Tag: nsfw

After Battle.

After battle, Erwin’s lips taste like blood and steel, and it’s the only splinter of a moment in which Levi can bear with the dirt sticking to Erwin’s cheek. It’s the only moment in which he doesn’t care about rubbing the blood off his own blades, the death of comrades sticking to it like thick rainclouds that carry a hurricane.

After battle, Erwin’s hands are reverent and pray to the landscape of his body with gentleness, as they spread warmth into all his broken corners, into the shadows of Levi’s soul.

After battle, he can finally cry out when Erwin’s inside him, hot and thick and heavy, cock sliding deep, raw, until it hits that spot where Levi breaks. Where he shatters into a sob ripping from his lips, nails scratching down Erwin’s neck, tears dripping into the kiss of their tongues and lips and heart.

Bloom. || Part I

It’s not that Levi hates sex. But sex means people, and it means a stranger’s breath on his skin, hands grabbing his hips too tightly or not hard enough, and it means men who try and try so hard to make him feel good; men who all give up in the end. They always do, even those who loved him.

“Why don’t you kiss?” – “Relax. It’s just sex.” – “What, can’t come for me?” – “Baby, what are you hiding from me? Did someone hurt you?”

He doesn’t have sex anymore. He doesn’t kiss, doesn’t flirt. Evenings are a cup of tea and his favourite blanket, freshly washed, some movie on the tv. He falls asleep with his eyes clenched shut, curled into himself to feel a spark of warmth.

Sometimes, Levi wishes for tattoos. Little inked scars on the spots where he wants to be kissed.

A sun rising on his throat, its beams showing a path of gold to his neck. A silver mermaid swimming around his hipbone, delicate fingers resting on his thigh, a fin curled around his waist. Eagle’s wings, white and hazel, spreading on his back, and a thin emerald snake coiling along his spine like a protector of Eve’s apple, its tail reaching around to his stomach, lower. 

He wants black lines that scream “please, touch me. Here, and here, kiss me, love me, fuck my living soul out, but pleaseplease let the sun rise on my neck and make my heart fly”. He already has one tattoo, a pair of crossed wings above his heart. There’s nobody to ask for its meaning. One half is drowning in dark blue ink.

He’s been singing since he can remember, and he’s been searching just as long. The world can’t be that empty, without something that has his heart burst into stars just as much as the first tunes of a symphony. It can’t be the only thing. It just – whenever he thinks he found something, it ends in tears and snow falling on his heart.

He should’ve been more careful with his wishes and the ink dripping off his silent lips.

Levi meets him in one of his music classes. Nice singing voice, deep and rich. That’s all he thinks at first, nothing special – until the man chooses a song. The docent makes Levi join in, half an octave higher, yes please accompany him.

“Demons” by Imagine Dragons, arrangement for two voices and a choir. The other people wait for the new one to start. 

It takes a single line. Levi’s lips part, eyes widen. The sun on his throat blooms.

It’s the first time they melt into each other.

At some point, everyone else falls quiet, their voices a mere susurring of ocean waves. The man’s voice rises like a storm, it roars and whispers and promises darkness, rich, sweet heat that tingles all the way up Levi’s spine and into his skull. The echo is loud and quiet and it’s the first time that his voice shakes during singing.

The man looks at him the whole time, sun reflecting in his eyes, lips moving around words and tunes and pure music.

The snake along Levi’s spine moves, lazily dragging its fangs across his skin. He leaves the music room with crimson in his cheeks and a hurricane swirling through his blood.

The man’s name is Erwin.

Levi doesn’t care. He walks home in delusion, people passing by, none of their shitty words reaching him. Levi hears music, and the music carries blue eyes and velvety flames and a music that burns under his cold, lonely skin.

He’s ashamed to abuse the memory, but that voice is all it takes for him to slide under his covers later and wrap a hand around his cock, the other sliding to press into his tight heat, sobbing as he comes with hips bucking up.

When the days are cold
And the cards all fold
And the saints we see
Are all made of gold

Eren has never kissed Jean. He has never kissed Marco, either.

But if he could, without consequences, without any confusion or pain or anger, Eren would get up right now and stomp over to Jean’s bunk where the air is thick and boiling with heat from dark moans and tangled limbs under bed sheets.

But Eren is a coward.

All he’s ever done is lie awake in the middle of the night, eyes open and a hand pressed over his own mouth to muffle the pathetic little moans he’s choking on – listening to Jean whimper helplessly when a dark shadow leans down to him, wet warm kisses echoing in the warm barrack as Marco whispers “shh, they’ll hear us” and shifts the smallest bit. Then, Jean does that desperate sob, the tiniest noise of ‘oh god please more yes yes’, and Eren loves how vulnerable and fucking beautiful he is in the moonlight, under Marco’s stronger body, how the two other boys move as if it was just for him.

A private show he hasn’t been invited to.

Eren has never kissed Jean.

He’s never fallen apart on Marco’s cock with a cry dripping down his lips like fire, has never tasted Jean’s salty skin on his tongue, never adorned his neck with blue marks. But god, one day, he’ll be brave enough. Until then, Eren shuffles deeper under his covers, careful to be quiet, and continues to listen to the lewd, wet squelching that comes from where Marco thrusts deep into Jean, their mouths finding each other in dark rumbles of stuttered words, and then they’re just two silhouettes melting together.

Eren turns around and stares at the wall until he hears them breathe calmly. He grasps his chest and closes his eyes and tries not to choke on the bitter lust rising up his throat. One day.

His every move is accompanied by a soft tingling of war. There are silver bullets in his veins and the blood of dead ones smeared across his throat, invisible, a warning sign for anyone who’s tempted by the lethal beauty of his body. It’s a mere instrument to kill, or so Levi thought. 

But Erwin, oh, he knows how to pull Levi’s strings and bite, lick, kiss under his skin until his body is lighting the night sky in red and golden flames and Levi himself roars, heart thundering in his chest as Erwin opens him, tongue pressing between his shaking legs and takes all war out of him, all blood, fear, death.

Eruriweek Day 1: Past / Memories

When his fingers trace the hollow of Erwin’s throat, adoring the dark hickeys he left behind with his teeth and tongue, Levi finds old memories on Erwin’s skin. Scars are stories. The one in Erwin’s hand (Levi kisses it, lips soft these days and old from time) has gone pale, faded. A mere white line where Levi’s sword almost pierced him. There are other marks on Erwin’s skin – old battle, fights against titans and humans. His left arm is heavy on Levi’s back, they’re lying chest to chest and Erwin’s ribcage hitches softly under Levi’s weight.

He remembers their first kiss, on the battlefield, titan’s blood evaporating from their bodies. Both horses lost, weapons broken, seeking a roof over their heads for the night in ancient ruins of what once was a tiny village. A thunderstorm. The death of Farlan and Isabel was still sitting in Levi’s bones like a disease gnawing at his flesh, and they had started to fight over something irrelevant – until Erwin’s hands were at his throat and Levi shattered like fragile glass, bending and flexing until the pale column of his breath was bare. “Do it,” he’d said, air pressing between gritted teeth. “Do… it.” Erwin had shaken his head. Slow, almost reverent.

Erwin had made Levi beg for his hands, lips, for his thick cock to fill him up in the right way, deep and dark and so new that Levi croaked his name until he was hoarse, raw, lost in Erwin’s controlled ferocious thrusts. This night, Levi’s nails had left streaks of red on Erwin’s back, one deep enough to bleed.

The most beautiful scar that Levi had ever given anyone.

December 24th

“Kneel.”

Erwin obeys. His strong body falls like a mountain before Levi, both knees hitting the ground with a soft thump on the pillow, eyes cast downward to the floor. Levi runs his finger along Erwin’s spine, nail leaving a red scratch mark. Erwin groans like a chained beast, his back bucking up, wild shudders shaking him all throughout his being. Levi smiles.

“There’s my good boy. Open your mouth.”

Erwin obeys, again, and when Levi grabs his collar and tilts Erwin’s head back, his lips are parted and tongue sticking out, desperate moans spilling from his bobbing throat where he’s swallowing, hard. Wanting, desiring his man. Then Levi’s slinging one leg around his neck. Erwin instinctively holds it in place, fingers reverently dancing to his Dom’s ankle, wrapping around it like it’s precious silver.

“Give it to me, nice and slow.” Levi’s voice is quiet thunder.

Erwin closes his eyes and nods, whispering “yes Sir” with a wide smile on his lips before his mouth opens and he licks fire between Levi’s legs, pushes inside, feels him tight and hot and twitching on his tongue, and hears his Dom moan when the grip on his collar tightens and Levi rocks his ass right into his wet greedy mouth.

“Good – ah, fuck. Shit, just like that, you’re so g-good…”

Levi’s voice breaks, and Erwin feels his cock pulse, heavy and swollen between his legs. He’s not allowed to touch, doesn’t even want to. Not when Levi’s ass tightens around his tongue, presses down, how that leg around his neck goes heavy and suddenly Erwin’s holding his Dom upright, hears him groan and feels fingers rip at his hair, his collar with the silver ring on it.

Erwin loves how Levi pulls back just before he comes, and he’s closing his eyes and leaning in when warm, milky cum drips over his face and into his open mouth. Levi’s still panting. His leg slides off Erwin’s neck, both feet firmly on the ground again. Erwin swallows. Everything. His cock’s still hard but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care until he hears Levi sink down and kiss his dirty mouth.

“Thank you,” Levi whispers as their foreheads touch, and the collar slides off Erwin’s neck when Levi opens the lock. Erwin opens his eyes, notices Levi’s watching him, unspoken question in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m the one who has to thank you,” is all Erwin says before he wraps himself around Levi, curls in his lap and feels Levi card fingers through his hair. He smiles when kisses are being pressed to his head, and thumbs trace where his collar was moments ago.

“You were perfect,” Levi whispers. “My good boy.” Erwin makes a dark noise at the nickname and then closes his eyes, trusting Levi to take care of him.

He always does.

December 15th

The blindfold is finest silk. It’s black, exquisitely soft and Jean isn’t surprised that Marco only picked the best for him. He took it willingly – lips parted in a shivering moan when Marco put it over his eyes and tied it, rough fingers sliding down Jean’s neck, stealing his breath with whispers of “so good for me, my darling. Proud of you.. Lie down for me.” Jean nods desperately, mouth falling open when Marco shifts, his knees straddling Jean’s head carefully, looming above him in darkness. Then there’s fingers in Jean’s hair, gripping it tightly, he whimpers “p-please” – and Marco’s cock slides into his mouth, thick and heavy and goddamn perfect, wet from precum dripping on Jean’s tongue, curls of dark hair against his nose when Jean mewls, muffled, and clings to him. He melts under Marco, groans when his mouth is filled and it’s good, more –
“F-fuck, god you’re… so good. Good boy, c’mon.”
Jean smiles around that mouthful of Marco’s perfect cock, swallows, hear him growl and starts to suck when fingers tighten in his hair and Marco whispers “just like that… my boy.”

December 12th.

Erwin Smith doesn’t do things with half his heart. Levi finds out when his face is pressed into the stinking mud of the underground, when he first hears a name that sounds like power and tastes dark and rich like alcohol. Erwin doesn’t force him to join –  there’s no need to pressure someone who’s following willingly. Levi will always obey, after Erwin proves that he’s worthy of obeying. And years later, Levi is naked and vulnerable for him, sprawled on the bed, spread open and crying out a stuttered symphony of Erwin’s name while the commander pours all his heart into licking, sucking, coaxing him open on fingers and a burning wicked tongue.

December 10th

An anon asked for a modern fighter AU with Jean body worshipping Marco who’s crazy insecure about the burns on his right side. Bonus points for crying babies.

“Let me, please just – just let me. I promise I’ll stop if you say so. Please, darling. I love you. Let me… let me love you like nobody ever has before.”

He isn’t asking for sex. He doesn’t even want Marco to take off his pants. Jean holds him against his chest, has Marco listen to the calm steady beating of his heart, and he whispers love and gentleness to him. They’re songs, almost, little hummed melodies that Jean makes up with his musician’s brain, and there are days when he’s just playing on his guitar hours and hours until his fingers bleed a little. He’s doing it for Marco. He’s doing it for the soft brown eyes he’s fallen in love with – no, not just fallen, he shattered and bursted his shell for that man but still –

Still Marco believes that Jean can impossibly love him.

All he wants is to give him safety. All he wants is to worship him till the end of his life.

“No, I – Jean, you’ll be disgusted by me, you’ll hate me – ” Marco’s voice is tiny, wet from sobbing into Jean’s arms, from clinging to his shirt and from a past of blood, dirty rust and cracked skin. It breaks Jean’s heart.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say that I’ll find you disgusting,” Jean cups Marco’s face and he kisses him. He kisses his lips and his jaw where the burn scars are thickest, where his past marked him with fire when he wanted to escape. Jean lays him down and it’s an eternity, it’s centuries before Marco’s tears dry on Jean’s lips and then Marco nods. Okay. There’s so much doubt in his beautiful eyes, this perfect dark warmth that Jean will love until he dies.

He kisses it all away.

They stay up all night, hiding under Jean’s blanket. No light but the moon shimmering somewhere far away. Marco’s right side is a burnt labyrinth of stories, and Jean discovers, reads, adores them until Marco is curled in his embrace, and, finally – smiles.

December 4th

“La mela proibita” says the dark sign over the restaurant’s entrance. The letters are smoldering gold and gleam in the street lamp’s dim light. Inside it’s comfortable and warm, a whirl of cosiness luring Jean deeper in. He chose this place because it’s new, and all magazines are overboarding with praise for Signore Bodt’s exquisite cuisine. Jean doesn’t expect too much. His mother’s French and a fantastic cook, and he’s grown up to have such a spoiled sense of taste that nothing can ever satisfy him.

He’s roaming life full of wild thirst and hunger, and it’s not just caramel or vanilla he’s looking for, not the simple pleasures of a breathtakingly meal. People wear their aromas to the outside, all their secrets prominent and reeking from cheap flower scents. Jean misses the darkness, the deep rumbling desire of a good wine being poured into a crystal glass, the kiss of a lover who can fulfill and sate him – who takes his soul and tears him apart with skilled fingers, puts him back together in a way that has Jean gasp for air fucking perfectly, and has his heart boom in his ribcage where a heavy hand rests and holds him down.

The ancient oaken door to his right opens, a large bright kitchen flickering the gap of wood and wall for a second. Jean swallows heavily and his fingers grasp the table’s edge. Signore Bodt wears a white cook’s uniform and a star-glowing sky full of freckles all over his dark skin. His hair’s a mess of cowlicks and Jean bites back the urge to get up and grab a fist of it, to pull him down in the hope of getting a taste of smirking bold lips –

“Welcome to ‘La mela proibita’. What can I serve you to get a smile upon that pretty face of yours?” A voice like thick lavender honey, eyes darkening when they scan Jean from head down to his fingers helplessly clenching around the table. He’s gorgeous, he’s fucking perfect and Jean wants to have a taste of the hollow that sits where his collarbone shifts under warm skin.

Oh, he’s doomed.

He’s getting spaghetti carbonara when his voice is back to order, and a fine wine along with it – but Signore Bodt shakes his head and leans down, points into the menu to another wine. “This one will go much better with it. If you don’t mind, I’ll get it for you. And a few bruschetta as an entrée?” The way his tongue rolls around the Italian word has Jean lick his lips. God, he needs more, and Signore Bodt’s smile tells him enough. He turns with swift elegance and is back in the kitchen with a few steps. It’s only now that Jean realizes that he’s the only customer so far, and it’s already near midnight – fuck. He runs both hands down his face.

He’s gulping the water down and clings to the glass afterwards. It’s not long before the kitchen door swings open and Signore Bodt joins him with two small plates of bruschetta. “You came in when I was about to close,” he smiles and his fingers dance over Jean’s knuckles when he gives him the plate. Jean almost drops it, and when the cook’s hand guides a piece of bruschetta to his mouth, he closes his eyes and wraps his lips around it.

“Not very polite,” Signore Bodt says. “But it means we get to enjoy our meal together, and that’s why I’m glad that such a pretty thing like you bursted in after closing time.”

Jean chokes on the bruschetta and the cook’s hand slides on his back, patting gently until he’s caught his breath again. “It’s – I’m – sorry,” Jean croaks and for some reason, Signore Bodt’s hand suddenly wraps around his neck, and slides along his jaw. Calloused fingertips, fucking shit, Jean forgets every English word he knows and curses shakily, softly in French when a warm thumb runs over his lips.

“I rarely have any customers like you.” Signore Bodt’s eyes are charcoal darkness, and Jean’s ready to drown and give up all his self-control. “I hope we’ll… see each other again after tonight.”

They do.

Not even two days later, Jean returns. It’s midnight again, and he still feels where Marco (that’s his first name, beautiful and perfect like him) left fire engraved in his skin, warmth flooding Jean’s body whenever he licks his lips and remembers. Tonight, he’s hanging his jacket on the coat rack, turns around with a light swag to his step – but the kitchen’s dark, and his shoulders sag down in disappointment. Maybe he imagined things –

A hint of lavender honey, musk and darkly brewed coffee. Lips press to his neck, a strong hand slides over his waist. Jean’s eyes widen and he swirls around, and Marco crashes into him with a wild growl, a low rumbled curse in Italian that has Jean’s cock throb in his pants. He doesn’t know him, but it’s enough to know that Marco’s waited here for him and is fiddling with his fly, long fingers slipping inside and palming his painfully hard cock.

“Fuck,” Jean breathes when Marco bites his bottom lip, “shit” when he’s hauled up stairs and “oh God, fuck – ” once again when a mattress bounces back under his weight, and a heavy body takes his breath away, together with hands roaming under his clothes and marking his skin with nails and burning touches.

Marco’s moans are heavy with his name, and when a fucking perfect mouth hollows around his cock, sucking him, so slow and wet and goddamn heavenly, Jean curls his fingers into black hair and a tiny, broken sob comes together with him bucking his hips up, Marco grinning and swallowing his come with obscene slick noises.

Later that night, Jean learns that Marco switches back to Italian and that “mio Dio!”, along with a thick cock fucking him raw and fucking perfectly until his throat’s sore and aching from all the lewd moans he’s been spilling – that means that Jean might be eating Italian a little more often now.