#star jager

[sosadraws]

I was today years old when I finally realized that Hunter and Jäger are the same character.

[star-ar512]

[wolvzephyr]

jäger/sieben (scene from a very good fic)

[fischlich]

doodles i did bc i was bored lol

[lady-lostmind]

I had the absolute pleasure of getting to write a fic based on this amazing art by @ahhrenata for @strangerthingsreversebigbang! Link to art post Thank you @oh-stars for betaing this! Read the fic on ao3 or under the cut!

Eddie rolls over with a groan. He feels awful. He can’t breath out of his nose, there’s so much pressure in his head he feels like it might explode and his throat feels like he swallowed a cup of razors. He lets out a truly pathetic whimper, the sound catching in his throat as it turns into a cough. He stretches his arm out, feeling around for Steve and is met with cold, empty sheets. He whines again and finally pries his eyes open. 

“Stevie?” 

He hears Steve pad down the hall and then he’s opening the door to their room, a soft smile on his face as he peers down at Eddie on the bed. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Eddie sniffles loudly. “I don’t feel good.” 

Steve sighs and leans against the door frame. “I told you not to go out in the cold with Dustin the other night. You didn’t even have a coat.” 

Eddie groans again and flops over, reaching his hand out to Steve. “Come cuddle with me.” 

Steve huffs out a laugh. “You’re whiny when you’re sick.” 

But he pushes off the doorframe and crawls onto the bed, dropping down next to Eddie and letting him wrap his limbs around his body and press his face against Steve’s chest. 

Eddie snuggles in and hums, ready to fall back asleep for forever, or until he can actually breathe again. Whichever comes first. 

Steve’s hand lands on his forehead, pushing his bangs out of the way. “Baby, you’re hot.” 

Eddie lets out a little chuckle, his voice low and raspy from the pain in his throat. “I’m flattered, sweetheart. But I don’t think I’m really up for anything sexy right now, Stevie.” 

Steve swats his arm. “I wasn’t coming onto you, asshole. You have a fever.”

Steve pulls away, like he’s going to get back up and Eddie holds on tighter to him, another whine slipping out of his lips.

Steve rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get you some stuff.” 

Eddie’s hand flops onto the bed as Steve gets up and disappears from the room. Eddie rolls back over, pulling the blankets up and burrowing under them to fall back asleep. 

–

Eddie wakes up to Steve nudging him gently, holding out a little cup of red liquid. Eddie’s face scrunches up in disgust and he shakes his head with a groan, trying to hide under the covers again. “I hate that shit.” 

Steve rolls his eyes and tugs the blanket back. “Eds, you gotta take this. It’ll bring your fever down. Come on.”

Eddie groans again, but pulls himself up to sit and takes the little shot of medicine with a grimace. 

Steve chuckles beside him. “I’ve seen you drink jager straight from the bottle and you’re making that face over cherry cough medicine?” 

Eddie shoots him a cocky grin. “Jager is good though. That shit tastes like pennies.” 

Steve shakes his head, pulling the covers back up around Eddie’s chin. “There’s tissues and water next to you on the table. You want me to drag the TV in here?” 

Eddie shakes his head, already settling back into the pillows and drifting off. He reaches out a hand to tug at Steve’s wrist. 

Steve sighs, climbing under the blankets with him and pulling him close. “You’re gonna get me sick.” 

Eddie grins and plants a wet kiss to the back of Steve’s hand before he falls asleep again. 

–

The next time Eddie resurfaces it’s to Steve’s fingers trailing softly through his hair. He sniffs, whining when it makes the pressure in his head spike. 

“Made you some soup, baby. You hungry?” 

Eddie nods and forces himself to sit up, smiling at Steve when he hands him a bowl of chicken noodle. “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

Steve leans over and presses a kiss to Eddie’s temple. “You sure you don’t want the TV in here? We could watch some movies.” 

Eddie shrugs. “I’ll probably just fall asleep five minutes in. But you can bring it in if you’re bored.” 

Steve shakes his head and grabs a book off his side table, wiggling it in the air. “I’m good.”

Eddie’s eyes lock on the book and his jaw drops open. “Are you finally reading The Lord of the Rings?” 

Steve flashes him a big grin and nods. “They’re confusing though. How do you keep track of all these crazy names?” 

Eddie chuckles. “You get used to it after a while.” He sets his empty bowl aside and lays back down, peering up at Steve with big, pleading eyes. “Will you read to me?”

Steve’s face scrunches up. “I’m not very good.”

Eddie scoots in closer, plopping his head onto Steve’s lap. “I just want to hear your voice.” 

Steve’s hand finds its way back into Eddie’s curls again. “Do you want me to start over?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve read them like ten times. You can start where you left off.” 

Steve nods and opens the book, clearing his throat. “‘I wish it need not have happened in my time,’ said Frodo.”

Eddie lets the familiar words wash over him. Steve’s voice making him feel safe and warm, the fingers in his hair soothing him to sleep.

–

Eddie wakes up again, his throat burning and raw. He’s alone in the bed again and it’s dark. The blankets tucked in tight around him, making him over heated, his hair plastered to his forehead. He sits up, reaching for a tissue as a harsh cough racks his body. He groans, wincing as he wipes his mouth. 

Eddie hates being sick. And yeah. He knows nobody likes being sick. Obviously. But he can’t stand it. It makes him feel trapped in his own body. Trapped in his bed. He doesn’t like to sit still for so long. To feel like he can’t do anything. 

The door creaks open, a sliver of light peeking through before it disappears again, Steve’s body blocking it out as he leans in, a sad little smile on his face. “You okay, baby? Heard you coughing.” 

Eddie lets out a pathetic whine, falling against the pillows again, somehow still exhausted even though he slept through most of the day already. “No.” 

Steve pushes the door open the rest of the way, comes up to him and puts his hand on his forehead before making a little tsk noise, and brushing his hair out of his face. “I’m going to get you another dose of medicine.” 

Eddie groans, grabbing Steve’s wrist and shaking his head. 

Steve chuckles, bending down to press a kiss to Eddie’s temple. “What if I bring you a popsicle to chase it with? Make your throat feel a little better.” 

Eddie’s eyes flick up to Steve’s, his eyebrows shooting up. “Not sure your popsicle is going to help my throat much but–”

Steve rolls his eyes with a smile, tugging his arm back and shaking his head. “Would you stop? You’re awful.” He heads back to the door, turning back with his hands on his hips. “Orange or cherry?” 

Eddie whines. “No grape?” 

Steve chuckles. “You and Dustin ate all the grape, baby.” 

Eddie huffs out a breath. “Orange then.” 

Eddie grins as Steve leaves the room. He really hates being sick. But he doesn’t mind this whole Steve-taking-care-of-him thing. That part’s pretty nice. He can’t really remember the last time someone did this for him. Thinks it must have been his mom, when he was still little. Remembers curling up with her on the couch, her humming softly as he fell asleep. 

He doesn’t have a lot of good memories with her. Mostly screaming matches with his dad, and her disappearing for weeks at a time. But there were a few times when things were good. When he felt loved. When he really felt like he understood what it was like to be wanted. And then he’d gone to live with Wayne. And he did his best. And Eddie knows he loves him. Knows he would do anything for him. But he’s a grumpy old man who never thought he’d be raising a kid. His version of taking care of Eddie when he was sick was buying some soup and leaving it on the counter for Eddie to make while he was at work. And that was fine. Eddie is grateful for everything Wayne has done for him. It just wasn’t exactly a lovey household. Not that it wasn’t full of love. They just…didn’t really show it. But he feels the love in everything Steve does. Sees it in the way Steve’s eyes light up when they look at him. In the way his hands always linger. No matter where they touch. Like he never wants to be more than a breath away from him. Like he wants nothing more than to bring him a stupid orange popsicle when his throat hurts to make him feel better. 

Eddie smirks as Steve comes back into the room, cough medicine in one hand, popsicle in the other.

–

Eddie feels a little better when he wakes up the next morning. Late morning. The room bright with the sun peeking in through the blinds. He’s still sick. Still can’t really breathe normally. His throat is still protesting every time he tries to swallow. But he feels a little less dead. And he didn’t wake up drenched in sweat this time so, hopefully that means his fever is gone. Thanks to Steve’s stupid medicine. Not that he’d ever admit that to him. 

Steve comes in with a plate piled high with toast, and a mug of tea that Eddie is sure has way too much honey in it, for his throat. 

Eddie takes the offered breakfast with a sleepy smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

Steve presses a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. “You’re welcome, baby. You feeling better?”

Eddie shrugs, stuffing half a piece of toast in his mouth. Steve climbs onto the bed with him, grabbing Eddie’s book from the table on his side of the bed, settling back against the pillows.

Eddie perks up, shifting so he can watch the way Steve’s mouth wraps around the words Eddie knows by heart. They’re some of his favorite configurations of words in the world, and Steve somehow makes him love them even more. He loves the slight hesitancy he has as he stumbles over the names, the pauses he adds in strange spots when he’s clearly trying to piece parts of the story together. He can tell he’s really trying to get it. Trying to understand why Eddie loves this so much. Trying to understand Eddie more. Which he’s pretty sure no one else has done before. 

Everyone else just takes him at face value. The loud, over the top, obnoxious behavior, his weird obsessions and interests. People either look at him and want nothing to do with him, or they look at him in awe, like he’s something shiny, something to distract them from whatever bullshit is going on in their own lives. But he’s never had someone look at him like he’s something to be treasured. To dive into and see all the sides of. Until Steve. 

Steve, who he knows hates half of the stuff Eddie is into but still asks questions. Who knows Eddie’s favorite songs and books and movies. Who knows he prefers grape popsicles. Who looks at him in that awestruck way even when he’s quiet. When he’s just existing in their space, not putting on a front or a show. Steve still sees him, even then. 

Eddie leans forward and presses his lips to Steve’s, cutting him off mid sentence. 

Steve huffs out a laugh against Eddie’s lips before pushing him back. “Is my reading that bad?”

Eddie shakes his head and takes another bite of toast, getting crumbs all over the bed as he scooches closer to Steve who lifts his arm to tuck Eddie into his side. 

–

By day four Eddie is still feeling pretty bad, and worn out, but also bored. He still doesn’t have the energy to leave their bed much but he also can’t stand just laying around anymore. 

He shuffles his way out to the living room, ignoring Steve’s squawk of protest as he spots him from where he’s doing dishes in the kitchen. Eddie makes it halfway to the coffee table before Steve is there, a hand towel slung over his shoulder as he tries to push Eddie back down the hall. 

“What are you doing? Go back to bed.” 

Eddie groans and gestures to his stack of notebooks on the table. “I’m bored, Steve. I want to work on my campaign.” 

Steve nudges him back again, a crease forming between his brows. “I’ll bring them to you. Go lay down.” 

Eddie lets out an annoyed whine but turns and heads back down the hall, collapsing on the bed where he immediately lets out a sigh of relief, the pressure that was building in his head from being vertical backs off as soon as he hits the pillows. Because Steve was right, of course. He should have just asked him to grab his stuff for him. 

Steve comes in a few minutes later with all of Eddie’s notebooks and campaign books piled high in his arms. He dumps them on the bed and disappears again, coming back with a stack of Eddie’s tapes and his walkman, adding them to the mess on the bed and perching on the edge. 

Eddie grins at him. “You’re the best, you know that?” 

Steve shrugs, a little blush flashing on his cheeks. He reaches out and squeezes Eddie’s knee. “Just know you like to listen to music while you work. I’ll bring you some dinner in a little bit, okay?” 

Eddie watches as he gets up to go, smirk firmly in place as he pulls his notebooks closer to him and flips the top one open, trying to jump back into the story he was forming.

–

Eddie stares down at his notebook, sniffing loudly and tossing a crumpled up tissue onto the floor next to the bed. He taps his pen on the page, trying to will the scene to write itself. A cough works its way up the back of his throat and sticks there, making him hack over and over until he’s pulling in a wheezing breath and falling back against the pillows.

“Fuck me.” He groans out, shoving his notebook away with a huff. He hates being sick. Can’t even manage to focus on his campaign for more than fifteen minutes before he’s coughing and exhausted and–

Steve pushes the door open with his hip, a steaming bowl of soup in his hands and a bright smile that reaches his eyes on his face.

Eddie sighs, pulling himself up to sit against the headboard and lets Steve fuss over pillow placements as he hands over the soup. He stares up at Steve, his chest full of adoration for this wonderful man who works himself into a tizzy because Eddie didn’t make sure he was properly supported by his pillows. Because how is his gorgeous man even real? How did Eddie get so lucky? 

Eddie sets his soup on the side table as Steve leans over him, trying to manhandle Eddie into a position he deems acceptable and Eddie grabs his face, pulling him into a soft kiss, smiling against Steve’s mouth when he feels him melt a little into the touch. 

Steve pulls back with a chuckle, pushing against Eddie’s shoulder. “It’s like you’re trying to get me sick, Eds.” Eddie lets out a laugh and sniffs, trying not to be an oozing, gross mess with Steve so up close and personal. “Sorry. I just can’t help myself when you’re being so sweet.” 

Steve’s face blooms red and he ducks his head with a little shake before standing and grabbing Eddie’s soup off the table again, pushing it back into Eddie’s hands. “Eat your soup, baby.” 

Eddie gives him a little two finger salute and nods, dimple popping on his check. “Yes, sir.” 

Steve rolls his eyes as Eddie takes a big spoonful, making an obnoxiously loud slurp just to see the way Steve’s face scrunches in disgust. 

–

Eddie wakes up in the middle of the night, coughing and wheezing, trying to catch his breath and be quiet so he doesn’t wake up–

Steve’s hand lands on his back, rubbing gently.

Eddie groans, looking guiltily over at Steve. “Sorry I woke–” His voice catches on another cough, sending him into another fit. 

Steve sits up, hand still on Eddie’s back, the other coming up to sweep the hair away from his face. “It’s okay, baby. Just breathe.” 

Eddie nods, sucking in a deep breath and trying to ignore the tickle in the back of his throat threatening another cough. Steve gets up and heads out of the room, coming back with a glass of water that he hands to Eddie before sliding back into bed, his hand finding its way back to its spot on Eddie’s back. Eddie takes a couple of small sips before setting the glass aside and laying back down, Steve scooches in close, pressing their foreheads together, one hand still on Eddie’s back, the other working its way to tangle in his hair.

Eddie hums reaching up to cup Steve’s face, feeling content as his eyes slip closed. 

–

The next morning Eddie wakes up feeling much better. He’s still a little stuffy, but his throat doesn’t hurt anymore and his head feels a little clearer. Like the sick haze is starting to dissipate. He stretches, letting out a satisfied groan and slips up to jump in the shower. 

The hot water does wonders for him and by the time he steps out of the bathroom, rubbing his drenched hair with a towel, he feels almost human again. 

He glances over at Steve, still fast asleep in the bed. Eddie’s brow scrunches together and he looks at the clock. 11:15am. 

Huh. Steve never sleeps in this late. He gets up obnoxiously early to work out before he gets moving for the day. Eddie climbs back into the bed and presses soft kisses along Steve’s jaw, smiling when his sleepy eyes peek open at him. 

“You slept in.” Eddie traces his fingers along Steve’s arm. 

Steve lets out a little whimper, pressing his face into the pillows. 

Eddie pushes some hair out of Steve’s face, his fingers grazing his forehead which is blazing. 

Eddie curses under his breath, planting his hand more firmly on Steve’s skin. “Oh no, sweetheart.” 

Steve peers up at him with big, sad puppy eyes, his voice strained and nasally. “I’m sick, Eds.”

[kamaluhkhan]

YOUR SWEETHEART PSYCHOPATHIC CRUSH !

pairing: levi ackerman x fem!reader word count: 5.7k chapter summary: while spending your summer at the ackerman's estate, you and levi become slightly obsessed with each other despite mikasa being very clear she doesn't want you to fuck her cousin. warnings: alcohol, smoking, slight enemies to lovers dynamic, kinda rough smut (18+!!), oral (f+m receiving), unprotected period sex, mentions of blood, yearning, religious imagery/references, morally ambiguous protagonist with unclear motivations, eat the rich vibes....essentially very saltburn inspired so...yeah author's note: been having levi brainrot all summer and this is the result hope y'all enjoy ♡

♪: the louvre by lorde

you weren’t in love with him. 

picture levi ackerman on a gilded summer day. shimmering, sweaty skin. designer sunglasses and overpriced flip flops. mouth red and sticky from the popsicle melting in his hand. sharp jawline. sharper tongue.

you understood why people loved him, of course — and so many did. 

he saw through them, and they wanted to be seen by him. 

picture levi ackerman at a busy pub on a friday night, the most expensive whiskey in front of him. one eyebrow quirked, silver piercing disappearing beneath his hairline. grey-blue eyes watching carefully. interested. suspicious.

he was dangerous;

picture levi ackerman on a hot, midsummer night. on his knees, canines sparkling in the moonlight. blood on his chin, between his fingers. he’s wearing pristine silk pyjamas that will soon become stained with grass and dirt and other unspeakable things. 

beautiful, of course;

picture levi ackerman in a marble bathtub, skin wet and soapy. defined muscles and intricate tendons that could have been carved from marble, too. smelling of citrus and bergamot.

and compassionate, somehow. 

picture levi ackerman handing someone a cigarette, heart beating fast after a heated argument. long, slender fingers and a silver crested ring. black stars etched across the skin of his hand, similar to his cousin’s. 

you loved him. 

picture levi ackerman across a bountiful breakfast table. he pries open a ripe fig, reaches over for some tea. as always, he holds his cup from the top. burgundy bruises in the shape of someone’s lips decorate his neck, disappear under the collar of his shirt. 

you loved him.

picture levi ackerman, preening as if for a portrait they’d hang in an art gallery. taking a slow drag of his cigarette, backlit by the sun shining in from grand windows, framing him like a halo. 

but, were you in love with him?

it’s a sticky, sultry summer — the summer mikasa first brings you to paradis. 

with each day that passes, slow and sweltering, june gradually melts away in the blistering heat, but july lingers. 

time passes differently when your life is filled with luxurious nothing. 

mikasa always had friends over, all of whom had their own summer houses nearby. you recognized them from school. work, actually — they were frequent customers at scout’s coffee.

there was historia reiss (oat vanilla latte), who was family friend to the ackermans and twice as rich; annie leonhart (double shot of espresso), who grew up next door; eren jager (black coffee) whom mikasa had gotten back together with at the end of year banquet; and, jean kirstein (cappuccino with extra foam), one of eren’s frat brothers who seemed to notice you more now that you were out of your emerald green uniform and instead squeezed into a very revealing bathing suit mikasa had given you to wear. 

she’d been doing that a lot since you arrived to paradis: giving you last year’s dress to wear at dinner, a blouse that didn’t fit her right, a skirt she wore once that she thought you would look so good in, trust her.

you’re sure it was a coincidence that jean only took interest in you now. 

“oy!” jean whistles your name from across the water. “enjoying the view?” 

you stop your task to look at him, but your eyes quickly wander.

you are, in fact, enjoying the view. on the other side of the pool, levi ackerman (no coffee, just earl grey tea) lounges on a pool chair. his pale skin shimmers under the afternoon sun. levi’s mouth is stained, red and sticky from the popsicle melting in his hand. 

levi, whom mikasa had already deemed off limits. he was family, she said, and you were her friend. it wouldn't be right, she said.

she might not be too thrilled to find out how much you wanted to run your tongue over levi’s lips and underneath his jawline, chase the sweet popsicle stains with the salty sweat on his skin.

“instead of painting mikasa’s nails, you should paint me like one of your french girls sometime,” jean continues, lifting his prada sunglasses just to wink at you. he then goes back to his conversation with eren, the two of them talking animatedly in the shallow end while sipping their beers.

oblivious or not to your staring, levi seems too busy devouring another gothic novel — last week was frankenstein by mary shelley. this week is oscar wilde’s the picture of dorian gray. he’s shirtless, wearing designer sunglasses, overpriced flip flops and board shorts. in his day-to-day summer outfit, an entirely new expanse of skin is on display: a sword tucked into his forearm; angel wings sprouting from his shoulders, almost golden under the sun’s rays; flowers and thorns blooming between his ribs; a snake slithering across his hip bone. 

mikasa clicks her tongue, a telltale sign that she’s impatient for you to get back to work, so you do.

“so, here’s the thing: eren told me than jean likes you,” mikasa says once you finish with her left hand and start on her right.

annie snorts. she’s one chair over, clad in a light blue bikini, suntanning with her eyes closed yet very much engaged with the gossip at hand. “you think? he’s been drooling over her since the start of summer. i’m surprised he hasn’t made a move yet.” 

“well, apparently, he’s been waiting for you to make the first move.”

you bite back a scoff. “why?”

“he likes to be chased, sometimes,” mikasa explains. “it’s a game to him.” 

“i don’t know. i’m not really looking to play any games,” you lie, thankful that she let you borrow one of her many pairs of vintage sunglasses as they hide how your eyes instinctively flick over to levi. 

“come on!” mikasa pouts. “jean would be, like, the hottest summer fling. he’s smart and sexy and definitely knows how to show someone a good time.” a sober mikasa would have never said that — eren would hate his girlfriend talking about another guy like that — but she reaches over to grab her second margarita, smudging the fresh polish on her thumb, and takes a long gulp before adding: “you should go for it. right, guys?”

“you should totally go for it!” historia encourages, leaning over the other side of annie to nod at you enthusiastically. “jean is such a catch.”

“heard he’s good in bed, too,” annie adds. “so, yeah. go for it.”

“right,” mikasa smiles, satisfied. “it’ll be good for you.”

it’ll be good for you. 

you didn’t even want to think about what mikasa meant by that, however well-intentioned. 

the truth is that you had arrived to the ackerman’s sprawling estate with a hand-me-down suitcase, one old swimsuit, and a bitterness buried in your throat. 

mikasa had invited you because she pitied you, the poor scholarship student working at the cafe she and the others frequented. all you had to do was comfort her after another argument with her flighty boyfriend eren jaeger, and suddenly the two of you were the best of friends. inseparable, even when spring finals bled into summer break.

friends is a generous word, really. she was your golden ticket, you were her charity case.

what’s that saying about the road to hell?

it’s paved with good intentions.

you wonder what that means for the road to paradise, then. 

“just promise me you’ll consider it? at least give it a chance? please?” mikasa looks at you with those naive, hopeless romantic eyes. she wants this for you, and you have to keep her happy if you want to stay in this paradise for a little longer. 

“okay,” you concede. “i’ll think about it.” 

when you glance across the pool once more, levi is gone. 

SPRING SEMESTER. 

amid the chaos of students rushing across campus, all you could focus on was useless clicking. 

click.

click.

nothing. not even a goddamn spark.

served you right, buying a lighter from the dollar store. 

“need a light?”

levi’s voice had a deep baritone, one that might have been calming if the two of you hadn’t spent the past hour bickering. he argued that caravaggio’s painting of judith beheading holofernes was more sophisticated than any other rendition; you challenged him, stating that artemisia gentileschi’s work was more powerful — cathartic, even — and therefore a better representation of the story.

erwin smith, the professor leading your art history seminar, urged the two of you to stay focused on the class material, but between you and levi — it always got personal. 

you couldn’t afford the textbook, so how could you know anything about art? 

his family bought his way into the university, so how could he know anything about anything? 

so on and so forth. razor-sharp insults and sarcasm that dripped from your tongues like honey, the other always eager to lap it up like a starving dog. 

if there was one thing you could count on from then on, it was levi providing a snarky comment or underhanded joke meant to remind you that you were only a guest in the aristocratic world mikasa pulled you into, and for you to defend yourself as best you could through equally cutting remarks.

it was like that ever since mikasa dragged you into the group earlier in the semester.

everyone was already a few drinks in at the pub when you walked in behind her. the most expensive whiskey was sitting in a crystal glass in front of levi. he quirked one eyebrow at you, silver piercing disappearing beneath his hairline. grey-blue eyes watching carefully — interested, suspicious — as mikasa introduced you.

it was exhausting. a little exhilarating, too, but not enough to keep you from sliding down to the ground, back against the cold limestone wall, knees pressed to your chest.

“not from you,” you told him. you expected him to leave you alone, grant you a minute to compose yourself.

instead, levi sat down next to you, legs stretched out because he knew the crowd would bend around him. you listened as he lit his own cigarette on the first try, handing it to you without taking a drag. 

long, slender fingers and a silver crested ackerman ring. black stars etched on the skin of his hand, similar to the ones mikasa has.

you couldn’t help but stare; levi ackerman had that effect on people. 

it was almost unfair how attractive he was. all he had to do was lounge against an old building, dark hair with a sharp undercut and eyebrow piercing glinting in the late afternoon sun, to give michaelangelo’s david a run for his money. 

you dug your nails into your palm to keep yourself from accepting his offer. there was always a price to kindness, especially with people like him. 

after a few moments, levi rolled his eyes. he brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, just for show.

“it’s not poisoned or anything. i wouldn’t do that. not to you, at least.” 

you weren’t convinced, but smoke curled around his words. when it hit your nostrils, you had to give in.

“god,” you practically moaned as warmth filled your lungs; your heart rate eased as you finally got your vice. levi let out something of a choke. his cheeks became slightly flushed.

it must have been your imagination. levi ackerman did not get flustered.

he cleared his throat, your fingers brushing against each other when he accepted the cigarette you handed back to him.

“mika says i’ve projected certain….insecurities onto you.” 

mikasa had changed her major three times already, and the one she’d settled on then was psychology. her new pastime was psychoanalysing the people around her, depending on which chapter was being covered that week. 

“she says i should apologize for —”

“being a dick?”

“yeah, i guess.” 

it wasn’t an apology. he just looked at you with his signature, disinterested gaze. 

“okay.” you wouldn’t give him forgiveness, anyways. 

“can i ask you something, then? without you biting my head off?”

a pause.

“fine,” levi responded. 

“what insecurities?”

another pause. he twisted the ring on his finger, almost nervously. 

levi ackerman did not get nervous, but maybe he wasn’t used to letting his guard down. 

the silence stretched between you.

“let’s just say that i’m not as blue-blooded as i try to seem,” he finally said.

you turned your head to examine levi ackerman: ironed button-down rolled up to his elbows, showing off elaborate tattoos that must have cost a fortune. brown leather satchel engraved with his initials. shiny new rolex.

“oh. could’ve fooled me.”

levi laughed, stiff and hollow. you could taste the bitterness from his lips when it was your turn with the cigarette, and instinctively licked your own. 

“you more than anyone should know: that’s kind of the point.” 

it was the way he said it that got you. his voice just above a whisper. protecting his secret — and, by proxy, yours. 

you gnawed the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste copper. 

it never occurred to you that you might not have been the only outsider. 

there might have been reasons why levi remained on the edge of the group, a brooding mystery to most of them, why you were the only one levi bothered to argue with. there were reasons why he didn’t skip class or get blackout drunk on weekdays like the others, why he was always so pristine, so perfect, so composed. 

“look, i’m not a bad person. it’s just —”

“sometimes you have to bite,” you finished his sentence. “you’re angry at the world, and you know that the wrong person might take everything away if you step out of line and let that anger slip through.”

it was a coping mechanism; one wired within you, too, even if it sometimes manifested in different ways. you didn’t need a textbook to recognize that. 

“yeah.” 

you could tell he was trying his best to hide his reaction, but you knew — by the sudden glint in his eye, the slight relaxing of his jaw. 

levi ackerman did not let his guard down, but there you were, recognizing the hunger inside him as your own.

“well, i don’t care if you bite,” you promised. “just don’t be surprised if i bite back.” 

the corners of his lips curled into a smirk, matching your own.

“i’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

you let the time pass, let ash fall from the smouldering cigarette you shared until it was down to the quick. the sun was hidden behind the lecture hall by then, and the quad was quiet. only you and levi remained.

“i should get to my next class,” levi informed, breaking the comfortable silence you had unexpectedly built. he got up swiftly, although he was likely already late. 

“see you around.” you caught a flash of silver where he was just sitting. you grabbed it, and held it up. “don’t forget your lighter.”

he flicked his eyes towards the object in your hand, and he frowned. 

“keep it.”

“i – i can’t.”

“it’s fine. just take it.”

“i don’t need your handouts, levi,” you snapped. you remembered the time he had teased you for wearing one of mikasa’s blouses, warning you that her handouts aren’t enough to make you pass as one of them.

levi winced, clearly remembering too. “consider it a gift for being — what did you call me before?”

“a dick.”

“right. anyways, you’d be doing me a favour,” levi continued. “i’ve been wanting to get rid of this one; got a better one waiting for me at home.”

you would’ve continued pushing back, but it was too late. levi was already walking away. 

levi looked back once and winked at you. you let the cool metal lighter burn through your skin.

apparently, trust fund kids suck at monopoly. especially after a few bottles of wine taken from their parents’ cellar.

they don’t really have a strategy, and those who did…well, it can’t beat yours.

you secure property left and right, make deals, and, yeah, screw people over until you’re the only one remaining with any candy-colored bills. by the end, you’re drunk off pinot noir and a high on the euphoria of winning this little, insignificant game. 

“no fair!” jean whines. “how’d you do that?”

“a magician never reveals her secret,” you hum. 

“what if i asked nicely?” 

you shake your head with a slight smile, leaning over to grab the last of the pretzels as a cover for getting jean’s hand off your thigh. he’d become bolder in the past few days in his flirtations; you, in all fairness, gave as well as you got — lingering eyes, purposeful touching, flirty banter. 

levi, sitting across from you, sips his drink calmly. 

“maybe you just underestimated her,” he suggests. 

“hell yeah, he did.” historia gives you an enthusiastic high five.

“i did not underestimate her.” jean rolls his eyes. “it’s just, i didn’t expect her to —”

“ — have a strategy that might outwit you, of all people?” levi mocks.

“put your teeth away, ackerman,” jean huffs. “i’m just saying — i’m a business major.”

“you did fail econ 200 twice, jean,” eren points out. 

“you’re lucky daddy kirstein payed off the professor so you didn’t have to take it a third time,” levi quips, earning a scowl from jean. 

“don’t get me started, you underground piece of — ” 

“okay, good game everyone!” mikasa interjects, so loud her words bounced off the walls. the ackerman’s ‘cozy’ den is just as grand as any other room, large with signature tiled floors and marble columns. she turns to you and jean, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “why don’t the two of you go get more snacks, and the rest of us will decide on a movie?”

as everyone else follows mikasa to the home theatre, the board game now forgotten, you and jean head to the kitchen.

“my dad didn’t pay the professor off, for the record,” jean says as you start refilling bowls. he leans against the counter, watching you. “he paid for a tutor. i mean, i had to pass the class, right? if i’m going to take over my dad’s real estate company. there’s nothing wrong with a little help.”

you smile like you mean it. 

“of course not.” 

and that seems to pacify jean, until he bluntly asks: 

“is something happening between you and levi?” 

you freeze. “why would you say that?”

jean walks around the large kitchen island, stopping in front of you. 

“he just seems…protective over you.”

“nothing’s happening,” you swallow the lump in your throat, unable to say more. “nothing’s happening between me and levi.” 

if you keep saying it, maybe it will become true. maybe the tension will evaporate, and the fire in the pit of your stomach will die out, and you will be able to give mikasa what she wants.

jean watches you through thick lashes, hands creeping over your hips. playing the part, you throw your arms around his neck, fingers threading through auburn hair.

“good. because this dress is incredible.”

it’s mikasa’s dress. gucci, spring collection from the year before.

“jean,” you whisper his name like you want him. 

jean kisses you then, and you kiss back. he slides his tongue in your mouth, slides a hand underneath the dress you wore. whispers again how incredible the dress was, how good you would look on your knees for him later.

you feel nothing. it’s fine.

you squeeze your eyes shut and, ignoring your guilty conscience, imagine a certain raven-haired boy in jean’s place. it works fine, allowing you to deepen the kiss, but then jean presses his thigh between your legs, and his stubble itches against your cheek.

fuck. you don’t want this. 

lightheaded, you rip away from jean’s grip and place a hand on the counter next to you to steady yourself. you swallow as much air as you can, but still feel terribly breathless.

“everything okay?”

of course, it’s levi. he came to inform the two of you that cruel intentions was decided on (a message from mikasa), and to tell you to hurry the fuck up with the snacks (a message from eren).

jean smirks as he walks past your raven-haired boy and winks at you before he leaves the room.

levi is the one who helps you bring everything to the home theatre. he doesn’t say another word to you all night.

the only time you can truly be at peace in paradis is late at night, looking out into the dark green nothing. 

it became a habit of yours, going out to smoke when you figured everyone was asleep. you’d formed an attachment to a particular stone bench next to a statue of some melancholy mythological woman (persephone, maybe?), and parked yourself there every night to look up at the stars. 

quiet. limitless. alone.

even then, there’s always someone watching.

“nice lighter.”

those are the first words levi has spoken to you in the past week that aren’t delivered like he’s getting his teeth pulled. 

“nice shirt, too.”

you look down, remembering that you’re not wearing the nightgown mikasa had given you when she saw your actual pyjamas: a pair of old boxers and an oversized marvin the martian t-shirt. 

that’s one thing you can’t bring yourself to give up in all this, apparently: the soft, worn cotton that feels like home. 

the other, unfortunately, takes a seat next to you. you should tell him to leave you alone, but you find yourself wanting him to stay.

he reaches out for the cigarette. you pass it to him like a moth to a flame, body betraying mind, knowing deep down that it might cause you to burn in the end. you watch as he inhales deeply, then tilts his head up as if sending the smoke as an offering to the full moon.

the quiet, formerly comforting, now makes your skin crawl. 

“so….what’d you get on the final?” that’s the best you can do in terms of small talk with levi ackerman. your heart stops, when you realize your mistake — 

the reality of what happened the last time you studied together.

levi, for his part, doesn’t bring that up. he hands the cigarette back to you.

“97. you?”

“98.”

levi whistles. “better go celebrate with your new boyfriend.”

“he’s not my — ” 

you bite your tongue. 

careful. 

you want to bite that smirk off his lips.

it’s been a while, but he’s trying to rile you up.

you wonder what levi saw in you that made him think this was how to understand you: by throwing a punch and seeing if you could match his fight. 

the truth is that jean isn’t anything to you. nothing had happened after that moment in the kitchen, and you wanted to keep it that way. you know that levi is perceptive enough to notice how you subtly distance yourself from jean, despite mikasa’s efforts and jean’s once again one-sided flirtations. 

(you have a clear image of levi at breakfast a few days ago, prying open a ripe fig and holding his cup of tea from the top, burgundy bruises in the shape of someone’s lips decorating his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. historia had thrown a party next door, and you had the profound displeasure of watching levi make out with someone who wasn’t you. as soon as your eyes met his from across the room, levi removed himself from the person sucking on his collarbone. you weren’t sure it was a coincidence.)

“so kirstein isn’t your boyfriend?” 

“what does it matter to you?”

“are you just hooking up, then?”

“why do you care, levi?” you snap.

it was dark, and you felt levi shuffle closer to you. you turned your head away, refusing to acknowledge the weight of his gaze on your body. 

“i think you know why.” his voice nothing but a burning whisper in your ear.

levi, the clever brat, after giving you the cold shoulder, is not only trying to rile you up — he’s teasing you.

god, you were losing your mind, playing levi’s game, when he should have been losing yours.  

you felt a fresh kind of heat spread through your body.

“whatever.”

you rip the cigarette from levi’s fingers, careful to avoid skin touching skin, snuff it out, and make all the moves to leave.

“wait.” he commands, grabbing your wrist before you can get too far. “let’s start again. i know you heard me earlier tonight.” 

you clench your jaw, still standing. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

(your bedroom is the closest to his, with only a bathroom with thin walls separating the two. earlier, you swore he was pleasuring himself to the rhythm of your name, but when you entered the bathroom to check, all you found was water swirling down the bathtub drain.) 

“i saw you.”

“what do you want, levi?” his name like poison on your tongue, fire in your throat.

levi doesn’t say anything for a bit. 

crickets chirp in the distance. 

neither of you move. 

“i think about that night all the time.” levi swallows, hard. “that night in the library.”

(during finals season, late night at the library, when you were both frustrated and bone-tired and in need of release, levi fucked you in a secluded corner. two fingers in, knuckle deep. you returned the favour after reaching your high, kneeling down on the carpet to taste him. he was wiping away his own cum from the corner of your mouth just as someone walked over to examine the shelves for a book on the italian renaissance. it was careless, and dangerous, and neither of you spoke of it again.) 

mikasa made her expectations for you clear, and you need to please her, so you bit back your desire, swallowed whatever spark might have been between you and levi, and carried on as acquaintances because you couldn’t really afford to let it catch.

except, levi’s looking at you like he did then, hooded eyes, dark blue with desire. 

he lets go of your wrist and you already miss his touch. 

so, the reckless part of you stays, sits closer to him, tries not to melt when his silk pyjamas brush against your naked thigh. 

“i think about your mouth.” he brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “those pretty little moans, the way you said my name….” 

you can’t help it; you brush your fingers in the junction between his neck and shoulder, and find his pulse strong, but steady. 

“levi,” you sigh, and he shudders.

“fuck, just like that.” 

you and levi are so close now, you aren’t sure the air you’re breathing is your own. 

“it kills me, that you’re only a room away —” 

“i think about your fingers,” you finally confess. you lick your lips, grazing levi’s thumb in the process. “i think about the way you taste, how full you made me feel.”

levi sucks in a sharp breath. by now, he’s snaked his other hand underneath your shirt, fingers tracing shapes onto your stomach.

“kirstein might murder me.”

you nod slowly. 

“mikasa might never speak to me again.”

“you’ve been driving me insane all year,” levi justifies. “all fucking year. when mika brought you to paradis, i thought we’d have all summer….”

he scrapes his nails against your ribcage, wandering further into dangerous territory.

“i guess we better make up for lost time, then.” you suggest. his hand stills, eyes locked on yours. “don’t you think, levi?”

levi answers by surging forward, and kissing you with such ferocity, he might as well be a man starved. teeth on teeth on tongue. you tangle your hands into his hair, pull on some strands just to see what he'd do. he groans, and retaliates by biting down on your bottom lip, hard enough that you taste the metallic tang of blood mixed with the remnants of minty toothpaste on his lips. you whimper and pull away slightly. he holds your face firmly between his two hands, so you can’t go too far.

"sorry." levi smirks, and you know he doesn't really mean it. 

you don’t care. you tug his hair some more and crash your mouth back to his, let your tongue trace every one of his teeth as if committing to memory.

you’re jolted back to reality when his hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear. 

“shit. wait.” you push levi away and need a second to appreciate the state he’s in: raven hair a mess of your own making, pupils blown wide as he watches you with greedy impatience. 

“what is it?” he presses when you take a second too long to explain.

“oh. it’s just,” a nervous laugh bubbles from your chest. you’ve craved this, craved him for so long, and it seems cosmically unfair that something else prevents you from satisfying your hunger. “i’m on my period.”

levi blinks at you. “so?”

you’re flustered, having to spell this out for him. “well, i guess we can’t really have sex, then?” you pause, watching as levi tilts his head. “i can suck you off if you want —

“what i want is to taste you,” levi states. “it’s lucky for you, i’m a vampire.” 

you would have bet all your money that levi was just fucking with you, ready to leave you to tend to yourself for the night. 

it’s a bet you would have promptly lost, seeing as levi slides to his knees and lodges himself between your legs.

“if you’re not comfortable with it, i don’t have to.” 

your teeth catch your bottom lip, heart almost beating out of your chest.

you could back out now, suck it up and get on your knees for jean instead, gush to mikasa about it later and keep making her believe that you’re following her word like scripture. 

but — it’s just so sincere. sweet, almost, how levi tilts his head up at you, waiting for your command like you’re a deity he’s dedicated his life to, willing to do anything and everything to prove his devotion. 

the final transgression, the nail in the coffin: 

you reach down to brush your fingers underneath his jawline and tell him it’s okay — that you want him.

levi sinks his teeth into the flesh of your thigh, soothing his tongue over the sting before removing your shorts and underwear.

he has his way with you, bringing you over the edge not once, but twice with his sharp tongue and skilled fingers. you bite your bottom lip to prevent yourself from screaming, until it’s just too damn much and you have to push levi’s head away. 

levi looks up at you again, this time with a devilish grin, canines sparkling in the moonlight. crimson on his chin, between his fingers. once spotless silk pyjamas are probably stained with grass and dirt and whatever wetness he’s gathered from you. 

maybe you should be on your knees, too, repent for the sin of crossing a line that was very clearly drawn, but you don’t care. 

you’re hot and sticky and overstimulated, and fuck if you aren’t entirely blissed out. 

levi confesses that wants, needs, to be inside you, so he carries you to his bedroom. you claw at the angel wings engraved on levi’s shoulder blades as he thrusts into you and sucks at your pulse point, your collarbone and chest.

“knew you’d feel like bliss, all tight and wrapped around me,” levi exhales, moving up to press his sweaty forehead to yours. “i’d call you angel, but we both know our friends would sentence us to hell for this. worth it though, right, baby?”

“fuck, levi,” you moan at the nickname, which encourages him to go faster. one of his hands moves to grip the pillow beside your head; you take the opportunity to angle your chin and run your tongue over the tattooed sword on his forearm, tasting salt. “so fucking worth it.”

you reach your climax when levi starts rubbing harsh circles onto your clit. he lets you ride out your high before pulling out of you, stroking himself a few times, and painting your stomach with his release. 

lingering in a post-orgasm haze, you take a few moments to look around. levi’s room is pristine, save for the dirty clothes you practically tore from each other’s bodies and the now ruined sheets. you’re about to close your eyes, but levi taps your cheek. 

“hey. you okay?”

“yeah,” you yawn, tracing a finger across the roses decorating his chest. “sorry about the mess.”

levi shakes his head. “don’t worry about that. i’ll do laundry tomorrow,” he assures. “but let’s get you cleaned up now, beautiful.”

it was such a rush at the beginning, between you and levi. now, the result of your… whatever you want to call it — obsession, violence, passion — sees the two of you sharing a bath.  the air thick with steam and smelling of citrus and bergamot. levi ackerman in a marble bathtub, skin wet and soapy after washing away blood and dirt. defined muscles and intricate tendons that could have been carved from marble, too.

he falls asleep in your bed, and you fall asleep to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

in the morning, when you wake up, levi is sitting on your windowsill. backlit by the sun shining in, framing him with a halo, he takes a slow drag of his cigarette, preens for no one in particular as if for a portrait they’d hang in an art gallery. 

you’ve tried, multiple times, but could never quite capture his beauty. at least not with a regular hb pencil and flimsy sketchbook paper. you thought he deserved to be immortalised, all shadows and intense angles. maybe the louvre in paris or the uffizi in florence; displayed somewhere for all to admire, like renaissance portraits of italian nobles or ancient gods carved in stone, given sacrifices from starving peasants. 

levi represents everything you want to burn to a crisp.

and, yet.

levi notices you stirring.

he smiles at you (you’d sit in hell just for a glimpse of that rare, precious, levi ackerman smile) and murmurs a good morning, sweetheart (how is it possible that you can taste his words on your tongue, thick like honey and just as sweet?), all while looking at you like you were the work of art.

you feel something twist in your gut. 

you’re so, utterly fucked.

[bigcityroadie]

it's a good thing I didn't bet this time

HAHA JANIE SUCK IT I GOT A FORTNITE WIN BITCH !!

[phoenixyfriend]

I am grateful to the Girl Genius fandom having good-natured and good faith conversations about what constitutes war crimes by the Geneva convention while discussing jagers and how many of their centuries-long crimes could be grandfathered in, etc...

Because it means that now I can whip out my generalist understanding of war crimes to argue with the Star Wars fandom about what does or does not qualify as a real-world war crime and how that does or does not apply to a fictional setting.

Minimal double-checking required, I just know these things now. I can and will argue down the flamethrowers crowd.

[sosadraws]

What is your favorite replika ship so far? Any close seconds worth mentioning as of yet? Also how does Smoke feel about Powder? Most of the cadre seems to somewhat dislike Powder but Smoke seems chill for the most part.

1- First things first, I must clarify that I ship not relying on how factible the pair is in cannon, but how interesting their hypothetical dynamics would be (which is how I come up with things like Falke x Beo, for example)

That being said, there's a certain fanfic that's going around and I think popularized Sieben x Jager. And you know what? Good. Star x Storch is a ship that I think can be very versatile: it can your typical enemies to lovers, the "good cop" and "bad cop" tropes, potential toxic yuri, "I can fix her" if one is mentoring the other etc.

Ok probably this one is kinda lame, but I also enjoy Falke x Adler. Listen, I loved their characterization in Birds of Prey and I love when a tall, powerful woman has a little dude that is very dedicated to her, you know?

Generally speaking I enjoy all replica pairings, but I've seen stuff like Kolibri x Ara, Storch x Mynah or Kolibri x Mynah that makes you go "oooh" when imagining how these characters would interact.

2- She doesn't mind her for the most part. Smoke is the type of person that makes a distinction between friends and coworkers, but even with people she doesn't like she remains polite.

However, one time Powder insinuated that Smoke was dating this particular Eule out of pure convenience ("Oh sure, I too would date the cook's assistant if I got free food in exchange 🙄"), and that angered her. But that was long ago and they're in good terms now.

[star-ar512]

[wolvzephyr]

AND NOW MORE OF THE USUAL.

[spockanalia-archive]

Spockanalia #1: Off the Top

By Devra Michele Langsam and Sherna Comerford

A Bulletin and Editorial by Yeds

THE BULLETIN—MORE FUN COMING: In June, we learned from Star Trek's Associate Producer, Robert H. Justman, that the tentatively scheduled season opener (September 15th) will take place, in part, on the planet Vulcan. We have since learned that the show, "Amok Time," was written by no less an author than Theodore Sturgeon. In the course of the program, Spock will meet his assigned wife, for the purpose of satisfying the Vulcan septennial mating drive. Vulcans—or at least Vulcan males (at the moment. we're not quite sure which)—must experience sex every seven years, or die.

We have been told that the story is handled with the same care and skill that made Star Trek our favorite program in its first season. Look out, September 15th—here we come!

AND NOW A WORD OR TEN FROM OUR SPONSOR: We are eternally grateful to the people who pick up the check for our favorite program. However, it has come to our attention that small but important segments of action are cut from the broadcast received in some cities, especially those in the parts of the country that get their master broadcasts from New York City. The time gained is used for additional commercials. The most blatant example discovered thus far is in "Dagger of the Mind." Only a fraction of the audience saw the approximately thirty seconds that showed Spock become entrapped in Van Jager's mind, to such a degree that Dr. McCoy was forced to tear him free physically.

This scene was not vital to the action of the plot, but it was quite important in the development of the characters of Spock and McCoy. It also was an extremely dramatic moment.

If you would like to protest this commercial padding, write to WNBC-TV, [Address Redacted].

A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: In "Court Martial," Mr. Spock's rank was given as Lieutenant-Commander. In the third revision of The Star Trek Guide, it is given as Commander. Congratulations on your promotion, sir.

SPEAKING ABOUT RANK: Lest our interest in Mr. Spock make us appear to neglect his companions, it behooves us to say a few words about that other hero. Captain James T. Kirk is a strong, efficient, extremely vital man. He is a very special person, and his command of the Enterprise makes it the ship it is. In his absence, neither the character of Mr. Spock, nor the program itself, could exist. Many thanks to William Shatner for his skillful portrayal of a highly complex character.

IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T HEARD: Leonard Nimoy has one record album, entitled "Leonard Nimoy presents Mr. Spock's Music from Outer Space," Dot # 3794, and one 45 rpm record from Dot, "The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins/Cotton Candy." At last word, a second album was being considered.

Mr. Nimoy also has a starring role in the movie version of Genet's Deathwatch, which he co-produced. Deathwatch is a strong, bitter story, powerfully done and emotionally devastating. It proves, for those who had any doubts, that Leonard Nimoy is a very fine actor.

TREK TROUBLES: According to Bjo Trimble (via Dorothy Jones) Star Trek still has renewal problems. If we want the show to continue (if we want…!) we must continue the campaign. Letters should be addressed to: Mort Werner, Programming, NBCTV, [Address Redacted]. Write soon and often. Good continuing public response is a sine que non for any TV series, especially one in prime-time. If we appear to lose interest, so will NBC.

A LAST WORD: Yeds are aware that when the new season begins, two weeks after our anticipated publication date, many (all?) of our lovely theories will be blown to pieces. On the other hand, we console ourselves with thoughts of all the new material we'll have to play with. Anyone for a Spockanalia #2?

Note: With the help and guidance of Open Doors, we digitized the first volume of Spockanalia and imported it to AO3, which you can view here. In order to meet AO3's terms of service, some of the content was edited or removed. The full version of the zine is preserved on this blog. The masterpost is here.

[melodygatesauthor]

What I learned about myself when making a comprehensive collection of my blorbos:

5/12 of them are Oscar Isaac

I have a mask kink for sure (Thatcher, top right next to Benny, usually has a mask on, and so does Kylo Ren)

I like dark haired boys

Why is there a single robot that captured my heart somehow? I dunno, couldn't tell ya

Traumatized/damaged bois get me in the mood I guess

I thought I was always into exceptionally tall guys, but Benny, Kylo, and Revenant are the only exceptionally tall guys there. Idk, they all got that big D energy regardless of height y'know?

My favorites seem to be someone who has committed a murder, for good or bad doesn't seem to faze me.

I have a military kink

I like men who I think can protec me

Competence kink fer sher

Most of them would dom, but I have a couple of switches :)

Omg I want to be stuck in a room with them all please.

@dameronscopilot and @welcometostayingawake forced me into almost half of these against my will.

[starcolonelkatrinamoon]

I remember Huntress.

A beautiful world. Rich swamps, tall mountains, and a desert the size of a continent.

I was decanted in 2052, only a few months after the Battle of Tukayyid. Part of a hybrid totem warrior experiment, where the scientists attempted to blend the success of the 2990 totem warrior project with more recent trueborn developments. They failed. All I bear from the attempt are some jaguar patterns on my skin as well as a slightly elevated night sight and improved reflexes. Some obnoxiously delicate jaguar ears as well.

Originally, I was slated to be an Elemental. That was before Operation SERPENT ravaged our beautiful homeworld, ousting us and sending the survivors scrabbling for purchase.

I remember the Fidelis.

It is difficult to forget who raised you and taught you everything you know. They taught me to be the best, just like all the rest. Though before I was raised on Clan Smoke Jaguar honor and mannerisms, the Fidelis raised me on slightly more pragmatic forms of approach. Upon my turning 20, it did not take long to become a Jager, and soon beyond that a MechWarrior.

But it was as heavy shock infantry that they truly let me succeed. Being of Elemental stock, I was able to carry bigger weapons, more armor, and more efficient methods of conducting my duty. I knew no fear but a mission left unfinished.

And yet as time went on, I found myself deployed more often as a MechWarrior. They found me to be quite the effective brawler, to the effect of having a mixed tech Hunchback. The physical durability from the Elemental stock permitted me to pilot more recklessly, while the improved reflexes from the totem warrior mkII attempt kept me sharp. They were tough times.

And finally, I remember being permitted, finally, to call myself a Smoke Jaguar. I remember the Wolves and how they said they would allow us to be a clan once more after the ilClan trial.

After recent deployments that waste equipment and lives of my Cluster, I have been feeling very… un-clan-like. Efficiency, resourcefulness, and not being wasteful are espoused as true marks of a Clanner.

And yet, more and more of my Sibkin die for causes that did not require this level of deployment. There are so few of us now.

I am Star Colonel Katrina Moon of Clan Smoke Jaguar, Alpha Galaxy, Third Cluster. Let this be a record of my deeds.

[the-pigeon]

for my most beloved's birthday @caruliaa i love you so much <3

///

archery by neptune holub // you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars by e.e. cummings // post by @/jugn00 // humans are creatures of habit by @/isolatedphenomenon // prescription for lilies by serena crane // please dont by mxmtoon // reassurance by @/heartlessqueen // cupio, definition by neptune holub // while you're alive by jeff rosenstock // tiktok by emilymcsings // post by @/magneatio // what the poets call love by neptune holub // wolf & bunny, a love story by rusted-pipe-of-wisdom // i will by mitski // red, white, and royal blue by casey mcquiston // writing prompts for the broken-hearted by eden robinson // share your adress by ben platt // post by @/coffeepeople // poem by ruhlare // your best american girl by mitski // i love you by britchida // songs of love and war translated by marjolijn de jager // post by @/plumslices // meteor shower by cavetown // a self portrait in letters by anne sexton // how do i say i love you by neptune holub // seven by taylor swift

[zenobiaseptimia]

Time to lay claim to the evidence Fingerprints sell me out but our footprints' washed away From the docks downtown It's been getting late for days And I feel myself deserving of A little time off We can kick it, hang for hours And just mouth off about the world And how we know it's going straight to hell Pass me another bottle, honey The Jager's so sweet But if it keeps you around, then I'm down Meet me on Thames Street, I'll take you out Though I'm hardly worth your time In the cold you look so fierce But I'm warming up because the tension's like a fire We'll hit South Broadway in a matter of minutes And like a bad movie, I'll drop a line Fall in the grave I've been digging myself But there's room for two, six feet under the stars