just a little titan crazy

Levi pulls his collar up and slides further into the booth. Erwin frowns at him.

“You know why,” Levi hisses. “I’m not supposed to be in public consorting —”

“—consorting—”

“—with you.” He covers his face desperately as the waitress approaches the booth.

“Can we get two burgers and fries?” Erwin smiles pleasantly at her. Of course he had to order for him. Of course he knows his order. She writes it all down with a flourish and busies on to the next waving customer.

Regularly Scheduled Programming (1.6k, fluff)

You’re such an idiot, Megumi thinks, but I’m glad for you.

aw anon this is so sweet! it is nice to be back 💖

and sincere apologies - i’ve sort of fallen off the snk bandwagon post final chapter + i’m always torn between cultivating an online personality & hiding in a time-invariant hole, though i’m glad to chat always!

Summary: Levi remembers everything. Erwin doesn’t. 

Her coat is pink, he thinks. It is all he can think about, the baby pink material of her coat, the way it’s grass-stained and damp in the dew. How her black hair is soft against its upturned collar. He’s sitting a few inches behind her, fingers absentmindedly curling in the long blades of the grass. They’re neat and slippery in his hands. His own long legs are crossed. They’re falling asleep. Their breaths are foggy in the crisp air. 

It’s still dark out but the sun is beginning to crest over the hills. Soon the sky would crack open. Light would spill over the sleeping landscape, still shrouded in the morning mist. The birds are beginning to sing, voicing out single, tentative notes. Then the sound would give way to the call of brusque orders and it would be the loud hum and rattle of metal as these impossible machines took off into the evening and then into the inky night. He imagines the raw fires underneath them, a city awaiting judgement. 

Maybe she’s thinking the same, because her hands are tangled material of her scarf. It lies red on her knees, a stark brush of crimson bleeding out from her and into the dark grass. The rest would be waking soon. 

He reaches out to lace his fingers in hers. The callouses on her hands match his own. 

“Come back alive,” he says. 

Summary:

These were the histories of their bodies - the scar along Erwin’s palms where he’d caught Levi’s blade and the way he stood, back straight and stiff, proud of the man he was. And for Levi himself, it was the burning handprint on his shoulder from where the other man had touched him, the way he held a knife and tensed at each shadow. The lilt to his words which betrayed his background.

Upon joining the corps Levi finds himself caught up in something entirely bigger than himself and in the forlorn march of people, of bodies, toward something. Erwin had said it was a better world, but in moments like these he wasn’t sure.

summary:

in which eren leaves and jean and armin cope by holding onto each other. 

summary:

summary: Nighttime. Him and Mikasa, alone together in a darkened room. Air heavy with emotion and Eren out of the way.

Fifteen year old Jean would have loved this. Nineteen year old Jean really doesn’t.

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a/n: i never do jeankasa because i was always a jeanmarco girl but also my multi-shipper is creeping up on me. but this isn’t really jeankasa it’s more...jean appreciating his friend. have so many thoughts on mikasa’s character in a meta way but i’ll spare everyone. not saying jean deserves her but i think at least he’s trying...

tw: blood, tw: injury

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Jean’s face went red and he was cursing when he saw Armin. He was sat at the edge of the bed at the medical bay, legs hanging limply off its sides. Even underneath the spreading purple bruises, his knuckles were white as they gripped the hard mattress. For once he was glad for his shaggy fringe because it meant that he didn’t have to meet Jean’s piercing eyes. Jean also didn't need to see the dried blood around his nose and mouth.

“Armin…” the other boy sounded almost chiding. “What - why-”

Armin swallowed thickly through the dull ache in his ribs. “I started it,” he mumbled. “I threw the first punch.”

Jean let himself process the words. It was the furthest thing he’d ever expected from the blond boy - on the receiving end, definitely. Retaliating, maybe, but that was still a distant possibility. Even more unthinkable was the thought of him instigating. Still he didn’t say anything.

“Right across the face,” Armin said, as if to clarify. He seemed to want to desperately explain himself, and in doing so to atone somehow. Jean remained silent, letting him.

“I deserved it -” he said slowly, letting the words fill the cold room. “He said I was useless, he hated Mikasa - and it was out of line, yes, but I moved first - ”

“No -" Already the taller boy was fumbling at the cupboard, wrenching the doors open, pulling out trays of gauze and iodine and where were those sterilised bandages?

“You don’t have to,” Armin said, still looking down. “Don’t waste it. I’ll heal. We both will.” He was right: already the grey of his cheeks was looking a bit brighter, but there was still the problem of his loose teeth. And of course there was something unsettling about the shallow way in which he breathed and the odd posture with which he held himself.

Jean ignored him. Armin let him peel back the layers of his forest-green coat and his soft white shirt which was sticky with sweat. The other boy sucked in a long breath at the bruised cavity of his chest and the angry colours which had begun to coalesce along his sides. He rummaged in another cupboard for ice packs and pressed them to Armin’s side while he sat there taking in small, weary breaths. His skin prickled at the cold, goosebumps rising along the pale flesh. He made a noise in the back of his throat.

At the sound Jean glanced at him. Armin could see he was worrying his dry lips. Then he blinked hard and reached for Armin's hand in a sudden motion, guiding it in a slow arc to his bruised side, where he was holding the ice in place. For a brief second Jean's larger hand had held Armin's smaller one, covering it in his. His fingertips were cold as they lingered on the back of his palms.

"Keep it there,” he said, looking meaningfully at him, and Armin dutifully complied, pressing the pack against his ribs. Jean took his hand away.

He watched as Jean busied about, turning to pull out cotton pads, dabbing antiseptic on them, watched as he moved to press them to Armin’s broken skin, where he hissed at the sting of alcohol.

Jean seemed to get angrier as he worked. Finally, when he was finished with Armin's chest he knocked out two round tablets onto the palm of his hand. But Armin brushed him off with a small shake of his head, and Jean set down the bottle of painkillers with a clang.

“Why’d you let him fuck you up like that?” he blurted out, and immediately regretted it. Armin’s head snapped upward in a swift, almost violent motion, even as his face had contorted in pain right after. But Jean knew he had crossed an invisible boundary; Armin and Eren’s relationship was sacrosanct, whispered but never spoken about, and it was wrong to doubt their connection, wrong to question humanity’s hope and make the brilliant boy who was their best tactician, who wielded the colossal titan, see sense.

“He can’t help it,” Armin said quietly, even as he grimaced through cracked teeth. “When he was ten his father thrust the weight of the world on him. How do you outgrow that?”

Jean didn't answer. Instead he busied himself by moving onto Armin’s forehead, where he’d cut himself on the broken glass. He focused on wiping the wound with a spool of cotton, running the white cloud along the gash and noting the raw, pink flesh which lay beneath the split skin. Already the gauze was turning red with crusted blood from the side of the other boy’s face. He sighed, but said nothing.

“And,” Armin said softly, and there was something in his voice that made Jean properly look at him. His amber eyes were wavering as they met Armin’s wide blue ones. “He’s on our side, right? He’s our friend, Jean.”

“That’s,” Jean sighed. “That’s not who he is, not anymore. Not after today.”

Armin looked up at him, glassy-eyed, and then away. He sat there silently as Jean finished up bandaging his head - much like he had done before in what felt like a lifetime ago - and didn’t move until the other boy had packed up and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.