the calm flow, and you only had to make a few movements before reaching the man's form. At first, you didn't dare get too close, for fear of being fooled, but his lack of liveliness was alarming.

He was immobile, as if repressed by the swells, drawn into the depths of the river. His body was beginning a gentle descent that would soon lead him to the underworld. You approached him then. From his body was emanating a gentle warmth, clashing with the temperature of the river. Hidden by his golden locks, you made out his face, and curious to see his eyes again, you brought your fingers to his cheek, clearing his forehead. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly parted letting escape the tiniest bubbles of oxygen. Already, his skin was not as flushed as you remembered it, glistening under the sun. Perhaps he was already dying. The river whistled in your ears; your fault.

Wrapping your arms around his chest, you pulled his body toward the surface. He was warmer, heavier than the other nymphs you used to play with. As you swam up, the water grew tepid, warmed by the sun. Yet his body was giving out a strange protest, growing heavier with each flutter of your feet. You kept kicking your legs, unable to use your arms, hoping to reach the bank before it was too late.

You finally tiptoed over the pebbles of the riverbed, moving as fast as possible. As soon as you could, you pulled his head out of the water, drawing his body into the shallow cove, his skin resting against yours. Exhausted, you fell over on the edge of the waves, the fatigue leaving you half emerged, unable to make another move.

You gently laid his head on your lap and carefully cleared his face with an insecure hand, tucking a golden strand of his hair behind his ear. He was awfully pale, his skin a shade like the winter sky. You never wished more to know how mortals worked; you had no idea what to do to make him open his opal eyes again.

It didn't take away from his beauty. His face was graceful, strikingly beautiful. With your fingertips, you drew along his high nose, skimming down his cupid's bow, along his full, plump lips. You wondered if all men were like him. Maybe it was why your sisters would not let you go near them. For they were all as beautiful as the gods. 

You thought back to your confusion about who he was, and decided that your sisters could only admit your misunderstanding if they were to see him. The mistake seemed plausible. But strangely, you frowned at the idea of showing them the mortal.

Entranced by his features, you barely noticed the trembling of his chest, the catch in his throat. He suddenly started coughing, straightening up abruptly. You didn't make a move as you saw him give back to the river the water in his lungs.

Finally, you decided to lean toward him, captivated by the path his spine formed between his shoulder blades, there, under his soaked shirt, and ran your hand down his back, patting lightly. You had no idea what you were doing. You felt him stiffen at the touch of your hand - he was out of breath, moaning slightly as he ran a hand across his throat.

Suddenly coming back to his senses, he sat up, thrusting his hands into the water to regain his balance. In silence, you gazed at his profile, at the sharpness of his jaw and at his nose starting too high between his eyes and as he looked over the forest, his eyes widened. You leaned slightly toward his face to catch a glimpse of the mesmerizing blue of his pupils, and ever so cautiously, his gaze met yours.

As the words tumbled around in your head, you saw his glance move slowly down your neck, further down, to your lower abdomen. He suddenly raised his head, letting a few droplets fall from his hair. You let out a laugh at his sudden lively behavior.

He was wearing the same expression he had on the boat. Stunned. Washed over. His body, close to yours, although it had been torn from your skin, was filled with a strange warmth. He who earlier had made the water vibrate with a sudden cry, finally spoke, in a whisper that not even the river could hear.

‘Who are you?’

His lips remained somewhat parted, the question slipping off his tongue, running like a drip over his mouth. You smiled at his gentle query; only mortals were to ask with whom they were talking.

“You were lucky,” you said pragmatically. You gently touched a water lily floating by with your fingertips, “It was only me.”

When you looked up, he was staring at you with his brow furrowed. Slightly, he moved his face closer to yours.

“Only you...,” he repeated, blissfully.

It seemed like he was trying to understand something by looking intently at your face. “Could it be that you are...,” he paused, his hands still underwater and eyes transfixed on you, “a goddess?”

Your eyes widened, shocking words echoing in your chest like sweet flattery, and you burst out laughing.

“A goddess!” you exclaimed. He was standing still, staring at you with an eyebrow raised at the giggly sound of your voice. Finally breaking through his confusion, he followed your lead, grinning at the sight of you, at your gentle mockery.

“Cease your flattery, mortal,” you eventually answered with a smile in your voice. “Fortunately for you, I’m hardly a goddess.” You paused, remembering the whispers about the hunter boy's story told by your sisters, “Stumbling across a goddess as she bathes… You might have been changed into a stag in turn!”

“I'm not sure I understand...” he told you in confidence. His innocence seemed pure, and you felt your heart pounding in your chest as his eyes lingered on you. You never would have thought a man could have so much power within his eyes. With his ridiculous questions and with his soft looks, he only made himself admirably lovely.

Caught up in a languorous impulse, letting yourself be charmed by his sweet words, you brought your hand to hover over his cheek. With your fingertips, you touched one of his curls and placed it behind his ear.

For a moment, he stayed still, letting you graze over his skin, then he stretched his arm in turn. But the sudden movement startled you - you withdrew your hand abruptly, bringing your arm to your chest. He suspended his gesture, and his eyes were intoxicating. 

He smiled at you, the sun playing with his hair, its rays streaming down his shoulders, into the open gaps of his shirt. He had brought beauty into existence, the sun so high above his shoulders, making him shine so bright that you felt your own skin warm up, even before the touch of his fingers. You felt feverish with the sight of him, setting every inch of your body ablaze.

Slowly taking his outstretched arm, you gently placed his palm on your forehead, hoping he would feel the fever burning inside of you, and he slid his fingers down your cheek. Oddly, your gesture made him sigh, his eyes sometimes breaking away from yours, captivated by your lips.

“Tell me the truth,” he pleaded, “am I dead? Is this Paradise?”

“I'm afraid you are mistaken,” you said, running your fingers over his as they rested against your cheek. “We are both very much alive.”

“You're the most magnificent woman I was ever given to lay my eyes on,” he whispered, bodies coming dangerously close to each other. But everything, everything was peculiarly exhilarating, from the soft warmth of the sun radiating from his skin, to the faint scent of the water in his hair.

“I’m afraid you're mistaken again,” you simply repeated, certain that your laugh had caressed his lips. 

You were no woman, but a deity, flesh and bones fed from the earth, daughter of Nature herself, adored and cherished by the gods and hidden away from the mortals’ greed. But the words died on your lips.

He was offering himself to you as he would have offered himself to a goddess, the winter river color of his eyes staring hungrily into yours, as no one ever did before him. So, hidden by the forest, by the flowered cove of water lilies, you brought your lips to his.

His fingers slightly tightened against your face, melting under your touch. He closed his eyes, as if he were tasting the moment with his lips. You felt a summer storm rising in your stomach as his hand slid over the skin of your waist, gripping at your skin and drawing you closer to him. 

His hand dipped under the water to cup your flesh and you let out a little moan as he gently tugged your thighs and pulled you into his lap, locking them on his hips. In response, you let your fingers trace his arms, sliding to his collarbone before moving down to his chest, his stomach, hovering over his groin.

With both hands resting against his soaked shirt, you felt his muscles tighten under your touch. You tore yourself away from his lips, lowering your head between the small space between the two of you. He tried to catch your mouth again, adorably greedy, leaning his face toward yours, but you denied him.

With great caution, your fingers slipped between the buttonholes of his shirt, brushing at the tender skin underneath, his muscles contracted at your touch. Drowned in this recklessness, you slid one of the small buttons under your fingers, opening the shirt to sink your whole hand in.

The scene was delightful, as he came undone under your every move, drunk on you. Before you could carry out your plan to deprive him of his garment, he grabbed your chin between two fingers, refocusing your attention on him, on the ablaze desire in his eyes.

He filled the distance between you, his nose brushing against your skin as he peppered your face with kisses. Adventurous lips slipped down your neck, leaving honeyed kisses on your throat, sweet inspirations dancing on your skin. It was tickling, short breaths and giggles leaving your mouth and you felt him smile through the jolts of his chin against you.

Overwhelmed by the soft sensation of his hands gently cupping your breasts, fingers playing with the perky buds, your giggles turned into groans, desire taking over in an allegro of words broken by shuddering breaths. Your arms came behind his neck, hands playing with the hair on his nape, and you hungrily claimed back his lips.

He grunted against your mouth, and kissed you harder, his tongue pushing between your lips. He took a breath against your nose, as if it were the first one he had ever taken. Oxygen flooded in turn in your mind. You were awake.

Among sweet touches and primal desire, the thought of it all abruptly struck you; you knew it was forbidden, forbidden looks and caresses, and you could only imagine the consequences - for him, to have laid hands on one of you. But there was something delirious about the taste of his mouth, the jolt of his chin and his hands that kept on caressing the most sensitive spots of your skin, taking everything, everything they could. You were losing your mind - if only... If only you could...

Suddenly submerged by panic, you pushed him away. Somewhere along the riverbanks, someone was calling an unknown name, making the birds fly up into the sky. An unfamiliar name that made him frown. A name that fitted him so well. His name.

But there was no time for that, no time to whisper the name against his lips. You had to flee as fast as possible, you had to dive into the river and disappear. You tore yourself away from him, getting up but a hand grabbed your arm. 

He was behind you, his body already sinking into the river. In his opal eyes, you saw panic and an unfounded fear.

“I cannot stay,” you said nervously, your face turned toward the voice in the forest. It was getting closer.

“At least tell me your name, tell me when I’ll see you again...”, he pleaded, for the second time that day.

“I cannot-...”

“Please!” he said, grabbing both your hands.

His eyes were clouded with an absurd veil, altering their intoxicating color. Tenderly, you brought your hand to the back of his neck and drew him against you, resting his head on your shoulder.

“Come back tomorrow,” you softly said in his ear.

“I have no idea where we are. I have no idea where my boat is. And I can't see anything; I lost my glasses in the river,” he mumbled in the crook of your neck. His arms were crossed in the middle of your back, holding you so close, so safe as if you were going to shutter. Or run away. 

Your hand went back and forth on his neck, twisting in little strands of his hair.  You breathed, gently against his cheek: “Travel upstream from the water mill. Look for the confluence of the valley river and the thin creek that comes down from the mountains. Go upstream until you find the coves eating up the bank. Wait for me where the flowers bloom. I'll go look for your glasses at the bottom of the river.” To seal your words, you took his hand and laid it against your heart.

“Come back tomorrow,” you repeated. He raised his head, hair brushing against your cheek and his eyes dived into yours one last time. With a last brush of your lips against his, you finally said, “and I'll tell you everything you want to know, Zeke.”

If you want to be put on (or taken off) my taglist, feel free to fill the form or let me know !

[adalz]

fragile

Reiner loves baking.Everybody already knew he likes cooking and he's pretty good at it. When he has you over on Friday night after a hard day of work and cooks your favorites, it's a real blessing. But believe it or not, when you met this man, he'd never baked before.

It was a foggy Sunday morning at your place, and he was feeling down, so you suggested baking a cake. He said yes, mostly to indulge you, except he didn't expect to like it that much. It was so fun, truly quality time.

First of all, he always has a great time when you're around and when you're giving him attention. You tied up his apron, teased him on how cute he looked, making silly jokes on the move, and, for a precious moment, the two of you focused on making something special, his head clear from worries.

Not long after that, he started showing up at yours with a plate of cookies, still warm pies, and freshly baked brownies. He asked you for your opinion, taking little notes on things to change (even though it was already perfect), asking you to give him little grades while you gently laughed at him. He already knew your favorite, as he’d noticed the way your eyes lingered on the shop window when you walked past the bakery on the corner of the street, and once he’d got confident enough in his abilities, that was the first thing he'd baked for you.

He started baking alone as he felt the need to occupy himself, to get out of his own head, out of his loneliness, and slowly it began to grow on him, as he started to feel the urge to try things out, to experiment.

Baking requires precision and delicacy. He likes how precise it is, how certain ingredients must be mixed at a certain point, at a certain temperature. This man knows how to follow a recipe, and he's the type of guy to add the smallest quantities to get to a round number on the scale.

Reiner is the most generous person ever, and he likes giving and sharing so much. He is the person who brings pastries at work for any given occasion, for everyone’s birthday, for promotion or even engagement news and people will always give him the biggest compliment, which would make his cheeks turn a little pink.

He loves when people give him advice, and if he learns that you have certain allergies or intolerance, this man will get out of his way to find alternatives for you.

On his day off, if he's not in his kitchen making some pastries, you can find him at the bookstore down the street browsing through recipes, books and magazines. The booksellers know him well by now, this broad strong man who comes at least once a week, always smelling of brioche and apple pie.

But his favorite baking moment is when you're close to him, watching him or helping him, flour on your cheeks. He loves the way you make his kitchen comes alive, the way his heart vibrates when you hum to the music on the radio while you try to imitate his movements as he shapes pastries – the way your face lit up when you eat what he made for you, and the way it enlights his world.

Claude Monet - THE LUNCHEON, 1873

[adalz]

paring - Levi x Reader / Zeke x Reader

cw - suggestive, mention of alcohol and cigarette

Zeke and Levi are each sitting in a different corner of the room at some party, bored out of their minds. But their eyes are caught on the same thing, there, in the middle of the room - you are dancing, to some Cuban music, half-drunk on cheap beer; Levi’s frowning, his eyes glue to your pouty lips, glimmering so slightly to the dime light while you smoke a cigarette and laugh at something someone yelled at you over the loud beat of the music; Zeke, his eyes glaring at your every movements, every sway of your hips, every swing of your shoulders, your skin revealed by the slip of your clothes, the captivating pulsation of your body.

Levi, a glass of water on his lap, is ready to move at the slightest stumble to pounce on you and help you sit down and drink some water - Zeke his fingers already fiddling with the cigarette he intends to give you the minute you finish yours.

They have no idea for how long they’ve been looking at you, have no idea what they look like from the outside, obsessed by the sight of you, dancing unbothered and recklessly, your pretty eyes closed while the music is flowing under your skin- they could be looking like madmen, they wouldn’t care less. Indelicate and inappropriate thoughts are flooding their minds and they shiver at the thought of you, so pretty, so vibrante. How you would fit so perfectly against their naked bodies, smiles and laughs vanished, your pretty face distorted with pleasure as they pound into your core, as they whisper sweet words of praise in your ear, down your throat and on your chest and stomach, going down, down, down to taste you with their tongues and show you how much their care, how pretty you look under their touch, coaxing sweet prayers out of your mouth as they please you, every inch of your skin kissed and warm from their caresses.

[adalz]

until death do us part - chapter 1

pairing: Bertholdt Hoover x Reader | Cottagecore!Bertholdt x former soldier!Reader

setting: Takes place in a distant land in Marley, around 853 / everyone in this is 18+

genre/tags/warnings: sfw, canonverse, friends to lovers, fluff, hurt/confort, mention of depression

world count: 3.6k

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Lulling in a sleeping daze, you could feel the sun gently stroking your skin, warming up your body, all wrapped up in the padded duvet. Your limbs felt numb from the night and you stretched out a bit in the creaky bed as you rolled onto your back. As you made your way to the other side of the bed, you felt the empty sheets beside you - the lack of contact with another familiar body made you realize you were all alone under the sheets. 

You squinted toward the window of the small room. The sun must have been up for a while now and you wondered if you had overslept. In the distance, you could hear distant bursts of voices, and occasionally, a steady, thumping sound. You usually woke up all snuggled up in your best friend’s arms, but that morning, it was just you, the birds chirping in the massive trees surrounding the cottage and the late-morning sunlight dancing on your bare skin.

Lazily, you rubbed your eyes and sat up with a yawn, but the movement made you grind your teeth - discomfort and soreness slowly stirred in you, a manifestation that revived memories of the night before. Memories of him around your body drew a smile on your lips. The two of you were used to sleeping in each other's arms, ever since you had run away, yet last night had been the first time he had truly held you.

To the slight pain echoed the raw, vivid memory of pleasure that had unexpectedly crept in you while you surrendered to his warmth, to his body and to his lips. You couldn’t help but repress a slight embarrassment when you remembered how your burning desire had won over your supposedly sensible mind. Looking around you, you wondered why he was not here, softly snoring and contorted next to you as he usually was. Your gaze turned to the half-open door of the room.

You pushed aside the covers and balanced your weight on the edge of the bed. It took you a couple of seconds to get used to the discomfort of your limbs. Your back and shoulders were stiff- however your legs were shaky, an uncomfortable weakness pumping in your veins. You lowered your head, looking down at your thighs, and proceeded to carefully massage the side of them, expecting to get used to the feeling of raw nerves running under your skin. From your calves, you could feel muscles running up and down in your legs, sharp and twitchy in your thighs, all the way up to your lower back. Like a carving path in your body, you felt each throb as they reached your core, awakening a stirring flutter between your legs. Overwhelmed by the sensations, you took your head in your hands, allowing yourself a couple of seconds to gather your thoughts. 

You shifted your weight on your legs and slowly raised up, bare feet padding against the floors, where discarded clothes had been picked up and neatly folded on the wooden chest. You spared a look at your crumpled shirt and skirt from the day before and deemed it better to toss them later in the laundry basket. Shaky fingers opened the drawer to retrieve fresh undergarments and a button up dress. Raising your arms above your head to put the nubby clothing on, you winced.

Your footsteps led you into the main room, deserted and silent. In the sunlight filtering through the windows, dust swirled around in the air, underlining the absence and caressing the empty space, dancing above the blackened fireplace. A ray of sunlight landed on the wooden table, enlightening a long-forgotten breakfast left on it. In a chipped plate, slices of bread had been cut neatly and next to it, the enameled porcelain teapot. You wondered how you hadn’t been woken up, sleeping in the next room while he got up, cleaned the room, made breakfast, boiled water, and left. You imagined him, getting all worked up after a sweet night of rest, already busying himself around the house and yet, as you sat down at the table, all you could notice was the prevailing solitude in the house. 

Your mind quickly drifted away, and as questions flooded you, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was going to be alright. What if he had realized it was all a mistake and decided to leave - what if he hadn't known how to reject you and woke up this morning, full of regret and had seen fit to leave you there, alone, as if nothing had ever happened. Lost in thoughts, you grabbed the teapot and poured yourself a cup of tea. Amber liquid flowed into the stained cup and splashed on your finger. The lukewarm droplet slid down, running down the hollow of your wrist. You raised the cup to your lips and the bitter taste of your thoughts filled your mouth - he was your dearest friend, your only friend in fact, considering the current situation you both were in. Even when you had turned a blind eye on the conflicted feelings blossoming in you, you couldn't help but wonder - was it really fair of you to still call him a friend?

It had been six months now that Bertholdt and you had settled in this cottage, secluded from the village, hidden by the tall trees of the forest. It had been your idea to flee, to make the two of you deserters - you knew, even right at this moment, that they would never leave you alone. They were certainly determined to hunt you down until the very end, for the three remaining years of his life, over and over, to finally get their hands on the most destructive weapon in the Marley Empire -- perhaps, in the world. 

The Colossal Titan was indeed the centerpiece of Marley's military, essential in the eyes of the Marleyan authorities to assert their domination over the world and reclaim their sovereignty over the people of the island of Paradise. Marley knew how to use the titans’ curse, breaking Eldians minds to do as they pleased. They knew how to corrupt both people and countries. Worldwide nations had learned to defend themselves from the curse of the subjects of Ymir so they adapted to the threat. At first, they erected walls, built fortresses but as time passed, titans came flying down from the sky to take the lives of their children and the lands of their ancestors in the name of the Marleyan Empire. Coalitions and alliances were formed and promptly, anti-titan weapons and technology were developed and implemented to existing infrastructures. Yet, as powerful as they were, these weapons could be thought of as toys facing the size and power of the Colossal Titan. Its very nature made it as much a deterrent as a destructive weapon.

You never had the chance - or the misfortune, you thought - to see the extent of the Colossal Titan powers with your own eyes. However, stories were plentiful, particularly among soldiers you had met during your years of training and service in the Marleyan military. Some of them spoke of a bomb so powerful, it could wipe out entire cities in the span of a few seconds, others of a demon made of fire, striking and burning down everything in its path. 

Perhaps you had expected to see that the very first time you had met the Warriors. When they had appeared among officers and soldiers, you thought you were finally seeing these infamous heartless demons, deadly assets of the Empire. And yet, as you had laid your eyes on them, you were taken aback at the sight of him. He was the tallest of them, yet his head was hanging low, his eyes exhausted, his hands fidgeting. He was dressed in his military uniform, his red armband proving his status as honorary citizen and fellow Warrior. Despite all this, you didn’t even see a soldier. You had spent the meeting looking at him, listening to the few words he spoke and all you saw, all you heard was a broken boy hiding behind his stature and his war titles. 

No matter how you looked at it, you couldn’t see any of what you were told he was. Everything you thought we knew about him was based on the blood running in his veins, and on the curse that controlled his whole life. You weren’t there when he first laid his hands on this power, on this burden, too heavy for a boy to carry by himself - you knew nothing.

Every single step of your relationship had been a long and intricate process. He was withdrawn and silent, leaving decisions and choices to the others. But when he had let his guard down for you, when he had let you in, you saw him, this little boy who had seen hell on earth, who had been dragged in something too big, too cruel for his own sanity. 

You always liked to look at him, particularly when he was not paying attention, lost in his thoughts. It was better that way, avoiding unnecessary outpourings of embarrassment. As much as he was nice to look at, there were things that you could only perceive from the way he tilted his head when you talked, how he narrowed his eyes while disagreeing, or the way his lips would curve when you were being silly. 

Yet, sometimes, when you looked at him, you couldn't help but imagine the deadly power contained within him, the raw, devastating strength concentrated in his long, slender fingers. 

Humanity’s deadliest weapon, whose eyes were so melancholy that they sometimes filled with tears for no apparent reasons. Humanity’s deadliest weapon, who was crying in your arms after nightmares that would wake him up in the middle of the night, screaming and shaking, leaving him so miserable that he could not sleep for days. Sometimes, regret flushed over you for dragging him into this. All he had ever wanted was to rest, and he deserved peace more than any other soldier. However, you had forbidden him to die that day, you took his hand in yours and made him swear and ever since then, he was suffering his own life, because of you. Because you had asked him. Of course, he had followed you, but you couldn’t help but wonder if it was really what he had wanted - perhaps what you bargained with him may have been more appealing than death.

When he had agreed to run away with you, you made a promise to yourself - you would protect him as long as he was alive. No one knew what would happen in the span of three years, his last three years. Three meaningless years of your life in exchange for the rest of his existence. That, you were more than willing to give to him. He could take all the time you offered him and use it as he wanted to, as they are entirely his. 

In the bottom of the cup, tea leaves whirled in the cold liquid. You got up from the stool, shook off your dress sprinkled with crumbs and headed to the kitchen stove, empty cup and plate in hand, setting down the dishes. You made a mental note to heat up some water later to wash the dishes. 

Near the window, the birds were singing again, and you let your gaze wander around the shady yard. From this side of the house, you could see the small stable sheltering the dapple-grey horse you two brought when you arrived.

You remembered fondly the welcoming farm, outside of the town where you got off the train. You had mentioned during the trip that it would be a two days' ride from the railway town to the village in which you spent some years of your childhood. The both of you had been lucky enough to meet a farmer willing to give up one of his horses in exchange for a few coins, the remains of the money Pieck had slipped into your pocket before watching you from the platform as the train left the station. 

The mellow horse had grown more acclimated to you, as Bertholdt refused to ride her on most of the way. When you finally arrived, you knew he was exhausted, despite the usual breaks and the rare moments when he would accept to let you walk by the horse. You knew Bertholdt was a skilled horse rider, if not excellent, for you had had the chance to see him ride, back at the capital, during the military parades. Yet, from the gloaming expression on his face when he did, you could tell he was not fully appreciating the discipline, but you knew better to keep your mouth shut about it. 

The uncomfortable absence of the sweet-tempered man was starting to weigh on you. Despite his silent nature, you liked having him close-by more than anything else in the world, the soft warmth of his body next to yours when you cooked in the small kitchen, his scent filling your senses when he fell asleep next to you, his hair and skin still damp from the hot bath he took before going to bed.  

As if responding to birdsong, you heard the steady, thumping sound you had first perceived when you woke up. You decided to turn around, grabbed the woolen shawl lying on either side of the wooden chair by the fireplace, sending dust flying in the process, and headed to the door. The early autumn air blew in your face as you opened the door, your cheeks immediately warming up from sunray. You walked down the few steps of the porch, leaning on the railing as you felt your legs respond to your movement with giddiness. Near the small wooden steps, you noticed a neatly cut pile of wood. 

As the realization hit, you went around the small wooden house, past the bedroom window, down the small dirt path. The steady sound of splitting wood echoed a little more in the high pines around you, and as you came around the corner of the cottage, you finally saw him. His tall figure loomed in the small, bright clearing, his back to you. You leaned against the house for a moment, finally relieved to know he was around. Taking advantage of his inattention, you let your eyes draw his beautiful figure.

His hair was a mess, sticking to the back of his neck, revealing the sweat on his skin. The white shirt was stuck to his back, rising at each breath he took. He had rolled up his sleeves above his elbows, revealing the thick lines of his muscles. You glared as his moves were calm and steady, mesmerized by the control he was expressing through his chopping movements.

He stood still, took a breath, swung the axe above his head, his broad shoulders flexing, balancing the weight of his body, suddenly cleaving neatly the log sitting on the chopping block in front of him. As if he was answering to a peculiar rhythm, he leaned down to grab another log, placed it on the block, stood, breathed, swung, and brought the axe down one more time. The log split in half, splinters and pieces of bark hovering a moment in the air around him. From where you were standing, you could almost smell the faint scent from the wood as it fell, drowning your scent, feeling the splinters sprinkled his forearms on your skin, his hands strong and tight around the shaft of the axe. You could swear the pulse in your chest was his, your body reacting to the quick pace of his heartbeat, exactly like you felt it when he held you as you two kissed for the first time the night before. You brought your fingers to your lips, eyes still stuck on him, on the frenetic rise and fall of his chest, on his parted lips, on his focused eyes.

His jaw tensed-up, his body jolted, suddenly facing you. For a second, he peered at you, eyes panicked but when he realized that the presence he felt was yours, his shoulders softened. A gentle smile appeared on his face, cheeks wearing a slight blush from his effort. Your breathing was shallow as vibrant thoughts besieged you. He gently placed down the axe on the ground, running a hand over his forehead to get rid of beads of sweat. 

He took a step toward you, but he stopped abruptly. From afar, you watched him looking back at you, frowning as you unfolded your arms. He turned quickly on his heels, his broad back now facing you and he pulled up the hem of his shirt, revealing some of his lower back as he wiped his face with it, before straightening up, smoothing his cloth, and turning back to you. 

“Good morning,” he greeted you, a smile in his voice when he finally got closer, his dark green eyes sounding yours, “how did you sleep?”

“Great, thank you”, you answered, lowering your eyes on the ground between you. Stupid as it was, you didn’t know what to add, as it was usually a one-way question, which you were not used to ask back. It was not unusual for him to lie in the bed next to you, as the sun rose, his eyes staring at the ceiling, dark circles under his eyes betraying a sleepless night. As weeks went by, you had learnt to watch your greetings and your words around him, as you understood the direct impact of your words on his moods. Yet, at this exact moment, after everything that had happened, and how it somehow managed to take over all your thoughts, even greetings felt awkward. You let a sigh escape from your lips. 

You regretted that almost immediately, looking up at him, but it was too late, and all you could see was the twitch in his jaw, his eyes already down. 

“Thank you for the breakfast,” you heard yourself say, quickly, words louder than you would have liked. He nodded, slightly shrugging at your words.

That was beyond stupid, you were the one who was always trying to encourage communication, addressing things, however insignificant they might be. And yet the two of you were there, standing in front of each other, uncomfortable and embarrassed like teenagers, unable to address whatever had happened - and was still happening. 

So, bluntly, you said “I thought you were gone”.

His eyes went up to yours, frowning, visibly confused. “I- Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, raising an eyebrow. His breath was now buzzing in your ears. Quietly, he said, “You were sound asleep, and I was having a hard time going back to sleep, you know how it gets, I’m sorry if I worried you.” 

“Oh, no, not at all,” you lied, hiding it with a chuckle, reaching for his arm to dust splinters on his shirt, “I thought you ran away because of what happened last ni-”

“No!” He said loudly, grabbing your hand. “I mean- no,” his voice was softer now, taken aback by the sound of his own voice, “that’s not it.”

Your joined hands fell between your bodies, and you cautiously looked at him, probing his eyes. The blush on his cheeks was getting darker and darker. 

You gave him a moment to find his words, never rushing him. It was easier now than it had been when you met him, as he had gone days without saying a word. But since you had been living together, he had slowly learned to use his words. When he was upset about something, you could tell right away by the way he withdrew into himself, looking grim.

However, as unpleasant as this discussion was going to be, it was inevitable. You couldn't pretend nothing had happened- it would have destroyed all trust between you. You were ready to hear him say that it would not happen again, and to accept it too, as painful it would be. You preferred things to be clear.

You heard your name slip from his lips, and he gently squeezed your fingers in his hands, pulling you into him.

“What happened… I don’t regret it. I mean, do you… regret it?”

You watched him for a moment, processing his words. His gaze was restless, waiting for your answer. And yet, all you could think of was how beautiful he looked in the sunlight, his cheeks rosy, tired eyes looking back at you, a worried pout on his lips. For a second, you recalled his lips on yours, on your skin, and, stuck by your thought, you remembered that none of this was new. You had wanted him for so long, slave to your own desires, unable to ever express them. You wanted him again, you wanted him so much it hurt. You wanted to wipe the tears from his cheeks, to kiss the palms of his hands, and to stroke his hair for him to sleep tight. All you had ever wanted was to love him unconditionally, and he finally seemed to let you.

“If you knew how much I’ve wanted it. Give me permission, and I'll do it every day.”

A laugh escaped his mouth, his eyes suddenly shy. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, visibly embarrassed. You filled the space between the two of you, placing your hand on his cheek, tiptoeing. He met you halfway in the movement, your noses touching, and in a silent permission, your lips took his, tenderly, as his hand slid to your waist. 

“I won’t go”, he breathed against your lips.

You thumbed through his hair, humming at his words, your heart fluttering.

“Until death do us part then, Bertholdt.” 

[adalz]

temperature

pairing: Levi Ackerman x gn!reader

summary: a sensual evening during a heatwave

warning: none, sfw

world count: 0,8k 

You were at Levi's apartment, lying on the cool tile floor of his kitchen, the heavy heat still pounding in your head, your limbs numb and sprawled around you. The sun had gone down some time ago, but the stifling heat had only slightly dropped. 

It had been a long and tiring day, the small air-conditioning in your office barely sufficient to help you cope with the heatwave that had hit the city over the past few days. The hot spell was seeping everywhere, into the walls, behind the lowered shutters, infusing in the air, making clothes stick to sweaty bodies. It made you weary, really, draining all thoughts in your head, turning you into a dizzy and tired puddle. 

The tiles were getting warm, moist crawling up on the bare skin of your back. When you’d heard the shower starting to run, you had taken your shirt off promptly, the coolness of the floor making you sigh. But the heat was already catching up with you, pulling you out of your thoughts turned to what was happening behind the closed door of the bathroom, away from the image of cold water trickling down his body, dripping down his jaw, droplets tracing and drawing the curves of his back. You could almost hear your heart pounding in your head, the muggy air around you, buzzing in your ears. You were tired, so tired. 

The sound of feet padding against the floor brought you back to your senses. From somewhere above you, you heard a grunt of disapproval, which made you open your eyes. Your boyfriend was towering over you, a pair of fresh sweatpants and a clean t-shirt on, his hair still wet, dripping onto the towel around his neck. You saw him open the cupboard and grab two glasses, before nudging you in the arm with the tip of his foot while busying himself around the kitchen. He eventually stepped over you unceremoniously, ordering you to go take a shower, before disappearing from your vision.

You let out a grunt before sitting up, feeling your hair stick to the back of your neck. You didn't understand how Levi could be so unruffled by the sweltering weather, his usual deadpan demeanor on his face since he'd picked you up from work. You felt like your brain was melting through your ears, your skin sticky, your legs leaden while he looked unbothered by the oppressive weather, his skin barely glistening. That was beyond you. If even the exhausting heat couldn't grapple with him, then what would? You got up slowly, dropping the prospect of a fresh shower, your mind busy with other thoughts, and you headed for the living room. 

Sitting on his sofa, Levi had a book on his lap, an arm leaning on the back of the sofa. The balcony's french window was ajar, a poor solution to the lack of aircon in his apartment, inviting the hot breeze in and making the still wet strands of his hair dance on his forehead. You approached him slowly, feet dragging on the floor, before slumping on the couch next to him, not too close, already imagining his reaction to the contact of your sticky skin against his. 

He didn't need to say a word to show his annoyance, tilting his head to the side as he saw you approach, one eyebrow arched. His languid eyes hovered on you as you remembered that your shirt was still discarded somewhere on the kitchen floor. He sighed again, nothing unusual, and reached for one of the glasses of amber liquid on the coffee table in front of you, droplets of water lazily sliding on the outer surface of the glace. Your fingers brushed against his and you brought the glass to your lips, swallowing the cool liquid in great gulps. 

You exhaled, leaning into the cushions as you put the glass on your lap, turning your head toward him. He was looking at you, a gleam in his eyes, looking quite amused. He was glorious, the heat tinting his cheeks of a pinkish shade. You felt his fingers grab the glass in your hand and he leaned to put it back on the table.

His fingers went up to your cheek, placing a strand of your hair behind your ear, lazily sliding down your jaw, and much to your surprise, he came to snuggle up to your side. Languorous kiss was placed on your shoulder, his cool hand coming to curl up in the hollow of your hip. His movement was slow, lazy, almost sensual. You placed a kiss on his forehead, teasing him about the fact that he had just showered and that you were on the floor of his kitchen a minute before.

You heard his muffled chuckle, a smile against your skin. His warm breath brushed on your neck, mimicking the lascivious movement of his fingers on your side. Maybe it wasn't just the heat that was responsible for the pinkness in his cheeks. And slowly, whisper said in the crook of your neck, as your bodies were lulling in the warm breeze, he said, “can I help you wash your hair?”

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec - ROUSSE ALSO CALLED TOILET, 1889 

[adalz]

I found a reason

pairing: Levi Ackerman x gn!reader

summary: he fell in love with your melodies

warning: none, sfw

world count: 0,8k

From across the room, Levi was watching you, running your fingertips over the six thin record sleeves neatly arranged on the shelf. Your fingers would gently slide along the tonearm of the record player, your eyes imagining the stylus vibrating along the vinyl's grooves, producing a warm, delicate sound. Every time you heard the music soaring peacefully throughout his apartment, he knew you couldn't help but smile. Dwelled by that same warmth, he wouldn’t say a word. For nothing in the world would he have exchanged your smiles and the gentle nod of your head to the rhythm of the melodies, your fingers seeking for him, tapping on his skin, curling up in his arms, your muffled voice echoing against his chest. He wouldn't have ever wanted to take away the sweet songs you’d brought into his life and that resounded through his home, when you were there, between his arms, his warmth embracing yours.

Levi was a man who had been content with silence his entire life, forsaking the din of radios and TVs out of his space. He’d watched passers-by around him, disconnected to the sound of life, their earphones fixed in their ears. His were always attentive to the rustling of the city and the night. Sometimes, passing by a stranger, he would discern some muffled notes, fading away as quickly as it was ever heard, forgotten in the dead of the world. 

When you started dating, you knew he was a man of a few words, little did you know he was a man of a few songs as well. ‘I never needed it’, he told you one day, when you asked him how he had never given in to the temptation to listen, even once, to any song. It was always music at your house, never at his. You remembered catching him admiring your LPs and albums collection when he thought you weren't nearby, his eyes shimmering with curiosity. It’s not that he had no interest in the matter - you quickly understood he just didn't know where to start. 

You started to drop by the record store down the street, browsing through the hundreds of records on display, fleeting memories of little head bobs or quiet, inaudible hums as the only sign of approval he had ever given to you. His fingers would gently tap on his upper legs on a particular song as you sat on your couch, books in your hands. 

He remembered it snowed that morning. You had agreed to meet at his house, not so much to celebrate, but to enjoy the shared holiday. You arrived early, well before noon, and when he opened the door, you were there, snowflakes on your eyelashes, your figure wrapped in a big scarf and woolen mittens. Your nose was reddened by the cold, and you had the biggest smile spread across your face. Under your arm was a present wrapped in a shiny golden paper. He had frowned, almost scolding as he pulled you inside, reminding you of your promise not to give each other Christmas presents, and you had laughed, chilly skin and glorious smile. In your eyes shone a gleam of mischief and, kissing his cheek, your cold nose rubbing against his skin, you had wished him, like a secret against his skin, a happy birthday.

He still remembered your excitement as he gently removed the paper, seated on the couch in his living room. You laughed at the look of stupefaction on his face when he uncovered the huge box, your hands warming up around a mug of hot tea. When he asked where he was going to put it, you took out of your bag six thin record sleeves. And you were laughing so hard.

He put the turntable on a shelf in his living room, making room among his books. Next to it, he had put the record sleeves, each one in a different color, the little smile on his lips the only sign of the warmth that had spread in his chest from the moment you stepped into his apartment, under your arms the first meaningful gift he had ever received.

He loved the almost organic sound of vinyls, the imperfections and the rumble of the sound, the intimacy of the music. He loved that you chose it for him, bringing the sound of life into his space so intimate, so delicate. 

He would sometimes indulge in some Lou Reed and Nick Drake when he was tidying and cleaning, his mind drifting away at the sound of their sung universes, drawing him out of his thoughts. It was Dire Strait and the Velvet Underground when he thought of you. Stevie Nicks and David Bowie when you were busying yourselves in the kitchen on Friday nights after work, the sound of your laughter echoing in the living room when you would hear the first notes rising from the living room.

[adalz]

remember when i said 'hcs modern!au Erwin and Zeke are childhood best friends lol'

well i lied

those are not headcanons. those are facts. they are best friends. zeke told me himself (part 2)

they're cut from the same cloth. have the same humor and laugh at each other stupid jokes. never out of courtesy but because they genuinely find each other's shitty jokes funny.

complementary as hell. a libra and a leo? are you kidding me? Erwin is the smooth and calm one while Zeke is just out there trying to shine brighter than the sun. they soothe and bring out the best in each other.

Erwin’s probably part of the student council or something like that.

and he’s actually the popular one. he’s friends with a lot of people and a lot of students respect him. Zeke is very outgoing but has a hard time making real friendships. everyone knows him, but he gives off a less approachable vibe. 

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you can often spot him smoking behind the toilets. He gives deadly looks to anyone passing by. but that's just his resting face. he doesn't give a shit what you think.

They hang out all the time - at school, during club activities, before and after class. They do all their group projects and assignments together. All the fucking time. You want Erwin in your group? guess what, Zeke's tagging along. they're a package. buy one get one free

They have hundreds of private jokes. don't try to understand them. those jokes are very deep and ancient. sound mystical. will never explain if you ask. ngl, they probably forgot where they’re coming from. man, they're just big nerds

Sometimes you sit next to them in class and they're losing their shit every time when Zeke yells 'DEDICATE YOUR HEART'. everybody else's like 👀 'wtf is wrong with them'. change seats promptly.

Zeke calls Erwin 'bestie'

gossip gang. know everything about everybody. Won’t tell though. it’ll stay between them.

talking of staying between them ; they know everything about each other's love life. absolutely not timid when it comes to that.

lowkey lend each other porn magazines.

someone have to stop them from accompanying each other on dates. They did it once. ended up badly. But they don't see the problem. 100% will do it again.

Zeke used to bring Erwin to all the parties. Until people realize that Erwin is the cool one. Now it's the other way around.

Erwin’s usually the drinksitter because he’ll drive everybody's home. Stays sober and takes care of everyone. 

You don't even have to ask, he'll offer you a ride. His car is usually packed at the end of the night.

Smooth driver but doesn’t trust the gps.

he’s a collected dude, but don't throw up in his car or he'll go nuts.

He's Zeke designated chauffeur ever since he failed his drivers test for the 3rd time. don’t make fun of him or he’ll cry.

He knows how to drive, his oncle Tom taught him. He's not even bad at it. He's just too stressed every time he takes the test and makes dumb mistakes.

Erwin goes to all the high school baseball games. he wears the school jersey and everything. Dina and him are Zeke's biggest fans. They’re both ridiculously adorable cheering for Zeke from the stands. He can see them from where he is, and it makes him all proud and gooey inside. If you want to please him, come and cheer him on at his games. start a fan club. Erwin will be an automatic member.

[adalz]

until death do us part - chapter 5

pairing: Bertholdt Hoover x Reader

genre/tags/warnings: sfw, canonverse, friends to lovers, fluff, hurt/confort.

setting: Follow the events of chapter 4, Liberio, around 853 

world count: 3.6k

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“Please Commander, you have to let me go back.”

Standing behind his wooden desk, shoulders tense and eyes avoiding yours ever since you came into his office in the early morning, Magath still did not answer. He inspired dissatisfaction - something dark, something tired. The dark aura emanating from him betrayed something different from the faint festivities' sounds you could hear outside. 

The man, by dint of words thrown in his direction, finally spared you a glance, eyelids squinted and his eyes dark. Usually, this would have been enough to freeze your blood and induce you to silence. Yet, these past few days, the same images were turning on a loop in your head. The same somber and humid place, the same tired body. The same name again and again, the same blurred but graceful face, drawn by Bertholdt's warm voice, echoing over and over in your mind. The only solution, the only word needed to take it all back - Krista.

Your hands were cold from writing so much and your body sore from sleepless nights. And even the worst of Magath's murderous looks couldn’t affect you. Not anymore. Probably never again.

Your mission’s reports and analysis were more than disappointing, and he hadn't even pretended to rebuke you. Without a word, he took the documents from your hands and punished you with silence. To your words only responded the noise of a crowd past the windows.

Behind the shadows under his eyes and the wrinkles on his brow, disappointment was engraved. And ignorance was worse than the excess of anger.

He merely tried to silence you with a vague wave of his hand at some point. No looks, no words. A gesture for you to shut up, to get out of his office. But he had no idea of your determination. This was not the end. Not like this, not yet.

You spoke again, this time a bit louder and his eyes stopped on the papers scattered in front of him. If he didn't want to look at you, he would see you. He didn't need to listen; he would just hear. Because you had the solution, and you wouldn't let it go. You had to try.

He sighed, visibly annoyed. Against his heart, medals of Honor and military decorations hanging from his uniform rose with the deep breath he took. 

“Commander,” you said again. His attention finally on you was almost palpable, his ears devoted to the words flowing out of your mouth. 

Your voice was calm, diligent: “I believe I have in my possession a piece of information that I am certain will make the girl yield to Marley, and given the present situation, I think it would be more intelligent for us to act right n-”

“And why,” he harshly interrupted you, “didn't you use it when you were given the chance, soldier?” His eyes settled on you as he rested his chin on the back of his hands, and you saw fatigue in his eyes. 

It was the first time he spoke to you all morning, and the look in his eyes was inscrutable. As you opened your mouth to continue, you tried to ignore the sudden buzzing in your ears.

“Because I did not have it at the time of the questioning, Comm-”

The slamming of his hands against the desk cut you off again. He straightened up, his uniform crumpled, and his body forward, leaning on his forearms. He meant to be threatening - but his posture betrayed resignation.  

“I don't know whether you’re brave or just plain stupid. You dare to come here, to present yourself before me, acknowledging your failure, proving to me that you are, once again nothing but an incompetent.”

The cutting remark slid over you like fine rain. Anger was finally speaking, and it was only responding to yours. And from the frustration in his voice, all his words deprived from the meaning he was trying to instill in them. If Magath had chosen you in the first place, it was precisely because you were the most capable.

“If you only did what was asked of you, you’d have had all the cards in your hand at the right moment. So congrats, soldier! You stand out in mediocrity,” he let out a mocking laugh, but his head was down, and he was not looking at you anymore. “It's too late now. And don't think for a second that being naively honest serves you. Quite the opposite.”

You thought it would have affected you. That his words would have an impact. You, the ideal soldier, on the verge of excellence, throwing yourself body and soul into training and formation and work - scolded like some recruit. You who rose above your station despite this cursed blood in your veins - drowned by his words, spat out with so much disappointment. And yet, you never felt so light. He gave reason to your frustration. The only thing that rang in your ears was that he wouldn't let you go back.

You cleared your throat, “Commander-”

“Shut up. Please, not another word.”

”She-”

“For the Emperor’s sake-!”

“ ‘She will open up to you,’ “ you cried out at the top of your lungs, and they were ready to burst, filled with compressed air, you took in a single breath, as if it was your last. “ ‘More than to any other officer because you are sensitive to those kinds of things.’ ”

He looked daggers at you, and if his eyes could have killed you, right then and there, you’d be lying on the ground, already drained of your blood, but you kept going, with the same respiration, unable to catch your breath.

“I am the sensitive one. I am capable; and what else will the others do? Gouge out her eyes and slice her arms over and over again, until the will to live leaves her, until she’s nothing more than a ghost of herself, already dead for the handover.”

Breath in.

“You and I both know that this is no solution; you said so yourself. Those are your words, and you said them because you believed in them. You believed in me. And you somehow still do. You know I can do it, and you know I'm the right person to send back down there.”

Breath in.

“You told me to get inside her head and now I am telling you I have the key to make her yield from the inside. Give me one last chance. I’m begging you.” 

Breath in. 

Breath out.

“Commander.”

He had gone pale. Knuckles against the wood were beginning to turn white. From squeezing too hard, from hearing too much. Insolent and reckless, perhaps. But certainly not an incompetent.

His head was low, but his dark eyes were still fixed on you. In a slow movement, he reached into his uniform jacket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He stood up straight, and slowly walked around his desk. You kept your eyes fixed on the wall in front of you, steady. Trying to look unscared. Impassive to the affront you just committed. The lighter clicked next to you and the pungent smell of the cigarette wafted in your face. 

“You've got some fucking nerve,” he said, teeth gritted.

“You think you’re a smartass, huh? I can have you demoted. Have you called for a dishonorable discharge. For shooting this fucking mouth off.” He stood still in front of you, a threatening scowl across his face, so close, you could hear his medals clattering on his jacket. He took a long drag of the cigarette. You didn’t blink.

“Do you need help remembering who you are - how you got there in the first place?”

He breathed out a mouthful of smoke, and it was scorching hot against your cheek. “Show some goddamn gratitude.”

Breath in.

“Tell me soldier”, you heard him say, from behind you. “Do you ever even think?” Ears were ringing. Threatening. His presence suffocating. You braced yourself for his words. 

“About where you’d be if I hadn't stepped in that day?”

Just breath in.

“Maybe already dead in the gutter. Thrown away after being used by the top brass. Whoring around Liberio for a living.”

Blood rose to your cheeks so violently, your body quivered. Here it went.

“That’s what that officer said that day, remember? When they caught you, hidden in the forest. Near your family house, was it? Watching it go up in smoke in the middle of the night. Looking at the high flames licking the roof, bursting the windows. I remember it quite well; we could still hear someone screaming from inside.”

Why can’t I breathe? 

“You were standing there, your eyes wet and your body frozen in terror. He said, ‘with a pretty face like that, we could get a nice price out of it, eh captain?’ ”

It reappeared in violent flashes before your eyes, it slammed in your ears. Forgotten and rejected emotions resurfacing under your muscles. Images. Wildfire on your skin. How you got here. What had been taken from you to make you submit. 

“I’d have agreed and you wouldn’t be here disrespecting me right now.”

Throat dry, eyes dry. I can’t breathe

“Lucky for you, everyone’s dead that night. No one will have to pay the price for your words, orphan.”

How you served the country that made you an orphan. In your ears, the beating of your heart. There’s no use trying.

Magath went around you, a hand over his mouth as he took a puff. He stood still, staring at you for an instant, before leaning back against his desk and exhaled loudly. You weren’t so sure you were as unblinking as you would have wanted to be.

“Pretty sure I already made it clear that I hate your big fucking mouth.”

He took another drag out of his cigarette; then a second one. You were waiting.

“Now you shut the fuck up and you listen to me.”

There was a twitch in your right eye and you tried to hold the unsteady breath in your throat.

“If it were up to me, I’d have sent you back as many times as you asked,” he finally said. His tone had changed. 

“God. I’d even have sent Galliard if I had the authorization. All the Warriors if they felt like it. But I can’t. It's over. Things have changed - the times have changed. War is coming, soldier. It's too late. They'll take care of it now.”

Without another word, he stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his boot.

“They'll find a solution by themselves.”

It burned on your tongue, burned in your mouth, to know who, who? Who could do better, who would ever have the information you had, who knew what button to press - but you said nothing.

“There's nothing I can do,” he said simply, returning to his desk. “So just forget it.”

So that was it. There was nothing more; nothing more to say. Swept aside the effort. You should have been relieved, relieved that you’d have nothing more to do in this sordid titan inheritance. With this whole consent to die. And yet, a bitter taste spreads in your mouth. The taste of failure, this suffocating sensation of having let down all those who counted on you. To be, once again, powerless. And it ate you, it ate you, Bertholdt's soft words when he told you about Krista, Galliard's anger when he told you about Marcel. Braun's traumatized eyes when he thought about the past. The girl flirting with death, there, six feet under earth.

“Don't make that face,” you heard. You raised your head. Magath was staring at you, and the darkness in his eyes was gone. 

“I know what I said, soldier. But I don't take the decisions anymore. Now, chin up and get the fuck out of my office. Enjoy the respite before the candidate exams begin. It's parade time. Go and take your mind off it. And try to forget about it.”

-

All you had to do was walk down a few steps from the grand staircase of the General Staff Building to hear the festive air on the street. You passed under the great columns and stepped into the late morning light.

The atmosphere in the main square was drastically different from the office you just came out from. When you crossed it early this morning, you’d noticed the barriers and stands, huge banners to the Empire's colors still laying on the ground. Now, they were flying up in the late morning breeze. You didn't think there would be so many people.

On the thoroughfare through the square, the parade had already begun, with musicians on horseback, cheering from the crowd behind the barriers. In the stands, you could see the uniforms of the top brass. 

Looking at the gathering, you could easily imagine the crowds in the streets of the capital. If there were so many people here, then you could only imagine the chock-full avenues along the Fountain Garden, all the way down the Bell Tower.

You only realized yesterday that the military parade for the Returning Warriors was taking place today. Usually, you were well aware of these events, as you oversaw the formalities and the organization of the administrations, but with your recent occupations, this might have been delegated to someone else.

The sky was low and heavy, casting on you weary blight. The atmosphere was indeed festive, but something was off. Out of place. You perfectly remembered the day they came home, the sunny harbor and cheerful faces. It was a new day, a new era; a promise for better days, high hopes floating in the street. Here, in the capital were jostling the rich and noble. Today, there was a military parade. If the attention for them was once upon a time genuine, here, everything reeked of politics. From the top step of the Building, you sighed. 

“Overwhelming, isn't it?”

You turned your head towards the familiar voice, and your gaze met probing warm brown eyes. It took a few seconds to recognize them.

The armband blood-red color. Long brown hair tied up nicely in her back, exposing her fair face and her uniform epaulettes. Coming out of nowhere, the Warrior Finger was watching you. 

Her voice was softer than you remembered. Perhaps slower, more composed. You realized you only were introduced once, quickly, yet you never exchanged a word with her.

“I hope I didn't scare you,” she said, tilting her head to the side.

There was something intriguing about her, something you never really thought about. She seemed sweet-tempered, often overshadowed by the rest of the headstrong Warriors, quiet and pleasant - standing in their shadows. 

Yet there was something threatening about her, a great reputation as a formidable fighter on the battlefield. Of mad endurance and speed. A smart tactician. Sharp. Deadly.

You glanced to the side, to get a better look at her, and her eyes were fixed on your profile. 

“Have you been here long?” you finally asked, returning your attention to the crowd. Her eyes were practically poking holes in your cheeks.

“Well, I should be asking you that,” she said with a laugh. She pointed at the building, “I saw you from inside; you've been standing out here for a while.”

The sun was high behind the clouds, a murky horizon opening to your eyes. You didn't know what time it was. In fact, you didn't care. You could have stayed here for hours; it wouldn't have mattered. 

Pieck spoke up again as you felt your thoughts begin to wander away.

“I don't believe I've personally introduced myself,” she said, stretching her hand out to you, “Pieck Finger. Nice to meet you.”

You caught her outstretched hand, warm against your fingers. Her grip was iron. 

“I heard what you did.”

You let out a mocking laugh.

“I didn't do anything.”

“Don't say that. You've done plenty, more than you think. I wanted to thank you because I know Pock won't. Thank you. Even if he won’t say it, I'm sure he appreciated all your efforts.”

Galliard's grumpy, imperturbable face came to mind when you heard the nickname. Of course. She’d inherited her titan along with the others. One same golden generation. Childhood friends and fellow Warriors. She must have known Marcel and Porco together; two boys shining bright with the same dream. Torn apart by the same fate. 

You just smiled at her, lowering your head, not saying anything more. The crowd suddenly erupted into applause, resounding down the steps.

“Aren't you marching?” you asked suddenly. “I thought this was your moment of glory.”

“Oh yes, of course, but later - I'm marching with the rest of the rescue team.” She jerked her chin toward the music below. You followed her gesture with your eyes.

“Forward, Marley's two favorite Heroes.”

A procession of riders had moved down the main road. In its center, between the cavalry band, stood two riders. First you recognized Braun, waving to the crowd. 

Then you saw him - mounted on a buckskin stallion, his back straight, arm stained with that familiar red, head high under his cap. All you saw was him. 

“Coming back to save the Empire.”

He looked huge. Imposing. Both glorious to thunderous applause. To flowers and to cheers. Heroes. Claimed by the people. Yet, even from afar, you could see the rueful look on his face, and you could only imagine the sadness in his eyes. A reluctant hero. 

“People want to see them, after all. After five years.”

The shadow in his features, his eyes fixed forward. And all of it, this whole mockery made you sick to your stomach, sick for him. To have seen it all, and to have destroyed it all. To be cheered against his will. The celebration of his destruction. The most powerful weapon in the world, here, right here, barely a hundred feet away from you, hidden behind his armband and medals, was trembling with fear. Of having to go back soon. Of having to do it all over again, again and again - until death tears him apart.

It was then, at that very moment, that you realized that he would not survive. That you would die. To have to send a wounded and bleeding boy on thousands of years old battlefields. 

You were terrified, your heart in balance for him, for this boy; that every part of your body was crying out to protect. You wanted to dive into the crowd. To elbow your way through heavy bodies, arms, raised hands, shouts and cheers. You would not stumble, you would stand tall, you would push through the barriers, and you would rip him off his pedestal, rip the laurels from his hair. Tear out the bandages, to cauterize his open wounds with your lips; his hand in yours, yours on his face and you would free him from this wrongful world.

Maybe there was something you could do.

Something that would give him a break. Find someone else to take his place, someone who was rightfully claiming their Warrior title. Someone who wanted to fight, if only for a moment, for him, so that his wounds could heal. Someone who could buy him time to get back on his feet. For him to live outside of death and destruction if only for a moment.

“Pieck,” you turn to her in a sudden movement.

The young woman looked at you in confusion, her brow furrowed. She had moved closer, her hand resting on your forearm, and you grabbed her by the tops of her shoulders.

“I called you but-” she said, but you cut her off.

“To whom would you write your last letter?”

The question didn't seem to faze her. She simply shrugged. 

“My father, probably.”

“Because you love him, right?”

“Of course,” she said with a smile.

“Because it makes sense to send your last words to someone you love. A person to whom you have yo say important things, at all costs. For whom we might sacrifice everything. A person you love.”

“Yes, I guess it does.”

“Pieck, I know how to get the Jaw.”

She froze at your sentence, her eyes alternating in yours. The crowd was screaming in your ears, and your fingers were frozen on her shoulders. She took a step forward, and grabbed your wrists. With an interested glint in her eyes, she nodded.

“I know how to get the Jaw back; I know how to make sure Marley doesn't go to war right away. They'll be scared, five Titans in Marley, no one would be crazy enough to try it. I know how to do it and this time I won't be afraid. I know how to get her to agree to the handover. And we can both do it, right now. Get back what Marcel left for Porco.”

At no point had she looked at you like you'd lost your mind. Like you were completely crazy. Eyes gentle with attention. 

Her eyes shone at your words. They shone to protect her loved ones, her friends, her brothers in arms. The Cart Titan; the titan of protection. A dangerous weapon, and an even more dangerous heart. A determination that matched your own.

“If you think you can do it, then we should at least try,” she said. She brought her hand to your face, her thumb sliding down your cheek. “I’ll be your witness.”

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