Levi has always been better at reading. Writing his own words is strange; the pen is too heavy in his hand, ink dripping on paper resembling that black underground’s blood too much. He doesn’t have stories to write down, anyways.

But Erwin is a scar-lettered myth. He is Levi’s favourite book. His skin is softer than pages of rough paper, and he carries the old paragraphs of his wounds with neutral pride.

Some nights, Levi reads him like a blind man, with fingers tracing his darkness and tongue burying into the heat of his mouth, taking Erwin deep into his own tender warmth.
Levi reads him for centuries.

Erwin closes his eyes, and tells him all his stories.

Marco’s always had enough feelings and liquid happiness and warm, soft-red love for the both of them.

Maybe that’s why Jean’s mouth is empty of any sound when the titan’s jaw closes around him, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t scream, or cry, or close his eyes.

He’s lost his heart months ago. It’s only now that it does its last beat, and stills.

‘All I Ask of You.’

“You should be proud, Jeanbo. There are only a few men who stay a soprano even after voice break.” His mother smiles, warm fingers running through Jean’s hair as she hugs him tightly. Jean hates that he’s still comforted by this even at sixteen, that his tears and dark sobs stop coming after an hour or so, that he almost forgets about the teasing of his classmates about him singing the solo in the town’s small choir. They’ve always looked down on him. Now, it’s bullying.

A soprano. He had hoped for tenor, at least, but his voice break came and went without any change to the melodies echoing in his throat. Speaking, yes, that works, but he’s got no friends to talk to anyways, and as soon as the ‘gay’ rumours start, all is lost. It’s true, yet he wishes it wasn’t. He loves singing and he loves boys. None of it is right to the people that share a classroom with him.

“It’ll be alright,” his mother hums, a melody of Jean’s favourite song on her lips. “Everything will be fine. You’ll find your place, somewhere, believe me.

Jean finishes school without knowing what a camping trip with friends feels like, but knowing very well what the words ‘fag’ and ‘disgusting’ feel inside his chest.

His mother cries and kisses him goodbye when he leaves for a town that’s bigger in mind and smaller in space than the cold village he grew up in. It will take time to figure out a major, but he’s got a flat and food and a warm bed, and – his university has a choir.

On his first day of university, Jean enters the rehearsal room. There aren’t a lot of people to audition, and he’s up quicker than he’s hoped. The choir’s leader is a short man with dark hair and even blacker eyes that frown at every applicant equally. He points out that Jean’s choice of song is “a bit unconventional, isn’t that a duet?” And before Jean can say anything else, the choir leader waves another singer closer, and asks whether he’s familiar with the score.

The answer is a yes. The other singer has a nightsky of freckles on his nose, and a smile that drags the floor away from underneath Jean’s feet. He quickly looks down when the man stands by his side.

“I’m Marco,” he says, but the choir leader orders them to start already, and Jean’s world blurs into a caleidoscope of music and melodies as soon as the first word leaves Marco’s lips.

No more talk of darkness
Forget these wide-eyed fears
I’m here, nothing can harm you
My words will warm and calm you

The warm shivers running through Jean’s blood shouldn’t feel so good. He closes his eyes and listens, floods away with the heavy drawl in Marco’s voice, some accent he doesn’t know and cannot care about. It’s like they’re singing together, for each other, voices and words melting together. His part comes up – and Jean breathes, natural, opens his mouth.

Say you’ll love me every waking moment
Turn my head with talk of summer time
Say you need me with you now and always
Promise me that all you say is true
That’s all I ask of you

The room is quiet around them. Jean doesn’t notice the taste of salt on his lips until a hand comes down on his shoulder. Somewhere, in the back of his vision, he can see the rest of the choir staring as he opens his eyes. But right in front of him is Marco, fingers curling around Jean’s shaking shoulders, and the words

Love me, that’s all I ask of you

on his lips. Marco smiles. He brings a hand to Jean’s face to wipe his tears, and says something that sounds like “welcome” through the daze of emotions inside Jean’s head. Jean blinks and smiles back, weak, overwhelmed.

“I like your voice,” Marco says, suddenly.

Jean’s first day at university is new and strange and nerve-wrecking. And still, he couldn’t have asked for more.

for cherrymoyaya. Happy Birthday, dearest. ♥ Enjoy your day, and here is a little bit of Eruri for you!
nsfw. body worship. rimming.

“You deserve gentleness, Levi.”

His back arches in a pale crescent, and Levi bites down hard on his mouth to hold a loud moan inside. Erwin has pushed his legs open, rough fingers sliding over his body like he’s something precious, a treasure to be adored and worshipped. “I – God, why would you – “ A kiss onto his shoulder, the sharp tendon on the curve of his neck, a tongue dragging lazily over his sweat-stained skin.

“Let me, please,” Erwin mumbles quietly into his neck, and his hips press against Levi’s body, stilling his nervous flailing in the sheets. Shit, it shouldn’t be like this – Erwin is supposed to fuck him hard and rough and violent, with a hand pulling his hair so perfectly, knocking the thin air out of Levi’s screaming lungs with every breath.

But tonight, Erwin smiles like Levi told him about the sadness of war or a lost love, and there’s a trace of darkness clouding his eyes. He leans down to kiss Levi, breathless as always, but Levi tastes a softness in the warm licks of Erwin’s tongue that’s foreign, like musk and a summer’s night exhale. He pulls away and slides his legs onto Erwin’s shoulders, putting the best grin onto his face, eyes falling half-lidded. “Come on, come on – you just have to – “

“Not tonight, sweetest. Tonight, I’ll be adoring all of you, and I’m going to take my time until you know that you deserve all the gentleness in the world.”

And when Erwin kisses the hollow of Levi’s throat, placing his mouth right above the pulsing life in Levi’s veins, it’s over. His body gives in, falls, the softness of Erwin’s touches and the fucking reverence echoing in his every cell, oh God, what is this man and why, why would he love a bird with broken wings like Levi?

Erwin’s gorgeous cock rests hard against Levi’s thigh, but when he reaches down to touch, to run his fingers over the silky skin and tease in a way he’s best at, Erwin slides away. His goddamn large hands feel like they burn on Levi’s skin as they trace along his sides, adoring the sharp joints of his ribs with soft, reverent touches. Erwin hums against his stomach when he kisses it, and Levi’s breath explodes in his lungs. He lets go, mouth falling open in a dark, growling moan, legs twitching higher up Erwin’s neck. “F-fuck, I – God, I can’t – “

Erwin is silent, the smile on his mouth dangerously warm. His mouth barely grazes Levi’s hard cock, lips only touching the wet, flaring red head with a flick of his tongue. Levi bucks up, cries, hands tangling in the mess of Erwin’s hair, and his thighs close around his lover’s head when Erwin breathes a shuddering burst of air against the slick heat of Levi’s hole where he’s fucked him open torturously slow on his fingers before.

Erwin is slow when he eases Levi into falling, like a gentle pressure in the back of his head, making him submit with a simple glance from dark blue eyes. His body trembles, arches off the bed in a violent shiver, his ears tingling when his own scream echoes within the room’s small space. Erwin licks deep and warm into him, sucks and bites, oh he fucking bites the tiniest bit into the heat of Levi’s insides, teeth grazing and dragging, careful but hot, searing, “Oh God – ”, Erwin’s breath piercing through all his senses, taking him whole, overwhelming, and he falls, collapses. –

When his body rocks forward in one fluid thrust, fire ripping through his veins, Erwin comes up again with sweat and lube smeared all over his grinning mouth. Levi watches him lick up his come, warm tongue dragging over his softening cock. He doesn’t know how to breathe anymore, what air tastes like, but all that Levi needs is Erwin, that man who now starts to kiss his neck all over again, who covers him in love and strong hands and never flinches, not even through Levi’s darkest and scariest and most horrifying moments.

“Don’t tease me like that ever again,” Levi says, cheeks a crimson blush, when Erwin buries his nose into the crown of his hair. But Erwin doesn’t promise, he just smiles, and maybe that’s just what Levi always wished for, in the end.

When the war drums called them to their last battle, Levi obeyed Erwin’s orders with a salty kiss to his chapped lips and whispered, just one more time before the dust of metal and fear swallowed him:

“Whenever you call me, I’ll come back to you. If you can still say my name, I’ll return.”

He’s never going to understand this strange mystery called love, but Levi thinks that he doesn’t have to. Not anymore. Not with Erwin’s mouth cupping his own so gently, tongue licking warm and wet against his bottom lip, biting and sucking until Levi’s body is tingling with fucking fire. He doesn’t have to understand, because Erwin does, and his smile when he whispers “Levi, my Levi” belongs to no one else but him.

Jeanmarco Week 2015. Day 1: B~~egin again~~ or Dream on

“Marco!”

If all other laws of nature crumble apart, this one will always and forever stand adamant and untouched – when Jean calls his name, loud and wild and with a smile that has his face light up in amber, Marco follows, every single time, no matter what.

Jean finds new dreams for them, and Marco takes his hand to guide him around stones that lie in their way. Together, they walk. Together, they dream on.

Levi had expected it to happen sooner or later, but he still wasn’t prepared in the least. They had come back with eight soldiers less. They had all carried their eyes low, even the horses had been quiet, shaking from fear and tiredness. Erwin had done everything as usual – cleaning his horse, feeding it, changing into a fresh uniform inside his office with Levi silently doing the same by his side.

And then, there had been a soft thump, and Erwin had slid down against the wall with his face buried in dirty hands, a dark, horrible noise rising from his chest. Levi had watched, helpless, frozen in place like a useless child that had gotten slapped for the first time. What – this – this wasn’t real. This couldn’t happen.

Levi bit his mouth and dropped the leather straps of his gear. Erwin still sat there, shaking, but when Levi knelt down and pulled his hands away oh so gently, there weren’t any tears. All he could see was the roaring pain in Erwin’s eyes, his mouth open, speechless around words he couldn’t form. And Levi understood. He leaned forward and held him. He embraced Erwin, tight and warm, nails digging into his back and Levi’s nose burying into his hair.

They didn’t speak. Minutes passed by, maybe an hour. Erwin’s body fell against Levi’s, and Levi felt him take a deep breath, warm air shivering against his neck. Then, he wrapped his arms around Levi and pulled him down, and whispered a wordless “thank you” against the crown of his sweaty hair.

“Do you think we have a chance?”

Jean’s fingertips sow embers on Marco’s skin, and he shivers when warm hands dance down his spine, tracing the vulnerable bones that protect the flesh under which his soul flows. Marco doesn’t know what to say. They are lucky, this time. This reality is free of war and blood, there’s cars and a blue sky and a warm bed that belongs just to them and nobody else. Marco knows that Jean is afraid. He knows that he jolts awake at 4 a.m., crying and shaking, a hand digging nails into Marco’s shoulder until he opens his eyes. That’s when Jean sobs “alive, you’re a-alive” and crawls into his arms as if he wants to vanish inside Marco’s thundering heart.

He turns around, catches Jean’s soft cheeks between fingers and kisses him. The tiny noise Jean makes when Marco backs away is gorgeous, and he wants it only for himself. He smiles. Jean’s eyes are gold, liquid hope.

“Yeah. I think we’ll be alright.”

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.