#aquiline noses my beloved

[caroodraws]

Drawing every Genshin character: #3 Diluc!

I wanted to do my take on a wintertime/dragonspine edition of him… and start my public service of zaddification

Also, see lineart experiment below 🤔 I like the way it looks but it took a lil too long for my tastes

[astarionposting]

And it's my whole heart, weighed and measured inside.

i need some1 to teach me about armatures and weights for circlets for bg3 :( i was able to get the model of the crown of jaehaerys into the game but couldnt figure out the weights and armature stuff so it wont actually attach to the head :(((( MAAAAN

[julpernulper]

every time a hooked/aquiline nose undergoes rhinoplasty, an angel loses its wings.

[dagothurbignaturals]

Another character ref i decided to make, her name is Nell.

I'll post about her later ig

Close up

[dailykafka]

I LOVE FRANZ KAFKA!!!!❤️ 😫🫶🪳OH MY GOD OMG I LOVE HIM HES SUCH A SHRINKLY CUTIE PIE MY SWEET BELOVED POETIC SWEETHEART🪳💪❤️🕰️🕴️🧳MY MELANCHOLIC LITTLE PHILOSOPHICAL DOODLE DOO 🪳🕰️MY ONE TWO BUCKLE MY SHOE LOVELY LITTLE GERMAN JEW🇩🇪🇮🇱✡️🕎 OMFG I LOVE HIS BIG EARS AND SCUPLTY SCRUPTOIS FACE THAT REEKS OF THAT BODYDYSMOPRHIA RIZZ I JUST WANT TO LICK LICK👅HIS AQUILINE NOSE 👃 AND KISS HIM 💋💋AND CHEW ON HIS EARS LIKE A CHEWTOY 👃👅👂OH MY GOD WHY DID HE HAVE TO DIE ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO I CANT GO ON LIKE THIS I NEED HIM UHHHJJ😩😭I WISH HE WAS STILL ALIVE SO WE CAN DO THE GRIDDY INTO THE SUNSET THEN WAKE UP THE NEXT DAY METAMORPHOSISE INTO A MONSTROUS VERMIN OMGGG

😁😁😁😁😁

[newvegascowboy]

Aquiline noses my beloved <333 will we get to see what your inquisitor looks like? 👀

I have some very old screenshots of her and I havent seriously drawn her since i was 16, but i might go dig through my sketchbooks and see if i can find some old drawings. Id like to seriously draw her, but im going out of town tomorrow and wont be back until Wednesday. So pencil sketches it shall be. In the meantime, have a couple old screenshots of the last time i played her, which was probably 2018-ish

[who-gives-af]

the love i have for roman noses omfg theyre so pretty i love them they are a major weakness for me i love them. big noses too genuinely like big noses and roman noses noses with bumps noses that are crooked noses that dont look like slopes noses that arent the beauty standard ROMAN NOSES AND BIG NOSES AND AQUILINE NOSES MY BELOVED >>>>> <3

[ewanmitchs]

⎯⎯ FLOWERS, ┆ navigation. masterlist.

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: small moments of aemond targaryen loving how shy his lady wife can be.

˚ ༘ ٠ ࣪ 𑁤 warnings: minors dni. smut, canon!aemond 𝓍 shy wife!reader, afab reader, profanity, teasing, flirting, fingering, cunnilingus, slight manipulation, innocence + breeding kink, pet names, mentions of p in v sex, obsessive & possessive behavior.

𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐, 𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒖𝒔 ༘ ࣪𓂃 ෆ hope u enjoy this lil thing as much as i enjoyed writing it. !!! ♡🌷

AEMOND ADORES HOW SHY HIS SWEEF LITTLE WIFE CAN BE AROUND HIM, he cannot help but tease you in the privacy of your martial chambers − listening to you whine as he brushes his long, nimble fingers beneath the hem of your lace skirts, watching you become completely flushed, heart thumping wildly against your ribcage.

“what’s wrong, little love?” he questions innocently, watching as you try to hastily pull down your skirts, “won’t you allow your beloved husband to touch your sweet little cunt?”

you huff, your plump lips forming into a cute pout, “must you be so lewd, husband?” you ask, looking away bashfully as you get up and move to your vanity, needing something else to focus on besides your husband trying to get under your skirts.

aemond loves picking out his little wife’s favorite flowers from the red keep’s gardens, watching as you flush, bringing the colorful, blooming buds up to your nose to inhale the sweetness, sighing with happiness − though, your pretty smile doesn’t last very long, watching as your husband’s plush lips curl up into a small smirk.

“those flowers are indeed beautiful, my dearest love,” he comments casually, gesturing towards the bouquet of flowers he’d picked for you, “but no flower comes close to the beauty that lies between your thighs,” he purrs, making you squeak.

“aemond!” you scowl, rolling your doe eyes at his inappropriate behavior − but you cannot help but softly giggle, walking over to place the lovely bouquet of your favorite flowers into a vase, gently arranging them to your liking.

the next day, aemond quietly creeps up behind you inside of the red keep’s royal library − coming up to stand directly behind your distracted self, startling you with a small, girlish gasp as he leans down to brush the tip of his sharp nose against your ear, whispering, “you’ve been hiding from me, little one,” he purrs, amused by your bashfulness.

instantly, you begin to deny his words, placing your romance novel back on the bookshelf, breathing shakily as you turn to face him, looking up at his lithe, towering physique.

“i haven’t, i’ve just been…” you trailed off, completely flustered, never having being able to master the skill of lying − just like your husband has.

aemond smirks, a breathy chuckle escaping him before he abruptly drops down to his knees (eloquently), startling you as you begin to question him in a sharp, hushed whisper.

“husband?!” you squeak, doe eyes wide and on alert, looking all around the empty aisle of hundreds and hundreds of old tombs, “what are you doing?”

aemond doesn’t give you an answer − instead, he ducks beneath your fluffy pink skirts, deftly moving aside your small-clothes and begins lapping at your silky folds like a man starved, pressing his face snuggly against you as the tip of his sharp, aquiline nose rubs your aching clit, causing you to squeal.

“oh, gods… please, have mercy on my soul,” you beg, slapping a hand over your mouth, before yelping as you feel your devilish husband nip at your clit, hearing you mewl his name like a silk street whore.

“your soul is mine,” aemond growls possessively, before continuing his task at pleasuring his lady wife.

minutes pass, with aemond continuing underneath your skirts, feasting on your sweet cunny, hearing you panting and moaning breathily as you near your peak − feeling your husband’s skilled tongue rolling around your little, buzzing clit, before pumping a long finger inside of your little fuckhole, chuckling as he listens to you quietly panic.

“aemond!” you hiss, whimpering softly as your lower belly tightens, your peak so close to consuming you whole, “someone will see us!” you scold, your back digging painfully into the bookshelf behind you, but you couldn’t care less.

aemond hums, continuing to suckle at your swollen clit, “let them see,” he murmurs darkly, smirking as you huff, no doubt pouting those cute, rosy lips of yours.

gods, aemond can just imagine your pouty lips wrapped around his cock, fucking your throat deeply until tears stream down your flushed, teary cheeks, causing him to harden even more inside of his black leather breeches.

“let them see your husband pleasing his little lady wife − let them know that it is me, your husband who tastes you, who fucks you, who fills your womb every night,” he babbles, continuing his assault on your weeping cunt, fingering your clenching fuckhole faster and faster, never once stopping.

then suddenly, he feels you clench around his finger incredibly tightly, feeling the muscles of your velvety walls spasming helplessly, before you let out a muffled cry, “aemond, aemond…!” you wail, sounding so pretty, so needy − it makes aemond spill his own seed inside of his breeches.

once finished, aemond rises from beneath your skirts with a satisfied smirk, “seems my shy little wife isn’t so shy after all,” he teases, leaning down to claim your lips in a sweet, tender kiss, licking into your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

after a moment, aemond pulls back just slightly, brushing his nose against yours, nuzzling you affectionately, “do you think we can finish where we left off back in our own chambers?” he asks cheekily, grinning down at you.

fin

[crickcabanaa]

"same face syndrome" i think you mean sexy face syndrome

[spindlesaurus-rex]

Thought about Mercutio and Benvolio for five minutes, rewrote the exchange between them in Act 3 scene 1. I WILL NOT BE STOPPED OR SILENCED OH GOD I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS

It isn’t until much later that he sees what Mercutio was trying to tell him. He doesn’t see it in the moment and in the terrible days that follow he is too broken by his own grief. He barely makes it to Romeo’s funeral and he can’t meet his uncle’s eyes when he does. 

Sunshine on marble and the white heat of August in the air. 

‘I’m tired,’ he’s trying not to sound like a whiny child pleading. It isn’t working, he fits his hand to the firm insistence of Mercutio’s wrist and halts him, tries again. ‘It’s hot. We’ll fight if we meet them here, you know you will. Please come away, please.’ 

How quick the pulse that jumps in that wrist then that now is lifeless and under the ground. It’s only a memory, now, preserved in the skin of his thumb now for whatever years are left to him. 

In memory, and only there, Mercutio is turning to him. He twists his wrist to evade Benvolio’s own loose grasp - if I had known, if I had known, damn the heat I would have held on harder -  but replaces it with his own palm on the smooth skin of Benvolio’s inner forearm, runs it up his shoulder, and settles it against his neck, thumb stroking against the two day scruff on his jaw. Then the tilt back of the head, the question in the gaze down the aquiline nose as Mercutio Escalus considers him in the middle of this square. 

A soft flare of breath huffs out of Mercutio’s nostrils. Benvolio has never seen anything as beautiful as the sight of Mercutio looking at him. 

Then, as though they did this all the time, as though it was normal for Mercutio to be standing there looking at him and cradling his face, as though the heat in his spine is from August in Verona and not from the fact that he can feel the breath that’s coming from his friend’s lungs on his own face, more gentle than any wind, then then Mercutio lowers his head, he presses their foreheads together. 

‘You’re a poor teacher for this lesson, Benvolio.’ Mercutio’s voice is soft, a hum barely audible even in the empty silence that comes with summer in this place. Benvolio doesn’t know if he can breathe. He closes his eyes. He only exists where Mercutio’s skin is against his, only exists in the meeting of their foreheads and the hands that are rough and warm and loved against his skin. Mercutio’s voice is slow to penetrate his brain, like honey dripping in the summer heat. ‘You’re a pretence, a mess of your own good intentions and your hot young blood and I can’t pretend that I don’t love it in you but you’re an idiot too.’ 

Benvolio keeps shut his eyes. Mercutio’s own body shades him from the sun. It is not August in Verona that makes his young blood hot. He swallows. 

“Am I such a fellow?” He hears himself croak. 

The forehead against his presses, pulses. It’s lightly slick with sweat and Benvolio’s mouth is watering. Mercutio speaks again. 

“You know you are, you know you are, what else was that mess in the square, what else this whole quarrel? Why do you think I stay, Benvolio, what do you imagine I guard, if you could truly manage your sword to keep the peace, what need would there be for me. When in the mood, you’ll move as rashly as the lightning there will surely be tonight. Don’t correct me, I have seen you do it.’ 

Looking back now, he realises here is where he should have understood that Mercutio was not saying he had seen it. He was saying he had watched it. He had been watching Benvolio. 

In the August heat, he tilts towards him, rises on his toes. His eyes are closed still, his heart is hammering. I am moved, he thinks, you move me. In all my moods and all of yours. 

Aloud, he responds: ‘and what do I move to, Mercutio?’ 

Mercutio’s lips move against his, his mouth opens, steals beloved breath into his own lungs, breath he would return now at any price that any prince could name. It might be hours before they part, or seconds. He doesn’t know. It is August in Verona and the sun is hot on white stone and Mercutio’s mouth is sweet on his like prayer. 

But they do part. His eyes open. Those same dark eyes are fierce on his. ‘I am glad there are not two of you,’ Mercutio whispers to him there in that square - had Tybalt seen them then, was he already rounding the corner? Does it matter? Romeo was married, the fucking idiot, and so Mercutio was already dead. He kissed Benvolio with dead man’s lips for all the blooded warmth of them. ‘I am glad there are not two of you,’ his heart repeats, ‘or there would be none of you shortly - the one would kill the other and then I would have no Benvolio - quarrelling or otherwise and -’ a pause, beloved eyes asses his own - ‘you’ve hazel eyes, you know?’ Then, whirling, the contact is done and Mercutio is all mockery and movement pushing ahead of him but turning back to spit accusation, sing song humour in his voice along with what might have been venom: 

‘You’ll kill a man for cracking nuts for the sake of such eyes -’ here a turn to grasp a pillar an dangle from it, eat your heart out Fred Astair, Gene Kelly, men of dance and rhyme, here comes Mercutio with mad blood stirring - ‘or a tailor for being too quick with a new doublet, or you’ll pull your sword against a child for old ribbons in new shoes. Benvolio the quareller, bad and bone headed, dangerous - I remember you squaring up to drunkards for coughing and waking that rag bag you call a dog, I remember you spitting mad when you couldn’t yet grow as good a beard as me and doubly so when Romeo couldn’t yet match yours.’ A wild laugh is loosed now and floats up towards the lonely blue of the sky. Another dancing step away and then the last salvo: ‘Your head is a lovely place, it’s peaceful there, you mean to be good. Good wishes, good intentions … you’re well named, Benvolio, I’ll give you that, but you’re scrambled same as the rest of us who’ve secret, jealous, vengeful, angry hearts. You’re just like us in action, what does it matter how sweet you think?” 

Grinning aiming for rakish and, he imagines, hitting crazed, he laughs and chases to catch up. ‘I’ll outlive you, though,’ he wags his finger with the words, laughing. Adds, ‘you’re much worse than me.’ 

Closing his eyes briefly, Mercutio turns his face to the sun. ‘You’ll outlive me,’ he parrots back, his voice sweet and dear and sad, ‘because I’m worse than you.’

I want a version of Romeo and Juliet where the Prince goes fucking OFF in his speech after Mercutio’s death.

I want a Benvolio who is weeping as he explains what’s happened, who is trying to hide his

I want actors who take the general iambic regularity of Benvolio’s speech and the slightly less regular metre of Prince’s pronouncement as evidence of the attempt at controlled performance but who just jump on the Caesurae of lines like ‘who, all as hot, turns deadly point on point’ or the messiness of ‘of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled’ if they’re Benvolio and then contrast that with the insane regularity of ‘this is the truth or let Benvolio die.’

And I want a prince who fucking jumps to finish that half line of Montague’s with ‘and for that offense/ immediately we do exile him hence’ and then loses it for the next two lines which cannot be contained by metre but are balanced in rhyme.

I’ve just always loved the way the Prince’s speech juxtaposes the ‘hearts’ proceedings’ of the feud with ‘my blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding’ and the way he cannot speak of Mercutio but personally, the way he speaks of the feud as the proceedings of their heart but of Mercutio as his blood, essential to himself.

Also Mercutio and Benvolio should kiss and I will say more about that if anyone literally looks in my direction.

[softcallofdutyimagines]

No one:

Me: *Writes all my fave male characters with this exact nose type*

[arklay]

everyday i remember the little bump on mehlia’s nose and i just 🥰

[edengarden]

Sanji with aquiline/Roman nose. Breathe if you agree

[ezra-iolite]

More Pirateformers AU Stuff... Cause I can't draw for the life of me

Art is hard, man... I've tried so many times by now to draw Asya during my free time, but nothing seems to work in showing off how I imagine her to look.

I always say that I'm a better writer than an artist, so you know what? I'll do just that!! Consider this a placeholder for the debut of Asya's human appearance, and allow me to use this post as a writing canvas instead! Plus, this will all help me to remember how I want her to look later on, since I can describe things way better than I can draw them.

So for now, enjoy another rambling of mine for how Asya will look in @tigracespace Pirateformers AU... and after I post this, I'll do a quick story about how she'll most likely join the Immortal Sun~

Asya's Appearance:

Those who meet Asya will always notice how colourful she is upon their first meeting, mainly from her vibrant and multicolored array of long, open ruffle skirts and lace tops under equally colourful corsets, the African dot art and matching colourful makeup she wears across her ebony face, and her beloved sapphire and ruby encrusted rings on her long, black dreadlocks. These bejeweled golden rings are scattered across her entire head of hair, and are symbolic of her bond with her husbands as they bear the main colour of each lover. To ensure she doesn't get hit in the eye when her hair is let down, she is never without her beloved headband, a silk cloth bandana usually folded into a strip over the crown of her head, allowing it to more easily display its ethnic patterns of many more colours that draw the eye.

Once a person adjusts to the living explosion of colour standing before them, they'll be able to take in her more intimate and defining features beneath the decorative attire and makeup. Some of which include:

Her intimidating height (tall but average for a man, but as a woman she will often tower over many others, both men and women alike... which she loves seeing the reactions of from a person's first impression of her)

Her aquiline/Roman nose she inherited from her father

Her toned physique (got abs for days due to her hobby of athletic training growing up, and this is how she gained Knockout's attention when they became more serious in their relationship... What can I say? He likes them big and strong~)

Piercing sky blue eyes, which sometimes grow narrow and slit-like when she is furious and about to attack

The scars that litter her entire body, mainly the two thin scars over her left eye, a large straight scar going across the side of her head from the temple to behind her ear, with said ear bearing a small chip at the top, a short but thick scar over her left bicep and calf, and three jagged claw marks over her belly/abs.

She gained all but her belly scar in her youth, but as to who or what caused them... You'll have to wait and see~ ;3

Sharp upper canine teeth that she often uses on an enemy's exposed neck in a blind fury during up-close and personal battles

And finally, her prized possession... her father's claw gauntlets, ones she stole before she escaped her homeland. Crafted from what appears to be orange draconic scales, her gauntlets bear unbreakable talons/fingers that allow her to slice through flesh like a hot knife through butter, grip anything she can jump onto and climb it with ease without losing her grip, and create sparks capable of starting fires on flammable surfaces or objects with a snap of her metal talons.

..... Now onto the story, which I'll post tonight, hopefully~

**Update: She has been drawn!!! My art style still looks like crap, but I'm so proud of how she looks! 😍**

[ficthisficthat]

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

His body is burning from the inside out and his skin is clammy, making his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin. His throat is sore from screaming.

The pain seems to last forever then transition to a different kind of pain.

Shen Qingqiu sputters.

His eyes are watery, his nose feels burning, his throat raw. He coughs. He digs his nails into the sheets, into his skin, ripping, clawing, desperate for this feeling to end.

A calloused hand suddenly stills his hand.

He pulls from the grip. “Unhand me zhangmen-shixiong.”

“Zhangmen-shixiong? That is awfully formal of you.” She lets go.

Shen Qingqiu freezes at the unfamiliar voice. It is lilting with an accent he does not know. His vision is blurry and he is still in pain.

“Who are you?” his voice shakes.

“You don’t recognize me?” She is amused, the question punctuated with a light laugh. “He really didn’t trust you, did he?”

He grits his teeth. Shen Qingqiu hates this – his weakness of the limbs and being at a disadvantage, especially to some unknown who apparently has information over him. A hand brushes some hair away from his forehead and he flinches.

“Ah, it’s been a while since there has been someone who was granted the honor of the Lazarus Pit. Bear with me.”

He sees the white blur come slowly as it gently rubs at face. His vision clears. The woman has a regal bearing with dark skin, green eyes, an aquiline nose, and full lips. Her robes are pink with white details.

The clearer vision does not help. The woman must be able to read the confusion in his face because she tells him, “I am Talia al Ghul. Do you remember who you are?”

“I’m…” He squeezes his eyes shut at the sharp sudden pain in his head. His hand grasps at his face, covering his mouth. He swallows the bile that burns his throat.

He is Shen Qingqiu, the despicable scum shizun to the reigning Junshang accused of being a lecher, of needlessly abusing disciples, of unjustly killing his martial brother. He who had gotten his eye removed, his tongue cut, and an arm and a leg ripped out in recompense. He – he had committed suicide by swallowing the shards of Xuan Su. But he is also Jason Todd, a guardian of Gotham and failure of Bruce Wayne. He was lured with the promise of his mother, beaten with an inch of his life then used his body to shield the woman who sold him out. They – they still have memories as Shen Qingqiu but they also have memories as Jason Todd. What a headache.

Talia al Ghul has no connection or reason to use The Pit for them. They hate to admit it, but they mean nothing to Bruce, only a piece to replace his true disciple, Dick Grayson.

“Why?”

“A favor for my beloved.”

There are too many unknowns.

It is Qi-ge all over again. He’s not stupid. He knows she’s manipulating him. But these are the facts he has to work with.

[haztory]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬

--erwin smith x reader; fluff, domestic, not canon compliant farmer erwin, there’s a mentioning of injuries but not enough to be considered graphic! (erwin lives!)

a.n: this is my attempt at swinging back into the ways of writing after a long, long, long hiatus! i wrote this in thirty minutes as just an exercise, but felt it was cohesive enough to post. its vague, abstract, and definitely not a magnum opus, but its something. this is more of an erwin story than an x reader one, but i hope you all enjoy regardless!

this was titled after a song on the pride and prejudice ost of the same name. highly recommend you give it a listen

anything for my sweet boy erwin ♡

(w.c: 1686)

At the initial prospect of it, retirement was somewhat akin to shooting oneself in the foot for a man like Erwin. It was condescending, debilitating, almost an insult were he any lesser than a reasonable man.

The word was floated around numerous times after the loss of his arm, spoken with a gentleness and, dare he say, a trepidation they believed must be adopted when speaking to the freshly injured man. For fear of upsetting him or for fear of making the situation real, he’s not quite sure. It was mentioned, nonetheless. In passing, directly, through implication; Everyone seemed to think that Erwin was less of a man and more of a liability because of his lost arm, and that retiring from the Scout Regiment would be the best option for everyone. 

That was something he took offense to. 

His physical abilities may be considerably limited now, yes, but he still holds inherent value to the cause he’s dedicated his life to. Still has goals, still has dreams, still has ideas that must be discussed and implemented if the fate of humanity is to even think about surviving beyond the next few days. 

Erwin still had some fight in him, and he still had things to offer. Things that retirement would take away from him.

The word settled like a thick tar on his tongue and left a bitter aftertaste, one he couldn’t bear to swallow down. So he didn’t. He spit the word back out, removing it from his mouth and sternly asking others to rid themselves of it too. They followed his order, albeit begrudgingly, but the conversation ended then and there. Not permanently, unfortunately. No amount of power, Erwin imagines, could ever snuff out the growing fear his missing appendage has instilled in his soldiers. That even the most untouchable, unshakeable of leaders could be tainted by this cruel world. 

He knows it's on everyone's mind, no matter how many times he can try to assuage the fears, for if the exchanged uneasy glances between his eccentric Section Commander and trusted Captain were anything to go by, then the fear his cadets must feel must be traumatizing. The looks they pass to one another when they think he isn’t looking.

Erwin lost an arm, not his intuition. It seems he’s the only one who knows that. 

But they let it go. They all do, for now at least. They reluctantly put a pin at his assertion that he would continue his work, regardless of injury, and quickly filed this topic as one they would return to at a later date. Appease him now to make him more receptive to the future. They let him continue to work himself dry, let him continue with physical missions like he wasn’t missing a trusted appendage, and entertained his reckless and drastic thoughts to a certain extent.

When he lands himself back in the infirmary, this time with a serious rupture to the side of his stomach from flying debris, and a number of broken bones that will surely cause permanent hindrance to his mobility, the topic is brought back up again. Only this time, it’s non-negotiable. His near death was the final straw in forcing Erwin Smith into retirement. 

                                                              ∵

He hates it.

Hates how quiet his home is, hates how unexciting his routine is, hates not being able to know.

But he finds that making coffee is still manageable with one arm. The sun still shines as brightly inside the walls as it does outside. The birds still chirp excitedly in the morning and the wind still blows gently in the afternoon. 

He hates retirement, but it’s manageable. 

It gets better after a while, the presence of a neighbor making his nights substantially more interesting with the dinner she brings over. 

                                                             ∵

The house is quiet once again, only the distant chirps of the birds filling the empty space. It's familiar, but he finds it unsettling this time around. A feeling of anticipation creeping into his stomach, waiting for the other shoe to drop at any moment.

It doesn’t happen. 

With a slight furrow in his brow and after a long analyzing gaze outside the window above the kitchen sink, Erwin makes his way towards the front door, granting him access to the front porch of the house. Settled away from the city, the land his house is built on stretches for miles; Fields of green spread out before him and littered with tall, blooming and swaying trees. The chickens squawk and run around before him and the horses huff their snorts of boredom. There’s activity in the Smith residence, but it’s not the kind he’s looking for. 

There’s something missing. 

Bringing his left arm up to his mouth, he curls his fingers below his tongue, blowing out a loud and sharp whistle that has all movement still for a brief moment on his farm. All attention piqued on him, the animals and the trees alike waited for Erwin’s response. 

They wait, and they wait, and they wait. But still, nothing.

The crease between Erwin’s brows dips further. A brief flash of worry settles in his shoulders. He pulls his fingers into his mouth again, blowing a whistle that lasts for a few seconds longer this time. His eyes stay trained on the hill before him, hoping to see something. Anything.

He waits a minute before the restlessness takes over and he takes his steps down the stairs of the porch, his boots crunching against the crisp grass still wet from the morning dew. He approaches the top of the hill, the one that lays level with the foundation of his house, before surveying the land further below. He looks left and right, then left again and then right again, eyes peeled for that familiar flash of grey.

Where in the world could that damn dog have gone?

The dog is usually fast enough to return before he even needs to whistle a second time, never straying too far from the property for her to not hear Erwin’s call. But this time is different. She’s gone and isn’t returning to him and that can only mean one thing.

Trouble.

He begins his trek down the hill, the morning still early enough to not have him sweating on this irregular stroll of his, but he can feel the temperature slowly rising through the air. The wind serves as his only semblance of comfort as it continues its mission of cooling the exposed skin of his forearm and neck. 

He must be walking for at least five minutes before he sees it. The scraggly grey hair of a dog's bottom, her top half hidden behind a large oak tree but her tail wagging ferociously. A small smile graces Erwin’s face subconsciously, the slowly building apprehension dissipating in an instant at seeing the vivacious mutt. 

Or at least at seeing her bottom half. 

He approaches the tree slowly, the noises of enjoyment and panting from the dog becoming louder as he draws nearer. But there’s another sound too that fills the air. A sound much sweeter and delicate, one that he’s heard a thousand times over the years,  and yet, Erwin swears it's one he can never get tired of. 

It’s a breath of fresh air, an instant drug in his veins, and the reason behind the swelling of his heart. His smile grows wider than he could have possibly imagined.

He gets close enough and the dog finally notices him, bounding over to him in an instant with a greeting bark and a perk in her step. He pats her head, a silent gratefulness at having found her finally and understanding why she refused to meet his calls. Why she continued to stay at the spot behind the oak tree a five minute walk away from her home.

He finally gets near the tree, peering around its large trunk to the spot the dog previously occupied and can’t help but laugh in surprise. 

Sitting in the space between the bulging roots are his two girls, one aged six and the other three, huddled close together as they coo and giggle over an object resting between the two’s feet. Their backs are turned towards their father, too preoccupied with whatever was settled between them to even notice the beloved dog’s disappearance from her original spot and its replacement with their father. 

His years of training to fight titans kicks in, his steps as quiet as can be as he gets closer to the girls to get a look at what they were currently fawning over. 

A baby bird. Brown in color and more than comfortable between the two children.

“What are you two doing?”

His voice sends a jolt of shock through them, the two girls jumping in the air at the sudden disruption and whipping their faces around to look at the intruder. The fear quickly melts off of their round faces when they realize who it is. 

“Daddy!” The two girls yell unanimously, unbridled joy filtering their features and Erwin briefly sees the beautiful face of their mother in them. The youngest in particular. 

The eldest managed to take most of his features, much to his wife’s pleasure, retaining his aquiline nose, the vibrant blue of his eyes, and his own oval face shape, but her hair is a delightful mix between his and his wife’s. And while she looks the most like him, she acts the most like her mother; Joyous and giggly and a passionate ball of rays. 

Now, his youngest, while looking almost entirely like a carbon copy of her mother, was in fact a replica of his own personality. Quiet, curious, diplomatic. A balance to her impulsive sister, a shining grey crater of peace in the sky.

His sun and moon. His reasons for orbit. The loves of his life. 

                                                             ∵

And as he walks his two girls back across the field to their home, their mother’s figure on the horizon and an excited chatter between them as they recount the tales of their morning in helping the baby bird, a single thought enters Erwin’s mind. 

Retirement isn’t so bad.