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tea time for anon. prompt: scars

the fun thing about eruri is i don’t adhere to too many strict headcanons. i have written this a few times: “good byes”[x]“confession”[x], “postwar dreaming (reprise)[x]”. when it comes down to it i have two distinct headcanons… canon!levi confesses first, opposed to modern!erwin who does it.

but i’m all about writing this again. this is inspired by @autiacora‘s piece, “scars”[x] and @flecksofpoppy twitterfic of the day 5/1/17[x].

that’s a lot of prelude to this tea time. sorry.


erwin never shies away from levi’s lips on his skin. not even the first time. a busted knuckle, bandaged and clean, the pressure of levi’s lips against it bringing a tinge of pain that recedes to a tingle. a soft gaze through half lidded eyes, lips thin and unaffected. it felt natural. it felt right.

levi doesn’t look at him. doesn’t make it a spectacle. it’s an appreciation–a sign of respect. of dedication. of loyalty. levi does it in front of their soldiers on base, doesn’t care what they may whisper. he thinks everybody should be doing the same–this man that has given them all hope. they should be so lucky to serve under a commander as capable as he. he remembers the days when he did not. he remembers the lives they lost.

the first time they fuck it’s over the edge of erwin’s desk. erwin hesitates through his eagerness, finds his hands roaming across skin he’s only seen through damaged clothing. he hisses through his teeth as he traces across scars he remembers bleeding, presses hard into the tissue as his hips hit the back of levi’s thighs. he moans in time with the man below him, forgets for a moment that he’s commander and that’s his captain, and they are nothing but two men who have found solace in each other’s flesh.

they kiss the second time they have sex, but it’s harsh and hurried, up against a wall, levi’s hips pinned against erwin’s. there’s nothing but teeth–levi pressing an imprint of his crooked bottom teeth into the softness of erwin’s bottom lip. he pulls and tugs, lets erwin roam his hands around him and remove his jacket, lets him hike him up against the wall with his ass exposed against erwin’s cock. his head throws back, and erwin wants to kiss him again, but he’s trying too hard to keep quiet. he’s occupying his own lips between his teeth until his orgasm spills between them and levi’s mouth is too agape to seal against his own.

levi kisses the scar on erwin’s palm. it’s thick and white, takes space when erwin clenches his fist. he’s never been able to close it completely since that day. levi did this to him; this is his. he kisses along the whole line, not looking up at erwin, curls his fingers around the tips of erwin’s, gentle enough that they barely touch. he lingers on the scar, keeps pressing his lips to it, leans his cheek into erwin’s hand as he breathes softly into it the palm. erwin take him between his hands, pulls levi’s body up to him. he looks in those grey eyes–they say so much with so little, and erwin hates the thought of seeing them grow dull. he kisses his captain with a tenderness neither of them have ever known. and they both know–they both whimper into the other’s mouthes, and they feel like they’re flying through the trees, high in the air, but they’ve never been so grounded in their entire life. 

levi traces a scar that snakes across erwin’s shoulder blades. it happened long before levi met erwin–a time where he almost died in the grasp of a titan’s jaws. mike had been there for him–sliced along the jaw to make the titan’s mouth fall open in order to pull erwin out, slimy and bloody but alive. he places a kiss to it, loves the feeling of memories against his lips, that each one was a time that threatened to remove erwin from his life, but he was too strong to die. 

it has been years since they met, years since they started sharing their beds, years of kisses and touches. levi knows so much about erwin, and erwin knows so much about him. and it was all mapped out on their bodies for each other to discover.

they don’t talk about what it means. what the kisses and the sex and the intimate times spent in bed talking about lives that saw little else but war. it never matters. they are a connection of trust and loyalty, a mobius strip of commander and captain and leader and liege. so when he says it he stops, seals his lips to a flat scar erwin has from a splintered branch, and screws his eyes shut.

“what did you say?” erwin says. it’s low. stern. terrifying.

“nothing.” levi says, resting his cheek on erwin’s shoulder. he curls into erwin’s body and hopes he’ll drop it.

“levi.”

“don’t make me repeat it.” levi’s voice shakes. because there isn’t supposed to be a name to this. it’s not supposed to matter.

erwin breathes softly, rests his cheek on his arm and closes his eyes again. levi remains tense, fingers moving softly against ranges of scars on erwin’s back, until it’s clear that they’ll never speak of it again. that both of them will die without out ever admitting the thing they so desperately want to admit.


Happy Valentine’s Day to all of you! This is a slightly edited version of the #DCVDay twitterfic, coming in at 1.2k.  

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Dean finds out the hard way that Valentine’s Day is the worst day to decide to show a guy you love him. He gets up early, makes eggs and bacon for everyone. He sets the table, puts out cloth napkins, and lays a flower next to Cas’s plate. Cas sniffs it when he first sits down, then sips his coffee.

He offers no reaction, like Dean gives him flowers on the regular. But he takes it with him once he’s done eating, which is something.

Sam offers to do the dishes since Dean cooked, so Dean leaves him to it and heads to the garage to think.  

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I’d like to revisit a twitterfic I wrote back in May about Moderately Well Off Businessman Derek Hale, who walks by the same set of panhandlers every day because he always gets focused on the stresses of his job and forgets to try a different route. 

He’s had a soft heart since he was a kid; he always rescued wounded baby animals in the forest and tried to patch them up, much to his mother’s dismay. So he can’t say NO when the lady on the corner tells him she can’t feed her twelve children and the man next to her hears the exchange, sees Derek pulling out cash, and counters with his fifteen children. It seems like a lot, but Derek came from a pretty big family - all the dozen plus kids constantly running around the Hale property might not have been his mom’s, but they were related to him and a part of his childhood that he misses.

That nostalgia - it’s lonely in the city, so far away from the Hale House in woodsy Beacon Hills - leads him to pull more bills out of his wallet, asking the kids’ names and listening politely to the man’s stories. It also leads to others in the area catching wind of his generosity and taking advantage of it. Some are much younger, so they don’t have kids of their own, but they inevitably have ailing parents or grandparents or aunts, or younger siblings back home who can’t even afford to eat cereal. The mere thought of that twists something up inside of Derek, and he passes over an extra few bills and tells them to buy something sugary and fun, too, like Lucky Charms. 

Time passes, and all these devoted, destitute families are steadily draining his pocketbook. To be entirely honest, Derek’s starting to get a little antsy about it, but he can’t stop now…not when they all rely on him, and gosh, he doesn’t lead a terribly lavish life, so he doesn’t really need all this money. It’s what he keeps telling himself every time he hesitates while reaching into his battered old bag, which Laura had given him when he’d moved to the city. “For all your important papers,” she’d said, looking as teary-eyed as his mom, which had made him feel awkward and sad until she’d punched him on the shoulder and everything shifted back to normal.

He talks to her, still; he talks to all his family, and sometimes he wonders why he’s staying here, earning a paycheck he doesn’t care that much about. He doesn’t talk about that during the calls, though, or about the emptiness he has to tamp down each time he hangs up. He’s got a decent life, as things go, and he sees his family on holidays, and so what if he doesn’t really have time to date? He has other interests. There’s no reason for him to feel lonely. 

Enter Stiles.

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The difficult part of writing one long AU instead of releasing batches of shorter works (and twitterfics) is that it takes so long to get to a point where I can actually post what I’m working on. And meanwhile, it’s radio silence from me.

I’m starting to understand why people post WIPs! It’s not something I’m comfortable trying, considering how much editing I do as I go along (sometimes major changes happen to earlier chapters once I get deeper into the story), but I’m getting to a point where it might be nice to share a little bit. 

So…would anyone be interested in seeing some of the fic I’m working on right now? If so, would you prefer a few snippets: Derek’s introduction, an encounter between Derek and Stiles with excessive pining? Or do you want to play that “give me a word and I’ll share the sentence it’s in” game?

It’s for this fic, by the way (currently 60k and gonna get a lot longer):


“Oh,” Stiles said, his voice coming out low and breathy, “Fuck me.”

“I don’t think that’s on the syllabus, but we can check to see if there’s a spot open in any of his classes,” Scott said, grinning in that way that meant he knew he’d won. It was a rarely earned expression, so Stiles could forgive him for indulging in it.

“This isn’t an actual professor, though,” he insisted, unable to resist brushing his thumb over the sharp line of the man’s bearded jaw. He was laughing at something off-camera, the shot taken in three-quarters view, his coat collar casually rumpled and opened to reveal a sliver of a simple grey t-shirt. The whole thing was deliberately calculated to lend him a more accessible feel, and god help him, Stiles was falling for it.

***

When Stiles signed up for Dr. Hale’s intro to history class, he had two goals in mind: knock out the extra credits his advisor was bugging him to complete before he graduated, and spend a few hours a week daydreaming about his sexy professor’s salt and pepper beard.

Derek, a few months away from turning forty and not sure when his life had started feeling so damn lonely, had never encountered someone like Stiles before. Bright-eyed, sharp-tongued, determined to throw Derek’s carefully cultivated world into disarray…and absolutely the last person Derek should be falling in love with.

The Tale of GDMUSHROOM

If you’re one of the followers of ibigbang on twitter then you probably already know this but if you still want to read I won’t stop you. If you haven’t read this at all, I won’t stop you either.

If you like it then thank you.

This is just a made up story I created since I got inspired by the trend GDMUSHROOM.

This is  originally a twitter-fic so it won’t be that detailed and everything.

NOTE: I might edit some parts, so it wouldn’t be what it is on twitter. I might add or remove some parts. :)

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