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anniemika · 11 months

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Lost and Found

Eren Jaeger x Female reader

Chapter 1: Past and Present

Chapter summary:

After deciding to come home and try to fix the mess he made seven years ago, famous musician Eren Jaeger finds that not all things are as he left them behind.

Words: 2.9k

Prologue Chapter 2

…..

Eren Jaeger had forgotten what it felt like to be nervous.

Spending so much time on stage, in front of thousands of people, was sure to make you numb to the feeling. Alcohol and substances were a great help, too. Meshing them together was bound to bring success.

He wasn’t on either of those now, but his heart pumped like he hadn’t stopped for days.

The 26-year old man took a deep breath as he stood outside of his father's doorstep. The mix of excitement and apprehension was almost too much to bare. It had been exactly seven years since he’d last seen him, and he wasn't sure what to expect. Although, he was sure joy wasn’t one of the emotions he was about to see on his father’s face. He rang the doorbell once, then stepped back, his face down at his feet. Jaw clenched, fists balled. He was nervous alright.

A few moments later, the door swung open, and Eren raised his head up.

There he was, in the flesh. His father. Grisha Jaeger. The wrinkles on his face were deeper, his hair was thinner, but overall.. he hadn’t changed that much.

The man’s eyes widened, blinking a few times, like he was trying to make sure that the person who stood in front of him was truly his son.

"Eren?," he finally muttered, his son’s name sounding almost foreign to him.

Eren felt a lump form in his throat. “Hey, dad.” When was the last time he said those words? “Long time no see," he said as he scratched the back of his neck nervously.

The older man remained quiet for a while, the shock still evident on his features, "When did you come back?”

“Just the other day. I’m staying at a hotel downtown.”

An inevitable quietness settled, as Eren watched his dad try his best to comprehend everything.

“I- I was around the neighborhood, and I thought..”, the attempt of making his appearance out of the blue seem natural crashed down as soon as he spoke the words. He hadn’t been here in seven years. Not sevens days, not weeks. Years.

“I see.” Grisha’s tone was low, not emitting any type of warmth. Not that Eren expected any. “Well, then.. Come on in, I suppose.”

Eren looked at his dad like he wasn’t supposed to let him in so easily. He realized that deep down, he expected to be rejected, just like he rejected him all those years ago. But nonetheless, as soon as he stepped inside the house, he was instantly hit with a wave of memories. The smell of his mother's cooking, the sound of his father's laughter, the feel of the carpet under his feet. It was all so familiar, yet so different. Like it was just yesterday, yet so long ago.

The younger man walked through the house, taking in the changes that had been made over the years. The furniture was different, the walls had been painted a new color, and some of the pictures had been taken down. It was clear that life had gone on without him.

“Go in the kitchen. I’ll make us some coffee.”

His father’s voice echoed through the hallway as Eren took step after step. The emotions hit him like a truck. He thought he was ready for this, but boy, was it tough.

When he reached the kitchen, the image of his mother instantly flooded his brain. He remembered her standing over the old stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce while he sat at the table, writing songs instead of doing his homework. He remembered the smell of freshly baked cookies, the sound of his mother’s soothing voice, and the warmth of her embrace. This was her space, and Eren was happy his father hadn’t touched a thing in it.

“Hasn’t changed much since she left it, huh?” Grisha asked while reaching for some coffee mugs from the upper kitchen shelves.

“Yeah.. it hasn’t.” The dark-haired boy replied, still looking around the room like it was the first time he was seeing it.

“Take a seat.” His father instructed before pouring the freshly made coffee into the mugs.

Eren sat down on one chair, while his father sat on the opposite side of the table. Silence crept up again, as the younger man tried to find the words to begin. His arms were on the table, his face down. He felt like he was 15 again, having to answer before his parents for coming home late. Although he’d much prefer having to deal with that a hundred times over, than having to deal with this once.

“So, Eren.” Grisha started, his dark eyes on his son, “What made you come visit after all this time?”

What made him come back? Starting with the real questions. Questions that Eren thought he was prepared for.

“Look, dad”, his voice was weak, still not having enough courage to look his father in the eyes, “I know that it’s probably too late to say this, but.. I wanted to come here and tell you that.. I’m sorry.”

Grisha stayed silent, waiting for him to continue. Eren thought that he must’ve sensed how hard this was for him.

“I’m sorry about everything.. I’m sorry I abandoned you.” Saying the words out loud cut like a knife. “It was just.. I was stupid. Too stupid. And wrong. I was so wrong, and you were right. And I know that it must mean nothing right now, but.. I just wanted you to know that.” He finally looked up at his father’s face, “I’m sorry.”

The older man didn’t say a word. He just stared at his son, reading his face.

Eren felt the need to continue, “I- I shouldn’t have left like that, without saying goodbye. I should’ve called you, kept in touch. I know I messed up.”

After a few seconds, Grisha crossed his arms over his chest. "You're damn right you messed up. You left everything behind, without a word. You didn't care about anyone but yourself."

Eren flinched at his father's words, but he knew that he deserved them. "I know that. I was selfish, and I didn't think about the consequences of my actions. But I'm here now, and.. I really want to make things right."

Grisha let out a bitter laugh, “You want to “make things right”? Eren, it’s been how many.. seven years? But I suppose with your way of living, they might as well have been a few months.”

Another silence. Eren wanted to disappear. The words “you deserve worse than this” echoed in his mind.

His thoughts went to a dark place. What if something had happened to his dad? What if he’d needed him and there was no one else he could turn to? In the seven years that he’d been gone, he was sure there were moments when his father needed him the most but had to live with the thought that his only son had abandoned him. Those thoughts brought an instant headache, along with the inevitable regret and anger he’d been living with for so long.

“I know I can’t fix the past. It’s there, and it’s never going away. But I do want you to know that I’ve spent my fair share of being miserable.” He shared a quick look with the older man, then continued to stare at a little crack on the wooden table. It’d become his comfort zone throughout this entire conversation. “There were times when I wanted to call you, come home.. but then the shame made me decide against it. And then one day,” he took a deep, exhausted breath, “I realized I couldn’t do it any longer, so.. here I am.”

Grisha fixed his glasses, then continued to stare into his son’s piercing green eyes. Or were they blue? He never could figure it out.

“Here you are.” He repeated the words, and the reality of them made Eren want to pinch himself. He was really here, in his old house. Talking to his father. It felt surreal until now. “Eren.. I truly want to believe you’ve realized the severity of your actions. And if that’s true, I’m happy for you. You’re my son.” The word made Eren draw the tiniest smile. He hadn’t heard that in years. “But it’s not so easy. You can’t just waltz back in and expect everything to be okay after the mess you left.”

“I don’t expect it to.”

“That’s good.” Grisha took a quick sip of his coffee, “Because it won’t be. You’ve hurt a lot of people.”

Oh, how Eren knew that.

“I know. Trust me, I do.”

“Well, then, if that's true.. maybe you aren’t as hopeless as I thought.”

Eren nodded his head, eyes focused on the black coffee in front of him, “Thank you, dad. Really, I don’t deserve you even talking to me right now. You’re too kind to me.”

“I’m not kind. I’m old. And I only have one son.“

Eren couldn't help but chuckle at his father's response. "Well, I'm lucky to have an old man like you then."

Grisha rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression. "Don't push it, kid.”

And just like that, Eren felt like he was a teenager again. He truly didn’t deserve his old man.

Another silence settled, but this time, it was a more comfortable one. The two men stood there, father and son, both thinking about what could’ve been.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes, dad,” Eren spoke after a while. The need to get the guilt off his chest was too much to handle, and he thought now was the right time to acknowledge it.

“Yes, you have.” Grisha nodded his head slowly, “Leaving Y/n was the biggest one.”

Eren’s whole body stiffened. He didn’t expect his father to be the one to bring the subject. In a way, he was kind of thankful. Uttering your name was hard enough for him.

“You had a good thing with her, Eren. A really good thing.”

Eren’s jaw clenched. He deserved to hear it, not only think it.

“Why’d you throw it all away?”

It was a genuine question, without any malicious intent. And still.. he felt the weight of the words. He knew that he had no one to blame but himself.

“I don't know," and with his voice tinged with sadness, it was a genuine answer, "I was young and stupid. I thought I could have it all."

Grisha set his eyes on his son, no longer a boy, but a grown man. He noticed that in the past couple of years, he had begun to look a lot more like him. When he was younger, he was a carbon copy of his mother. He still had her eyes, though. That was never going to change. "Listen, Eren,” he spoke firmly, “I don't know if you can make it all right.. But you can start by making better choices for your life. That’s what Carla and I always wanted for you.”

Eren's eyes widened at the mention of his mother's name. He felt a pang of sadness in his chest, knowing that she would’ve been so disappointed with his life choices. "I know. I still want to make her proud. I want to.. become the man that she taught me to be."

Grisha looked at his son for a long moment, studying him carefully. "Alright then. But remember”, he stood up from his seat, collecting his coffee mug, “It’s not just about making things right with everyone else. It's also about making things right with yourself. You have to be at peace with the choices you've made, and you have to be willing to move forward."

Eren nodded, feeling a sense of gratitude towards his father that he hadn’t felt for anyone in years. The first sincere conversation he’s had in a long time. "Thank you, dad. I will."

And forward, he would move. The first step had been taken.

…..

Time moved faster than anything else in the world, relentless and unforgiving, and with it, everything changed. The world spun on its axis, the seasons came and went, and people grew older as well. Nothing stayed the same forever, and that was the nature of life.

Eren felt a sense of nostalgia come over him as he drove through the familiar streets of his hometown.

As he drove past the old diner he used to go all the time with his family and friends, he couldn't help but smile. It was still there, just as he remembered it. The same neon sign, the same red and white checkered tablecloths. It was like stepping back in time.

But as he continued down the road, he noticed how some things were never going to be the same again. The old hardware store that he used to visit with his father was now a trendy coffee shop, complete with outdoor seating and a fancy espresso machine. He couldn't help but shake his head at the irony.

And then, as he walked into the local grocery shop, the one he and his mom used to shop at every week, he realized that it was possible to stay the same, but also go through change. His footsteps echoed on the well-worn floor as he inspected the rows thoroughly. The fresh produce was now positioned at the front of the store, with the intent of driving people to be healthier. The rows of canned goods had been moved to the middle, and the alcohol section which his dad loved to choose from had been moved to the back. And then, there were the things that looked just as he remembered them. More precisely, the bakery sections with their mouth-watering treats.

As he walked past them, he wondered about your favorite dessert. You used to come here together, and with your big sweet tooth, he remembered how you used to watch the treats with hearts in your eyes. He wondered if they still sold the same chocolate cake with strawberry filling that you used to love.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice that someone was walking towards him until it was too late. Eren stumbled backward, almost knocking over a display of apples. "I'm sorry," he said, looking up to see who he had bumped into.

He swore his heart could’ve stopped right then and there.

The person he'd spent the last seven years longing for, the one that had haunted his dreams every night, was now standing in front of him, looking as stunning as ever. You.. you were exactly the same. Your hair was now shorter, with a couple of hairs framing your pretty forehead, but other than that, it was like he was back seven years ago. You had a simple white sundress on, that showcased your collarbones and slender shoulders. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The one he had let slip through his fingers. His dreams could never do you justice.

"Y/n..,” he muttered, still in shock.

You looked up, your pretty eyes going wider as you took in the image of him, like you’d just seen a ghost, "..Eren?”

Frozen in place, his heart was palpitating as he struggled to process the sight before him. However, his surprise was multiplied when he saw a little girl clutching to your hand, with a tiny dress resembling yours, and a cute little bow on top of her head.

Eren, too stunned to speak anything with a little bit of sense in it, exchanged looks with the little girl. She had dark hair and the most striking eyes he had ever seen.

"Who’s this?", he asked, not leaving his eyes off her.

You visibly swallowed, taking a moment to comprehend his question, "This- this is Lily."

His tongue was tied inside his mouth like he had forgotten how to speak. He had always imagined a reunion with you, but never in a million years did he expect this.

“Is she..?” Eren didn’t know exactly what he was asking, but he knew he needed some kind of answer.

You looked back at the little girl, who was questioningly staring back at Eren, “Yes.. she’s mine.”

He had to take a small step back.

You had a kid.

“I’m sorry.” He said weakly like he’d run a thousand miles. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"It's fine," You replied, voice cold and distant. The shock that you’d felt had now visibly turned into frustration, "We have to go now."

Without another word, you turned on your heel and walked away, the little girl still clutching your hand. He watched you go, feeling a mix of emotions - shock, confusion, sadness.. and happiness. Happiness that he’d finally seen you in the flesh, and not in his dreams.

He couldn't ignore one thing, though. That little girl.. She looked.. No, it couldn't be. Eren stood there, too dumbfounded to move.

When he found the strength to walk back to his car, his mind was racing. He had so many questions, so many things he wanted to say. But he knew that he had to be patient, that he couldn't rush things.

At the end of the day, he didn’t know how many hours he’d spent driving around town with his car. What he did know, was that something important happened today. Something that was probably going to change his life forever.

…..

A/N: Hiii<3 So, the idea for this story is inspired by a movie I watched a few weeks back. If anyone’s watched it, you may find quite a few similarities, but that would be only in this and the next chapter. I just love the idea so so much, and I couldn’t help but imagine it with Eren. I also decided not to make Grisha a bad father just like in every AoT fic I’ve ever read lol. I hope you like it. I’ll try to post the next one soon.💙

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#eren jaeger #eren jaeger x reader #eren x reader #eren smut #eren jaeger smut #eren fluff #eren jaeger fluff #eren

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youre-ackermine · 11 days

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Moodboard:

Headcanons:

YumiHisu // Modern setting // Band AU

"Historia 'the Queen' Reiss comes out!"

The front-page headline of the Trost Times Valentine's Day issue hit her fans like a punch. After years avoiding the subject of her love life, hiding from paparazzi, dodging nosy journalists, the famous Paradis Devils lead singer finally announced that she was in love. With a girl.

The band was formed in high school by Eren Jaeger & his friends Jean Kirstein, Connie Springer & Marco Bodt. After a few disappointing concerts in seedy bars around Shiganshina, the group decided to find a female singer to boost their audience.

Historia Reiss was not only the Maria High School goddess, but she sang like an angel. The boys convinced her to be their new singer & their muse. Her looks, her voice, her charisma quickly drew a crazy amount of new admirers, worshippers driven insane by the slightest appearances of their revered 'Queen'.

From this moment on, the Paradis Devils soon became one of the most popular bands on the island, following No Name close in the charts. They played sold-out dates all around the country & beyond the walls.

Inevitably, paparazzi started to hunt them down. Their fans became more & more passionate about their private lives, discussing theories on social media. Their chemistry on stage was so obvious that most fans thought Eren & 'the Queen' were a couple, which none of them confirmed or denied, rather playing with the ambiguity of their relationship every time they were seen in public.

When Marco quit the band, he was replaced by the Titans' former drummer Ymir.

Saying that Historia & Ymir's first interactions didn't go well is an understatement. Too used to being worshipped, 'the Queen' obviously couldn't stand the other girl's stand-offish, quizzical demeanour.

In spite of all her sugar-coated words & outgoing behaviour, Historia couldn't wipe the infuriating smirk off Ymir's face. Not to mention the way she looked at her, a look that bore into her very soul, as if she knew about the dark truth behind the happy mask.

Ymir's aloof personality, her cynical take on life, her whole behaviour was an intriguing, appealing mystery to the young singer. Not being able to wrap the freckled girl around her little finger pissed Historia off more than she would admit, thus increasing her interest in the musician.

The band was now more famous than ever. Being on tour most of the time, living close together, away from family or loved ones, tensions rose between them all. Fame was taking a toll on the band. As the Paradis Devils' figurehead, Historia was deeply affected by the pressure of stardom & isolated herself more & more everyday, locked in her hotel room or wandering the streets at night, slowly sliding into sadness.

One night, after an exhausting concert abroad, loneliness hit Historia hard. As the others loudly enjoyed an afterparty with a few friends by the pool, she was sitting alone on a remote bench, hoping the starry sky, the chirping of crickets or the rose garden scent would help her forget the void she felt inside.

She startled to the tinkling noise next to her. Against all odds, Ymir had left the party with a bottle of champagne & two crystal glasses to join her. As the night & the conversation between the girls went on, Historia was amazed by how deeply Ymir understood her inner turmoils & how kind she could be. For the first time in her life, Historia forgot her loneliness & felt alive, finally.

In the dead of night, here in the quiet, secluded garden, they shared their first kiss under the stars.

Moodboard, header & dividers: @youre-ackermine

Requested by: Anon 🌹

A/N: English is not my usual language // Click on the moodboard for better quality

#val-entine's day event 2024 ❤️#ymir #historia reiss #ymir x historia #yumihisu #yumihisu moodboard #yumihisu headcanons #yumihisu modern au #yumihisu band au #snk moodboard #snk headcanons #aot moodboard #aot headcanons #lovely anons 🫶#val writes ✍️#val's moodboards 🌺#val's headers 🔳#val's dividers 🖼️

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angelinaheartshapedbox · 2 years

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A Slapshot To The Heart Masterlist :) [COMPLETED]

eren jaeger x gn!reader <3

college au/smau. hockey player eren<333. musician/dancer reader.

summary: y/n l/n is a sophomore at paradis university with a scholarship in music. while taking a necessary technology course to complete their major, they meet the infamous hockey player, eren jaeger. y/n does their best to avoid him, but their efforts fail as they continue to run into him everywhere. they soon find that eren isn't the douche bag every depicts him as, and grows very fond of his company.

i try to update every 1-3 days :).

this series is entirely sfw. mild suggestive themes, but nothing explicit.

chapter one!

"hey, i know you, right?"

chapter two!

"he has pretty eyes."

chapter three!

"you're really sweet."

chapter four!

"i'm glad the last seat was next to you"

chapter five!

"he likes it."

chapter six!

"jesus christ just kiss already"

chapter seven!

"you can stay the night here. if you want."

chapter eight!

"i kissed him. i kissed eren jaeger."

chapter nine!

"i enjoy everything about you."

chapter ten!

"yeehaw"

chapter eleven!

"i can't believe i won twice tonight."

#college au eren #eren jeager x reader #eren jeager x gn!reader #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager x gn!reader #gn!reader #aot fanfic #snk fanfic #aot smau #aot #snk

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kriz-fics · 1 year

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The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Fifteen: Dreams and Revels

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 14.2K

CW: Explicit sexual content (masturbation, M) / blink and you'll miss it: mentions of dub/noncon behavior / Period Typical Attitudes

Being the Magister’s son, Eren finds, does nothing to acclimate him better to this kind of attention. The feast is well underway, though, and the storm of his discomfort has already passed. The worst of it, anyway; he really can do without the occasional gust.

“Here’s to the future lord consort!” a man-at-arms slurs, Anatoly by name, you whisper to Eren with the merest hint of laughter in your voice. He is a great tub of a man with a wine-keg belly and a big bushy auburn beard. It is a wonder the table can bear his weight.

He speaks too soon, as it is; Eren can hear the table creak alarmingly as the man raises his tankard to the dais above the salt, slopping beer all over his hand and the board beneath him. “You had best serve the ‘lil lady well, milord, woman’s like her deserves nuthin’ less’n the best fuck o’ her life!” he roars, blissfully unmindful of the snail shells and bits of bread his fellows are pelting at him as he stands with one foot on the buttered garlic snails. “May your sword stand tall ’n proud ‘n ne’er bend in battle!”

The storm rages anew. Never had Eren wanted to melt into the floor and disappear as much as he did then. Beside him on his right, you let out a tinkling laugh as Anatoly is helped down from the table, staggering and slumping, his face so red it is hard to tell where his beard ends and where his flesh begins. To add salt to Eren’s mortified wounds, the rest of the hall pound their cups on the tabletops, shouting, “Hear, hear!” The familiar first notes of ‘Lusty Boys to Lissome Girls’ begin to play as the musicians strike up a new tune to further compound his shame.

You can well laugh, Eren thinks a little sullenly. You are too trained never to give anything away, never to falter nor show your discomfort no matter the incitement. Knowing you, though, the titter is genuine. A new weapon has been handed you, of course you will be well-pleased; you are sure to use this against him once you resume your new game of flirtation. He both dreads and welcomes the prospect, contrary boy that he is.

For the first time in his life, he wishes he had a courtier’s face, if only to keep his dignity intact. He does not even know what kind of face he is making. A highly amusing one, apparently, to judge by your expression. And your sister’s.

“Best hone your sword well, future brother of mine,” Lydia sings after a bite of dormouse. “You wouldn’t want it to bend after the first stroke. Sister should have some joy of you, at least.”

“I don’t see how my sword is any of your business,” Eren snaps back hotly, flushing even more at the unabashed snort of laughter that escapes you as you reach for your goblet of wine and nearly spill the contents, your mirth making your body rock back into your seat. “How is your little bedmate? I hope you haven’t killed him off already.” He knows, even as he says it, how pathetic that rejoinder is. He has never thought himself a lackwit (he likes to think he is at least reasonably witty) but, gods, does he feel like one now.

Lydia smirks at him from her place on the other side of her sister, clearly in accord with his disparaging self-assessment. “Oh, he’s alive and well, brother dearest, have no fear. I keep him in a small glass bowl for now but I’ll commission a bigger tank for my rooms, to keep him in comfort. He goes by Renren now, I’ll have you know,” she grins at him, the little imp.

“Peace, Sister, you’ve had your fun, now leave my betrothed be. You’ve tormented him enough,” you chide, seemingly taking pity on him at last. Lydia gives him one last puckish smirk before returning to her meal.

Eren graces you with a smile. With his gratefulness comes chagrin, though. He cannot help feeling unmanned. Is he truly so slow-witted that you should have to resort to defending him from your own sister? Can he not even keep it together long enough to turn a phrase, parry Lydia’s words with his own sharper set?

He stamps the feeling down as best he can. He has always prided himself on staying away from the broader courtiers’ circles, away from the frivolity, the lies, the masks. Such webs as they spin with their words put him off, so above them he flies where they cannot touch him. Now he finds himself hopelessly entangled, by a mite no less, a slip of a girl not even half the match of the slimiest sycophants at court, turned round and round until his better faculties left him.

And in front of the woman who he would be equal to. He does not want nor need more reminding of how far removed he is from you, a young woman quickly shaping up to be a courtier as masterly as any of them. Much as he wants to be your equal, though, doing so will have him don a mask, and he will sooner not.

“Let’s go elsewhere,” you murmur to him, the very moment your father stands from his seat on Eren’s left.

“Where to?” Eren whispers back, watching the Lord Rhyzkov stride down to the trestle tables below the salt so he can speak and mingle with his men. Just as Father would do.

You nod to the tall arched entryway of the Great Hall’s terrace, off to the side of the spacious chamber. “The night air would do us good.”

For a moment, Eren takes the measure of you, takes in your smile, which seems to be the precursor to an even wider one, to be given to him once you are well away from prying eyes. A smile held back but not a courtier’s smile - this is all you and not the mask of Rhyzkova.

Perhaps it isn’t a matter of putting on a mask. Perhaps it is simply a matter of restraint.

His gaze slides down the smooth, naked expanse of your back as he trails your progress, admiring the gleam of the chain of diamonds and rose quartzes that traces the dip of your spine as you hail and kiss your lady mother’s cheek further down the table, on your way towards the balcony. He can be restrained. He will be your equal yet.

All at once, the gods see fit to test that restraint. The sway to your hips as you walk, that proud, confident stride that he has come to love so well is even deadlier in this dress - a charovma, he knows now, the southron halter dress that near made him groan aloud the first he saw you this night before the feast.

He had never felt so cunt-struck and so irritated in his life.

“Do you really want me to… break decorum that badly?” Eren had blurted as you sauntered down the empty corridor of the guest wing toward him, holding a crown of silvered laurel leaves studded with emeralds.

“Whatever do you mean?” you blinked up at him, innocent as the purest of maids. A maid you were, and pure, but innocent you were not.

Minx.

It passed as a simple sleeveless vevda at the front, this dress of peach silk with its white lace paneling and belt of diamonds and rose quartzes. Would that it really was a vevda. Oh, how he wished it was a vevda. And it seemed such a safe dress, much safer than that sheer alabaster wisp of a chelya you wore earlier that day. Your breasts were not like to spill out of this one, at least (a fact he both rejoiced and regretted).

The back wreaked torment enough. He could not have asked for better fodder for his torrid fantasies. The charovma left your entire back bare, from shoulders to waist, now he knew what you looked like naked from behind. No longer would he be reduced to trying to conjure up images of your nakedness from what little had been given him. Well, not truly. But it was one thing, one sight more that was allowed him. Until the wedding night. Not even a day had passed in his stay at Arsechkala and already he had seen more of your beautiful body than he had in your year-long betrothal and friendship.

Still, he could not help feeling… baited.

He had narrowed his eyes at your impeccably artless face. “Don’t toy with me, my lady. Must you always dress like… this?” he gestured at your form gracelessly, made inarticulate by the strength of his turmoil.

The innocence left your face as the imp took over. “I always dress like this at home. I’m sorry if it offends you so, my lord, but you had best get used to it for you will be seeing more of the like.”

And more of me, your smirk seemed to say. It was then that he knew without a doubt: it was no happenstance, that you had your back turned to him when he exited his chambers. You had wanted him to see, and masked your ploy under the guise of examining the tapestry of the first Yelena Rhyzkova hanging on one of the walls down the hall.

Yelena Rhyzkova’s heir had lifted the wreath in her hands and pressed it down on Eren’s head before he could react to her preceding statement.

“Handsome,” you said, tweaking a couple of leaves by his right ear and eyeing the whole arrangement, pleased. “How do you like the fit?”

He glared at you a moment more before answering, “I like it well enough, it’s not uncomfortable.” He was no stranger to the sensation of metal leaves encircling his skull. Being the son of the eminent Magister entitled him to wear the hallowed wreath, reserved for southron guests of the highest acclaim to match their noble hosts. His noble hostess had foregone one for a simple chain of silver and rose quartz, artfully arranged over the elegant plaited knot of her hair.

“Good to see you haven’t forgotten where the podonza should be placed,” you went on, plucking at the white garment he had worn over his vevda of indigo damask with its elbow-length sleeves, belted at the waist by a chain of diamonds. The podonza was a garment of the well-to-do, a long sheet of cloth worn over the vevda (and the tube dress povevda, sometimes the chelya), wrapped about the body beneath the right arm by the right hip and fastened at the left shoulder by pins or brooches. Podonzaya were often fringed, with decorative scrollwork for the simpler palette, with gemstones for those of a more opulent bent. Eren was in no way opulent, yet the podonza he donned was dripping with diamonds to match his belt, like icicles hanging down the eaves of some snow-crusted roof.

“Told you that, did he?” Of course he would. Armin took entirely too much pleasure in telling you tales best left untold. Preferably when Eren was out of the picture. “In my defense, I’m a Midlander. How in all the levels of hell was I supposed to know which shoulder this contraption should be draped over?”

“Your minders would’ve put it on you, properly, had you not been a stubborn little mule of a colt. Not that things have changed much. Still a mule, not so much a colt.” You had him there. Not that he would ever admit it, stubborn mule that he was. “The only time we should expect to see you with the podonza fastened on your right shoulder is on a bier at your funeral.” The levity on your face had vanished then, to be replaced by a dawning sense of disquiet. And fear. “Gods forbid that time come soon.”

He had scrambled to revive your cheer but you drew yourself up, shrugging off the dread as you would a stifling thick fur pelt, and took his hand in yours. As though only his touch could drive away your troubles. You left the guest wing thus, slipping back into your comfortable banter.

Eren stares at the back of you, led along as he had been in the guest wing. It is never a pleasant thing to see fear mar such beauty yet he finds it pleasant still. It is an honest sentiment on an honest face. Yours. Not Rhyzkova’s. You are learning. You will be rid of Rhyzkova in your more intimate moments, he can see that happy prospect now. He will have all of you. Your fears, your grief, your anger, your joy and cheer and laughter. Your truths.

He will have all of you.

Around you, the feast is steadily descending further and further into uncontained revelry, as is the nature of these things. A rowdy group has commenced playing a knife game; more than one man will leave short a finger or two, Eren wagers. Yet another lot is trying to outdrink each other, to the tune of their fellows’ rallying calls. One man is already out cold and lying sprawled atop the table, beer foam trickling down his mouth to soak into his beard. The last two are well at it, though not for much longer, Eren can tell. Those whose purses rest with the beardless ashen-haired boy will find them heavier by bout’s end. His older, supposedly more seasoned opponent is lagging, lifting his tankard to his lips as if it is filled with stones and not beer; the eyes visible above the mug’s rim are comically crossed.

A man with a spade-shaped beard snatches at a passing serving girl as you and Eren draw level with his table. Eren looks away as the man pulls the girl onto his lap and slips a hand up beneath her skirts. The crash of her dropped flagon echoes in Eren’s ears as he looks elsewhere, anywhere but at the woman in front of him.

The increasingly familiar aggravation surfaces from his depths once more. He is no shy and blushing maiden boy- well, a maiden boy he may be but shy and blushing he is not. Not until you, anyway. Somehow, you manage to make him regress and dither and fumble like a halfwit loon. He should be long past feeling embarrassed by the sight of randy debauchery. He had been (vocally) randy with you, he should not be dilly-dallying between virginal and sensual.

Now that he thinks on it, though, since when had he ever been embarrassed by lust? Never. He had seen more, seen them at it in the hallways during feasts, seen stableboys tumbling their wenches amidst piles of hay, seen people fuck and be fucked by countless others in the brothels. Not once had he ever shied away.

This girl is something else entirely.

He finds himself glaring at your beautifully supple back. You really ought to have let your hair down. Or worn a robe. Or a shawl, even a podonza. It wouldn’t cover everything but it would still cover something. “But charovmaya aren’t supposed to be worn with a podonza,” he recalls you telling him earlier, blinking that sham of an innocent blink at him.

Oh, how he wanted to kiss it off you.

He is learning more of southron women’s fashions than he cares for, to be sure. They are as revealing on other women as they are on his betrothed. Lydia and Lady Theresia are both clad in chelyakin. His future mother by marriage is elegant in black; tiny rubies dangle down the fringe of the deep crimson podonza she is wearing, adding to the lady’s overall sophisticated ensemble. As low-cut as the strap dress is, Eren deems it more compelling on her eldest. Lydia makes it look a deal more modest. She has dispensed with a podonza altogether, though she hardly needs one to cover herself. Her pink chelya at least has a scooped neckline, quite far removed from her mother’s deep vee.

He cannot understand how all of that inherent sensuality in southron fashions eluded him. He has never truly been susceptible to women’s charms, though, southron or otherwise. And yet he is susceptible, so susceptible to you.

What is it about you that draws him so?

Is it that sweet and pretty smile that is the delight of his eyes? Is it that gentle kindness he oft receives from you in his lesser moments? Is it that spirit, that passion, that fire that smolders within, the true you beneath the mask of Rhyzkova? Is it all of those at once and more?

The jewels sparkle bright against your naked skin, a sight reminiscent of the myriad women he has seen clad in only such. Not one of whom could have held his attention for more than a night.

It is not the garment but you.

The orange glow of lamplight washes over him as you pass through the tall arch of the terrace’s entrance. The strains of ‘The Forest Lass’ fade into the backdrop as you progress deeper into the balcony. Suddenly, he is alone with a fae enchantress, walking as one enchanted. You lead him beneath the trees, brushing past the trailing vines, your hand in his so much smaller yet strong, firm, imperious.

He had always wondered why Prince Rodion risked all for that forest lass, Alena, who had more than a drop of fae in her, the singers say. But perhaps now he knows something of what the prince felt when his maid spirited him away that day into her bower and left him with an insatiable longing no mortal woman could sate.

What were vows and a kingdom worth compared to a woman’s love?

The answer to that verse was clear, once. He is coming to find that it is not so simple as all that.

Arsechkala still yet lives even at this hour. The Great Hall is situated away from the sea, and so the city and the surrounding countryside are your only concessions to a view. The city, indeed, has its charms, as you said. Lampposts still illuminate the slowly emptying plazas, faint music drifts through the streets from some far-off revels; even the smell of cooking permeates the air, something fried and savory that piques Eren’s interest, though he had done the feast great homage mere moments ago. Leagues and leagues away, the line of the Greatshield is a dark starless void against the vast starry immensity that is the sky.

You let him go and lean against the banister, staring up at him. The light from the nearby posts gives you an ethereal cast. Your eyes are deep pools he can drown in. And the better part of him does not want to surface.

“Feeling better now?” you murmur after a time. “You looked like you needed to be away. I don’t know which was redder, your face or Tolya’s beard.” You reach up to take his face in hand and tilt his head up a little, the better to catch the light. “Not so red now.”

Eren threads his fingers through yours and holds you there a moment, savoring the warmth of your palm, before drawing both your hands down. Neither seem eager to be the one to let go and so you remain handfast. “Is that what I should expect as consort? Seems like a raw deal on my end,” he notes sardonically.

You chuckle. “They’ll grow on you. Don’t your men treat you the same at home? They’ll be yours, too, in time.”

Yet more reminders of his subsequent role. It is a strange thought, and surreal, but he is coming to reconcile himself with the fact every passing day. His resolve to be a good consort and knight of your household returns, stronger than ever. He had sworn such before you and your gods, a thousand years ago. It was his first vow to you. So much has changed since then. The boy anxiously waiting in front of the godstone need not have worried about the lady in the red dress. You are no Elva Riehl, no wife that a man can revile, he knows that now. You are a damn sight much better, so much better.

"Being home seems to agree with you."

You smile and release his hand, leaving him bereft. You turn to stare out at your city, hands splayed upon the gray stone banister. “Does it? Well, I’m always glad to be home. It’s just so freeing. It’s like waking up from some long, strange dream… one that seems more nightmare than dream, sometimes… in the end, you’re just glad to be awake and away from it all.”

Eyes of gray glass glare at him from the darkness. He blinks and looks down at the tiled floor beneath his sandaled feet, shaken. But only your eyes return his gaze when next he looks back up again. Concerned, and not condemning. “Are you all right?” you say, cupping his face into your hand once more. “Do you want to rest? We’ve had a long day.”

Eren leans into your touch, taking comfort. He is awake and away from it all; he will not let his ghosts chase him even unto his waking hours. “I’m fine.”

The loud peal of feminine laughter spares him the need to change the subject. Some man-at-arms is tugging a serving wench into the balcony, clearly looking for a quick tumble.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” you sigh, dropping your hand from Eren’s face. “I thought the terrace was unusually empty for this time and this sort of occasion.”

You do not lead him back into the light of the Great Hall, as he thought you would. You are staring at the unheeding pair through the arched colonnade that parts the balcony in half, a detached sort of curiosity in your expression as you watch the man push his giggling girl up the nearest wall and smash his mouth to hers. Darkness swallows them in its grasp. Not enough to be free of scrutiny, though, to those most interested in their commerce.

Somehow, your composure steadies Eren in what is supposed to be a moment rife with awkward tension.

“Do you like to watch?”

It takes him a moment to understand what you are getting at. The air grows hotter in an instant.

“In the brothels, when you go with your lads. Do you like to watch them at their play?” The girl’s legs are now wrapped around her lover’s waist, whose hand crawls beneath her skirts in a trice. The shadows cloak their congress but naught else. The night comes alive with the sound of her moans. “Does it give you pleasure watching them tease, kiss… fuck whatever slut they bought for the night?”

It is obscene, indecent, improper, and yet it isn’t. It is not in Eren to squirm beneath his betrothed’s gaze. Not now. Curious. “I don’t seek it out but I won’t look away when it’s before me.” He stares down at you, quite unblinking. Steady. “Sometimes, it gives me pleasure. When I make what I see mine. When I take the place of the lads, in my fancies at night, in the dark where no one can see.”

Your lips curl up slightly. “There’s freedom in the dark, don’t you think? Beneath its cloak, you can be free with anything. Free with your favors. And your pleasures.” The look in your eyes is… riveting. It is one he has never seen there before. He does not know what it is. He wants to draw it out and examine it further, see what is it about it that makes his heart race.

The woman’s moans take on a new timbre and are soon interspersed with the man’s grunts. Neither of you looks round at the source of the sounds of loving. Eren lets it wash over him and fade away into the distance. The lady in front of him is a more spellbinding thing by far.

“Would you… like to visit the sanctum? You have yet to see it again.” The dark pools of your eyes drink in the light of the nearby lamps.

“Will we be alone, my lady? In the dark?”

“There will be lamps. Except in the corners where there are none. Then, yes, we will be alone. In the dark.”

The call is tempting, so very tempting. It will be so easy to cross that threshold into more intimate terrain. Within the night, he can find himself becoming your lover as much as he is your betrothed. You are willing, he will not need to coax you too much… you can love before the godstone and have the old gods grace your union, and afterward, he can crown you with flowers and tell you… tell you…

A frisson races down his spine, shocking him. The dream is a bolt of lightning that leaves him just as stunned as if he has been struck in truth. He curls and uncurls his fingers, and forces himself to hold your entrancing gaze.

His is a dream too wonderful and too frightening to consider. For this night, at least.

“Perhaps we could go in a less dangerous hour. With you in a less dangerous dress.” And with me in a less dangerous disposition.

Your eyes search his face for several heartbeats. He wonders what it is that you are looking for, what you are seeing. Whatever it is makes your rousing gaze lose its heat, and all that is left is soft tenderness. You offer him a hand, smiling. “In a less dangerous hour, then. Let’s go and leave them to their play.”

Eren stares at you a while, taking in your gentle face, so different from the sultry front you’d worn mere moments ago. The lights shine dully on the jewels that adorn you, on your hair, your ears, your arms, your dress. A lady of surpassing grace and beauty. Beauty most of all. He smiles and takes your hand.

An altogether different sort of scream leaves the serving wench’s mouth the moment you pass her and her lover’s little love nest. The man fumbles as she instinctively tries to hide herself, but you hush down their panicked floundering and tell them to carry on, smooth as silk. Eren has to choke back a laugh.

The brightness of the Great Hall is almost blinding after all that time spent beneath the dimness of night. The feasting and the revelry had gotten a deal more lively during that brief time you spent away. Lord Alexander had returned to his seat at the high table, deep in discussion with Sir Grisha Dunayevsky, his castellan, who had taken Eren’s seat at the right hand of his lord.

Eren feels a thrill course through him, that old thrill of seeing a celebrated hero in the flesh in the same room as him. Before serving as the Rhyzkov castellan, Sir Grisha had led the royal fleet to victory in the Storming of the Causeway during the War Without almost thirty years ago, beating back the combined might of the Cydamaic navy and the corsairs they had hired to bolster their strength at sea.

Sir Grisha turns his head to take a sip of his wine, giving Eren a glimpse of the ropey scar that mars his mouth, a relic from some hard-fought battle. The blow had slashed him open, from the middle of his upper lip to the lower right corner of his mouth. It was not a deep cut, by the look of it, yet Eren knows he had lost a good amount of teeth for his trouble. The old knight had long since replaced the enamel for gold; even at this distance, Eren can see the nubs in the man’s mouth flash as the metal catches the light.

He hopes you can be prevailed upon to… ease his way into a conversation with the living legend. He had wanted to converse with the man the very moment he learned who he was all those years ago. It is not often he claims what rights he has as your betrothed to ask for favors. Perhaps you can oblige him in this; he will sweeten his suit with strawberry cream pie if he has to.

Eren finds his wish coming closer to fulfillment as you proceed to the dais, determined to play Rhyzkova and keep yourself briefed on the matters of your future fiefdom. He cannot help but admire your sense of duty even at this time of celebration.

“If it’s not too much to ask… if you could put in a good word for me to Sir Grisha, I would forever be beholden to you.”

“You mean you aren’t already beholden? If our betrothal isn’t enough to bind you to me… why, then, should I grant you this boon, Sir?” You are smirking though, as you near the heads’ table. You give the next table a wide berth, this one the rowdiest by far. Two curly-haired lads, with the look of brothers about them, are dancing on the tabletop arm-in-arm and armed with tankards sloshing beer everywhere. Someone had stolen some musician’s fiddle and is playing a bawdy jig. The Virgin Queen has shed her silken slip to show her silken skin, the men sing uproariously as you and Eren pass them by, careful not to get caught up in the carousing.

“I would be more beholden to you than I already am,” Eren amends easily, then adds, “I can make it worth your while.” He hesitates for a fraction of a heartbeat and slips his hand across the soft, smooth silk of the skin of your naked back. Gooseflesh forms beneath his fingers almost at once, and he feels you shudder just that merest bit. He smiles.

You press closer to him as if you cannot help yourself. “I could… put in a word, formally introduce you as my betrothed. You can carry on from there.” The breathiness in your voice sounds sweet as a nightingale’s trill. Triumph has never tasted this good. And he didn’t even need to ply you with pie.

---

He wakes up hard as a rock and randy as a whore.

Eren blinks up at the canopy of his bed, dazed and bleary and skin prickling with heat. He had kicked the blankets partially off himself sometime in the night, leaving all of him exposed but for his right leg. The haze of sleep reduces him to staring blankly at his cock. Stiff, erect, and weeping copiously with his arousal.

He stares at it a moment longer before turning his attention to his balcony. Not that he can see past the pillars’ drapes, which he had drawn closed before retiring. Faint gray light shines through the fabric, slowly illuminating the room. The hour of the cow has just dawned, by his reckoning. Too early. He will not be getting up until it is at least halfway through the hour. He should not be up at all, but for that dream.

Eren runs his hands down his face and sighs, looking once more down his naked body at his insistent cock, which is quickly (and loudly) making its grievances known.

He had as well take care of it.

His own touch makes him flinch, when he reaches to take himself in hand - already, he is so sensitive, so quick to respond, it will not take him long to reach his pleasure.

It was a new dream, this one. This time you were in the sanctum, which you had shown him the day before. The significant changes to the place suit his fancies well. It is not so dark, not so wooded as before; he could see every hint and spasm and flicker of the pleasure he gave you as he loved you before your gods, who looked on in silent, benevolent benediction.

In the dream, you had slipped into the gardens during the feast, with no one any wiser. In the dream, he had succumbed to the lure, with no compunctions. It is the only place where he is free to slip into temptation. They cannot take him to task for dreams, as dreams hold no consequences. And in them, his sentiments, those newfound feelings are not as frightening and can be overlooked for something baser, more carnal, more sensual. Just for a time, just for a while.

He had you on his podonza, that white, bejeweled sheet, which he had spread out beneath you on the grass. The both of you were, more oft than not, naked in his dreams. Only he was fully stripped bare this time. That ravishing, sinful peach dress was bunched about your waist. You were nude otherwise. Your body in moonlight was a thing of immaculate perfection. In this light, you were as ethereal as a fae maid. And beautiful, as a wild animal was beautiful: unbound, untethered, uninhibited. You in your truest form.

A grunt escapes his mouth as his hand slips down his cock, slowly pulling on the hard flesh and lightly thumbing beneath the flushed swollen head. A bead of arousal drips down to further wet his shaft; he is leaking so much he doesn’t even need his own spittle to ease himself along.

For the hundredth time, he wishes the hand now pleasuring him belongs to you. You can pleasure him better than he ever can himself, he is sure of it.

You would ride him some nights, in his fancies, rolling your hips against his hard and fast and eager while he held on to your waist, sometimes guiding, sometimes holding on, merely holding on, needing something to cling to to steady him lest he lost himself entirely to his desire.

Tonight, he rode you. As he does most every time. As much as he loves the thought of you claiming him for your own, nothing brings him greater pleasure than the prospect of just bearing down on you, taking you as he will, hard and fast and eager, and having you at his beck and mercy.

Eren moans, soft and breathless, as his unoccupied hand comes up to tease his nipples, pinching and pulling one and then the other until they stand hard and stiff on his chest. His back arches a little, and his eyes, already half-lidded, close entirely. He likes to shut his eyes, likes to keep his world of sin dark. For in the dark, his hands are yours.

You run soft tantalizing fingers over his nipples for a moment more, circling, rubbing over the fleshy nubs, before lightly scratching down the ridges of his abdomen. His breath hitches and his stomach tightens at the touch, getting tighter still as your hand slips down to the dark thatch of hair at the base of his cock, sliding down further until you are cupping his balls in your palm and gently rolling them in your hand.

A louder, strangled moan breaks the silence in the chamber; your questing fingers have stolen behind his testicles and pressed firmly on that spot, that stretch of skin there that gives him such pleasure. His hips rut up into his fist, and he feels himself get wetter as his cock leaks further arousal over his steadily tightening grip.

Some nights, you would leave a trail of kisses up his body, running lips and tongue and teeth across his skin until you could capture his mouth with yours and let him taste the sweetness of your tongue. The tongue he would have tasted had duty, that poxy bitch, not called him away.

A hint of displeasure bleeds through his ecstasy. His hands can do much and more in the way of sensual satisfaction but they can only do so much. The rough pads of fingertips and the scratch of fingernails are poor stand-ins for the soft wet heat of a pair of luscious lips. But they are all he has, so he has to make do.

In his mind’s eye, he can see you hovering over him, smiling that gloriously sultry smile that he has only ever seen of late. Amid the comforts of home and away from the stifling court, the passionate young woman seems to bloom. Your hair drapes over you as you bend ever closer to his face, lending your congress further intimacy.

This brief scene is not as satisfying as it could have been, however. He cannot smell your hair, your scent, your body. The token you had given him the day of the Warrior’s Tourney would have helped compound his illusions. He keeps the piece of cloth in a clean box, away from anything that might adulterate your scent. It is, unfortunately, locked away in his chest of belongings. He had not needed to use it ‘til this morning, would that he had it now to enhance his dream…

Your perfume of apples and winter roses is still deeply entrenched in the cloth, along with your scent, a scent far sweeter and more intoxicating than any fruit or flower. He would have drowned in it as you lowered your face to his and kissed him. For a moment, he is tempted to get up and fetch your favor, make all of this a thousand times better, but his hand is locked into place, he cannot get up even if he wants to. And does he want to?

So, again and as always, he has to make do.

It is not your favor that drives him closer to bliss. Suddenly, he can smell your drying sheet, and the memory of the sensation hits him hard as a charging bull. His mouth is moving against yours, yet the taste of air is the only thing he knows. But he can smell your hair, your scent, your body, the essence of you you had left behind on your linen, stronger and more intense than it is on your favor.

He is bearing down on you all at once, back in the sanctum, back in the dream of the night. It is easier to imagine how you’d look now, with all the glimpses he’d had the past couple of days. Your breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts while he ruts into you madly, hands tight around your lush hips as he presses you down against the ground for better leverage. You are gasping for breath, fingers twisted in the white of his podonza, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

His hand picks up pace around his cock, his thumb rubbing over his dribbling slit, once, twice; his fist is slathered with his arousal, making him slip easily through his steadily tightening grip. The wet slaps of flesh on flesh are all the sound in the room, interspersed with his pants and pleasured groans.

White-hot embers begin to flare up in the base of his stomach, but he is not there yet, still he wants more, wants to further play with this pretty spectre he has conjured and bring you to your own peak…

He bends down and takes a nipple between his lips, suckling hard, flicking his tongue over and around the nub so he can further draw out your moans. You oblige him so eagerly, your back curving into a beautiful arc. The most sinful moan sanctifies these sacred grounds; never has he heard a sound so divine. Your hands come up to run through his hair as he moves to worship the other breast, pressing him close, closer, as close as you can to your yearning flesh.

His hands slide down, from your waist to your thighs. Your skin slips beneath his fingertips, the softest, finest silk he has ever felt, until he is hooking his arms beneath your knees and rearing up between your legs, lifting you a little so you can take him better as he starts pounding harder, faster, hips slamming into yours with wild, frenzied strokes.

Loud cries and whines take the place of your moans, blending in perfect accord with his groans and grunts and the wet slaps of flesh on flesh. Wind sweeps through the sanctum, proof of the gods’ favor, but he cannot feel the gentle cooling touch on his skin. It is so hot, he is burning, burning, and he is glad to burn, fire has never felt this good…

His hips are twitching, wanting more than his hand, wanting more than the tightness it can give him, wanting more than his own wetness. He wants to thrust into the real you and not this spectre, feel how tight you truly are and how wet, have the truth of that pleasure that is so acclaimed of his friends and that he can never get from any other because they will never be good enough, never enough.

Eren tightens and loosens his grip around his cock as he pumps himself faster, an attempt to mimic the sensations of a woman’s cunt at her peak, that most maddening, pleasurable sensation that they spoke of, of your tight, wet, and warm walls massaging his shaft as it strove to bring him to complete and utter euphoria.

His cock throbs; close, he is so close, his hips are moving erratically, so out of his control as he thrusts into his jerking fist, panting and moaning and chanting out your name, the most lustful hymn, the most sinful of prayers.

You are a crumbling mess beneath him, clawing at his chest, crying out and sobbing from the strength of your pleasure, your body near folded in half while he continues his rut, grinding, slamming his cock into your sweet, wet cunt. Your ankles are now draped over his shoulders, toes curling as your peak comes barreling closer, ever closer. You chant your own hymn and call out for him desperately, “Eren, Eren, Eren,” begging, pleading for your climax, let me come, please, please, please…

Hot, sticky spend coats his hand and splatters all over his chest and stomach as he reaches his pleasure with a loud cry, almost screaming his ecstasy into the silent chambers. His back arches, fire lancing up his spine and white heat engulfing him, and for a thousand years, he stays there, drowning in the fount of rapture that is his lady.

Seed still leaks from his swollen tip as he comes to bit by bit. His hips continue to thrust until pleasure becomes too much like pain and his movements slow to a stop. Eren releases his softening cock, letting out a satisfied huff of air. His torso is slick with sweat and spattered with spend but the familiar haze of sated pleasure is stealing over him, leaving him heavy-limbed upon his bed, too sleepy to clean himself off.

His seed will look better dripping down your cunt, he thinks, running a finger absently through a milk-white puddle pooled in the creases of his muscled abdomen. It will be proof of his presence, that he had been in you, had taken you in all the ways you could be taken. He will be secure in the knowledge that you are his in every sense. And he will not need to clean himself up. Stones weigh down his eyelids.

The man glares at him from the dark, eyes wide and gray and glassy. And filled with terrible anger. Eren jolts awake, heart hammering. He stares up at the bed’s dark canopy, suddenly averse to turning his head and looking round the room, dreading the sight of glass eyes staring back at him from the dark.

Contempt for his fear rises in him several heartbeats later. He is the Knight of Highridge, blood of Godfrey the Loyal and the Falcon Knights, a Falcon Knight himself, ghosts have no hold over the likes of him.

He turns his head almost defiantly, daring them to haunt him in his waking hours. They do not dare. Not today. It is lighter now than it had been before, and the muted illumination reveals nothing and no one. No vengeful man, no mournful boy, no accusing gray eyes. He is alone. As he should be.

Sleep has well and truly deserted him. He had as well get up. Perhaps you will be awake by now. The Alyfeis is today, he remembers with a happy jolt. The prospect of enjoying the day’s revels makes him shoot up from bed. He grimaces at the dirty, sticky feeling of dried seed on his skin and resolves at once to wash.

With his revulsion comes some amusement, though. Once, he would have been mortified facing you after what he’d just done. He had fucked himself to you so many times, shame is beyond him at this point. Now you know, beyond all doubt. And seem to love the idea. That is the best thing by far.

Eren stands from the bed and glances down at the emerald sheets. He will not need to launder them himself this time, he notes, pleased. That is the only thing that gives him some measure of embarrassment for his deeds. There is something so discomforting about servants being privy to his desires; it does not bother him overmuch nowadays, yet having control over who he welcomes into that part of his life gives him ease.

He pads naked toward the pillars and pulls back the drapes. Gray is leaching out of the world, leaving only color. Duns and browns and whites and reds. Blues and greens. That most of all. He breathes in the salt morning air, feeling the brief horror of the dawn vanish like the mists of morn. The day is promising to be a good one. Perhaps it can lead into the night. With any luck, he will dream of you again.

To dream of you every night will be sweet. Desire is always better than the dead, after all.

Dearest Miks,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am doing all right, thank you for asking. It is so strange to see the palace this empty and the court nonexistent, the place is so much larger without people in it.

It’s boring without all of you in here. I thought being a Guardsman would be a lot more exciting than this but all we do is stand by doors and stare down corridors. It is an honorable post, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t expect the slow times to be so… slow. At least Bertolt is with me, having a friendly face around makes it better. I’ve never truly appreciated the chap until now, I’m glad to have him as a sworn brother.

Speaking of brothers, I can’t believe I can call Sir Levi and Sir Erwin that. I still feel like a squire around them half the time… maybe because I’m the youngest of the bunch. Can’t say I like the feeling. I’ll work hard to show everyone I earned this, I’ll be a proper Guardsman in time, they’ll see!

I miss you and Karanes. Even Martin, even though he is a little snot. I’ll make a fine knight of him, between the two of us House Springer will rise to the skies!

Training is deadly dull without you here. Is it the same for you there without your trusty and ever-loyal Connie? Best keep your skills sharp, you’ll need it when next we cross swords. This’ll be the year I will finally throw you down, mark my words.

I hope you get this before the Alyfeis. I hope the Alyfeis here is as fun as it is back there. Thank the gods we’re allowed some fun. Just have to endure a couple of hours of guard duty and I’ll be free to frolic. I would say don’t frolic too hard without me but I know who I’m talking to, I’ll have no fear of that. I don’t think you can say the same for me, though, you know how Sasha is. Bless her.

Please write me. The occasional friendly word would do wonders. Really looking forward to the winter reconvene and seeing everyone’s mugs again.

All the best,

Connie

The letter had come as quite a surprise. A pleasant one, at that. Connie Springer, lowbrow, practically unlettered Connie Springer, is writing her. Mikasa places the missive on her desk, smiling to herself. It must be drearier in Midford during the reprieve than first she’d thought. The plaintive note to his last paragraph tugs at her heart. Is it truly that bad? She reaches for a fresh sheet of parchment and her quill.

A soft tap sounds on the wall beside the entrance to her bedchamber. “Come,” she calls out, lowering her hand.

Louise Ledovskoya brushes back the dark blue velvet curtains that serve as the room’s doors and steps in. She bows her blonde head. “My lady. I am come to dress you for the rite.”

“Of course.” Is it that time already? Mikasa turns her head about to glance down the mullioned window behind her. It would seem so. Cityfolk swarm the streets of the capital below, headed in the same general direction, toward the temple of the Gardener. From the vantage of her tower bedroom, the lively masses are no more than ants trooping back into their hill, come home after a day’s work done in the fields. There is no work to be had for the day, though, and the human swarm is off to worship and make merry; home is far from anyone’s mind.

Not from Connie’s, however. The scrap of parchment lying on her desk seems a dejected thing, and Mikasa feels the weight of it on her back as she leaves her bedroom for the bath. She feels a twinge of guilt. She must needs answer at the best opportunity. Tonight, after the festivities. First, she must give the gods their due.

Her new handmaid is a chipper thing, and chatty, quite unlike the lass before. The Neven girl had been passable as handmaids went, and served her well and ably for three years. She would have served for longer were it not for her light fingers. A chambermaid had caught her filching Mikasa’s jewels earlier in the year, and so she was dismissed, sent home in utter disgrace. Mikasa has never been a flashy girl, and could care little and less for the lost jewels, but thievery is thievery and should be punished in due course. It is the principle of the thing.

“Finished, my lady.” The new girl - Louise - steps back as she finishes the intricate task of clipping Mikasa’s veil to the back of her head. She glances at her reflection. A proper little lady gowned in copper and salmon stares back at her. The future Lady Ackerman, Lady of Karanes. The Shieldmaiden is nowhere in sight.

She stands from the vanity and straightens the sheer silk of the split sleeves that trail down her gown from the elbows. “Let’s go.” She does not deign to grace the painted stranger in the mirror another glance.

This year’s Alyfeis is already proving to be quite extraordinary. Lord Ludwig Ledovskoy is standing beside her lord father on the pulpit of the temple balcony, quite unmindful of the pointed stares and whispers coming from the floor below as the commons gossip amidst the ongoing rite. The more politically savvy ones have heard of the Lord of Ajdoje’s visit and know what that entails.

The scent of burning produce drifts up to the Ackermans on the gallery, where they always observe the rite, the better to have some privacy. Still the commons whisper even as the Bailiff’s voice echoes throughout the building to consecrate the year’s sacrifice and plead with the gods for another year of great bounty. Lord Lukas merely stares at the proceedings, seeming far away. Lord Ludwig is as stern and tight-lipped as he usually is.

Only Mother seems to disapprove of the buzzing impropriety. It is a comically ironic thing that a foreigner would find more offense in the blatant irreverence breaking out within these holy grounds. Especially considering she shouldn’t give a fig about a faith not her own. But so it is with the Lady Otsune, Azumabito as was, Ackerman now. And she has been for twenty-odd years; a developed attachment for the mores of her new home is only to be expected.

Mikasa wonders how they celebrate the harvest in Hizuru. Perhaps it is a festival of great beauty, like the Feast of Flowers. Her parents took a brief tour of Hizuru a year after she entered court, and they had brought her along. They had gone in the spring, in time for the feast. It was the most magical feast she had ever attended. She never knew that flowers could be so… beautiful.

They never seem to be, at home. They make a riot of color, true enough, reds and whites and yellows, purples and blues, endless, endless pink. Yet it was only in her mother’s motherland that she had ever truly appreciated them. Lovayan cherry trees are not half so enchanting as the ones in Hizuru. They had sat beneath them on blankets, eating local delicacies and drinking local vintages. All the while the petals fell, those pale pink snowflakes that were never cold to the touch. Around them, the Hizurites would whisper, only whisper, all reluctant to break the spell of the moment with noise and volume.

The whispers here sound a deal less reverent. Those and stares follow them to the Bulwark. Mikasa trots astride her piebald palfrey Mitsu, keeping pace with her mother’s litter as their small party navigates Middelfoort’s busy cobbled streets. All and sundry stare them out of countenance. The festival commences as it should, with plays and entertainments, music and dancing and laughter and flowers, with the trade and display of the best of the harvest.

But alongside the beets and carrots and peaches and pears comes a different sort of crop. The best of the gossip is on sale as well, prompted by the highborn passing. Everywhere they turn, only one thing seems to be in everyone’s minds. Mikasa wonders if they would have attracted half the attention they are getting now without their honored guest tipping the scales, as it is.

There he sits atop one of the biggest destriers she has yet seen, a massive dark bay beast with powerful flanks, conversing with her father with no more care for the eyes around him as he would a fly buzzing about his ear. His standard flies before him carried by a bearer, a teal banner with the red fess of his House. The Ackerman pennant is not to be outdone beside his. There it flies in the hands of another bearer, the three longswords of Ackerman crossed upon its blue field, the proud and ancient sigil of a proud and ancient House.

‘Swords, swords, swords,’ Mikasa seems to hear everywhere, at every turn and corner, until it begins to sound like a call to arms, a demand for Lord Ackerman to call the banners and ride to northern aid. Middelfoorters are hardly the most war-like of people; the whispers sound more conspiratorial than anything, curious, even excited at the thought of what these northmen could want, if Lord Ackerman will raise swords.

This is why Ledovskoy is here, she knows. To tell Father of the Ajdine clamor and their discontent with how the Zhelevic were treated. These northmen seem an intimate bunch. Wrong one and you wrong all. In many ways, there is something admirable in that. Many will call it prickly, though. And it is one of the many reasons the rest of the realm takes issue with the North.

The crowd that tailed them from the temple has grown larger and is growing larger still as they near the Bulwark. These will settle on the bridge and one of the courtyards of the castle to prepare for the harvest feast and further sell their produce. Many and more will wait for the autumn audience, to be held later in the afternoon. Here they will offer Lord Lukas the pick of their crops and perhaps bring forth a petition to be settled. The evening is reserved for the harvest feast, one in the castle for the highborn and their household, the other for the commons down in the courtyard.

Father is having little joy of this year’s festival. He had spent the entirety of the audience only half in attendance, absently dispensing his judgements as he pondered other, more pressing matters.

Now, Mikasa sits quietly listening in as Lord Ludwig apprises Father of the building malcontent of his commons, reassuring his liege that he is doing all he can to stem their mutinous flow.

Some assistance will not be unwelcome, says the Ledovskoy lord, him with his hard, lined face with the square, clean-shaved jaw and his long blond hair, which he has tied back behind his head with a red ribbon. The eyes that lock onto her father’s are a muted hazel, green with a faint brown ring about his pupils. Lord Ludwig is handsome, for an older man. And bears a strong resemblance to his daughter, Mikasa’s new handmaid.

This homegrown northern matter seems to be a good deal more pressing than first she’d thought. Both men had vanished during the entertainments, leaving the rest of the household spare and idle. Which worried Mother, Mikasa senses, as she comes over much later to bid her good night and seek her blessing. This further feeds Mikasa’s own foreboding as she makes her way to Father’s solar for his blessing.

He is standing in front of the tall window, hands clasped behind his back as he looks down upon his still rejoicing city. Lord Ludwig is nowhere in sight. Father does not turn around when she announces herself and enters. For a long moment, there is silence, broken only by the soft snaps of the fire in the stone hearth to her left. Above, the glass and iron chandelier shines its balmy orange light over the chamber, lending a certain warm homeliness to the space.

Several more heartbeats pass until at last, he sighs and strides over to his desk, which is standing beside the mullioned panes in front of a shelf of books and knickknacks. The blue and gray carpet underfoot muffles his steps.

A sheepskin map is rolled open on the surface of the table, its corners weighed down by books. A map of Karanes, Mikasa sees, as she strides nearer. There are no markers, no marks upon the painted hide. She wonders what it is that Father is looking for, what he is noting.

“Well, it was only a matter of time. I can’t say I’m surprised, you know what they’re like.” He leans down on the desk, hands spread out on the map. The first two fingers of his right hand lay pointing at the Lord of Ajdoje’s stronghold, up in northern Karanes.

“Northmen are northmen.” She walks to the lounge situated in front of a wall of books to the right of the desk and sits down.

“More’s the pity. Oh, to be a pure Midlander as we were of old… What even are we Karanesi now? Midlander or northmen? We’re not quite one, not quite the other. And both so different from one another. It’s a wonder any man could herd this lot for all this time.”

“Our family has always been able,” Mikasa says, quite awkwardly, not knowing how to address her father’s laments. It is something she is little versed in, to her chagrin. She is little versed in dealing with people generally, a fact which gives her no small amount of anxiety. Especially considering the station to which the gods saw fit to call her.

“If only our family weren’t so… able.” Karanes is the only one of the States spanning two fronts, the Midlands and the North. The Ackermans of old, however, had settled further south than where their descendants now rule, in present-day Neustadt ruled by the Vukasins. Some Reiss king rewrote the Lovayan map and placed his Ackerman lord in the middle of the State as a buffer, a serjeant best suited to handle the insurgent northmen whenever they rose up (which they did often and well even to this day).

The Ackermans have ever been a martial family, producing warrior king after warrior king throughout the millennia until the Titans came and beat them down to vassalship, as they did all the other kings and queens in fair Lovaya. Who better to be a bulwark against the wild than one with warrior’s blood himself?

It is a suit of armor her father is never comfortable wearing. He is an oddity, as far as Ackermans go, more scholarly than warlike, happier with a book in hand than with a sword. This had caused no end of strife between him and his lord father, Klaus Ackerman, who slapped the Vukasins and their dogs down to heel during the War Within decades ago. Lord Klaus’s death had freed Father of his father’s scorn. And he has never been happier.

As happy as duty can make him, to be sure. But Mikasa knows he would rather have the pain of duty than the pain of a father’s derision. Lord Lukas sighs, world-weary. “We hear the same clamors as the rest of the North. It’s not just Ledovskoy. Neven and Brzenska are reporting malcontent as well, at this point, it’s only a matter of time before I hear from Zackly and Zacharius.”

Another sigh, and suddenly, he has aged a decade, as though that last breath of air was his very vitality itself. Father sits down heavily upon his chair, with little grace. He stares hollow-eyed at the map before murmuring, “Ledovskoy is more an Ackerman than I. Hard, stern, dependable, martial. It’s no wonder he speaks for our North. He’s what people want me to be. People think he is me. That’s why I avoid standing next to the man at gatherings, if I can help it, they all think him the Ackerman.” An easy enough mistake to make, in hindsight. Both men are fair as the sun, and the current Lord Ackerman is famously gold as opposed to the ravens their House tends to be.

Lukas Ackerman turns to his daughter at length and smiles, tired yet affectionate. “You’re what people expect of this House, a true warrior and fierce. Perhaps they’ll have more joy of you than they ever had of me someday.”

“But I never wanted any of that.”

That gives her father pause. And brings remorse and pity, that most wretched of sentiments, out into the light. She almost regrets saying anything then.

“You cannot know how sorry I am that this was thrust upon you,” Father says softly. “But it pleased the gods to bring your brother back into their graces and so we have no choice. If I could spare you the chains of commanding, I would. The best I can do for you, ultimately, is to ease the way and prepare you for your calling.”

And what a calling it is. She will forever hate the wild salt sea for forcing it on her and robbing her of a brother and a simpler life.

“Ah, you did not come here to hear a lord’s burdens. Come, let me bless you and bid you good night. May your dreams be more pleasant than mine tonight.” She stands from the lounge, receives her blessing, and goes with her own good night, imparting a gentle kiss on the stubbly cheek and hoping that will give him ease.

She has so much to tell Connie. As he does her, she can see it now. She imagines a thick scroll of parchment tied to the leg of a floundering dove as it flaps frantically outside her window, desperate to enter and snatch rest. The thought makes her snort. The boy would be lonely indeed if he ever writes anything longer than a foot.

It suddenly occurs to her much later, as she settles into bed warm and snug and content, that she had barely thought of Eren today. And it feels… good.

A great rousing cheer answers your father’s foreword, and with that, the festivities proceed apace.

You gaze down at the hundreds gathered below Goldhaven’s presence balcony, smiling your courtly smile and feeling inordinately pleased that you were not asked to give the speech this year. You are equal to the task and will do so if prompted, yet the desire to remain free of the duty of addressing the public is strong in you. You can address all the courts in the world if you have to. When your time comes. And the gods only know how many speeches there are in your inevitable future. What’s one less speech to that endless repertoire?

Lord Alexander turns to you with a smile. “Off to the Great Sanctum-”

“I’d like to show Eren around for a while before we head there. If it please you,” you say hurriedly, hoping against hope for leave.

Bemusement dances across Father’s face before he smiles once more, ever accommodating. “It pleases me to grant you leave. Before sundown, the hour of the dove. You have until then for your frolics.”

You beam and stand on your toes to kiss his bearded cheek. You turn to Eren behind you, still shining. “Get dressed.”

“I’m already dressed,” he points out, perplexed.

“Not in plain clothes, you aren’t. You can’t explore the city in cloth-of-gold. You’ll blind everyone,” you tut, grabbing his arm and marching him off to get changed at once. Pretty as he is in your House colors, he can hardly run about the streets with a podonza threatening to slip down his shoulder half the time. Which is a-wasting.

His orange tunic with its brown trim and belt is markedly less blinding. And brings out the green in his eyes so beautifully. You yourself have changed out of your teal and gold sleeveless vevda for another simpler one, a white knee-length garment paired with a pale blue floor-length underskirt trimmed with meanders in white thread along the hemline. A thin pale blue cord ties the whole thing into place about your waist. Nice and simple. Its only concession to frills is the pair of gold chains looping above your left arm, which is left bare; your right arm is encased in a long sleeve that is fastened from your upper arm with gold buttons.

You lead him through the castle gates and into the bustling streets, both now suitably dressed, joining the throng of servants and soldiers on leave as they pour through the walls to partake of the revels. “No guards?” Eren asks, glancing around for an armored tail, only to find none.

“I have a pact with Father. I avoid the docks and the seedier areas of the city, the guard stays well away from me. Not too far that he’ll be unable to come to my aid if need be. He’ll be keeping a close, and unobtrusive, eye on us. From afar.” You draw your white lesos over your head to keep off the worst of the midday sun.

“What brought this pact on?” Bareheaded Eren quirks an eyebrow at you as you enter one of the city squares. Dmitriy Rhyzkov sits proud and fierce astride his rearing stallion in the middle of the plaza, his noble likeness forever captured in stone atop a tall granite pedestal. The crowd grows thick as you lead Eren on.

His query makes you grin. “Father had a long talk with me after I slipped my guard one too many times. I just couldn’t stand having a solemn bore breathing down my neck as I explored my city.”

“What if you did get into trouble? They can be hindrances but they’re useful to keep around.”

Says one who also ran away from his hindrances the first chance he got. “We don’t have tails in Belris.” At last, you spot your destination. You pull him along, weaving nimbly between festive folk headed in the other direction, one of whom drapes a crown of flowers over Eren’s head before prancing away. You laugh at his startled expression.

“We don’t have tails because the Golden District is safe as can be. Belrish dregs live by the walls,” Eren says, once his surprise had passed into the void. He reaches up to pluck at the crown, seeming gratified.

Around you the crowds make merry, piping their pipes and fiddling their fiddles, dancing and scattering flowers and petals everywhere. Red and pink and gold gently rain down upon you as you breast the human tide. From the buildings around you, more petals fall from homebound roisterers. You turn your head a little to look back at your betrothed, smiling slightly. “You’ll keep me safe. Won’t you?”

“Always.”

His sudden solemnity makes your smile slowly fade, and you have to look away at length. The heat pricking your cheeks is not from the sun’s harsh rays, you do not think.

The Blue Pearl’s hands are as welcoming as ever, its fare as excellent. Custom is meager owing to the festivities; most everyone is lunching in the Great Sanctum, including your family. But Eren is due his tour of your city and you can think of no better day to start than today. The Pearl is one of your favorite haunts and the staff know you well as a patron. Eren is subjected to a light (yet serious) dressing down by the barkeep, who warns him off of ‘doin’ the ‘lil lady dirty.’ Whose face heats up again at the young knight’s grave denouncement of such conduct.

You leave the tavern well-fed and hankering for something sweet and fresh. You direct your path to the packed produce arcade, feeling more than a tad anxious. Here you will see the fruits, as it is, of your labor. Those weeks spent in constant correspondence with your heads of house, all the organizing, allocating, supervising, negotiating, advising… here it will all culminate at last.

The proof in the autumn pudding.

You are far from disappointed. Every stall and stand and cart display the bounty of Vascalin. Apples, figs, pomegranates, dates and plums and lemons - fruits shine bright as jewels next to bundles and bundles of vegetables: leeks, fennel, radishes, cabbages and artichokes and olives. An excellent haul. The gods have blessed you this year.

And you are not to be held accountable for the failure of the crop. That is the best thing of all. All at once, you can breathe easier again.

“Good haul this year. Well done,” Eren commends, grinning down at you, making you glow at the praise. You glow even more when he proceeds to buy you an apple from one of the stalls. It is only fair you have a taste of the gods’ blessings and relish in their favor, he claims, as he buys you both your sweet. You have one more thing to thank them for tonight. Never had you had an apple so sweet as the one you ate that day.

Things sour for you as you move on, however. The foot traffic, already thick, has grown even thicker near the market square, and so you are forced to take the bypass you had wanted to avoid like the plague. You dash through one of the high-end avenues where some of the most expensive and upscale brothels are located, the area busy but not so packed as the square nearby. You practically fly through the street as though the very hounds of hell are at your heels.

Eren staggers behind you, bewildered, feet tangling over each other as he is dragged along like a leashed pup. Nothing diminishes his comely countenance, apparently, however ungainly a sight he makes at the moment. Half-dressed and undressed whores lean out the windows, calling out for patrons. More than a handful call out to your betrothed, to your extreme annoyance. Flower petals rain down on you from the sluts and their basketfuls of blossoms. You impatiently brush a yellow petal off your lesos and march on doggedly.

“H-hey, can you let up a bit, please?” Eren pants, loping beside you to keep up. His crown of flowers has vanished, torn from his head during your headlong rush. “What’s the rush? It’s barely past the hour of the lynx, we still have another hour…”

You give a vague grunt and keep your silence, just as a whore draped in jeweled chains and nothing else calls down to Eren coquettishly from her trellised balcony. Your stomach lurches unpleasantly, then lurches again with something more buoyant as you pass the fountain that marks the end of the avenue.

“Jealousy truly becomes you, have I told you that lately?”

You refuse to grace him with your attention, misliking the tone of his voice. The look on his face is only fit to be smacked off, you are sure, if you ever deign to look at him now. You jolt, surprised, as his arm wraps around your waist and holds fast, forcing you to look at him. Behind the teasing grin is something more insistent. Honest. “Eyes only on you,” he says simply.

The day is sweet, oh-so-sweet indeed.

In time, you find yourselves exploring the arcades, acquiring yourselves chains of flowers from the stallkeeps in the process. Eren amuses himself by picking at the many garments on display in the fashion arcade, flourishing dresses at you at random. Most of which have sharp vee-shaped necklines.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” you ask, entertained, as Eren brandishes a sleeveless emerald green vevda at you. One with a deeply slashed neckline, of course. “I regret to say I don’t own nearly enough breast-baring dresses for your tastes. That’ll look pretty with a silver belt.”

“It will, won’t it?” Eren beams, then carefully places it back on its display as you walk off. “Pity about your dresses. Charms as lovely as yours aren’t meant to be hidden away.”

You laugh. “Pity the court has such blue noses for all their love of randy chatter. More charm can be a useful thing up there. But court fashions have their own allure. It gives you only enough to tease at the truth and all that. Gives you something to long for, think about.”

“That it does.” His eyes sweep down your body, slow and sensual. You shiver, as though he had caressed you all over with his hands instead of simply looking. “I have much to long for, true enough.”

It is a feat of remarkable ability, you think, that you can stand here still and brave his flames. You are getting better at that as time progresses. Then again, you are a being of heat, after all; who better to brave his flames than you?

The smell of salt wafts pleasantly toward you in the fashion arcade, sited as it is near the docks. The snatches of conversation that leap out at you from the many stallkeeps are glaringly less pleasant. Even this far south, news of the North still haunts you. That it has managed to trickle down here of all places concerns you. Was the clamor getting that bad? You do not want to think about what awaits you all when court reconvenes the next season.

It is an utter relief when you pass through to the next, less gossipy arcade.

The sight of all the handmade crafts - furnishings, figurines, toys - reminds Eren of his niece and the present he owes her as an uncle visiting a place of note. “There’s a qaxan parlor by the docks, did you know? The only one in Arsechkala,” you inform him as he examines a carved wooden dragon overlaid with silver leaf from one of the many stalls. “I could take you there sometime, see how you go up against someone else besides me. Thus will we know your true capability.”

Consistency has entered Eren’s court at last, to your utmost pleasure. His first true win back in Friedfurt wasn’t entirely a fluke, it turned out. Your games after that have been more balanced. At last, Eren is making up his lost ground, steadily winning game after game after game. Your pride knows no bounds.

“I’ll know my true capability when I can go up against Armin at last,” Eren says, as you move on to the last of the line of stalls, leisurely browsing.

“I think that’s too high of a goalpost… A step at a time, yes?” You will not soon forget your games with that golden commander. Any and all wins you can scrape against him are much treasured.

“He hasn’t written back yet, has he? I wonder how his Alyfeis is going. His dull and dreary Alyfeis.”

“It’s only dull because it’s what you’re used to. You’ve experienced it all your life and so the magic of it’s disappeared.” You tramp down the steps of the arcade, emerging into another relatively less packed street. Little stalls are still scattered about the area, those of vendors unable to secure a lease to hawk their wares in the arcade proper.

You stop by a table bearing little wooden figures of the twelve sacred beasts of the Creed. Which in itself is a surprise. The Creed has never been strong here. The small temple of the Gardener in the city had held its quiet celebration earlier, for its handful of Arsechkalan believers. Eren turns to you, fingers wrapped around a figure of a lynx. “Do you find your Alyfeis dull?”

That brings you up short. “Point conceded.” You have never found the harvest feast dull and will never.

The rumble of sound about you seems to grow louder. It is then that you notice how thick the throng is getting. Before you quite know it, a host of people is passing through, as though a sluice gate has been opened to let the tide in. Eren moves to take you aside and away from the carousing crowd.

“Oh!”

Someone knocks into you and then you are stumbling, crashing into something hard and warm, who lets out a yelp of his own as he staggers back into the table behind him, scattering wooden figures everywhere. His arms fly up to wrap around you on instinct, and it is all you know. His strength, his heat, his scent mixed with that of flora. Wide green eyes stare down at you. Beneath your palms and the crushed blossoms, his heart races.

Thump, thump, thump.

Fire and water fill your world, from the flame of his shirt and the sea of his eyes, and for a long while, he is your everything.

A thousand years pass until you can think to look away. A cluster of carvings had landed by your feet. An eagle, a wolf, two serpents twined. The Sun, the Moon, the Lovers.

“M-milady!”

The elderly stallkeep had gotten to his feet, toothless mouth agape, pale blue eyes bulging with shock before he remembers himself and bows. Your lesos has fallen about your shoulders, displaced from your head by the commotion earlier. The stallkeep straightens up from his bow, his long, wrinkled fingers tangling together nervously. “M-milady, such a surprise- ‘s an honor to see you ‘round this parts, and by me shop, too! The honor-”

“It’s my pleasure, goodman. Please pardon us for jostling your stall- here, let me-” You move to step away from Eren’s warmth and pick up the fallen figures. His grip tightens around you, and you think he would not let go, but let go of you he does. You can feel reluctance leech into you. His own or yours, you cannot say.

“Ah, no, milady, can’t possibly let you trouble yourself-”

“It’s fine, we knocked over your wares, it’s the least we can do,” you reassure the man, smiling and putting his worries to ease. Beside you, Eren has set to, helping you scoop up the figurines and carefully placing them back on the table.

The elder bows once more, stammering out his thanks as you place the last carving on the counter, and offers you a gift of his wares, which you swiftly wave away. In the end, he makes you a present of the twined serpents - which you still insist on paying for, a handful of coppers, for his trouble.

Money well spent, you think, admiring the skill and the craftsmanship that you can tell went into the making of this piece. The serpents weave about each other, an endless loop, unbreakable. Eren weaves his fingers through yours, and away you go.

“The hour of the dove,” you state, catching sight of the tall clocktower ahead, with its triple arches spanning the river Goldtide. And so you set your steps toward the Great Sanctum, following the tide at last instead of going against its current.

He has never been, Eren had told you, so you take great pleasure in showing him the greatest pride of the city, one of two marvels of the Old Way. The largest godstone in the realm stands at the heart of its little island in a lagoon not too far off from the coast. You pass through the wardens’ commune, home to the holy isle’s caretakers, through the arched gate and onto the narrow stone bridge that connects the isle to the mainland.

The sea breeze blows strong here. You take a deep breath of the clean salt air, cheerful and content and alive. Overhead, seabirds fly, gulls and sandpipers and terns. Your cheer is mirrored in Eren’s face to mate with his awe. He glances down at you, grinning, and his eyes are the sea surrounding him, blue and green and sparkling. He takes the sea with him, wherever he goes.

“It’s massive,” Eren exclaims once you step foot on the islet at last, craning his neck back to gawk at the godstone and its hundred feet of glory.

“Magnificent,” you beam with pride and no small amount of reverence. The stone god carved into its face is majestic, stern yet kindly, a true king of the gods. Four hundred years' worth of salt air and rains have eaten away at the august face, however, to your and the Old Blood’s dismay. No mage now can keep nature from doing what she will to this sacred effigy. Powerful as they are, not even the gods are a match for that wild sovereign where their earthly forms are concerned. It is now for the caretakers to do all they can for the gods. And that must be enough.

“The most beautiful sanctum,” Eren remarks, glancing about at the rows of trees ringing the island as you break away from the still-long line of worshipers passing through another gate to the foot of the godstone, where mounds upon mounds of produce are heaped. Perhaps they will have offered enough for yet another year of bounty, to judge from the sheer quantity you had glimpsed through the hallowed entrance. You lead Eren on, to the spot in the isle where your family usually gathers. It is custom for you to picnic behind the gigantic godstone in that patch of grass beneath the trees, beside the viewing platform, which is open to the sea.

“You think the Great Sanctum more beautiful than the godsway?” Through the trees, you see a garlanded little boy running, trailed by his father, young and tall and dark, with his hair in its loose knot behind his head, a chain of flowers about his neck. You look after them, heart pounding, but they have melted into the mass, one of many families taking their joy of the festival. You wonder if they are vision or muddled truth.

“Even more beautiful.”

There is nothing muddled about your betrothed’s truth, and you cling to that. He is a vision, yet true and living and tangible. His is the only truth you’ll have.

He seems to hesitate a moment before asking in a quiet voice, almost bashful, “Do they allow weddings in front of this godstone?”

You smile, at the question and at him, this sweetest of boys. “Yes, they do.”

He looks away, out at the great salt sea. The tips of his ears have gone that sweet shade of pink, pink as the blooms of pink princess about his neck. “The sanctum in Midford- I mean, I’m not saying it’s not a good sanctum to wed in but- only if it please you and your family, of course- and the hassle of travel and all that-”

“I think we should say our vows in here.”

His head whips back around, so fast you are astonished he did not crick his neck at all. His eyes are wide for several heartbeats before he smiles, the softest, most tender smile you have yet seen from him. It is then that you are resolved. You must see that smile again, every day of your life. From this day to the end of your days.

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

Happy belated birthday, Eren! Have some smut in honor of his happy day! (Not the real thing, though, sadly, we'll get there, we'll get there.)

(Now I'm obliged to do a masturbatory scene for YN so, uh, there's that).

The first NSFW scene. And not the last. At last one goal done.

Nerdy info dump 2. Just to help clarify the many, many styles of southron clothing, I'll list them out the best I can:

Chelya - strap dress

Charovma - halter/backless dress

Povevda - tube dress

Vevda - catchall term for southron clothing for both men and women. Everything not mentioned above is a vevda for simplicity's sake (except for the tunic/pants combo). All of this is inspired by Greco-Roman culture (tweaked massively for my own worldbuilding), if you can't tell, and gods, they had A LOT of clothing terms to sift through. I hope I managed to get my descriptions right...

Also, added a slight change to the way I described the Great Sanctum in chap. 3 cause I hadn't really fully envisioned what it looked like til now. Just a couple of sentences for continuity's sake.

Oooh, yeah, happy belated birthday to Jean, too, I guess. (Lol, nah, I love you, too, Horseboy. Not as much as Eren but still. You're great!)

Thank you so much for following! Til next update <3

Tagging: @alekstraszas @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten

#eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #eren smut #eren jaeger smut #eren yeager smut #snk smut #aot smut #snk x reader #aot x reader #eren jeager x reader #Eren Jaeger #eren yeager #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan

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soleilnomoon · 2 years

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conquest ; eren x reader.

5.4k words, fem reader, college au, angst (c'mon, it's eren), nsfw (per my previous statement), 18+ mdni; eren's a dumbass and thinks he's slick (he's not), y/n also doesn't value her life clearly.

chapter 01 of the enfin, je me réveille series. masterlist | next ⤹

repetition, recall, regurgitation; a dance of rinse and repeat, until all that’s left is a husk of a person who can’t retain any more information. the human body is, quite literally, a sack of meat, mixed with bones, covered with a thin layer of skin — the soul bits and pieces of molecular data that somehow gives meaning to life. studying is an art, not made for the weak; one must always be prepared to put their life on the line when it comes to pushing themselves further and further academically. especially when it comes to chemistry.

it’s delicate, like a flower that’s in the process of blooming, like lace that can be pulled apart with a bit of force. the requirements are dedication, absolute focus, and the ability to shorthand while balancing equations — correctly, at that. there’s very little room for error, nor is there room for those who lag behind. paradis college has a high graduation rate for that reason alone; children of legacies — politicians, musicians, powerful ceos, etc. — athletes, the wealthy elite, they are the preferred demographic for this particular school. there are the rare few that do attend on scholarship, but that’s less based on merit and more so based on meeting their quota.

eren jaeger simply does not understand how anyone could possibly fail, when the classes aren’t remotely challenging at all.

the sun hides behind fluffy gray clouds, its golden rays filtering through each crevice, casting down impatiently onto the tops of the trees — the leaves are still attached to the thick branches, despite the change in weather, shining brilliantly under the light. the leaves happen to be on the brick path that cuts through to the main quad of the campus, crunching under his shoes angrily, his strides long and purposeful. several people shout his name out, he barely lifts his head in acknowledgement, but his eyes do slide over to the side for a moment; his focus, really, is getting to class on time — as he always does — and passing out the graded exams from last week. socializing isn’t high on his list of priorities, nor is befriending people who aren’t on his level. still, he treats them all equally the same — with indifference.

loud chatter from the lecture hall drifts out noisily into the corridor; after taking a deep breath, eren grasps the door handle and enters. it’s a lower level chemistry class; the type that people shy of a few credits scramble to take in order to graduate on time. the professor is at the main podium, setting up and talking to himself under his breath. eren scans the crowd before clearing his throat loudly; the conversations die down immediately, his presence all too intimidating for the students to bear — despite him also being an undergraduate himself. but, given his position as the teaching assistant — a ruthless, unforgiving, intense man who barely tolerates any excuse from the students, no matter how legitimate they seem — no one questions his authority.

he’s a stickler for attendance, and already convinced the professor to remind his students that tardiness is not acceptable, and they more or less know that.

all, save for one, that is.

it’s when the professor is in the middle of his opening statement for the lecture, that you burst through the door in a frenzy. you double over, hands on your thighs, trying to catch your breath. the professor sighs when he realizes that it’s you — your habitual tardiness is enough to give him more wrinkles, but he can’t quite find it in himself to dock you for points. eren, on the other hand, is not that soft-hearted. when you stand up, run your brown hand through your hair, smoothing away any flyaways, everyone’s eyes are still on you. it’s almost like you’re a celebrity — except, you hate it.

hate the way they’re staring, hate the judgment in some of their eyes, hate that you’re late, and even more than all of that — you hate that eren jaeger is the t.a. for this class. he’s harder on you than anyone else, constantly snaps at you, reminding you of your incompetence and embarrassing you in front of everyone whenever he sees you dozing off in the middle of lecture.

you know that he’s looking at you, but you refuse to look back, instead wiggling your fingers at your classmates, a small giggle tumbling out of you before you pop a piece of gum into your mouth. “sorry, i overslept,” you say in lieu of a proper greeting, causing a good portion of your classmates to laugh and laugh. when you make your way towards the back of the classroom, you still feel his eyes on you — his stare is intense, lighting your skin on fire, reminding you exactly why you can’t stay around him for long.

eren sees right through your bullshit and you hate him for it.

with narrowed eyes, he makes a note to pull you aside after class to tell you off about your attendance. there’s no actual reason for him to do so, you won’t come to class any earlier, and you refuse to tell him why you can’t make it to class on time. so, he’ll have to get a bit creative to get you to see reason.

each step you take makes your hair bounce around like it has a mind of its own; your curls are a vibrant shade of pink, reminding him of snapdragons for their unconventionality. your perfume suffocates him as usual — a sickeningly sweet scent that he shouldn’t care for, but he does. peaches, warm vanilla, and spiced cinnamon; it’s all that occupies his mind, until he sees the way your dark gray leggings showcase your curves. with his hand balled into a fist, his green eyes keep on you, gradually lowering as they take in your hips, thighs, and round ass; it reminds him again of why he can’t stand you.

it’s autumn and you’re wearing leggings that are much too tight to be considered appropriate for class; it’s autumn and your hair roams free, cascading down your shoulders, persistent, stray curls tossing themselves haphazardly onto your face; it’s autumn and you insist on wearing a cropped hoodie that matches your leggings; and yet, most offensive of all, is that you have the audacity to wear sandals that show off your bright pink toes.

everything that you are confuses him, but as you sit down at an empty table, noisily tossing your bag onto the empty seat, loudly popping your gum even as the professor continues from where he left off. it’s eren who swiftly moves between the rows, who makes it to your desk in record time, who grabs your bag off the chair and sits next to you.

mouth slightly open, lips tempting him in more ways than one, you gawk at the man who continues to treat you as if you’re the worst pebble in his stupid shoe.

“before you say anything,” his voice is low enough for only you to hear, “you don’t get a say in this.” you blink repeatedly, unsure of what to say, and grab your bag from him with a small huff, chewing your gum even louder because you know how much it aggravates him.

jaw clenched, eren suffers in silence for as long as he can, even though you move around a lot in your chair, you’re barely paying attention and doodling in your notebook instead of actually taking proper notes. he sucks his teeth quietly, casting a sideways glance your way, taking in the way your cheeks are still a little flushed from the weather, the way your lips are coated in some sparkling lip gloss that he’s sure tastes like candy, and how when you cross one shapely leg over the other, your foot accidentally brushes against his leg.

his brain short-circuits momentarily, and he coughs into his fist to take himself away from that moment. it almost works, he practically sits statuesque in the seat, his sharp features reminding you of an animal that’s biding its time, and you briefly wonder if you’re his prey.

the thought brings a flush to your cheeks, that you attempt to hide by tossing your hair over to the side he’s sitting on, accidentally slapping his face with it. a scowl works its way onto his lips, a vein bulging on his temple, hands still balled into fists, as if he’s restraining himself and losing his sanity slowly.

he didn’t think any of this through, obviously; and since you continue to harass him with your presence, he has no choice but to endure. this is his penance—your hair is soft and annoyingly curly to him, the pink is too bright and loud, your shampoo smells like wild berries — sharp, tart, with a hint of sweetness. it’s so very you, which only makes him suck his teeth again.

with great effort, he asks you, “can you stop that?”

the question confuses you momentarily, you sit up a bit, tilting your head at him as you squint and try to figure him out. normally, you’re able to get an accurate read on people — it’s why, despite how large your friend group is, you’ve yet to find anyone who matches you in a way that makes sense. eren is the only person in your life that you can’t read and it frustrates the hell out of you; similarly, he can’t understand what you’re thinking, doesn’t get why you choose to live the way you do, and he’s deluded himself enough that he believes his disinterest in you is healthy.

except, it’s not. because he doesn’t dislike you at all. not that he’ll ever admit that anytime soon; and you don’t see yourself befriending him, either.

“what will you do if i don’t?” you’re teasing him, your tone soft, words heavy with intent; and he knows that, but for some reason he takes your words seriously — his subsequent frown is evident of that.

you blow another bubble, bigger than the last, the pink stretching until it pops — the strawberry scent has faded, but he can still smell it on your breath. so, he scoots his chair away, so that he won’t be infected by you once again. brows raised, you blink at his antics and rip a piece of paper from your notebook and use it to put your gum in. for some reason, he feels compelled to watch you, and, to his horror, you roll up the piece of paper and stealthily chuck it at the back of reiner’s large head.

eren stiffens beside you, eyes widening as he watches reiner turn around and blame jean automatically — which sets connie off, who doesn’t make the situation any better, as he’s laughing and instigating a fight between them. jean mouths off and it’s only when the professor scolds them that they stop. you press your lips together, fighting the impish grin that threatens to break out onto your face, cheeks puffed in merriment.

he can’t believe you did that; he can’t believe he let you do that. without thinking about it, eren grabs your wrist and leans over to you, a few dark strands of his hair ghosting along his face — you want to reach out and touch them, to tuck them into his bun, but refrain from doing so for obvious reasons.

when he realizes what he’s done, he lets go of you, almost as if the touch of your skin burns and he can’t stomach touching you — and, it’s true; it did burn, but in a way that will infiltrate his thoughts for the rest of the day. you look down at your hand, doing your best to keep your breathing steady; eren doesn’t just touch people like that. if anything, he barely embraces his friends, so it comes as quite a surprise that he did that willingly. his touch is electric, even if he did it out of annoyance; you’re aware that if you keep on pestering him, there may be more instances of him touching you again.

it sits in the back of your mind for the remainder of the class. once the lecture is over, eren heads to the front of the classroom so he can pass out everyone’s graded exam. he leaves you for last, a notion that baffles him, but he chooses not to dwell on it. for now. he didn’t expect your face to pale at the sight of the failing grade, nor did he expect you to close your eyes, almost as if you’re in pain, and count under your breath. the numbers don’t help, all that energy, all that frustration boils quickly and bursts out of you before you can stop it.

“god damn it,” your voice raises, startling a few of your lingering classmates — the rest already left once they were dismissed — even eren is taken aback by your outburst. “fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck. i fucking hate chemistry!” kicking at the leg of the table, you finally stand up and grab your bag. you should keep it together, should keep quiet, but you can’t. you just can’t; it doesn’t make any sense, you studied all night, made sure to read the chapters, and you still managed to fail.

earlier, your advisor had called you into her office for an impromptu meeting. she told you at the end of last semester that failing is not an option, that if you don’t find a way to pass, you’ll be in a bigger mess than you’re currently in. you know your scholarship has always been contingent on how your grades are, and you’ve managed over the years — barely, but you passed regardless. tears threaten to spill onto your cheeks, but you hold them back, instead laughing off your advisor’s terse words, telling her you’ll get it together, and that you won’t disappoint.

she doesn’t believe you, you can tell by her demeanor, by the slight frown that graces her thin, crusty lips, by the way she crosses her arms against her chest while sitting back in her impressively large desk chair. she tuts loudly, but says that she’ll try to support you as best as she can and dismisses you with a nod of her head. it’s the sole reason why you were late to chemistry today — or, rather, one of the reasons; you also happened to oversleep but that is neither here, nor there.

your skin is currently on fire, your mind’s a mess, and your heart can’t keep up with either.

with as much strength as you can muster, you crumble the thick packet of papers and you’re prepared to toss it in the trash when you think better of it. “what-the-fuck-ever,” you mumble, the anger still wafting out of you, smacking eren in powerful waves.

“you need a tutor,” is all he says before giving you a curt look and walking away, joining up with jean and the others. they leave in a small crowd, and soon it’s just you who remains behind. people are used to the way you just yell things without thinking, but this is a little different. the lack of coffee in your morning forces an absurd headache to pound through your head; jaw clenched, you stuff your exam into your bag and stalk away from the classroom, the brisk air cooling you off a bit once you’re back outside.

the coffee shop on campus isn’t great, you prefer the one a few blocks away from the school, but you don’t have the energy to make that long trek, nor do you have your roller blades with you so you can skate over without issue. but once you get that cup — you always buy what’s cheapest on the menu — you instantly feel relief. you sweeten it up as much as you can, smiling to yourself when you feel that familiar buzz fly through you. maybe the rest of your day won’t be too bad; failing a chem exam isn’t going to ruin your life, but dealing with eren like that again might.

so, you choose to steer clear of him all day, until you head to your last class and spot him hanging out with his friends; it’s strange, seeing him so relaxed, laughing despite how serious he is, re-tying his hair with his hair tie as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for him. you watch from around the corner, peeking over at them like a dedicated stalker — except, you’re not exactly stalking per se, you’re scoping out your surroundings. he just happens to be in your line of sight, that’s all.

when he stretches his arms over his head, a yawn falling out of his mouth, his shirt lifts slightly, revealing a bit of his abdomen, the sharp v-cut on his hips, the accompanying hard abs that he should be imprisoned for — the sight has you choking on your coffee, quite literally.

“fuck,” you say out loud, not even caring that a few students look your way, giving you strange looks before whispering. “nope,” you sip more of your coffee, “nope, nope, nope. no, bad y/n.” because talking to yourself is the most normal thing about you. “eren is evil, and annoying, and pompous, and also stupid, and pretty, but that’s besides the point.” you want to curse him for being so handsome, and end up crushing the flimsy disposable cup in your hand when he smiles at something armin says.

if there’s one thing you’ll never get enough of in life, it’s eren’s smile — the genuine one, not the one he gives to the masses, the one that placates them despite its insincerity; where he’s more reserved and severe, his smile makes him appear youthful and friendly, even. you hate it, so much; mostly because of how much you don’t actually hate anything about him. yes, even his terrible personality is likable.

you know, you know, you know — there’s something wrong with you.

it’s mikasa who notices you watching them; her eyes narrow at you in suspicion, which brings a haunting chill down your spine. you’re not sure why, but she’s never really liked you — and it doesn’t matter, you don’t care for her either, but you’ve barely said much to the girl, let alone did anything to piss her off. that you remember, anyway. because the drunk version of you is a menace, you know that already — actually, most people who party with you know that.

but, still.

when eren follows mikasa’s gaze, his smile vanishes completely. now that you’ve been caught, you have no choice but to play things off the best way you can. tossing the crushed cup into the nearest bin, you skip over to the group, smiling broadly, your hair bouncing in a way that tempts eren in the worst kind of way.

jean lets out a low whistle, nudging connie with his elbow hard. “i swear y/n is going to give me a stroke one of these days,” jean boasts loudly, a devilish grin hopping onto his face as he watches you walk over. “i wonder if i ask her to crush me between her thighs, if she’d take me seriously.” the question is typical of jean, but eren’s beyond caring — he feels like pummeling his friend’s face in for even considering asking you that.

he clenches his jaw so hard, he nearly cracks a tooth. mikasa slinks her arm around his protectively, eyeing you cautiously once you arrive.

“hey guys,” you say brightly, tucking a few wild curls behind your ear. connie slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a hug of sorts; eren gives him a sharp look, to which connie releases you almost immediately. you don’t catch the moment, because jean is being flirty again, and asking you out for the tenth time this month.

“aw c’mon, i’ll make it worth your while,” jean says, grinning like a fool and making you laugh. you think jean is quite handsome, he just doesn’t…it definitely won’t work, you’ve made up your mind about that.

“sorry, cutie,” your grin says otherwise and you pat his cheek gently with your hand, “it’s the single life for me.” forever, you want to add, but you don’t.

eren’s hawkish gaze rakes over your body, hating that your skin shows more and more everytime you move around in that damn cropped hoodie. he’s sure that your body is just as soft as the skin on your wrist is, and because he’s not a masochist — not always — he knows not to stick around for too long. you catch his eyes and roll your bottom lip in between your teeth, contemplating how best to navigate around him. he doesn’t give you the option to figure it out just yet, as he tells his friends he’ll see them later.

“you need to stop being so clingy,” he says to mikasa, shrugging her off as he walks away from her too. she stands there stupidly, watching his retreating figure, being comforted by armin and reiner. you’re confused as to what just happened; with your hands on your hips, you look up at jean, a brow raised in accusation.

“what the hell was that all about?”

he blinks and shrugs, but that previous mischievousness comes back in full force. “oh, don’t you know?”

a frown leaps onto your mouth at his question. “no, what don’t i know?”

jean leans closer, dropping his voice to a whisper, before saying, “eren has a crush on you, but he won’t do anything because he’s a damn virgin, can you believe that?”

no, you actually can’t believe that. not the crush part, at least; so it’s sexual frustration that has him acting so standoffish all the time? you’re not sure what to do with the information, even as your cheeks burn again at the thought of eren being interested in you. it can’t be, you refuse it; love is for suckers who willingly want a lifetime of misery. you won’t fall for that shit, not again. not ever.

still, you can’t help but wonder if what jean says is true.

“yeah, sure he does,” your sarcasm is notorious, so jean only rolls his eyes before calling armin over.

“armin, tell y/n that eren likes her, because she doesn’t believe me.” jean looks at his friend expectantly, while you continue to stare at both of them in disbelief.

“well,” armin starts, his blond hair neatly coiffed, not a strand out of place, “he certainly pays more attention to you than he wants us to think.” his voice is even and smooth, like he calculates exactly how his tone should be, which is both impressive and unnerving. “then again, eren hasn’t mentioned liking anyone lately, so…” he casts a glance over at mikasa before looking at you again, and already you can tell he’s about to give you some bullshit excuse.

you hold a hand up to stop him, “save it. i don’t actually care.” it’s a little bitchy, but you forget that those are his friends and not yours. “whether or not eren likes me is his problem, not mine. because i damn sure don’t like him.” the way your throat constricts when you say those words is a problem, but you power through it all anyway. “besides i have better things to think about.” that was more of an aside to yourself than to them, but they hear it anyway.

the boys look at each other in confusion once you walk away. you don’t know why you even bothered; you should’ve run in the opposite direction the moment they spotted you, but you’re stupid — and foolish, very, very foolish.

evening descends faster than you anticipate. when you make it back to your dorm you’re beat, your academic woes eat at you for the entire day, but now you have a bit of time to yourself before you need to head back out again. a nap would be good, but your mind is spinning, thoughts prancing around quickly as you try to make sense of your day. so many embarrassing things happened, but you survived it all, thankfully.

phone in hand, the cracked screen barely allowing you to see the notifications that popped up, you swipe through and set a timer; on the off chance that you do fall asleep, at least the alarm will wake you up. you hope so, anyway.

you’ve discarded the hoodie and your leggings, opting to chill in your bra and panties as you don’t have a roommate and everyone seems to have cleared the floor for the night. the students on campus have a habit of partying constantly — how they maintain their grades is beyond you. eyelids fluttering, you find yourself replaying certain events of the day, and, naturally, eren infiltrates every single thought.

running your hands down your face, frustration eating away at your sanity all over again, you can’t help but remember the intensity behind his green eyes, the sharpness of his jaw, the length of his fingers, and his abs — stupid, stupid, stupid. and also, incredibly attractive.

it’s out of annoyance that a daydream slams into you as you lounge on your bed, one where eren’s hands are roaming down your body, and, it’s out of pure possession — it has to be — that you move your hands too. you’re not surprised to find that your panties are damp, you’ve been aroused all day, despite how much you tried to ignore it. eren is a force of nature that can’t be tamed by any means, but you still find yourself insanely curious about him. still find yourself wondering how it might feel to kiss him — even just once.

with your legs spread apart, you slip your hand into your panties, too bothered to take them off, fingers dipping in between your folds with great familiarity. hips lifting, the tips of your fingers brush along your clit, rubbing soft circles and imagining that it’s eren’s hand instead of yours. would he have a firmer touch? would he go for the plunge and finger-fuck you senselessly? you don’t know and you might never, ever find out; all you do know is that you’re barely holding on, your fingers slipping inside your moist entrance, pussy squeezing around them as you pump them in and out.

because the walls in the dorms are incredibly thin, you do your best to keep your voice down; especially when you insert a third finger, imagining it to be eren’s cock that’s filling you up; he seems like the type who’d have the stamina to fuck you hard and fast, not bothering to slow down because his goal is domination — and it’s a little alarming that the idea of that turns you on. or it would be alarming if you cared enough.

you don’t.

with your free hand, you clamp it over your mouth, plunging your fingers deeper inside of you, your wetness dripping onto your hand and the bed sheets underneath. hips bucking wildly, your moans strangled, and for whatever reason, the idea of someone — namely eren — catching you pushes you over the edge. the sounds of your fingers impulsively thrusting inside of your pussy are indecent, lewd, but also erotic, bouncing around the room, reminding you of just how much you hate the way eren affects you even when he’s not nearby.

the orgasm is more intense than you thought it’d be, your body convulsing as you pant behind your hand; when you pluck your fingers out of your pussy, your arousal coats the insides of your thighs in a way that should embarrass you, but you’re too shaken up to care. a few minutes later, a calmness pours over you, but the realization that you masturbated to the thought of eren has you jumping out of your bed and heading to your bathroom to clean up. shame will eventually find yourself later, but now, you need to get ready for tonight.

eren’s annoyance never wanes; to his displeasure, there’s yet another party he’s required to attend. historia’s birthday is a mandatory affair — mostly because his older brother, zeke, insists that eren keeps up his relationships with certain people — and despite being friends with her, he’d rather do something else. but, duty calls. unfortunately.

he tosses his clothes into the hamper and pads barefoot into his bathroom, the tile surprisingly cold. it’d be wise for him to take a cold shower, rather than a hot one, but he figures the heat will take his mind off of things. once steam wafts out of the shower, eren steps inside, the water scalding, but he’s used to the sting. he feels himself start to relax after a minute or so, and he gradually changes the temperature of the water to something more suitable to shower in for an extended period of time. his cock is still hard — has been for the majority of the day, a painful reminder of how dangerous you are to him.

biting down hard on his lip, he closes his eyes and images of you flood him recklessly. “fuck,” he says gruffly, a groan following after as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock. when you came around him and his friends, he didn’t know what to do; he was so taken by your beauty, by the way your plush lips moved when you spoke, by the way your ass looked tantalizing enough to bite. and then, connie and jean were being their usually goofy selves, except they were all up on you, arousing a level of jealousy that he refuses to admit to. why couldn’t he be the one that you laughed and joked with; why couldn’t he touch you freely without you visibly looking annoyed by his presence; why couldn’t he just get over whatever this was and finally stop thinking about you for good.

the situation was impossible, and as he stroked the length of his cock faster, his grip firm, his anger building slowly. the idea of your mouth wrapped around his cock only makes him want you more; with a hand pressed against the tiled wall in front of him, eren keeps steady, hand fisting his cock like his cock is to blame for all of his troubles. and it probably is, in a way. when your foot touched his leg, he felt like a teenager, full of hormones that dulled his logic; and when he willingly touched your wrist, he thought he might fall apart. eren’s never been comfortable with touching people like that, but with you it was frighteningly easy.

hips jutting forward with each pump of his hand, eren moans out your name, surprisingly, the sound echoing in the bathroom loud enough to stay with him for the rest of the night. the way you’ve completely uprooted his life without even trying is an unforgivable offense. it’s almost like you’re doing it on purpose, and he can’t have that. there are too many unknowns in life, and you’re much too dangerous for him to let you keep disrupting his peace like that.

despite all of his negative thoughts, when he briefly thinks of your thighs, of how badly he wants to drive his cock into your cunt repeatedly, until you can barely stand — let alone walk—he cums quick; his breath comes out in light pants, his cum drips down the tile and onto the floor of the shower, it coats his fingers thickly. the amount shocks him — granted, it’s been a while since he’s been this turned on before — which is another strike against you. the tallies keep adding up, and eren knows that if he doesn’t confront you about it soon, he might implode. shame should flood him relentlessly, but it never comes. strange. so very, very strange.

he takes a long shower after that, scrubbing his body and ridding the shower of his past misdeeds. similarly, you’re also doing your best to purge yourself of him, failing miserably but still trying regardless.

this isn’t the sort of story that ends happily ever after; there are no prince charmings, fairy godmothers, long lost princesses, or curses to break. this is a story of two people who desperately want to deny themselves of one another; of two people who stumble around in the dark, ignoring their intense feelings; and of two people who inevitably have to find out if what they’re feeling is intense lust, or an overwhelming love. there’s a possibility of redemption, and a possibility that, despite the odds, they might find something close to happiness.

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philliamwrites · 1 year

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SWYAATL 15: Dear Comrade

Pairings: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Warnings: alcohol, young adults being horknee, depression at the end

Summary: “Yeah, I am. I’m glad I found you.” You mumble the last bit, plucking the leftover flowers from your dress until you hold the branch of the forget-me-not between your fingers. “And even though we’ll go our separate ways next week, I’m glad we’re friends. It’s weird … you’re someone I don’t want to forget, Eren Jaeger.” You offer him the flower. His eyes, now a dark green, are nothing like the soft blue—they’re different in so many ways, but you like them. Eren takes the flowers from you, looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and settles for putting it in your hair, behind your ear. “I won’t just disappear, you know,” he says, an exasperated tone swinging in his voice as though he’s talking to a three-year-old that’s still struggling with object permanence.

Notes: [01] || [14] | [16]

Words: 9k

A/N: Here we go, folks. Arc 1 of the story is over. I've already started working on Arc 2, and I've already noticed how fast-paced it is compared to what I've written until now. That being said, I can't tell when updates will resume, but I'll take a break from uploading for AoT for the time being. Once I'm back in the new year, I hope I can bring you a more regular upload schedule, but no promises.

Thank you everyone who's been on this ride for me, I can't thank you enough. Especially for the overwhelming love people show for Emil (I'm so surprised there are only asks about him on Tumblr than on the other AoT characters).

15: Dear Comrade

Commander Erwin Smith is a tall, impressive man. You’ve grown used to a handful of the other boys looming over you, but nobody manages to quite tower as Erwin does, making you feel small and insignificant even though you’re supposed to be the most important figure tonight. He’s wearing a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled back to his elbows. With arms the size of logs and shoulders wider than the Walls, nobody dares to stand in his way.

It immediately sobers you up. Now you wish you’d at least worn a jacket or something.

He gives you an elegant, curtsy bow, offering his broad-palmed hand on which a wooden chip rests. “Might I ask for this dance, Maienkoenigin?”

“Uhm”, you say very intelligently. Sir, yes, Sir, is what you should have said. Instead, you blurt, “Should you be out here at all?”

Erwin doesn’t appear bothered by your question—then again, you think more is needed to throw the Commander of the Survey Corps off balance than a skimpy dressed, tipsy woman just fresh out of Cadet Corps.

“Should I and my men not be allowed to join the revelries from time to time?” he asks in return.

You can feel your face ablaze with shame. “I—I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to, Sir.”

Erwin chuckles. “At ease,” he says. “I must admit, I am out here not only for pleasure. I came to have a first look at the cadets. The Survey Corps is always on the lookout for promising new recruits.” He waits patiently for you to finally settle your hand in his, and turns his head to see which song the band strikes up next. On the other side of the plaza, the two string musicians each begin playing different songs, stop, and laugh at their error. When they bow their instruments this time, there’s harmony and the crowd moves in tandem; amongst all the other faces, you spot Marco spinning Mina, and over there is Ymir forcing another tankard of beer down Christa’s throat. It makes you giggle; you want nothing more than to join you friends on the other side of the plaza and dance with Mina and Marco and kiss them both, and find Jean and tell him how much he means to you and how glad you are that he is part of your life—oh, and the Shiganshina three, the Golden Trio, there’s so much you need to tell them, especially Eren, oh Eren—

“I imagine everyone must be excited about graduation,” Erwin says, easily spinning you out of the path of a boisterous couple kicking up their legs in every direction, and successfully yanking your thoughts away from your friends and back to him. “Has anyone voiced their interest in joining the Scouts?”

Your thoughts go right back to Eren, who burns so bright it blinds you whenever he speaks about the Scouts. Mikasa will follow him, of course. There is little you imagine she wouldn’t do for him. And where Mikasa and Eren go, Armin follows. You feel as though with those three alone, the Scouts are about to obtain a whole squad.

“Some,” you say, and try hard not to flinch when Erwin places his hand at the small of your back, leading you through the crowd. He’s an experienced dancer, and you wonder if that’s a hiring requisition for superior ranks. “Though opinions are split, and not in the Scout’s favour.��

You feel Erwin’s gaze on you. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. But then he gives a small, crooked smile, and says, “When is it ever? That doesn’t stop us from doing what we have to do.”

“What’s it like?” Your voice is so quiet, you doubt he hears your words. “The outside?”

Erwin is quiet for a moment. Even though his hands don’t stop to guide you for a moment, he feels as though his mind is far away. In the end, he settles for, “There’s still so much I don’t know,” but he speaks it in a whisper as though they are meant for him alone.

The dance goes on and on; everything spins so fast: the music, the laughter, the warmth from living people. Girls and women spin in circles, their hair—black, brown, scarlet, and metal gold—flows like banners in the wind, and amidst them, silver flashes like a shiny coin. Like the moonlight flashing between dark clouds and illuminating the endless, dark night.

You trip over your own feet, staring in that direction. The only reason you don’t fall is because Erwin catches your arm in time, steadying you. “Is everything alright?” he asks, but it seems very far away. You tear away from him and dive into the crowd in search of what you’ve seen—who you have seen, because there is no mistake that only one person wears hair woven from silver starlight.

Dizzy and disorientated, you dart through the crowd towards the fountain, shouldering people aside, using your knees and elbows as weapons. Cheers and calls follow you which you ignore—you want to be invisible to them all, to throw away the crown and run back to the meadow, run across it barefoot hand in hand with—

The band’s song haunts you; the melody, their voices—it is the only thing that you can hear while running towards him.

O let the earth a-tumble, love, And humble you withal, Keep running. It’s up to you now, Up to you now, love to

Love run, love run For all the things you’ve done Run for all the things that drum Run for all those pages thumbed

Love run, love run For all the things we wished we’d done Run from all you know that’s coming Run to show that love’s worth running to.

When you emerge from the crowd, panting and with your heart trying to break free from your chest, no one with silver hair is waiting for you on the other side. It shouldn’t surprise you, yet you only realise now how much you’ve hoped, how much you’ve depended on the possibility that somehow, by the smallest chance, Emil would appear and surprise you. It feels as though you are losing him all over again—you are an open wound that you have no idea how to close. Tears burn behind your eyes, suddenly the emotions are so overwhelming you feel like you’re drowning in them.

You need to leave. As fast, as far away as you can until you can breathe again, until it doesn’t feel as though you are missing one of your limbs.

You turn and dash towards a narrow side alley—and bump into a solid, hard back. Before you can mumble an apology, a very familiar voice brightens the dark pit in your chest.

“Hey, what’s up?” Eren asks.

You tip your head back to look up at him. Eren used to be your height when you started out in the Cadet Corps, but now he looms over you, almost a whole head taller. Something about seeing him right now takes the wind out of your sails—you’ve searched for a haven and while you haven’t arrived where you want to be, maybe you’ve arrived where you need to be.

“I—I’m okay. I’m okay now,” you respond finally, unable to look away from Eren’s face. He dips his chin a little, as if sensing there is more you’re about to say, but when nothing comes, he gives you a crooked smile and turns to disappear back into the crowd. Something about the sight of his broad shoulders retreating closes up your throat, wedges sharp needles into your mouth.

“Stay,” you say, catching his wrist, feeling his hot skin. Eren stops, turns slowly. “Don’t leave. Please.”

He looks up from your hand to your face and studies it; studies your face for the answers to the questions flickering in his eyes. They pierce through you, hook right under your skin. Usually, you’d hate to lie bare and vulnerable before someone, but it’s different with Eren. Until recently, there was only one person whose thoughts you cared to know—what they thought about you, specifically. Now, Eren has become that person.

Slowly, Eren reaches for your hand and untangles it from his shirt. Your heart drops to the bottom of your stomach, but before you can say anything or move away, he takes your hand and leads you away from the feast through narrow alleyways, hidden away from prying eyes. It’s quiet here, and deeply dark. A few couples have sought that secrecy and are together now, joined at the lips, pressed close against the walls. Another song has begun, but slower.

Eren slows only when you reach the gates leading outside Trost District. He leads you off the path to where the grass fields stretch like silver patches under the moonlight. Immediately, you notice how much easier breathing is out here in this quiet, calm place. You take off your flower crown and drop it behind a crate, and hope you will never have to wear a crown again.

You find an empty spot down by the riverbank and sink down into the grass, the earth still warm from the day’s sunlight. You’re surprised. For the loud mouth Eren is, he can be quiet when it matters. The only light source comes from a big campfire people have put up near the water. It casts Eren in a warm glow that softens the planes of his face. He looks younger—like on the day you met on the first day of training when his eyes looked big for his face. His eyelashes are still stupidly long, stupidly dark—curving like the crescent moon above your heads. Light stubble runs along his sharp jaw. You wonder how his skin would feel to the touch.

You’re certain Eren is aware of your eyes on him, but he keeps staring ahead unblinkingly, waiting for you to fill the silence. He’s putting your back against a wall like that. You don’t know how much longer you can run. From him, from yourself—always towards the past as though Time itself slows to let you play, stealing the hours and turning the night into day.

You let your hands roam over the soft grass, and feel your fingers stumble over leaves and petals.

An idea blossoms.

You pluck the flowers from the ground and begin to weave a crown.

“You know, this means affection and admiration,” you say and show Eren a purple-crowned dianthus. He blinks. “And this,” you continue, presenting a lilac aster right under his nose, “means I will remember you.” You pick up the next flower. “This is Forget-Me-Not.”

“Let me guess,” Eren says. “Don’t forget me?”

“So smart.”

He grins. This grin makes something deep inside you unfurl, like a petal opening up its secrets to the sun.

You return to your craft, fumbling with thin stems and fragile pallets that break off and tear under your touch. Eren watches you struggle for a good minute. When he speaks, the amusement in his voice is like soft wind grazing through leaves. “Need help?”

“I’m good, I’m just—” The stems unweave and slip through your fingers like seams coming unknitted. The sweet smell of crushed petals fills the night. Nothing you do makes the crown hold—and then you realise why.

You let the flowers fall into your lap and blink at them, feeling your eyes grow heavy. “He never showed me.”

Eren tilts his head towards you.

“He never taught me,” you repeat, a quiver to your voice, “how to make flower crowns.”

Eren clears his voice. “Who…?”

“Emil!” You stretch out your hand, showing off his ring, grinning. The crimson sphere flashes almost threateningly like spilt blood.

Eren is quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on your slender finger and the ring. “I’ve heard you mention him,” he finally says, turning his head away. His side profile seems suddenly like a stranger’s, sharp and uninviting. “Who is he?”

“My fiancée,” you announce proudly.

He turns his head so fast and sharp in your direction, you hear a bone crack in his neck.

“You’re engaged?” he asks, but there is a very unfamiliar, un-Eren like tone to his voice that makes you look at him.

You don’t think Eren has ever looked at you like this. As though you are a glass of water and he is dying of thirst, but unable to reach you. As though you are the only patch of cool, green grass in a never-ending stretch of parched, grey land. You have only seen yearning on Eren’s face when he talks about killing all Titans and going outside the Walls. It makes you feel as though you are an exposed nerve, tender and raw to the slightest touch. If Eren would reach out right now and put his fingers to your skin, surely you would combust.

His eyes seem to reach deep into you, hooking into the words buried deep in your chest, and yanking them out painfully.

“He’s dead,” you say quietly, your grin slowly fading. “I think … otherwise, he would be here. With me.”

Eren’s voice is barely audible. “Was it in Shiganshina?”

You nod, and nod, and keep nodding, feeling a thick lump in your throat. You bring your knees up to your chest, your hands wedged in the fabrics of your dress to keep them warm. Only when Eren puts his jacket around your shoulders, you notice your body is shaking, but the moment his warm knuckles brush your collarbones, the cold inside your body dissipates. The fabric is warm from his skin, the collar smells like him. You duck your head, trying to bury yourself inside his jacket.

“You know, not one day passes where I don’t miss him so much it feels that I might die,” you say, quietly, more to yourself than to him. “I don’t know if you’ve ever felt something like this.”

Eren holds your stare. If the silence is bait, you don’t take it. You inhale, slowly. You smell food and the riverbed: mud and spice, with the slight after-taste of human pollution. And sweetness; ripe flowers ready to harvest for bees and insects.

“My Mom,” he finally says after a long moment. He stretches out his long legs, then reconsiders and pulls his knees back up to his chest, mirroring your position. “I saw my Mom die five years ago and the first days after that were like hell.”

You nod. You know what that feels like. Glancing over at Eren, you think about taking his hand and squeezing it—to show that he is not alone in that grief, that you know his pain. But when you look at his hand, you find it already balled into a tight fist by his side.

Weirdly enough, it makes you smile. Of course Eren would not allow himself to break. Instead, he steels his grief into rage, into desperation, into resolve.

“We’ve lost … so much … we’re trapped like fucking cattle ready for slaughter.” Eren forces a deep, shuddering breath inside his lungs. You can see the veins along his arms stand out, and suddenly your mouth goes very dry. “I can’t live like this. Nobody should live like this.”

“You have big dreams, Eren.” You bump into his side, feeling his strong arms hard like walls against yours. He doesn’t budge. “Maybe you’ll set us all free one day.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but you see the corners of his mouth twitch. “If we ever bring down the Walls, I’ll definitely line up to throw a dynamite or two.”

“And then? What then?” It is a strange feeling, talking about a future you know won’t exist, but there is a quiet place in your heart that tries to imagine a life with no Titans, with no boundaries. It would look like a small Haven of trees, brushes hung heavy with glossy berries, red and purple and black, and small trees hung with oddly-shaped fruits you’ve never seen before and that would be home—you take a sharp breath in. Gone is the smell of green, of living and growing things, of dirt and the roots that grow in dirt, and as you blink away the picture that’s fading behind your closed lids, slipping from your mind even though you have no idea where it has come from in the first place, you hear Eren still talking: “… and after Armin and I see the ocean, I don’t know. We’ll explore the world. Find all the places in Armin’s book he always talks about. And then … I’ll pee in every major body of water on earth?”

“Oh my God.”

“You asked.” Eren bumps back into your side and you nearly topple over. When you straighten yourself, he’s looking at you curiously. Whatever he sees must satisfy him because he turns away, smiling to himself.

“What?” you ask.

“I see you’re feeling better.”

The question surprises you enough that you need two takes to open your mouth and give a response. And then you understand, he’s been trying to cheer you up. Nothing outlandish. Still, it’s like a died-out ember in your chest rekindles a fire.

“Yeah, I am. I’m glad I found you.” You mumble the last bit, plucking the leftover flowers from your dress until you hold the branch of the forget-me-not between your fingers. “And even though we’ll go our separate ways next week, I’m glad we’re friends. It’s weird … you’re someone I don’t want to forget, Eren Jaeger.”

You offer him the flower. His eyes, now a dark green, are nothing like the soft blue—they’re different in so many ways, but you like them. Eren takes the flowers from you, looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and settles for putting it in your hair, behind your ear.

“I won’t just disappear, you know,” he says, an exasperated tone swinging in his voice as though he’s talking to a three-year-old that’s still struggling with object permanence. “After graduation, whenever our old Corps meets, I’ll annoy the shit out of you. Don’t think you can slack off in sparring just because I’m not there to kick your ass.”

“Last time I checked, I kicked your ass.”

Eren throws up his hands. “Because Mikasa was distracting me!”

You wave his excuses away, then stave off a yawn. The feast doesn’t show any signs of stopping yet, but you know the second your head hits the pillow, you’ll be out cold. Which is exactly why you lie down in the soft grass, looking up at the vast starry sky above you.

“If you fall asleep, I’ll leave you here, you know,” you hear Eren say, your eyes already closed.

“No, you won’t,” you say, and just to be sure, you hook your fingers around one of his belt loops. Something suspicious like a snort comes from Eren, but his warm presence beside you remains until you fall asleep, dreaming of juniper berry bushes and trees greener than any you’ve known.

The land is bare of grass, of plants, of life. It is a vast, never-ending wasteland of rolling sand hills where every grain twinkles like little stars no matter which direction you turn. It is an alien, strange place that feels familiar at the same time. You’ve been here before, but something is missing. Someone.

His name lies on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t remember the feel or sound of it. Sometimes, you think you see someone standing on the horizon, but when you catch up, that person is gone like a mirage. The frustration builds, the taste filling your mouth with copper. When your eyes spy the person once more, you decide to call out: “Er—”

“You see someone more interesting than me?” asks Emil by your side.

You blink, dazzled, and when he offers you his hand, you take it. It feels the same as all those years ago, but nothing about him is the same. Or is it? You close your eyes for just a moment, and he smiles at you, his boyish face still young and round. “There’s no one more interesting than you,” you say, because that is the truth. “It’s just this place. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Sandy hills and a never-ending starry sky stretch before you to all sides. There’s something else, something very bright and very big, but whenever you try to look at it, it disappears, and you wonder if maybe you’re just imagining it.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” says a voice that isn’t Emil’s. You find that Emil has disappeared, and you are now standing with Eren. It’s the same game: he looks different and at the same time he doesn’t. Older, but also still how you remember him.

“Where’s Emil?” you ask, turning. You see Mikasa with Armin, and Jean who is holding a sleeping Marco in his arms, brushing away ink-black curls from his forehead. Something about Marco seems strange though, as if half of his side is turning into sand.

“What are you talking about?” Eren says. “This place is for the living.” His hands are cool on yours, and you are aware of them in a way you have not been of Emil’s as he turns you away from Marco’s sight.

You narrow your eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

He leans close. You can feel his lips against your ear. They are not cool at all. “Wake up, [Name],” he whispers. “Wake up. Wake up.”

You bolt upright in bed, gasping, hair plastered to your neck with cold sweat. Your wrists are held in a hard grip; you try to pull away, then realise who is restraining you. “Eren?”

“Yeah.” He’s sitting on the edge of the bed—how have you gotten into a bed?—looking tousled and half-awake, with early-morning hair and sleepy eyes.

“Let go of me.”

“Sorry.” His fingers slip from your wrists. “You tried to hit me the second I said your name.”

“I’m a little jumpy, I guess.” You glance around. You’re in a small bedroom furnished with dark wood. By the quality of the faint light coming in through the half-open window, you guess it’s dawn, or just after. Your uniform-jacket hangs neatly folded across the back of a chair. “How did I get here? I don’t remember…”

“You fell asleep right next to me.” Eren sounds amused. “Mikasa helped me get you to bed. She also changed your clothes. Thought you’d be more comfortable here than on the cold ground.”

“Wow. I don’t remember anything.” You run your hands over your face, feeling your swollen cheeks from a long, deep slumber. Maybe you’ve had more alcohol than you’d expected. “What time is it, anyway?”

“About five.”

“In the morning?” You glare at him. “You’d better have a good reason for waking me up.”

“Why?” Eren asks, leaning back on his heels, grinning. For some reason this is the exact moment your brain notices you and Eren are sitting on the same bed, and you are very close to each other. He must have changed his clothes before waking you up—gone is the rumpled black sweatshirt and in its stead Eren is wearing a simple white military shirt. “Were you having a good dream?”

You can still feel cold sand between your toes, see stars twinkle before your eyes. You think there were certain people in your dream, people you knew, but the details are blurry. “I don’t remember.”

He stands up. “We’ve got our rifle rehearsal, remember? Shadis sent me to kick your ass out of bed. Actually, Jean offered to wake you up, but since it’s five in the morning, I figured you’d be less cranky if you had something nicer to look at than his horseface.”

“Meaning you?”

Eren’s grin grows tenfold. “What else?”

You throw a pillow after him, but Eren is already up and about, and out of the door before you can grab something else.

Just for a moment, you consider falling back into your bed and pretend the next couple of days don’t exist. Somewhere on the other side of the compound you hear Shadis’ roars, and decide to get up pretty quickly.

Twenty minutes later, everyone stands ready. Rifle in hand, half of them visibly fighting their hangover, the rehearsal goes as smoothly as planned: Sasha stumbles twice, and Samuel and Connie go down with her. For a moment, Shadis looks like he doesn’t want to say anything, but then he simply states you’d be all dead if those rifles were loaded, and proceeds to procure a bucket of water to douse them like filthy street cats.

It gives you a small break where you set out to find Jean. Compared to three years ago when around four hundred soldiers enlisted, only half of that number remains today. Many of them are foreign faces, and you doubt you’ll ever find friendship in any of them since your group has pretty much remained the same ever since the first weeks of trainee days.

On the other side of the plaza you spot Mikasa and Eren. She’s plucking at his clothes, which he is invisibly annoyed about, but it is a different type of annoyed than when he’s around Jean—it seems more long suffering while endearing at the same time, and for a moment you can’t help but just stare at them and realise for the first time that they look good together. They’ve known each other since childhood, and Mikasa is rarely apart from Eren. You wonder what that would be like, to know him in and out and say things that make him laugh, make him blush—just like Mikasa is doing right now, but then from this distance you see her mouth from something that looks like your name and you stare even harder until she must feel you staring like a physical presence and turns.

Catching Mikasa’s eyes, you grow even more convinced that they are discussing you, that Mikasa can read you like a book, can see through to your very soul, and is telling Eren all your secrets. As if you are shouting this aloud, Eren turns at that very moment and looks at you, breaking into an elated smile as he waves his rifle dramatically in the air, and you smile back, waving yours in return, and receive a clap to the back of your head from Shadis for your troubles. As you rub your head in pain, you see Eren laughing in delight, and that alone makes it all worth the trouble.

“Bam,” comes Jean’s voice from your side. When you turn, you see him lower his rifle. “I just shot you.”

Changing the rifle from your left to right shoulder, you follow him back to your positions to restart the rehearsal. “You know I’d come back and haunt your ass. And don’t point it at people, it’s rude.”

You can practically hear Jean rolling his eyes when he says, “Whatever.”

Back in your line, you follow the steps and march in tandem with everyone else. In front of you, Jean continues quietly enough for only you to hear, “We practised rifle handling for this one thing; what a waste of time. It’s not like we’ll ever use them against other people.”

“I guess they’re just making sure to cover the whole syllabus. I don’t like thinking about having to point that at someone else.”

“You sure as hell won’t have to,” Jean says, whipping around, bringing the rifle across his chest to his other shoulder. You do the exact same, staring up at the back of Reiner’s head. From the stiffness of his broad shoulders, you can see he’s very tense. Maybe he’s taking this rehearsal a little too seriously.

You only get the last bit of Jean’s sentence because he unobtrusively pokes you in the back with the end of his rifle. “From what I’ve heard about the MP, you’ll have your occasional thug but actual casualties are very rare.”

“Seven more days,” you whisper back. “Will you be okay without me? Who’s going to pull your ass out of trouble?”

“I’m pretty sure Marco’s got that covered.” Jean turns his head, probably on the lookout for the culprit in question. You go very still, but from the lack of Jean going on, you’re pretty sure Marco has still not found a good time to talk to Jean.

“You know, there’s still time to reconsider,” you say in just the moment the rehearsal reaches the stage where your fake rifles go off and make a deafening bang noise.

Jean turns his head, the ‘Huh?’ clearlywritten on his face.

You pretend you didn’t say anything. Maybe things are progressing the way they are for a reason.

From the 344 recruits who started out at the very beginning, only 218 graduated.

On the evening Shadis announces the Top Ten trainees, nobody is surprised to see the ten best lining up before your instructor. You feel immensely proud that both Jean and Marco have managed to hold their ground. But to you, standing in the back between Mina and Armin feels right.

All you care about is the celebration that’s right after that—the last evening you’ll spend with the majority of your friends before everyone heads off. Understandably so, Jean’s constant reminder to ‘not enter the boys’ barracks after’ gets more and more frustrating.

“Why?” you say through a mouth full of steamed potatoes. “Are you guys comparing dick sizes?”

Someone who listens in on the table across from you chokes on their spit.

“We want to have a guy’s night, what’s so unusual about it? You girls do … whatever you girls do. Have a pillow fight or whatever. But don’t come into our barracks, got it?”

True to the nature of your friendship, obviously you barge into the boys’ barracks after the graduation celebration is over. And what timing you have. Swinging the door wide open, you enter at the exact moment Jean declares proudly that in a life or death scenario, he’d totally be down for a threesome with you and Marco.

You freeze. Everyone in the room freezes. Marco unsuccessfully hides the bottle of booze behind his back. It tips over and he shrieks as red liquid spills across the wooden floor. Multiple boys boo at him, and you realise they’re all drunk.

Jean raises his eyes to yours, and you trade a look that feels like a dare. Somehow, you can’t really take a hold of what expression to make—it ranges from confusion to slight disgust to mild interest at how exactly the logistics of such a scenario would look.

Realising there’s only one thing you can do right here, right now, you take a step back and close the door again, willing to forget this ever happened. Three steps is all you’re able to make before the door flies open again, rough hands grab you and manhandle you back into the room.

“You better not tell anyone we got booze here, or I’m gonna dunk your head inside a latrine,” Daz hisses. He’s the opposite of intimidating at any given moment, but now, wobbling on both feet while pointing a shaky finger at you, even a newly born puppy has more bark to it.

You discreetly swipe away the cool spit he’s graciously sprayed over your cheek.

“So, that’s the reason girls are not allowed?” you say, putting on your best Ida-performance to show how disappointed you are. “You’re going to hoard all that and don’t invite us?”

Across the room, Samuel shrugs. “The more people know, the easier Shadis might catch wind of what we’re doing here.”

“Yeah, he’ll skin us alive.”

“I think,” you say, very slowly, “we should get everyone in here and have a final blast before tomorrow.” That didn’t get the reaction you’ve expected, but it is met with less resistance than before. “And we can also,” you add, wiggling your eyebrows, “maybe play some games? Make it exciting.”

Not ten minutes later, the boys’ barracks is cramped. Every open space around the low centre table has been taken by someone as they sit huddled together, shoulder pressed against shoulder. You’ve organised more tankards from the kitchen, and now you’re sipping from the sweet meed Daz has organised somehow. After asking him for the third time and him refusing to explain, you’ve given up and accepted this might remain the greatest secret of Cadet Time.

“So, what games did’ya have in mind?” Samuel asks after the initial excitement has settled down while everyone is nursing their drink. You can feel Jean’s body pressing against your side, clearly interested in what you’ll come up with.

“I got these,” you declare, and present a dozen wooden skewers you’ve helped yourself to, “so we can play the King’s Game.”

A couple “Oooh”s and “Aaah”s later, everyone who wants to participate has settled around the table. Since it was your idea, you can be Queen first, and you’re not here to hold hostages. While swirling the mead in your tankard, your first order is, “Number 3 has to give number 5 a kiss on the cheek.”

When Connie and Samuel rise at the same time, the rest giggles and whistles, but the boys don’t back down. Alcohol is always a nice confidence booster, so Connie makes a big show of smacking a wet smooch onto Samuel’s cheek, earning them a round of applause for that.

“Okay, my turn.” Connie downs the rest of his beverage, then smacks his lips. “I want number 4 to give number 1 a piggy back ride.”

Reiner stirs, showing his skewer with a number 1 carved into the wood. When Christa climbs to her feet, wobbly like a flagpole swaying in harsh wind, the room erupts with laughter.

“I can do it,” she mumbles to herself, her usual pale face a canvas of red—the culprit of it sitting right next to her and cackling like a maniac. Over the last years, Ymir has perfected the art of getting Christa drunk before anyone can notice and stop her. It’s quite funny to her until Reiner offers to give Christa a piggyback instead, and all Hell breaks loose.

Next to you, Jean scoffs. “Like animals,” he says, but when you look up at him, he has a goofy smile on his face. You can’t say how much mead he’s had until his glassy eyes drop down to you and he leans into your space, arching over you until your shoulders touch.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he mumbles, his breath soft against your cheek. You feel the pinprick of tears at the back of your eyes and blink against them. He can’t pull that shit the night before you go your separate ways.

Before you can reply, someone is tugging at your sleeve. When you turn, somehow magically a new skewer with a new number has manifested in your hand.

“Seven’s gotta sit on Nine’s lap,” Sasha whispers conspiratorially. She points at you, then across the table, where Eren is looking at you with a very weird expression. “By the King’s order.”

You whip your head around and find Reiner grinning at you. Jean’s presence immediately vanishes when he leans away, looking sickly pale all of a sudden when he stares somewhere else, his jaw held tightly shut as if he’s just bitten into glass.

This is a bad idea, without a doubt—but the other, much louder part of your brain thinks challenge accepted.

You crawl over to Eren who eyes you as though he’s just waiting for the hidden dagger to slash forward and cut him open, and throw one leg over his lap. Good balance so far. You sit more on his knees than on his thighs, which is enough for the first round of whistles and unnecessary remarks from your comrades. Eren has found a very interesting spot somewhere behind your shoulder that demands his complete, undisturbed attention.

“Kids, you gotta do it properly,” Reiner says, and with a slap to your back, he pushes you flush against Eren’s hips. You choke on your spit. Eren yelps.

Reiner grins. “Exactly like that.”

“Okay, okay, we get it.” You try to weasel some space between you and Eren’s pelvis, but the only place of leverage is his arms. It’s different from hand-to-hand-combat practice where touching bodies is inevitable and you’re too occupied thinking about ways to bring your opponent down than worry about girls and boys accidentally touching where they shouldn’t. But this is deliberate, and now that your hands cling to his arms to regain your balance, you notice the strong chord of muscles tensing under his shirt. His solid thighs easily holding your weight. You don’t doubt if his shirt would lift slightly, the sight of firm abs would greet you.

“Don’t move,” he hisses, grabbing onto your thighs to prevent you from squirming. It gets the desired effect, immediately shutting you up, freezing you on the spot. It also does something weird to your body. You want to close your legs, pretend modesty is a thing that you guys still do around here, but you don’t have to be a genius to understand friction is the last thing Eren needs, and that’s why he’s got an iron grip around your thighs.

Why are so many people cramped up in this tiny room, it’s so fucking hot in here. You still don’t meet Eren’s eyes. You’re close enough to feel him breathing, feel the heat radiating off his body. Not knowing what to do with your hands, they just fumble needlessly in front of you, your fingers curling into the hem of your shirt to do something. Someone laughs really loud at the back of the room.

Eren clears his throat quietly. “Nervous?”

Finally, your eyes meet. His seem darker than usual, a deeper green like a lush forest dancing to strong wind picking up before a storm. This close, you could count every single one of his long lashes.

“Why would I be?” You lean back slightly, but the friction is enough to make Eren tighten his grip around your thighs. You can feel his nails dig into your skin through the fabric of your trousers. “If anything, I get the feeling you’re the one who can’t keep up, Jaeger.”

Eren executes an eye roll that must give him a spectacular view of the inside of his skull. No wonder Jean can’t keep his cool. Or maybe it’s just an Eren-thing, infuriating those around him. A match to an explosive barrel.

You’ll give him one.

“Nervous?” you ask with a mean grin that furrows Eren’s eyebrows in question for a second. Then you roll your hips against his once but hard enough for him to feel the heat between your legs. His expression is priceless, absolutely dumbfounded and stupid and laughter rises in your throat—

Eren throws you off his lap, already on his legs and charging out of the cabin into the cool night. Thankfully most of the other cadets are too busy whooping at Sasha drinking loads of beer from an improvised funnel Connie and Samuel are holding up for her. Only Mikasa has paid attention, and is now rushing after Eren while you return back to Jean’s side. He nibbles on a dried cracker and barely spares you a glance.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Jean asks. He sounds impatient, and when he snaps his jaw shut on the cracker, it reminds you of a guillotine slamming down.

“What’s wrong with your face?” you snap back.

“No, I mean if you’ve got a fever or something, go to bed.”

“Just eat your damn crackers, Jean.”

You try to hide your burning face behind your arms, knees bent up to your chin—a small ball of embarrassment because who could have thought your little joke on Eren would backfire so bad. In that split of a second before he threw you off, his neck and face completely flushed an angry red, Eren looked absolutely ready to devour you. Desire is a dangerous look on him.

From across the room, you catch Reiner’s eyes. Mischief glints in them as he raises his cup in mock salute to you, presenting himself to be the true pyromaniac all along.

❀❀❀

“I’m going to escape these Walls. That’s my dream. Mankind hasn’t been wiped out yet. We deserve to be out there; we are free. We were born into this world to see it.”

When you turned, expecting to see Eren because you so clearly remember him saying those exact words at the graduation ceremony, you saw Emil sitting by your side instead. His eyes were closed, his long, pale lashes resting against his high cheekbones. You remembered how often he said that word, but you didn’t fully understand what he meant.

“What is freedom?” you asked, burrowing your bare toes into the warm soil.

Emil kept his eyes closed. He picked a flower and placed it on his lips. You’d never wished so hard in your life to be able to turn into a flower. He was lying next to you, his fingers resting interwoven on his chest. “It means to do and feel what you want without anyone holding you back or stopping you.”

“That sounds great.” You looked out at the riverbed. It seemed to sparkle more than usual today. “We could get there, one day. It doesn’t sound all that hard.”

“You think?” Emil opened his eyes and looked up at you. His eyes twinkled just like the river. “Look around. All these flowers. Who do they belong to?”

“Hm … nobody? Everyone!”

“Fair enough. Then, pick one that you really like.”

When you looked around, searching for forget-me-not, you spotted a nine-petalled, white flower stretching its small head towards you. “This one,” you said, pointing at it.

Emil made a small sound at the back of his throat. When you turned to him, he was already staring somewhere else, but he looked as though he’d swallowed something sharp. He bent over and ripped the flower out of the ground. “This,” he said, “is my flower now. Even though you really want it. What will you do now?”

“Ask you nicely to give it to me. Because I know you will.”

Emil smiled at that. “Pretend I am not someone nice. Pretend I am someone who is a bad person.”

“Not you.” Your reply came immediately. “Not ever.”

“Then, Marianne,” he continued, and like you knew he would, he put the flower behind your ear, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. “If it were Marianne who took what you wanted, what would you do?”

You pulled a face. “Leave her, I guess. She can have it. But I’d be very sad.”

“Exactly. She is free to do what she wants, and what she wants is to take this flower. And even though you want it too, only stealing it back from her would make you happy. Because you as well are free to do what you want.”

Your head spun from the possibilities. Emil squeezed your hand. “And what if…,” he continued in a voice that was utterly unfamiliar to you, “…what if what you want is to hurt others?”

“It’s wrong.”

Emil chuckled. “Says who?”

“It’s … it’s common sense,” you tried to argue, but it sounded weak and naive even to your own ears.

“Common sense dictates we do not kill, we do not steal. Did you know there are people living underground who have never seen the sky? Who are not allowed to come up here and enjoy the fresh air? Enjoy the feeling of the sun. They kill and steal to survive. Is that still wrong? To do what you need to do to survive?”

You grew very silent. Listening to Emil, he almost seemed like a different person.

“Look at these walls.” Emil looked up. The warmth in his eyes disappeared. “We want to go outside, see the world. But we can’t. Because there are Titans outside. Because there are enemies outside these Walls. It’s unfair, isn’t it?”

“But these Walls protect us,” you shot back. “Without them, Titans would come in and eat us.”

“I suppose that is true. Sometimes, I just wonder … if they as well simply do not have a choice.”

“Which means…” you said slowly, realisation dawning, “Titans … aren’t free?”

The corner of Emil’s mouth pulled up in a rueful smile. His eyes were almost sorrowful. “I suppose … if they feel anything at all.”

“You’re always on top of those things, Emil,” you marvelled, squeezing his hand back. “You’re kind and so full of sympathy for everyone and everything. See, that’s why you could never be a bad person.”

The warmth returned to his eyes, lightening them up to the colour of the early morning sky. “If you say so, then it must be true.”

Before you could forget it, feeling the soft petals of the flower tickling your cheek, you asked, “By the way, what flower is this? I always see it on you.”

And for the first time since you had known him, Emil lied to you: “I don’t know.”

❀❀❀

You have a feeling the headache pounding at the back of your head the next morning isn’t solely because of the booze escapade the night before. Your body doesn’t feel as weary and heavy as the day after May Day a week ago, this type of lethargy is a different kind. You pin it on the upcoming events later in the day, and focus on your current task organising everything for the cannon maintenance at the top of Wall Rose.

Marco has been quietly helping you with that for some time. The creases on his forehead run deeper than the canyons cutting into the earth south of Wall Rose. Everything points to the source of his concern being Jean, currently occupied checking the gas stock for the cylinders, still, you ask the million coins question: “Have you spoken to Jean yet?”

As though he’s been waiting for you to ask that, his reply comes immediately: “I’ll talk to him later. After the preparations. I asked him to wait for me in the backyard at HQ. Before we head off to Sina.” He shrugs. “Or maybe we won’t head off. I’m not sure how to tackle that exactly.”

You think of how much value Jean puts into Marco’s opinion; how he eats up Marco’s words right up like a starving man.

“I don’t think it matters how. You got this. He’ll listen if it’s you, Marco.”

Marco stays silent. He clears his throat when he notices you staring at him, and gives you a wry smile. “We’re talking about Jean here. He can be as stubborn as you.”

“I could beat him up for you. Make him listen.”

The wry smile turns into a full-blown grin. He puts a little more enthusiasm into helping you secure the crates with ropes onto the wooden platform that lifts you up to the top of the Outer Wall. You like this Marco better than the sombre one. You continue working like that for some time until everything is loaded onto the platform and you give Marco the sign to turn on the mechanism that lifts you up.

“You ever wonder,” he says suddenly, thumb resting on the button. When he looks at you, it feels a little as though he’s seeing through you. “… if what we want and what we need are different things?”

You wait for him to continue when you realise he doesn’t mean it as a rhetorical question. “I think it’s enough sometimes to settle for what we want. We might never know what we need.”

“Maybe,” sighs Marco. “But what if the moment is there all of a sudden and you have to make a decision?” He kneads the back of his neck, then shakes his head like a puppy shaking water off its fur, trying to disperse his thoughts. “I’m talking nonsense, sorry. Today is hard enough on most of us. I’ll see you later for the distribution banquet.” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond and presses the button. With a jolt, the platform rises, and you hold onto a crate, watching as Marco grows smaller and smaller. He salutes up to you by putting two fingers to his temple. You wave back, trying to swallow around the lump in your throat.

Maybe that was his try at convincing you to change your path as well. It would be great, staying together like this for the next few years until it is time to discharge. But somehow you doubt it would be that easy to convince Jean otherwise, and you’ve already made yourself acquainted with Trost’s Garrison unit and its captain, Hannes. Of course, now that you won’t see him for some time, you find a better answer for Marco’s question: That sometimes, you settle for what you can get. That you can’t have it all.

On top of the wall, Connie is the first to greet you. “We got worried you two bailed on us,” he says, immediately tackling the ropes and disentangling them from the crates. The rest of the group is already maintaining the canons and cleaning them up. Whoever was on duty to supervise you, they’re nowhere in sight.

“Sorry, we lost track of time chatting.” You help him carry the necessary instruments and tools. When Mina sees you, her face lights up and she says something to Thomas. He looks over and grins. Sasha looks over and grins, too. It feels as though they’re all in on a conspiracy and you’re the only one left out, radiating a fervent energy that is like a flame jumping from source to source.

“What’s up with everyone?” you ask Connie.

He drops a crate, ignoring the rattling inside it and dusts himself down. “They’re just excited ‘cause Sasha swiped some meat from the pantry.”

“She did?” You rivet your eyes on her until she notices your stare. Holding your hand up in an OK-sign, she grins and throws a hand up in return. Mina squeaks—and maybe that is a little too much excitement for something as simple as that, which should have given you reason to wonder. Connie sniffs indiscreetly. “Oh, and we’re all gonna join the Scouts.”

You drop your hand and stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“Nuh-uh. I guess Eren’s little speech yesterday left an impression on us all.” He shrugs, as though a decision like that is not worth the hustle. You want to take him by his shoulders and smack his head against a wall. By divine intervention or just honed survival instinct, he decides just then to join the others and leave to your crisis.

They must think you’ll join the Survey Corps as well. But this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. You don’t just decide something like that in the spur of the moment. “What if the moment is there all of a sudden and you have to make a decision?” You wonder if Marco is in on this, and it’s all a huge conspiracy.

You take a step forward to set things right, and maybe give Mina a good shake to remind her this isn’t what you two agreed upon, this isn’t what you two wanted—

The sight is breathtaking.

It is your second time on top of the wall. Cadets are usually allowed only after their graduation because Shadis doesn’t trust you not to kill yourself by stumbling off the edge. Maybe it’s the final step for him to recognise his fledglings have grown into hunting birds capable of soaring through the skies and every year he pushes that as far away as possible.

The sight never ceases to amaze you. All along the horizon, mountains rise and fall in full splendid, covered with forests and cut through my glistening lakes and rivers. Giant, stark-white clouds rise behind them and paint the blue horizon with a severe beauty that has you shuddering with the realisation how close you are to the sky.

This is it. The sight Emil has always dreamt of, that he had longed to see for himself. The endless world; to leave the small cage and see the big world. The thought makes your heart race with wonder and excitement and fear—all after just seeing the possibility.

What if, what if, what if … what we want and what we need are different things?

“Hey, be careful.” Eren’s voice is like an anchor pulling you back to the present. You haven’t noticed him approaching, but now he’s standing close to you.

When you look at him, you blink until the sting at the back of your eyes disappears. “The wind’s really something up here, huh,” you say, rubbing your eyes dry.

Eren’s jaw works for a moment before he turns and takes the world in. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “It’s something.”

It feels like no more words are needed. He gets it.

“You have to tell me,” you mumble. “What you’ll find beyond the horizon. Okay? Whenever you leave to kick Titans’ asses, you have to come back and tell me.”

Eren turns to you. The wind tears at his hair, but he stands firmly. Nothing can throw him off. “Of course I’ll come back,” he says like it’s nothing. He doesn’t know what this promise untethers inside you. Your knees wobble. It feels as though you have peeled back every layer of your hopes and fears and dreams and laid them bare before him. The weight of your heart seems to tear you apart with the words that you wish you could say. And for a time there is timelessness; endless stillness that holds the picture that is you two standing at the edge of the world stretching across the horizon when overhead, lightning in the sky turns the world white and summons the Destroyer of Worlds.

As you stare into the eyes of the Colossal Titan, stomach roiling with panic, you can’t help but notice, distantly, how human its eyes seem.

A/N: Today’s The Amazing Devil’s song I’m shoving down your throats: Not Yet / Love Run (Reprise)

***

Taglist: @arisu003, @brooki, @prttyangelbaby, @honeylmnade, @berriesandcrem

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