can we make levi ackerman super popular again??? i’m tired of rereading the same fanfics every night. like please im actually begging, i need something new😔
You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, animatedly telling him about your entire day. From the weird cashier at the store to the drama you overheard on the bus. Your hands move just as much as your mouth, gestures big and expressive.
Levi sits beside you, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, sipping his tea in silence. Every so often, he gives a small “hm” or nods, his eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at in the room.
You pause mid-story. “You’re not bored?”
He arches an eyebrow. “If I was bored, I’d walk away.”
You blink. “…Oh.”
He sets his tea down, leans in just enough that his knee brushes yours.
“Go on. I wanna hear the rest.”
And that’s how you end up rambling for another hour, while Levi listens with the quiet patience of someone who (no matter how much he pretends otherwise) likes every single word that comes out of your mouth.
asking nanami to put you in a headlock during sex. (18+)
you keep staring at his arms, even as he drives into you, hips snapping with a steady, punishing rhythm.
not because you mean to - you just can’t look away. his biceps flex and bulge with every thrust, veins standing out like ropes under skin that grips your hips hard enough to bruise.
the memory of his sleeve straining lingers as he leans closer, chest slick with sweat pressing against your breasts.
there’s nothing decorative about his arms; they’re functional - built for holding, restraining, pinning things that don’t want to be still.
and now, they’re right there: your wrists caught in one massive hand above your head, forearms caging you in as he fucks you harder.
your mouth dries, tongue sticking to the roof, arousal flooding your core, your walls milking him greedily. breath comes in ragged gasps, synced to his thrusts.
your nipples scrape against his chest, hardening into peaks that ache for attention.
nanami notices.
even mid-fuck, his eyes always flick to your face through the haze of lust - checking, because that’s the kind of man he simply is.
“something wrong?” he grunts, voice strained, hips never faltering as he grinds deep, head nudging your cervix.
you shake your head, hair stuck to your damp forehead. words tangle in your throat, swallowed by the ache climbing toward your climax.
teeth catch your lip a little too hard, sending a sharp jolt to your clit that makes you whimper.
“…could you put me in a headlock?” the words come out quieter than expected, shy and heavy with unspoken need.
for a moment, he doesn’t move. you think he didn’t hear over the obscene sounds of your bodies colliding at first, or maybe he thought you had officially gone crazy, then his eyes lock on yours, dark and intense.
“…pardon?”
a flash of embarrassment hits - you even consider pretending you didn’t say a thing, but your pussy clenches at the anticipation.
“i want you to,” you whisper, softer now, voice breaking on a gasp. “if that’s okay.”
his gaze lingers, not assessing you but the request. you can almost see him imagine the press of his arm against your throat while he fucks you senseless, the way your body would yield under him.
a beat, two.
then he exhales, slow and gravelly. “…all right.”
he doesn’t announce it. he just moves, resuming thrusts with deeper, more deliberate force, jolting your body against the mattress.
his arm slides into your field of awareness. the coarse blonde hair on his forearm brushes your cheek first, rough against your flushed skin, before settling behind your neck - a living brace of unyielding muscle that weakens your knees on instinct.
he doesn’t tighten yet, lets you feel it.
weight syncing with the throb of your clit. your head is framed by him, trapped in the curve of his arm like it’s already his to command - an absolute pornographic scene coming to life.
his other hand stays occupied too: drifting near your shoulder, fingers circling your collarbone before tweaking your nipple, rolling the hard bud until you arch.
“…like this?” he murmurs, voice lower now with restrained hunger.
your answer comes out before thought - a needy whimper vibrating against his chest. he registers it, body tensing, cock swelling thicker inside you.
the space you occupy is his to shape: he could tighten and make you scream, or trail his hand to rub your clit and push you over the edge.
“yes,” you whisper, desperation lacing the word as hips buck, clit grinding against him, chasing release.
his arm tightens another degree - not to restrain you, but to remind you.
then it hits - a hot, shuddering wave that rips through your core, walls clenching greedily around him as your pussy spasms.
the weight of his arm behind your neck presses just enough to heighten every sensation, cutting off a little air so your body feels tighter, more electric.
you cry out, hips jerking, fingers digging into the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you, every thrust driving it higher, every squeeze of his arm amplifying the pleasure.
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every time someone writes my baby jean kirstein as a jerk fuck boy, cheater, toxic, disrespectful to women and extremely popular, an angel loses his wings; because he would literally be the og yearner, he's a big loser who thinks he's a popular guy, bro could never use women, he would be a hopeless romantic, a soft spoken man, nervous around the girl he likes, respectful, overprotective, he would always put the person he loves first, probably the best boyfriend/husband in this world.
