First Times Anthology

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/36137221.

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

F/M

Fandom:

Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan

Relationships:

Levi Ackerman/Reader, Levi Ackerman/You, Levi Ackerman & Reader

Characters:

Levi Ackerman, You

Additional Tags:

First Kiss, First Time, First Dates, Pre-Canon, Touch-Starved, Levi Ackerman is Bad at Feelings, very much so, Levi Ackerman Needs a Hug, first times with levi fic ok go

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of First Times Anthology

Stats:

Published: 2022-01-01 Completed: 2022-06-16 Words: 104,489 Chapters: 9/9

First Times Anthology

by Levmada (Narrissic)

Summary

Intimate, vulnerable, gentle. Concepts Levi is a stranger to, until you.

Notes

warnings:

-references to canon-typical violence

-minor injury recovery

See the end of the work for more notes

embrace

Chapter Summary

For as long as you’ve known Levi (one year) and as long as every available soldier has been fighting in wake of the fall of Wall Maria (two days)—how likely are you to listen when he tells you to rest?

At your touch, Levi hisses.

“I know,” you murmur, if it’s any consolation at all. What more can you say, what else could you think to say, deep in the throes of ebony smoke and soot, blood, terror? “Almost done.”

He scoffs and hangs his head a little, though you get the feeling his disdain is aimed nowhere near you. You watch the staunch muscles in his back tensing, and the stitches you’ve mended—where an hour before, jagged ends of glass tore his skin—tug at angry flesh.

He says nothing.

At the very least, you can be relieved he came to you at all; who knows how he even knew you were here.

Like him, you didn’t visit any of the field hospitals, either. If they’re already clamoring with the injured and near-dead, and they most assuredly are, going would have been no help to you.

You blink rapidly, attempting to clear the film of sleep over your eyes.

Almost done.

“Are you injured?” he asks mildly, the trepidation of his words betrayed by a haze of utter exhaustion that you both share. Night swallowed the smoke-ladened sky twice before evacuations were complete, or so they say.

“No,” you reply, and finally tighten the sutures.

It isn’t a lie, not exactly. Cuts and bruises, a sprained wrist, but you’ll live.

He kisses his teeth and resists the urge to roll his shoulders back to quell the stiff ache knotting his muscles. He would blame it on the position you put him in, perched on the edge of a heavy crate in a tiny room—the only accommodations available to misplaced Scouts from Wall Maria—but he knows as well as the next that there’s no room left for blame.

As he eyes your small bedroll on the floor, the room lit only by a dying, wall-mounted torch, you go on: “I got lucky I guess, if that still means anything anymore.”

“How many casualties? I keep hearing different numbers.”

You’re a Squad Leader, just like him, but your chest flutters anyway. He has a lot of trust placed in you.

It feels alien in wake of the past few days... and how Levi is in general.

Taking a dampened, bloody rag from your side, you proceed to clean the rest of his bruising and light cuts—as clean as you can get him at the moment, anyway.

What the combined efforts of the entire military make of things and what the government says are obviously two different things. The politicians in Sina still deny that the Wall has fallen at all, even two days past.

Pyxis and Shadis are more in the loop than anyone, and they put the numbers in the realm of about 10,000 injured or dead since the Titans started pouring in, “—and that’s not even counting the first attack. Everyone says that the Titans somehow coordinated the attack, as if… they had intelligence.”

“We can’t worry about that right now,” he grunts, and tugs his filthy button-up back onto his shoulders the moment you finish bandaging his wounds. “We weren’t there when it happened. There’s nothing we could’ve done.”

The Scouts were on expedition. Add that to the list of reasons you believe the Titans who attacked Shiganshina somehow planned it.

What if they attack again tomorrow, or an hour from now, and Wall Rose falls next? It cinches your heart to think about.

To Levi’s utter surprise, after tucking away the rudimentary first-aid kit, you stand, but not without teetering.

He jumps to his feet and ignores the pull in his fresh stitches. He can’t allow you to (maybe literally) drop dead, and he tells you so.

“I’m not the only one tired,” you protest, grappling for his biceps in some vain attempt to push past him. “Some towns ‘re isolated, they’re being attacked right now and–”

He snaps your name even though he feels the exact same as you. It’s a pain in the ass to clutch your shoulders—two nights and days fighting in ODM has left his hands stiff at best and constantly cramping at worst—but he tries anyway. He’s going to get you to listen to him, even if it’s the last thing he does.

Maybe it will be.

He orders you to look at him, and despite your terrible vision (you have exhaustion, plus fighting through seas of smoke to thank for that), you let his stormy gaze bore into your own.

He’s even paler now than he was that first month after leaving the Underground, making the rings beneath his eyes look like bruises. He looks so tired.

“You keep going full-throttle like this, you’ll get eaten before you can save anyone else.” His words cut like a knife, but his eyes are tortured. “When’s the last time either of us ate anything?”

Your voice is flimsy. “Field ration. Yesterday.”

It rattles him to admit this, to give you even the slightest indication that he’s as beaten down as you are, but he goes on. If it comes to pass that you died and there was something else he could’ve (or should’ve) said, it’d be another shitty outcome of another shitty choice on his shoulders he won’t forgive himself for.

He’s tired too, he’s starving, and everyone knows things are bad—they’re apocalyptic. Though he doesn’t know any other way to confess this but meekly, like a stupid turtle, he’s out of options and it’s the only way he knows how.

You’re both still alive, and there will still be plenty of fighting to do later. It’s enough for right now to simply go on breathing.

He wants to believe he would tell any one of his other comrades shit like this, almost as much as he wants a bath right now, but truly, only you—your eyes welling up with tears and clutching at his shirt like it’s the one thing still keeping you standing—makes him do and say such embarrassing things.

He doesn’t want to follow that train of thought. Good thing he’s as tired as you look right now.

It’s as if you’ve lost all reason not to speak your mind. “I… I didn’t think you’d actually say that.”

He’s said the wrong thing? Somehow, as always? He isn’t sure what to make of that.

You want to point out how unlike Levi-I-have-no-feelings it is for him to let himself come across as anything other than a brick wall, but him putting so much effort into reassuring you in the first place is rare. Silently, you’re grateful.

Instead, you admit to something too, voice trembling like a dead leaf.

“After that first night, when you didn’t show up with the other squads, I…” Involuntarily, you shake your head. “…I know it’s stupid to worry about just one person, but I was still w-worried, and I couldn’t stop thinking—”

“I’m alive,” Levi tells you, with so much conviction it drops your stomach and has it doing somersaults at the same time.

You’ve been with the Corps longer than he has by a long shot, which is why he can never quite get over the heaps of compassion you have. That’s why he doesn’t tell you that this, being alive, might not be the case tomorrow, or the next.

He also doesn’t admit to worrying about you, too.

The night he was supposed to rendezvous with Captain Smith and the other elite squads at the easternmost section of Wall Maria, his gear malfunctioned, leaving him with no choice but to hold up in a dilapidated village overnight.

He waited for backup that never came, but he got just as lucky too, thanks to the people around too dead to need their own ODM anymore.

But that long, lonely night was plagued by thoughts of worry: worries over you, and whether you’d still be alive when he made it back.

He goes on. “We’re both still alive, but if you want to keep it that way, get some rest. Otherwise I’d have to tag along to make sure you don’t die. Doesn’t sound fun, does it?”

You offer a shake of your head in lieu of the tears threatening to stick to your lashes.

Almost no thought is put into what you do next. While your scuffed fingers have grown cramped clutching at his shirt, his words, thick with comfort, leave your head heavy: it falls down onto his shoulder. Your painful hands fall too, from his shoulders to the front of his shirt. Its white color is all but muddied with dirt and blood, unbuttoned to resemble curtains.

As if paralyzed, his entire frame goes ramrod-stiff, but he doesn’t push you away.

And, as much as he stinks at the moment, he’s a warm, strong presence before you. It feels like fighting gravity to take a step back.

Struck by his silence, you murmur, “Is this alright?”

He feels his heart might just break open his ribcage, it’s pounding so hard. Not a single coherent thought forms, but he can bring his arms up, awkwardly draping them around your midriff.

He swallows thickly, then shuts his eyes tight so as not to shudder when he feels your arms drop to his waist, hugging him tight like he’s a stuffed animal. Like he is something comforting.

At first, his movements feel awkward and stilted, as if he’s a mannequin. You make it seem so natural, holding him close and tucking your face into the crook of his neck, shuddering a breath.

He loosens up completely when you begin to weep, as if your grief somehow validates his apprehension.

He has no clue what to say to reassure you. He doesn’t think words from even the most articulate poet in the world could offer even an ounce of comfort. Not right now.

For this reason, he seals his lips and mimics the way you embrace him. He shivers, at once both torn by an electric sense of discomfort, and serenity.

He opts for the latter, and allows the tension he’s seemingly been holding for days leave through a hitched breath.

He can’t bring himself to hate this, but he can’t love it either. Being embraced by a person he cares for, being embraced—he thinks that the last time this ever happened to him was probably when he was a kid, or never.

It’s only when your cries dissolve into sobs that his hand falls in your hair, lightly petting. You’re both filthy and it feels so odd, but you clearly need him, and he can’t deny you. The comfort of the whole thing isn’t bad, either.

You stop crying, eventually. The heady moisture of your tears dampening his neck is punctuated by the fact that Levi’s legs have gone totally numb from standing here like this with you.

Once you pull away, albeit reluctantly, you scrub your face free of tears, but more than anything you just end up smearing them across your cheeks. He doesn’t have a single clean cloth to offer you, and his hands are disgusting. The best he can do is opt not to point it out and pat your shoulder, then duck his head away like some sort of oaf.

This doesn’t seem to phase you, though you do apologize for hugging him.

He grunts, but says nothing more. He isn’t sure how to sort out how much heavier he feels now that you’ve pulled away.

It isn’t so much of a fight now to get you to lay down. Levi guides you to your bedroll, as he would rather not risk you passing out on him.

It was clearly the right thing to do, because you’re not even inside the damn thing before you drape your arm over your eyes, and you’re out like a light.

Where he’s kneeling by your side, Levi spares your sleeping form a brief look, and has an internal battle with himself whether to scavenge for his own bedroll somewhere or to sleep on the damn floor. Either way, he can’t keep himself awake any longer: that would make him a hypocrite at best.

In the end, he takes his cape, left crumpled on that same crate when he first came in, and tries to gauge whether it’s clean enough to drape over you to use as a blanket, in vain. It’s filthy and bloodstained, but so is the rest of him, and so are you.

He frowns, but covers your sleeping form in it anyhow. Thoroughly, as to stave off the cold.

It’s hell on the stitches you just put in his skin to settle back against the unforgiving stone wall. Still, in some effort to get some rest and be there to wake you when dawn comes, he bites back a wince and folds his knees up to his chest.

He doesn’t need a blanket, he decides. It’s too daunting of a task for his bedraggled mind to wake you, let alone ask for the cape off your back.

Your slow, even breaths ease the tension in his everywhere, despite the chill of midnight. It comes as a surprise to him that despite all of this shit, he manages to float off into a fitful rest.

hold me through the night

Chapter Summary

Fleeting, innocent touches may not mean much to you, but to Levi the feeling of your hand brushing against his is like an electric shock. How are you two supposed to confront this issue?—Not without blood, as it turns out.

Chapter Notes

wow i'm surprised at the positive reception this fic is getting. thank you!!

this is also one of those that are really easy to write, like coming home after a long day lol. i love.

The new headquarters in Trost are reprehensible. A brief glance around any one room in all its mountains of dust proves it, not to mention the overgrown weeds the Garrison previously neglected to pull in the courtyard. Disgusting.

“You’re gonna pull your back out going on like that, you know.”

Levi growls.

He doesn’t indulge the amusement in your tone as he leans further on the tips of his toes, just barely managing to swipe the last of the dust off his bookshelf.

If this wasn’t his bookshelf, he’d gladly abuse his new role as Captain and get someone else to do it, but all this stubborn grime is between him and the dirt.

You regard the subtle peek of his toned back you’re graced with, tutting from where you lean against the door frame to his new bedroom.

“No stools? Couldn’t find a chair to stand on?”

“No. That’s embarrassing,” he grumbles, and finally settles back on the soles of his feet.

You hum, signaling your approach by the clicks of your boots against the shining wood floor; it’s been mopped recently.

You’ve done your fair share today too, as his orders were explicit when he asked you to clean his barren kitchenette and living space. He trusts you to do the job best, after all.

A stubborn smile prods at your lips until you’re within touching distance. He’s crouching now, furiously scrubbing a grease mark out of the baseboard.

“Hey, you,” you say, and gently plop your hand in his hair. “I mean it. About your back and all.”

At the feeling of your hand rubbing at his scalp, he goes totally stiff and sucks a gasp through his teeth. It’s totally by instinct that he ends up snatching your wrist, greeting your startled gaze with peeved confusion.

With the handkerchief tied around his nose and mouth, the scowl denting his features is still sharp, cutting into you.

“Why…” He swallows, unmoving. “Why do you do that?”

You frown. Despite how long you’ve known Levi now, sometimes you feel like a total stranger to him. It isn’t odd for comrades to bump shoulders sometimes, and as rare as it is, he even reciprocates your friendly touch from time to time by rubbing your back, or silently brushing your bangs away from your eyes.

But then, when you get too close, it’s as if he becomes a cornered viper, grasping your wrist or forearm to act abashed and annoyed... while at the same time making no move to force you away. There’s no question that he could, given his strength.

“Why?” you echo him, and relax enough for your fingers to limply lay in his hair. Your question is genuine. “What’s wrong, do you want me to stop?”

He visibly clenches his jaw, as it takes quite a bit of conscious effort to smother the small, involuntary shivers when you play these games with him. Not even touching his hair (where he’s sensitive), but your inclination to touch him at all and spare no answer when he asks your intentions.

Whatever happened between you two after the Wall fell was the catalyst for these feelings, he believes.

Swallowing a little, you repeat yourself: “Does it bother you when I touch you? I don’t mean anything by it, and if you want me to stop, I will.”

I don’t mean anything by it.

He silently curses your words before shaking your hand off and rising to his feet, taking the dust-ridden cloth with him.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Levi.”

“If you want to make yourself useful, get the hell out and leave me alone,” Levi orders, his tone no less harsh than a jagged stone. “Every little thing you do bothers me, alright? I mean that.”

Taken aback by the sheer animosity in his voice, you open your mouth, then close it. You can’t match Levi’s glare; your heart isn’t hard enough for that.

Instead, you don’t say a word back and march out of the room, turning away before he can catch a glimpse of the tears welling up in your eyes.

—

Levi didn’t, in fact, mean that.

The moment he said it he wanted to take it back.

Maybe it bristled him to hear you say that, that what means a lot to him means nothing to you, so he spoke without thinking. He didn’t even confront you about it, which in his mind adds another reason that he’s the worst man in the world to get along with.

You must’ve thought he meant it though: he hasn’t seen you in days. Days, and it bothers the hell out of him. It’s not as if he’s lonely or spiteful, and it’s not as if he doesn’t have anyone to talk to, because he does, but idly chatting with Mike or one of the new recruits just isn’t the same. None of them are you.

What he could do (and has internally fought himself for days on deciding to) is summon you to his office. He could confront you, and apologize. That’s the right thing.

It’s not like he doesn’t know where your quarters are or where you usually go, but clearly you took the stupid shit he said to heart—"leave me alone."—and chose to actively avoid him. If he bit the bullet and knocked on your door, you could just as easily slam the door in his face, or not answer at all.

He’s overthinking this. He should just talk to you, but as much as he rehearses what he would say (or tries to write another note) none of it seems right, not even in his mind.

It’s a bitch to admit even to himself that he misses you. Levi hasn’t even spent much time in his new quarters in the first place, but any damn place he’s gone after that day feels odd and empty.

Maybe he’s the one who’s feeling that way: a walking, empty chasm. It’s pathetic.

His breaking point was reached today. Though it wasn’t your choice or his, he finally got to see you again.

Erwin wanted to hold a meeting with all the Squad Leaders—you, Hange, Mike and the rest—because there’s been talk in the Interior.

Levi calls the suspicions Erwin has of the government implementing a draft to retake the Wall rampaging rumors. He thinks so, but then again he’s been wrong before.

Oh how he was wrong. He can hardly stop thinking about how damn wrong he’s treated you now that you’re a constant in his peripheral vision for the first time in a week. You keep catching his eye for no reason at all.

You’ve always been glaringly good at making the best of a shitty situation, but he underestimated your ability to go on acting like nothing is wrong. Everything about the tone of your voice and even how you sit is calm and in control, but he’s known you a long time.

He knows you better.

No matter how he glares at you from across the long table—something he can get away with, seeing how he’s known for his shitty moods and the topic is graver than death—your tired eyes never even spare him a glance.

He rationalizes in his mind that he just wants to discern whether you’re committed to hating him now or not.

Besides the asinine fact that he thought he could figure that based on facial expression alone, he’s lying to himself. A raging feeling rises in his chest every time you speak, which silently broke open when you finally did glance at him, just to build off an argument he was making for a more strenuous training regiment.

What Levi wants it seems, which is so infuriating to his pride it makes him sick, is to be seen by you, that’s all. Your attention.

It’s no question that he took the comfort you seemingly infused in him just by sitting next to him for granted.

Never did he feel so conflicted, both on-edge and at peace, than when you were close to him—close enough to catch a hint of how warm and real you are. He hates how easy it came to you to lay a hand on his shoulder or flick him on the ear when he said something stupid.

He thought all this fluff of yours just pissed him off before. Now, he thinks he could be content for the rest of the week if only you’d just look at him. How far he’s fallen.

And his utter determination to get himself to stop feeling so panicked and sick, to fix what he messed up between you two, is how he drags you both into a horrible confrontation.

—

“Fight me!” you huff, your jaw clenching as Levi once again darts back when you attempt another jab at him.

With his fists held protectively in front of himself, he glares at you through sweat-soaked bangs. “You have to know how to fight an enemy that’s gonna dodge your attacks.”

Stupid excuse, you think.

Reformed training regiments was his idea, one you agreed with, and so was sparring each other. Why it had to be you, after he finally came out with the truth that he hates being around you, you don’t know.

You’ve gone back and forth like this for long enough to kick up dirt and leave sweat soaking through your short sleeves.

No matter how you argue, he and you keep on like this: An attempt to trip him up or score a punch at a weak spot ends with him blocking you each time. He keeps blocking.

To say this literal and metaphorical dodging of the issue is boiling your blood would be an understatement.

This time, he takes your outstretched arm and pulls you so the world careens as you’re flipped over his shoulder. You land on your back and hit the dirt like a ton of bricks, but nonetheless you’re on your feet again the very next moment.

He faces you, and you can’t tell a damn thing he’s feeling. The pain in your flanks aggravates the fire in your chest, and you see red.

“Dodging? I didn’t think I’d have to fight a damn coward,” you sneer, and surge forward.

You catch him off guard this time.

The next thing you know, the both of you are half-wrestling, half-rolling around in the dirt. It’s hardly even fighting as much as scathing resentment having finally boiled over.

For you, it’s festered for days: sleepless nights, stupid tears. You don’t understand.

Finally, an expression besides total indifference breaks over Levi’s face; his features scrunch up as if he’s in pain as you seize the front of his shirt and slam him back in the dirt.

His boot-clad foot keeps trying to worm between your legs and throw you off, but you don’t let him. You straddle his waist like you’ll die if he gets away, so the most his efforts do is leave the both of you pushing against respective shoulders—shoving away while simultaneously pressing closer than ever.

He grunts when you knock his back into the hard ground again.

The worst part is you can’t even muster the guts to hit him.

Tears of anguish prick at the corners of your vision. “What did you do this for!? Why do you hate me?”

He freezes, has the audacity to look at you like you’re crazy. “What?”

If you don’t keep acting like you’re sparring, others (probably Hange) will catch on, and soon. Your nerves are so shot you’re shaking.

Hurt simmers in your throat as you pin his lower half down with your thighs to hover over him.

Now, you’re close enough to exchange hot breath and see in his wide eyes that Levi doesn’t hate you. More than anything, he looks afraid.

Your heart breaks.

“Why,” you repeat, “do you hate me?”

As if suddenly realizing the compromising position you have him in, he sucks in air through grit teeth before slamming his fist into your nose.

—

You hiss at the sting (and stink) of the alcohol soaked into the cloth Levi presses to your busted nose.

Well, busted is exaggerating. You can attest from personal experience of watching him fight that he didn’t even use half his full strength, but it bled like hell anyway.

Silence passes heavily between you inside the medbay. The sparse number of staff around don’t bother you, nor does any other sorry bastard. Maybe just a glance at the grimace on his face steers everyone away, but as you are now, he and you are separated from the rest of the world by a flimsy blue curtain.

You’re stewing, thinking.

He seems to be working himself up in his head too, made obvious by the half-lidded storms raging behind his irises, just below the suture where you split his brow. Where you hit him back.

After successfully throwing you off of him, he didn’t waste a second to finally, at the worst possible moment, confess, “I’m sorry.”

Ironic how your fist moved on its own after that.

But then, he apologized again, and then one more time when it was just the two of you again in the medbay.

Sorry, I’m sorry.

“You’re such an asshole,” you mumble, with absolutely no conviction; you just want him to know how much he hurt you. “You couldn’t just talk to me?”

Another apology builds on his tongue, but he’s lived a wonderful life if so few words will fix everything he’s wrecked between you. Lowering his head, his mouth starts to grow dry.

“…I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, hating the sting of alcohol in your nostrils. Suddenly, the bed you sit upon starts to feel like a slab of cement. “Levi, please…”

He hates this. More than anything, he downright loathes seeing you upset, especially with him.

He racks his mind with what to say.

With a shuddering breath, you try to work it out in your head. While you’re not a mind reader, and you can’t read him as well as you can understand him, if only he’d just explain the problem... you’re determined to try.

“Do you really dislike me that much, or maybe…” You shake your head at the ridiculousness of the question. “…You don’t like to be touched? It’s a yes or no question.”

Simple, pragmatic and to the point.

Just so he can have something to do with his hands, he makes up a fresh cloth and confirms the more unlikely of your assumptions: the other day, he spoke without thinking; he doesn’t see your close presence as the plague.

But you don’t yet know why.

You count your lucky stars that you have a lot of patience, because clearly Levi and talking through emotions doesn’t mix well. He has lost so much, and though you know close to nothing about how he grew up, it couldn’t have been a good upbringing if he struggles so much just to communicate.

On the other end of the spectrum, it comes naturally to you.

Baby steps.

“Did I hurt your feelings?”

He blinks at you through his bangs as he hesitantly reaches forward and brushes your own off your forehead.

“Don’t say that like I’m a little kid,” he grumbles, embarrassed. “I don’t know. I don’t know my feelings. I just didn’t like what you said, about... it having no meaning to you.”

The last part of his explanation comes quieter, as if to speak the words aloud means they become too real, too true.

You nod for him to continue, swallowing the butterflies swarming in your chest.

He furrows his brow, deep in thought. “It’s foolish to get attached to people, the world we live in. Let alone the job we have to do.”

He scoffs a little, swallowing thickly. What is he even saying? “I feel differently, but I won’t try to make you feel that way.”

“Levi…”

It’s as if he can’t stop now. Your touch on his arm comes as a small shock.

“I don’t blame you—it’s fine, if that’s who you are, but I’m not good for that kind of thing.” He looks away. “Any of it. I didn’t mean what I said, but you’re an idiot if you think I hate you, after all we…” His lips twitch. “Never mind.”

“Levi,” you say again, planting your hands on his shoulders.

When he doesn’t move, yet still won’t look at you, a patient sigh leaves your lips.

Hoping to reassure him, you shift to cradle each side of his face in your hands. His skin is weathered, but soft.

His eyes widen a little, but instead of saying anything, his palms fall over your own, as if trying to silently convey, don’t go away.

Of course, any kind of tenderness with Levi means an enormous amount to you. What that means exactly you’re not entirely sure yet, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to try and say—not in the middle of the medbay with injuries in equal measure.

“More than anything, I said that to make you feel better, but clearly I read you wrong. That’s okay, if you think it’s okay. I’m sorry too.”

With that out in the open, he stares with a peeved sort of confusion, then understanding. He looks empty, in the best of ways.

“Thank you for telling me how you feel,” you go on, smiling a little. “I know you’re not used to that, so thank you. You’re wrong, though, about getting attached to people being stupid. I think you get so caught up in what’s at stake, that you forget you’re human too.”

Levi, as if just the look in your eye is too much for him, shuts his own briefly. “Maybe.”

“Nothing has to change,” you murmur, choosing your words carefully. “Don’t be so quick to shut me out, and I won’t misunderstand you. Okay? This is good, isn’t it?”

“…Yes. If you think that, too.”

It’s as if the air in the room has lifted. Your nose isn’t even throbbing as bad as before, rolling mindless circles with the pad of your thumbs into his high cheekbones.

Slowly, giving any chance at all for him to object, you lift your chin and catch a glimpse of his eyes fluttering shut before you gently press your lips to his forehead.

You taste salt, and although the kiss is as soft and brief as the touch of a feather, it kindles butterflies in your chest to watch a soft blush bloom across his cheeks.

You’ve hardly ever seen him flustered before, but it’s a good look on him, you think.

You laugh, which causes him to duck his head away.

It’s a pleasant surprise when his hands lower to your midriff, then tucks his face in your neck to hold you close.

—

After that day, things get easier. While Levi is still a far cry from the best communicator in the world, he doesn’t shut you out again... not that you let him.

Very quickly, some unspoken boundaries are established.

For instance, he either hates for his hair to be stroked, or it is simply too overwhelming of a touch for him to accept.

He doesn’t explain, but you don’t ask him to. The most that is needed is a brief shake of his head, and you stop accordingly.

Over the next months, this gets easier for him to do.

In a similar vein, having his neck caressed (or being anywhere near his throat, really) and sudden movements is an absolute no. You learn quickly that he hates to be caught off guard, which includes sudden hugs from behind.

For you, things are a little different. It’s enough most times just to pass a late night along over steaming tea together, chatting idly while looking over plans, paperwork.

If you finish first, you like to trace over the sinewy skin of his hand. For as hard and calloused as his fingertips are, it’s comforting to follow the length of his hand and make mindless patterns.

It’s enough, most times. At others, insecurity rears its ugly head. A soft heart is prone to bruising, and in the past yours has been battered plenty.

Despite you and he coming along as close comrades, friends, it’s difficult and, Levi being Levi, exceptionally rare to open yourselves up to scrutiny of the more tender parts of your hearts, bit by bit.

These moments breathe under the darkest covers of midnight, amidst the most vulnerable of conversations. He’ll offer you a word if he finds it and always, a hand to take. In return, you listen with quiet reverence when he speaks (however rare) and offer the same.

Always, you’re under the constant threat of an untimely death, as is and always has been the life of a Scout.

On the battlefield, there’s no room for what we have. What am I doing? Will he push me away if I say this, or that? I know Levi, but do I know him?

Regardless. You love to make him flustered, either by kissing his forehead or idly draping your arm around his waist when you get time alone together... but only in private.

It’s possible that public displays of affection are an entirely different battle for him, but more than anything it feels wrong to expose what softness thrives between the two of you to the world. The tenderness in his eyes, and even a lopsided smile if he’s feeling good-natured, is reserved for your eyes only, so to speak.

There’s no need to pick back up on the discussion of your friendship (camaraderie, partnership?) from the day he and you fought.

Not that there’s any time to.

“Shit,” you mutter, and squeeze your eyes shut once you’re finally out of earshot of a new recruit, the one charged with handling the horses as well as the impromptu stables.

At a now-abandoned castle complex, one that only months ago was one of the Scouts’ most bustling bases before the Fall, the ones who survived today are finally battening down the hatches for the night. Your assigned band of soldiers, plus Levi’s and Mike’s (not to mention Commander Erwin leading this portion of the 250,000-strong charge) is too many. Then again, innumerable lives have already been lost.

Not enough proper equipment, not enough training, not enough morale, not enough.

Dizzy with grief, you hardly recall untangling yourself from your ODM; scabbards, blades and gas tanks fell like a pebble-like weight off your hips. Very few speak to each other, and the painted sunset almost mocks you with its otherworldly beauty. A day like this feels unworthy of a sunset so breathtaking.

Dry field rations go down, and what’s left is accounted for.

Levi isn’t at the exhausting meeting alongside Mike, headed by Erwin.You’re left to assume they spoke at length earlier.

As unsaid as it so infuriatingly remains, no one can escape the horror of this charade. Erwin in his fresh position as Commander doesn’t even address it, simply speaks as if walking circles around this mock retaking of the Wall.

But what choice does he have?

“None of the three branches have been able to breach Shiganshina,” and, “Intel suggests we lost about half of our forces today.”

Fighting words seem hollow, empty.

But without a choice and with so many dependent upon your leadership, you put on a brave face and soldier on.

You hardly realize you’ve even been dismissed until Mike grasps your shoulder and suggests you get some rest; it’s going to be a cold, freezing night.

Just like everyone else, you pick out the same bedroll, but don’t lay in it. It remains untouched by your side where you rest in one of the enormous dining hall-turned-sleeping quarters for the vast majority of the still-living troops.

There are very, very few common people left. The Titans are eating well.

To you and the grief shredding your heart, it seems like everything, and yet nothing is on your mind, for the longest time.

More or less alone with your knees tucked against your chest, you sit, stew, and wait for Levi to finish his duties. It would be far from the first time that he’s found your face in a crowded room, though it’s more comfortable to stave off reality by resting your head in your arms.

You’re a stranger to the silent sobs wracking your chest until the clicking of boots stops very near you, and a calm hand falls on your shoulder.

“Hey,” Levi greets, the tone he uses burdened by invisible weights. “Are you hurt?”

“Hi.” You sniff. “No, I’m okay.”

It’s the truth, although you do all you can—frantically, as if you’ve just woken from a dreamless sleep—to erase the evidence of tear-tracks on your cheeks.

He huffs a little, relieved. It’s only when he pulls away do you regard him and all the tired, solemn storms behind his eyes.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

If he didn’t ask, you would be willing to beg.

No more words are exchanged after he settles beside you, not that there’s anything to say.

To you, and likely everyone, the situation speaks for itself. No matter where the expedition takes you all, ghosts seem to follow. Perhaps the quiet, disturbed by only the slightest of murmurings, gives room for the wronged dead to speak their peace.

Torches die as the hall begins to still with those succumbing to rest, or trying.

You notice that Levi brought his own bedroll (as you expected of him), but similar to you he only sits upon it, as if to retain what semblance of refuge from the filthy stone floor he can grasp at.

It’s tragic in a way, but so Levi it warms your heart all the same.

You swallow thickly, then at your side he speaks up. “Got word that most of the MP forces were wiped out today. Nile wants a retreat order.”

For no reason at all, not much of a response forms on your tongue at first.

Feigning reverence, you sigh. “If it’s the Military Police, maybe it’ll come.”

He scoffs a little, wry as hell. “Maybe.”

You pass the minutes by in companionable silence. As heavy as you feel, sleep seems days away, especially as evening falls to the rule of a cold night. Silence now seems unbearably loud.

At times, you swear he can read your thoughts. Stiffly, Levi starts to open his bedroll, then pauses when he notices you watching.

“You look tired.”

“We could get attacked in the night,” you mumble, and screw your eyes shut to stave off, exactly as he said, tiredness. “Wouldn’t be the first time we went without sleep, but how ‘bout you rest, Captain.”

He stops with the bedroll shuffled up to his knees, and stares at you with a deadpan expression. “Is that a joke?”

A witty reply escapes you. Instead, you pinch the bridge of your nose—a headache is coming on, you can feel it—and manage to shake your head a little.

He watches you, outwardly impassive, inwardly scrutinizing your behavior with a worried mind.

Maybe something happened, he thinks. You’re always worrying about something, always deflecting a horrible circumstance with dry humor.

“I want you to sleep,” he tells you, this time much more directly. “You’re the one who said we’re all human, so when’s the last time you slept?”

“…Can’t remember.”

“Exactly.”

Exasperated, you huddle in on yourself further. It’s intimidating to look him in the eye all the sudden. You’re scared of what you’ll see, despite the facade you can never drop: that you’re okay, and things are under control.

“I’m okay,” you insist.

In your peripheral vision, you notice him twisting and worrying the cheap fabric of his bedroll within a loose fist.

You finally look at Levi straight, him and all the frustration he carries in his furrowed brow.

“Don’t lie to me,” he whispers.

You swallow.

Shivers are momentarily smothered by nerves as you surrender, and tug your bedroll over your knees. If it gets any colder, your teeth will start chattering. Remnants of tears have already dried on your cheeks.

You should be more candid with him. The miserable knot in your throat lurches. “I saw a kid get eaten today. He didn’t even look old enough to graduate from the Cadet Corps.”

He hisses a little through his teeth, then brushes up beside you. It rattles you to the core, how agonized he looks, before his tight-knitted expression morphs into poorly-concealed rage.

“Bastards,” he seethes.

You shudder again. It seems the cold is chewing right through your bones. “I know. But there’s nothing we can…” The words taste bitter. You can’t finish that thought. “Dammit, I’m freezing.”

He grunts in agreement before a brief silence overtakes you both, nonetheless filled by the lazy breaths of your living comrades gathered here and there, asleep. The few who rest alone shiver, or don’t sleep at all.

Then, he says your name. “C’mere.”

You hum at first, not understanding before Levi shuffles the flimsy bedroll up further around his thighs, and opens his arms a little.

To you, it seems more like an invitation rather than an order, but suddenly it doesn’t matter. The stone floors, the wall leaves your body colder than ice. You’d rather be closer to him.

You’d give anything to be closer.

He tuts a little, but no more words come. Instead, he wordlessly guides you by your waist. Closer, more snug—until you drop right into his lap.

Stunned by just how warm he is, you’re almost spurred on by instinct to snuggle back into his embrace. He’s a protective presence at your back, peeking over your shoulder to urge your legs inside the bedroll, between his own.

Diligently, you snag your own bedroll where it was just set aside. It’s with an unspoken air of teamwork that the coarse, but nonetheless thick, fabric is draped over your chest. With Levi’s efforts, the makeshift security blanket is secured behind your back, pinned between your bodies.

The leather straps of both your uniforms—as no one can afford to dress down on expeditions, even to sleep—leaves the situation stiff, but nonetheless warmer, like a roaring bonfire. The icy, deadened world beyond your and his blanket-cocoon is shut out, at least for the moment.

Shivering out the last inklings of cold, you sigh with approval and take his hand. Where before his breath shook with cold as he pawed for touch by your waist, you attach his arm around your midriff, and keep yours there, interlocked.

He tucks his face in your shoulder as his other arm follows and squeezes you tight, and suddenly you’re so intertwined there’s a frolicking ball of fire loose in your chest.

At the same time, you murmur to each other a variation of, Is this alright? Feel okay, comfortable?

“Yes,” you mumble, tone thick with mirth.

It’s with great satisfaction that you feel his frame relax behind your back, though he shifts his legs closer together to hold your own in a sort of a cradle. It’s a strange thing to feel so safe.

“Survive tomorrow,” he tells you quietly, suddenly and unprovoked. Your hair must be a nuisance in his face, tickling his nose, and yet he speaks this so closely to your neck his lips will press to your skin if he isn’t careful.

He clears his throat. “As your superior, that’s an order.”

You wish you were able to kiss his hands; soft lips against rough, battle-worn knuckles, but it’s too cold and you’d rather not ruin the moment by kissing his cheek.

Kissing... something you’ve never done before.

“Tell me that every night,” you whisper, “and we may just live through this whole ordeal.”

You know just as well as him that the mile-high goal of retaking the Wall is fruitless. So contrived and thick with the sick stench of wrongful death.

Still, you fight regardless of the odds. That’s what the Scouts have always done.

“Yeah.”

“And then…” Your eyes flutter shut briefly to focus on the steady rise and fall of his strong chest, flush with your back. “…We can do this again, when we’re back home.”

Home. A silly way to say Trost HQ, but your mind is more taken with Levi at the moment.

Somewhere below the surface, your mind is also still burdened with the images of a hopeless battlefield.

He takes a long time to reply, as if contemplating deeply. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t go stiff for even a moment.

Finally, he asks what you mean by that.

Hugging for a long time horizontally, you want to snidely remark, but think better of it.

You squeeze his hand, suddenly feeling convicted. “Just this. It may not be as cold…but.” You click your tongue. “I like to be close to you.”

He shivers, even though your blanket-nest shut out the elements many minutes ago. Even though he never shivered much at all.

You can’t see his expression from where you are, but strangely he bumps his head with yours: a shy sort of nuzzle.

“That sounds… so sweet it makes me sick,” he snorts. “Fine.”

“Hm. So you’re holding me like a teddy bear because it makes you sick.”

“Tch.”

The distaste in his scoff is so fake it makes you crack a smile.

He doesn’t go on, but how he truly feels at the moment is so clear to you that you lapse into comfortable silence.

It’s a rare thing for him to get a full-night’s sleep, you’ve learned, especially outside the Walls. Before dawn breaks over the horizon, there is a chance you’ll have to detach, leaving him to report to the Commander and strategize for the next fight.

It’s okay. You’d prefer it—and you’re sure Levi would too—if this moment remain reserved for just the two of you.

Then again, while snuggling under the guise of a maddening need for warmth is commonplace in the Corps, it’s almost guaranteed that when your comrades begin to stir, he’ll immediately wake feeling antsy.

Strangely, the thought doesn’t burden you. Swaddled in Levi’s arms is a good place to forget your worries, and by the way his breaths slow and his stern muscles relax, you’d say he feels that way, too.

bare your heart

Chapter Summary

A tender, loving heart will scar. One equally so, eviscerated by tragedy, will harden and become impenetrable. Gods, how he cares for you. And yet.

Chapter Notes

being emotional… hand-holding.. PDA??? giant leaps in this installment… sorry it's been a bit, i have a lot of wips.

warnings:

-description of a panic attack

-spoilers for A Choice with No Regrets

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Shit, my back.”

Levi’s focus is ripped from the needle and thread in his lap when you groan in pain. He meant to get the holes in your cape stitched before you got back.

Craning his neck around the back of the cushy recliner, he watches you drop onto the couch, and says your name. “What’s wrong?”

And then, Erwin opens the door.

Levi shoves his sewing shit off his lap and has half the mind to ask what the hell is going on, it being the one day off Erwin’s forced on him in the last month.

He appears strangely awkward, and explains the whole situation.

Scoffing, Levi plants his hands on his hips. “Gimme the recruit’s name, sir, or don’t waste my time. By the time they hear from me—”

“It was just an accident,” you insist, looking between Levi and the Commander helplessly.

An objection sticks to Levi’s tongue. By the way your knuckles are turning white, braced against your scuffed pants, he’s inclined to point out that, regardless of some stupid brat mishandling their ODM and slamming you to the ground, you’re clearly in a great deal of pain.

Erwin digresses. You refused a visit to the medbay, and out of a sense of insurance, maybe, he tailed you to Levi’s quarters.

A well-meaning smile plays at Erwin’s lips. He advises that you rest before wishing Levi luck on his project. “I didn’t know you enjoyed sewing. I’ll excuse myself.”

Once he’s gone and Levi has wrangled his mortification, he turns his back to tuck your cape and the rest of the mess back into a neat, wicker basket.

While he organizes, you fitfully shed your stiff jacket and enlighten him to the truth: It wasn’t some recruit that caused the accident, but a new member of your (handpicked) squad.

“That Forst girl? Tch.” The one time he heard of her, it was when you went to him for advice in recruiting three or four Scouts for your team.

No matter. He doesn’t like her. A mistake is one thing, untrained recklessness another.

You blame yourself, and insist you’ll just have to train her better.

He hates your words, but with a rough sigh, he takes to your side to help you shed your belts. Now’s not the time to argue, and he trusts you to look after your own squad.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing your shoulder gently so he can get a look at your back. Down low, where belts would normally cross at your waist for the harness, there lie angry, dark bruises.

You hiss, and sound a bit tearful. “What’s wrong?”

“You must’ve hit the ground hard,” he says, and stands. “Stay there. Don’t so much as breathe wrong, or I’ll assume you’re dying and take you to the medbay myself.” Then, quieter, “Where you should’ve gone in the first place. I’m not a damn medic.”

You apologize upon Levi’s return. In his hands he carries some salve and plain, unscented lotion.

“She felt so bad about it that she got on her knees. She begged me to forgive her,” You sigh, soothed by the cool ointment he rubs into your welts. “It would’ve been worse, blowing it into a whole thing. I’ll give her what she’s got coming.”

“And what’s that, a tap on the wrist?”

It hurts to laugh. You squeeze your eyes shut at the feeling of him and his rough palms gliding up between your shoulder blades. It seems he’s chosen to give you a massage.

“You mean a slap on the wrist?”

“No.” His clean hand brushes your hair off your back. “Knowing you, it’ll just be a tap.

"Let me handle it, and she’ll know to do right by you next time.”

“Ha. Thanks for that.”

His soothing ministrations pause.

“Yes, Lev'... Just don’t be too hard on her.”

No promises.

True to your observations, he isn’t quite satisfied until you’re no longer wincing in pain whenever you so much as twist around.

It doesn’t occur to you until he taps your shoulder and requests for you to lay on your belly that you’re dressed down to just your uniform pants, and a bra.

You do as he asks anyway. If I didn’t, wouldn’t that be weird? He’d assume I saw something sexual about it…

It doesn’t matter, though. His veiny forearms flex with effort, rolling deep strokes into your aching muscles. There’s already a plainly obvious subtext to the whole thing.

You hide your flaming cheeks in your arms, and he for one is relieved you don’t see his own blush creeping across his face.

Now that you have your half-nudity in mind, it doesn’t go away; there’s no ignoring it. Your mortification worsens every time you sense him moving around it.

“You can unclip it, if it’s in the way,” you offer, and continue when his hands stop dead. You feel light, like your stomach is dropping into nowhere when you explain that you’re not uncomfortable.

Not if he isn’t, anyway.

Wordlessly, you feel his forefinger slip under the clip in the back, and you hold your breath. It should be unnerving, how quick he manages to do as you suggest.

You blink, wide-eyed into the dark abyss that is his sofa.

There’s an awkward hint to his tone when he asks if this is good for you. How the hell do you answer that when panic, wonder, and lust are all tangled in your mind? You’re dizzy.

With a hum and a stiff nod, you shift around a little as his thorough kneading returns, as if that’ll absolve the unspoken awkwardness.

It takes quite a bit of mental gymnastics for Levi to go through with what he’s got himself into, here. Your skin—above the tender bruises, that is—feels soft beneath his fingertips, but…there’s very little left now to the imagination. Your muscles are stiff.

She’s uncomfortable, he thinks, but you just gave him your word that you’re fine. You’re the one who suggested this.

The peek of skin just beneath the stray fabric keeps begging his gaze. He’s wrong for this, and has no right to even look at in this way. Even if you invited him or even insinuated it, he wouldn’t deserve it.

Shame burns in him, so the least he can do is continue working out all the screwed up knots in your muscles, and relieve you of a little pain.

“Are you sure you’re not uncomfortable?”

You tell a half-lie. “It’s fine, you dummy.” Through his curtain of bangs, you catches his brief glance. “Are you uncomfortable, or something?”

“No,” he replies.

A lie, but only partly.

—

It’s a dumb wish of his, Levi thinks, to want to hold someone’s hand.

But not just someone, he silently chides himself, yours. Of all the people who exist in the world, of all the people who have ever offered him a gentle part of themselves in such a way, he would march through hell if he had the guarantee that you would be standing at the end, waiting with a kind smile.

The way he feels around you is impossible to explain. This mass of confusion always waits when he tries to unravel his emotions, but when you plant a kiss on his cheek and he’s left frozen and stammering, he decides his feelings aren’t just confusing, but utterly incomprehensible. It feels like he’s dying in the best way possible. It’s as if the rivers of his mind are streaming backwards and midnight is blindingly bright.

He has feelings for you.

“Levi?” Your voice is tentatively amused from just beside him. “Are you okay? You seem… distracted.”

The way you’ve done up your hair today makes you too beautiful for him to look at. In one of the crowded markets in the thick of Stohess District, he at least has an excuse to appear distracted and look away.

“Tea,” he gruffs quickly, and tugs his blazer tighter around himself. “Let’s stop someplace and get tea.”

He’s thankful for how quick you agree.

Another thing he likes about you is your patience. Even if you can tell, you won’t push him to explain while (perhaps literally) clinging to his arm and begging for an answer.

However, you do love to take his arm.

You ask if it’s alright, and he hums in response.

In his other hand dangles a basket of goods: soft-smelling soaps, a puffy loofa, and per Hange’s request, sugar cookies.

This was Levi’s errand, but he’s glad for your company. On spring days like this, the air remains cold and clear despite the sunshine. Without a cloud in the sky, too.

You really do look beautiful.

—

“Don’t spend your money on me.”

Your lips quirk. “It’s all coming from the same place, isn’t it?”

“It’s a waste.”

As it turns out, you don’t get the opportunity to treat Levi a little, even after he insisted he buy all his little necessities, including yours.

At the very least, the cookies were your purchase. Reason being, so you could get extra and tuck into a few like you’re doing now.

The cafe smells almost sickly sweet with freshly baked goods and the earthy aroma of tea leaves. It’s sparsely populated this time of day, and you’re quick to order your favorite while he quietly bides his time. His eyes scan the shoddily-made board beyond the front counter.

He can scarcely get a word out as the lively woman behind the counter—who, you notice, has been staring—flashes a grin. “I’m sorry if you get this very often, but are you Captain Levi?”

Levi, a little lost, nods curtly. You try your best not to snort as the woman goes on, giving no mind to the billfold clutched in his hand, waiting expectantly.

Then, the blonde jabs her finger in the air, as if she’s just had the greatest idea.

“I knew it! What brings you to Stohess District, sir?—Just tea?” she chuckles at her own joke, the batting of her eyelashes clearly lost on a man like Levi.

He stares blankly. With your lips pinned between your teeth, you jab at him a little.

He assumes you do this because he’s being rude. He doesn’t care much for niceties, but if you prefer he plays pretend-friends with this random shopkeep—fine. Begrudgingly.

“No. My friend and I are running errands.”

You nearly burst into tears.

“Can I pay now? You have a line.”

—

The giggly woman gives you your drinks for free, as it happens.

Before Levi could voice his utter distaste for this idea, you interrupted, shutting down the whole dispute with, "Oh, it’s quite alright," before ushering him along.

Suffice it to say, you link your arm with his own and take your steaming drinks to the benched porch. He sits beside you with his ankle propped on his knee, clearly stewing, so his drink (quite like you) grows cold.

Your heart feels a bit pricked. Stupid. You don’t deserve to feel that way.

“I hate special treatment,” he mutters, clearly unhappy, then notices your faraway frown. He hates that, too. “And yet… a woman like that doesn’t even treat you like you exist. Tch.”

You sigh, settling back against the bench. It’s easiest to agree with him on that point alone, and to be fair, being treated like hot air also bothered you, random shopkeep or no.

Though, do you have a right to that, either? Levi is well-respected for plenty of reasons that you don’t measure up to. Forget his height versus his good looks; it comes even easier than pushing down your feelings to bask in his shadow.

It makes you feel worse that he doesn’t think of himself that highly in the first place.

“You know she was flirting with you, right?” You quip, and feign coyness.

The look on his face reminds of you of one morning you intruded during his morning routine, and found him standing before his bathroom mirror. His pressed uniform top was still untucked, and he was shaving. You weren’t shy in smiling, saying, Heh, look how cute you are!—but he was more than shy: he called you an idiot.

You call this Levi-ism, disagreeably confused.

In lieu of scrounging together a reply, he brings the rim of his mug to his lips and sips his tea. It’s hot, earthy, and helps him think.

If that melodrama in the shop is how women flirt, you’ve definitely never flirted with him before. You don’t exactly twirl your hair and giggle at him, and you’re not so obnoxious that he would sooner pull his hair out than reciprocate and give you the wrong idea.

No, he likes you. Cold terror strikes him at this reminder, leaving his hands uncomfortably clammy. He doesn’t know with utmost, unequivocal certainty that you like him, and he doesn’t plan on asking. ‘Friend’ is such a shallow word for what you two share, but that couldn’t be wrong, exactly.

The real question is why that rare frown of yours is bold on your lips, why—if he wasn’t being rude—you seem so unhappy.

Is she insecure?

Lips pursed, he glares at the clay bricks below his feet. His breathing is so sharp, shallow; equally odd is the space you leave between your bodies, replaced by silence running thick. It must be that.

It’s natural, filling that space by brushing his shoulder against yours.

His stomach flutters at your shyness. It’s not quite a smile, but it will be if he has any say in the matter.

“I don’t think she was flirting,” he says at last, idling a little to kiss the crown of your head, hoping that will prove his point.

You chuckle, your mug of tea steaming in your palm. “No?”

“No. I think men are supposed to enjoy gestures like that.”

A wide smile breaks over your cheeks. Suddenly it isn’t just your drink that leaves you warm. Your gaze scrupulously strays to his free hand, and while it isn’t a strange thing to ask for, you’d rather hear more of his thoughts on flirting. You worm your way in close, your head coming to rest on his shoulder.

“Mm. Is a man’s way of flirting paying for tea? If so… I enjoyed that.”

He huffs through his nose, and your smile grows at his amusement with you. It’s even better when his arm comes to drape around your shoulder.

He should really pay mind to his tea, but he’s more taken up with your grin, how you bury it in his shoulder. Eyes slipping closed to enjoy the whiff of your shampoo, he kisses your hair, and leaves himself there. He has no doubt you know his answer to that question.

As the rising afternoon passes you by, you spend it in companionable silence. When the sun rises high into the sky and your warm drinks, joined with fluffy sugar cookies, are low and gone, it’s time to return back.

Playfully, you bump his shoulder as he stands, your paper grocery bags bunched in his arms. “Give me your hand.”

“You’re…”

He doesn’t have an intelligent response. He sees the smile you try to muffle, then does as you ask. When his mind is uncertain, his body decides.

He gets a cold, draining feeling at first, like fear, but then a wave of happy feelings crashes down over his chest. He can’t move. Your fingers curl around his, linking them, and there’s nothing to save his complexion for the way his face burns.

“Don’t hide away from me.” Your grin is practically shit-eating. “Oh, you’re so cute right now. Are you smiling, Levi?”

You wish more than anything you could somehow take a snapshot of this moment. A sunbeam cast over his neat bangs and pink cheeks. His eyes shine with undeniable fondness, almost intimidating in its affection once you guide his gaze back towards you. There’s a shaky, yet unmistakably giddy smile playing at his lips.

For one moment your eyes meet, and you think he might kiss you.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, tongue darting out over his dry lips. “Stupid that I didn’t mention it earlier.”

Your heartstrings feel pulled taut, like a bowstring. Levi isn’t one for compliments like this; what you did to bring out such a side of him, you don’t know. If you’re beautiful, he must be beyond description.

He squeezes your hand at your thanks, and then you plant a sweet kiss on his cheek. His eyes widen slightly in surprise.

“Shall we go?”

“Yeah,” he returns, his mouth dry like a wasteland. “Some things you do must be games just to embarrass me.”

How could you deny a half-truth? You don’t spare Levi an answer, your thumb sweeping over your intertwined hands.

—

Levi knows there are repercussions to knowing him, to getting along with him.

He also knows you care for him despite all the things he can’t change about himself—aspects that he believes would make you happier if he somehow changed.

Your insecurities don’t matter to him. Hell, all those things you hate about yourself don’t, and why should they? How easily you’re moved to tears, how shitty you are at ironing your uniform, and so on doesn’t matter, because they make you, you.

You’ve asked him a couple times, but he doesn’t know why he can’t hold himself to that same standard.

"It all comes down to the way we were raised," is your nugget of wisdom on the matter.

"Then I was raised like shit," he’s inclined to reply.

“The Captain is rather short, isn’t he?” Christoph, the smarmy rat, chortles. For one of the best in your squad, he’s as headstrong as he is tall.

You hum from beside him, unimpressed. It’s with a certain insistence that you remind him of the paperwork for the Commander you’ve assigned him, tucked under his arm as if it isn’t there at all.

To your relief, Christoph takes a hint, saluting before he takes his leave.

Just beyond the walls of HQ, the torrential rain falling like sheetmetal is drowned by a distant rumble of thunder, inspiring you to frown as you continue your jaunt towards Levi’s quarters.

It may be one of those nights you sleep alone. It isn’t as if you carry out your nightly routine with the Captain every day of the week, undressing, having him cradle you in his arms like he would a lover.

All it is, is he works late when it storms. Alone. You don’t know the real reason why he hates bad weather so much, though the cries of lightning make your skin crawl in equal measure.

Key in hand (it took two years of friendship with Levi to earn it), you rap on the aging oak, announcing your arrival.

He doesn’t reply, but there’s a glow creeping out from beneath his door. You assume it’s alright to enter.

Your plan: Levi hates storms, so you brought along with you one of your favorite board games. In anyone else’s mind it’s asinine—Humanity’s Strongest Soldier playing games?—but scarcely have you ever seen him stare daggers at you with such self-satisfaction when you lose a game of scrabble to him. He acts like such a brat when he loses, too, it’s funny.

While you’re one to put on a perpetual pout until he buries a hand in your hair and indulges you in a rematch.

If all else fails though, you brought cigars. You couldn’t afford very good ones on a soldier’s salary, but he isn’t picky as long as they don't taste like dirt.

Upon your step into his neat office space, Levi's head shoots up from his papers, as if he didn't hear you knock. Immediately, something is off.

“Hey,” Levi croaks, pushing his scraggly bangs off his forehead. Before you can reply he quickly rises to his feet. “Not tonight. I have shit to do.”

You protest with the promise of letting him win at scrabble.

You notice too, that it’s more than just his hair being out of order. ODM belts are still fitted at his waist, criss-crossing down his legs. His collar is rumpled too, a light cold sweat across his brow leaving his appearance in total disarray.

“…I brought cigars?”

This is worse than usual, whatever he’s fighting tonight, even more crushing than the aftermath of the most devastating expeditions in recent memory. He turns you down again and again.

“Don’t look so insecure,” he chides, but not unkindly.

Do I?

Does your pursed frown make it that much more obvious?

Tutting a little, you cross the short distance between you to fix his collar. “Really, are you okay?”

Before you can get him very straightened out, Levi’s hand finds your wrist, forcibly tugging you away.

There’s a carefully-forced distance in his expression, but you don’t let yourself believe this is Levi pushing you away again. He’s clearly uncomfortable.

“Go. I…” His air is winded and lost. “…Just do what I say, alright?”

Your worry isn’t completely cinched. It never is.

His hand slips down to bring your fingers to his lips, a brief peck, which has the opposite effect. Now, it feels like your feet have grown invisible roots in the floor, and to leave him now would be like yanking a plant out of where it’s rightfully grown.

“…Alright.” You nod, hesitant. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

Levi knows there are repercussions to knowing him. One of these is all the baggage he keep inside, wrangling and stinging. To drudge up the past seems such a tired activity, because as is the word, it has passed.

To tell you is to bare tons of screaming, sensitive nerves, which leaves him vulnerable, and Levi is not a vulnerable man. He was born in a dark hell, got raised in it, and lived in it for years and years. Unlearning what he’s internalized since birth kills him, or it feels that way. Pushing not just you, but even his own rational mind away keeps him safe and steady.

He takes a trying breath and studies his hand. It’s shaking, just a little.

No secret that he hates when the sky cracks open, howling and slamming its fury into the tired earth.

It isn’t the storm, but the nightmarish scene woven into its very clouds, carried in the rainwater. Memories he’d rather not know crawl out of the woodwork and freeze him stiff. Hot blood, snapping jaws, last words.

He idle there before his desk, arms crossed for long enough for his feet to go numb and stiff in his boots; even changing out of his uniform feels unthinkable tonight.

He can’t escape this nagging feeling of coming danger, of danger right around the corner, or…

He loses the thought. What it is that he’s so anxious over is impossible to pin down exactly... but he has to be ready for anything.

What’s worse than usual—because this night isn't unusual for him—is the season, the month. This time, three years ago, he lost his friends in the harrowing maws of monsters, battered by bullet-like rain and bathed in blood.

Tonight is cruel to him.

With nimble fingers, he dims down the lamplight on his desk, and drops into his seat heavily.

The wind howls and cries, begging his stinging eyelids for no rest, and the cracks of lightning which bathe his dim office space in flashes will kill him by heart attack before he ever finds a wink of sleep.

You perpetually invade his mind, cramping his chest up with a certain longing. Guilt, also. It’s not like he slammed the door in your face, and you understood (like you always somehow do), but all the same; he closed you out, locking himself inside.

He swallows heavily, and glares at the shadows plastered to the walls. It doesn’t even sound like Isabel crying out for help anymore, not like in his memories, but a new, crueler fear.

Independence is a facet of himself he prides himself on. He needs no one and never asks for help. It wouldn’t kill him if you fell to that same fate, but a tender part of himself would crumble and die nonetheless.

Such a thought reminds him of your musings about a job at HQ: aiding Scouts like himself who struggle with mental wounds. Not only would it suit you, but you would be safe, or safer.

But (selfishly) he craves that spark in your eye and sheer elation sprouting over your face. This, because for some time he’s considered making you his Lieutenant, his Second.

It would drive you crazy anyway, not being able to charge out beyond the Walls anymore.

There’s as much freedom outside as terror, all that death, a cry out to hang on, just a while longer. Bloodthirsty beasts killing and devouring, swallowing mouthfuls while still snapping their jaws for more. Getting fat on human guts.

He can’t seem to catch a damn breath. His glare hardens as his mind runs away from himself. Ancient, wretched feelings. He can’t keep seeing you in Isabel’s place anymore. The light in your eyes lost, a gaping expression frozen in fear.

It’s killing him.

Hastily, he reaches and strikes a match, pushing the lantern to life so quickly he nearly blows the damn thing out. Rain pelts against glass and thunder shakes the floor, the latter in the same manner his hand does now.

He needs to write something, a note of apology, simply put. As much as he can’t get your lifeless visage out of his head—so much so that it’s easy to convince himself that you’re dead already, dying now, with nothing he can do about it—you looked so disappointed when he turned you away tonight. It doesn’t matter if that’s his occasional habit or not, he owes you an explanation.

You know him, and he knows you better. He rationalizes that sharing Isabel and Farlan with you will keep them alive in some way; not cheapening their lives, but making their memories that much more meaningful.

Besides, he doesn’t have half the mind at the moment to explain in so many rambled, curt words.

Somehow, you always manage to hear him out anyway. He needn’t even say a word.

—

You’re not asleep. The golden hue creeping out from beneath your mahogany door tells him so, but Levi still isn’t sure whether to count his blessings or leave you unbothered. To know you're alright is enough reassurance to leave him on his own, or that’s how he’d prefer to feel.

Maybe it’s too late in the night for it to be anybody else, or you recognize his curt knock when you hear it. You come to the door after just a few moments, concern just as quickly replacing the pleasant surprise etched into your features.

“Huh, there you are…”

“Hey.”

Wordlessly, you step aside for him to all but flee inside. He plants the note in your hands and strides across your living space—the fireplace a small, dying bundle of flames—to waver near your gaping bedroom door.

As far as he’s concerned, you’ve invited him in, but he received no request to stay. There’s always a chance, and he’ll sulk for the rest of the night before he forces any of his bullshit on you.

You read the note, and he watches your expressions morph: your thinking face, to the furrow of your brow, and then a tender, troubled frown.

His knuckles turn white against the oak, because he wants the short apology to get across his point. How embarrassing it’d be if his hand shook too much to leave the thing legible at all.

Finished, you fold the parchment and place it on the long stretch of your coffee table, speaking as you approach. “I’m not upset with you. I know you get stressed when it storms, but why apologize for needing to be alone?”

Because, I’m afraid.

He fixates a glare at the floor. “Could I stay the night?”

It’s with a tender touch and even gentler tone that you reply, “Of course,” and follow him into your bedroom.

You’re gone only briefly to put the lights to rest while he perches at the foot of your quilted bed and tugs off his boots, then pops the top buttons of his collar. He’s over often enough that you keep a pullover or two of his that he can change into.

At your return, he jolts so hard that it makes your heart drop in kind. That damn storm, for whatever reasons he hates it, worries you more than the nightmares he gets. It’s terribly unnerving to see Levi afraid of anything.

You set his boots by the door and kneel to loosen, then unbuckle the leather belts strapped across his chest.

Making sure to keep your eyes low and your tone conversational, you decide to prod a little. “I’m glad you came. The storm… I hate to leave you so stressed by yourself.”

He grunts in reply, though you note the tremor his hands have taken as he braces himself against the mattress and allows your hands to unwind the belts hugging his thighs.

Like the storm pounding away at the rooftops, there’s a fierce one going on behind his eyes. It breaks your heart.

Then again, asking the reason may not be such a good idea, or a necessary one for that matter.

“Is there anything I can do?”

He gives you a thoughtful glance as you set aside his tangled belts, so the gasp he emits at a shuddering stroke of thunder is cutting and raw. To your distressed frown, he can’t even hide how empty and ragged his breaths are anymore.

He swallows, his gaze elsewhere. “Not sure.”

“Stay here,” you order gently, and nod to his clothes. “I’ll get you something to change into.”

“No. You don’t have to.”

“Levi…” You sigh and roll locks of his tousled hair between your fingers.

“W-What?”

“Hush.”

You bring him a fuzzy, dark sweater, which he pulls on in privacy.

Then, he trails behind you into your small kitchenette to brew a cup of tea. It isn’t so odd that his gaze tends to follow you, but tonight he lingers close to your side on more than one occasion, and he’s almost constantly distracted. He isn’t one for a constant stream of conversation anyway, so a natural quiet falls between you, lifted only by your occasional humming.

He cradles the cup between both hands, and the earthy taste seems to quell that harsher-than-usual crease between his brows.

You nurse your own and stroke his back in slow, easy circles; a little more of the tension seems to leave his body. It was pelting off of him in waves before.

Your chairs are brushed up close together, with your head resting on his stocky shoulder. With every one of his deep, even breaths, a pace you set without having to say a word, he grows lighter. You sense the steady rise and fall beneath your temple.

“Will the rain ever stop?” he mutters, clearly peeved with the constant barrage battering against the roof, the windows, the earth.

You consider it. Summer storms like these are seldom so forgiving. Hopefully, the reservoirs in the cities don’t flood—

Or maybe that isn’t quite what he means.

“…It always does. Give it time.”

He frowns gently into his empty cup. “You always know what to say.”

“Do I?” You raise your head.

He does the same, leaving the both of you so close together that that rare blue hue in his eyes makes an appearance.

His gaze, stubbornly, doesn’t leave yours.

Quieter, “Even when I don’t say anything at all?”

“Yeah.”

A grateful smile finds your lips.

In turn, he seems more at ease than he has been the whole night. A frown still tugs at his lips, but his eyes are soft, unguarded.

He leans a little closer and kisses your cheek. Why your stomach plummets to your feet at the gentle kiss, you don’t know; it wouldn’t be the first time he initiated something like that, especially as of late.

With your cups empty and washed, you carry yourselves to bed.

As brutally as he holds his troubles to his chest, he speaks quietly and randomly, once darkness falls over the bedroom and he’s securely tucked in your hold. “I lost those friends I’ve mentioned before, in a storm like this. A couple years ago.”

Swiftly, your memory of that expedition crashes into your conscious mind. Farlan and Isabel. He’s only mentioned them once or twice at the most tender of moments, like now. Everyone has lost someone they love in this world, but you still feel it’s unfair to him. Especially him, who you know has lost so much.

Your hand buries a little deeper in his hair, soft and disheveled.

His arm, draped across your middle, tightens its hold when he presses his head closer to your chest, right over your heart.

Softly, “Do you mind telling me more about them, in the future? I just remember… Isabel was always so excited about everything. With you, it was like night and day.”

A rumble of amusement. Your scratches drift a little further down to the prickly base of his undercut.

In truth, you’d love to hear he talk more about them. Even if he chooses not to, you don’t plan to forget these small, tender pieces of himself he chooses to share with you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, content. “Sure.”

Chapter End Notes

I LOVE COMMENTS PLS LEAVE COMMENTS IF U ENJOYED THANK U

kiss me, please

Chapter Summary

No more second-guessing, no more doubts. You learn that love really can bloom on the battlefield, and Levi chooses to be happy.

Chapter Notes

jeez 3 weeks since my last update - im so sorry!! i came down with a pretty severe bout of covid + this chappy is the longest chapter/oneshot-type-work i've written /ever/ so it took me a while! i think the fact that i was sick will rly show here, but im v happy with how it turned out anyway hehe.

i hope you guys like and dont be afraid to leave a comment if u enjoyed🥰

okay enough from me.

first kiss time.

warnings:

-very vague description of a nightmare

-descriptions of severe hypothermia/NDE

See the end of the chapter for more notes

What a horrifying shock it is to finally feel safe enough to get your hopes up again.

Levi is no stranger to loss in his life, but as he watches you put on your concentration face, seamlessly navigating the straps of your ODM gear, he’s struck by a terrifying thought: Maybe things will be different this time. Maybe I won’t get left behind again.

Blinking in his slight stupefaction, he tightens his belts, the squeeze snug and familiar.

With practiced ease, he loops his cravat around his collar and ties it as he wanders over to you. You’ve just now laced your boots.

“Let me,” he tells you, and without another word kneels and starts his quality check of the ODM belts double-looping around your thighs and hips. There’s no convincing him there’s no need—you’ve learned that by now.

With a quirk of your lips, you spread your legs apart to give him more room. “Why, thank you.”

He grunts. So accustomed to your touch now, he hardly even pauses when your hand lands in his hair, petting. Rather, he looks a bit thoughtful.

At the last belt tethered across your chest, he hesitates, then moves to tighten it.

You quirk a brow at him. “Finished, Captain?”

Warmth pools below his navel. Instead of saying anything intelligent, he manages a nod and squeezes your knee before he leaves to summon his squad. Maybe if he acts normal, this hopeful terror will dwindle a little. He won’t have to stew in it, and it’ll quit raging inside him.

Regardless of the dynamic your relationship has morphed into, there’s very little room to play favorites out in Titan country. Now that you’ve accepted Levi’s proposal—to fight alongside him as his (and the Corps’) de facto Lieutenant—he’s been given less reason to give in to his urges and do just that: play favorites.

It’s a little early in the year for an expedition, but this one should be simple. Erwin wants to reclaim a few minor checkpoints lining the waterways that lead to Shiganshina; an operation he and Levi estimated taking three days or less. The expedition shouldn’t be the major pain in the ass the brass makes it out to be, but Levi isn’t one to place bets like the Commander.

Riding alongside him and the more hot-blooded veterans he recruited into his fold some months ago, it kickstarts your heart a certain way. Gunther nods to you in kind recognition, and Petra smiles especially tenderly with your addition to Levi Squad.

You flash her a knowing smile back. As a friend you know her better than most, and her bright spirits quell the way Oluo stares flatly, unable to imitate the staunch glare on Levi’s face. As your squadron of horses approach the gate, you trap your tongue between your teeth to stop from sniggering.

As Hange incessantly rambles to Levi, you notice Oluo glaring at you, specifically. It’ll be minutes before the gates rise, so you’re hard-pressed to ignore him. He reminds you of a man from your past squadron, mostly in the way he places himself on such a glaringly high pedestal.

“What?”

Oluo scoffs like a prince. “You might be more of a veteran than the rest of us, but things work differently on this squad than anywhere else. Don’t think you’re special just because the Cap—”

“Hey, idiot!” Petra objects. "She’s known Levi longer than any of us. What if—and hear me out—you were nicer for a change?”

You roll your eyes. Levi doesn’t play favorites, after all. The reason he chose you is for your battle prowess, and besides, he knows you better than most here.

We’re close, super close. But not like that.

You’re happier to be physically closer to him, as selfish as that is to admit to yourself. Levi is arguably the least likely to get killed out there than anyone, but just having your best friend (and the man you spend the occasional night alone with) within arm’s reach helps brighten your spirits.

“Hey!” Levi rears his head towards Oluo and his blathering mouth. “Keep my Lieutenant’s name outta your mouth, Bozado. Eyes ahead.”

You fight back a smile as your and Levi’s eyes briefly meet. Oluo bites his tongue.

—

It was supposed to be simple, but the easiest missions and the hardest are both relatives to tragedy; heaven can become hell at the flip of a coin. A chance only Scouts are willing to take.

The frigid air cut at your skin on the first afternoon. Titan encounters were common, so much so it seemed every one of Levi’s orders to engage followed right after another. When one duo of stumpy, idiotic-types came up on your rear, a trio seemed to take their place before the steam wafted away.

“But… We’re in the center of the formation,” Petra protested, each hasty puff of air leaving her mouth fogged. “Why—”

Black flares like rising storm clouds shot up into the air, informing every Scout with eyes to see that the rear squads had been all but wiped out. Already.

Hange’s theory was that the plummeting temperatures were forcing the Titans to cluster in abandoned villages along the riversides where it wasn’t yet freezing. Titans get cold too, Hange claimed, but either way the mission was all but kaput unless the Scouts went about slaying them all.

Hunkered down in a dilapidated church that evening (the Corps’ makeshift war room), your heart sank to your stomach at the number of casualties. Not even Hange, and especially not Levi, was immune to the dire mood.

The debate was whether it was better for the Survey Corps to count its losses and return home with its tail between its legs, or soldier on.

Levi recalls the growing unease he felt, how every time he glanced over the way you chewed your lip. Your eyes would meet and he would look away, as quick as he could.

He and Mike thought it best to return back, but there was the threat of the Wallists’ growing influence, siphoning money away from the Scouts and into the pockets of pigs. You and Hange wouldn’t give it up, and Erwin took the gamble.

Now, the way you looked is all he can think of: The lift in your brows, and later, how you squeezed his hand tight. He’d told you, as he always did since that night, which sticks out particularly bold in his memory: “Survive tomorrow. As your superior, that’s an order.”

As a side effect of his efforts to quell his violent shivering, his whole body is as stiff as a board. His jaw aches as he pops a cartridge into the flare gun and shoots upward. The smoke is rich and purple, signaling the shitty emergency he’s neck-deep in currently.

“Shit,” he hisses, doubling back against the rough tree bark he leans against, squinting up at the clouds. Past the heavy snow flurries in a world of slush, twilight crawls across the sky; it’s getting dark. “Wo-Won’t even see it.”

The death of day comes with an even crueler drop in temperature and visibility, no matter how the fresh snow illuminates the landscape.

More on the bright side, he thinks now is the time to maneuver down from this tree. Titans never fail to drop dead with the sun gone, not to mention the cold.

He squeezes his gloved fingers into tight fists and peers over the edge of the branch. His previous five-meter onlookers are gone. He’ll have to climb down now that his gear’s defunct, all because of the damn cold on this damn expedition too early in the damn year.

The ice froze his wires. If he tries to pull his triggers again, just like last time he’ll hit the forest floor rolling, the lines sagging uselessly by his sides.

Or, he could wait for rescue.

A party you better be a part of. You better be okay. The snow better have slowed the Titans enough to give you and the rest of his squad the reprieve you needed to survive after he separated.

The reason he did, ironically, was to thin out the number of abnormal-types in wake of the enormous losses they have sustained this time.

Will rescue even come? Levi isn’t stupid—he knows his own value to the Scouts—but he sorely hopes Erwin isn’t reckless enough to commence a search-and-rescue mission in this shit. In equal measure, he hopes you aren’t stupid enough to risk your life by going alone.

No; it’s not in his blood to wait around, either for a helping hand or for death to come. He needs to find his fucking horse (that’s been deaf to his whistles for it so far), or he needs to find shelter. Trudging through miles of a snowscape on foot in search of the formation is a fool’s errand.

His fingers are stiff and painful when he bends them to find some traction in the tree bark. The surface is rough and unforgiving, but with the plethora of branches around, he’s smart enough to utilize his useless wires as a lasso to repel down.

The final jump down is unforgiving, too. It knocks the air from his lungs and meets him with a bank of snow that swallows his shins. His breath leaves him in puffs of fog. He again grits his teeth to keep them from chattering.

With a grunt he rises to his feet, another whistle for his horse piercing the air. Still nothing. To make himself any louder would involve sticking his fingers between his teeth, but the idea tastes rancid. He’s sure even a second of exposed air will freeze the digits right off his hands.

A fire? No, it’s not like he can strike a flame when everything around is frozen solid.

Fucking January weather.

He’s too low on flares to use them on a whim. Shucking one of his blades from its scabbard, he uses it as a makeshift shovel; it won’t work for anything else, as dull as it is. Every now and then, he pierces the air with another whistle as he makes his way.

Sometimes, Levi can be a self-admitted masochist. It’s equal parts distraction and torture to turn his thoughts back to you when you’re not there, or to think back to a warmer time; one where you were sipping something warm before a roaring fireplace.

Right now, he would even prefer listening to Hange blather on about things he doesn’t understand than suffer on in reality.

You stroked his arm, strong and littered with scars, and beneath the coffee table, knocked his ankle against yours in some strange game of footsie. You speckled kisses on his knuckles and he kissed where your shirt fell down just past the odd freckle on your shoulder.

“Oh, c’mon. Haven’t you ever played footsie before?”

“Haven’t you ever kept your hands to yourself?”

“…No.”

He was hard-pressed to indulge you out of how childishly soft it all was, how sweet and sick it made him feel. He knocked your foot away with his own, pinned your toes to the floor, but when have you ever been the type to give up?

Locking both of his sock-clad feet around your ankles, he hastily kissed your temple and snagged your waist to drag you into his lap. When you shrieked, his eyes went wide; he assumed he somehow hurt you.

Your belly shook with laughter, collapsing back into his chest. “You tickled me, you bastard! Don’t ever do that again!”

So, with profound satisfaction he did it again, and again. All over your sides, beneath your shirt, and the backs of your thighs.

He hates how infectious your laugh is, how unfair it is to have you, but never to keep you. You share nights, but not days. You’re promised today, but not the stretch of tomorrow.

Maybe that’s why he hates to be treated like he’s something to be cared for. You treat him too softly, with too much care. It hurts to be cared about. It’s too much. He can’t…

He can’t walk anymore, not through a foot of snow, fighting heaving breaths.

At this point, his horse must be dead. He stops trudging. Dusted with snow, his dull blade is fit to break, so he decides to use its dying moments to clear a little spot before a wide trunk. Pressing his back against it, he slides down into a sit.

Just my luck. Not even a hole in the ground to crawl into around here.

Levi leans his head back against the bark, feeling snowflakes cut into his cheeks and stick to his lashes. The sky is sickly grey, and his situation isn’t pretty, either. He could die here.

His masochistic streak runs deep today; he never answered your question about footsie. I only did kiddy stuff like that with Isabel, he would say, if you were here.

It would be nice if he was still shivering, too. If his body isn’t warm enough to shiver, he’s cold enough to freeze.

“Shit.”

Sniffling in wake of the dry air, he huddles in on himself, thinks, fuck it, and tears one of his gloves off. Even if he loses some fingers to frostbite, at least he won’t be dead.

The whistle that pierces the air first is sharp, but along the endless fray eventually grows wistful with his efforts and his chapped, dry lips.

Levi is strong, though—he keeps this up until his fingers fumble and his breathing thrashes. Sat hunched, his efforts grow more meager as the cold penetrates his blood.

Still, he persists, your voice in his memory. He keeps going. He thinks he hears his name uttered a thousand times, tenderly, quietly, very close by. He keeps going.

And going.

Going…

—

Petra screams your name like banshee, not far from where you urge your horse around the perimeter of a field blanketed by snow.

This spot isn’t far from where you found Levi’s own. It was dead—a sturdy, Corps-bred horse, frozen to death.

Despite your limbs, leaden with dread, her call breaks through your half-frozen mind. You rear your horse back, racing in her direction.

You’ve never been so terrified. When Wall Maria fell, even past your share of close calls over the years, nothing trumps Petra’s scream and the sick, growing darkness filling the pit of your stomach.

Ice cuts against your cheeks, chilling to the bone. No one thought things would get this bad. It was a disastrous series of events, like dominos falling one after another. No one could’ve predicted a freezing hellscape, or Levi going MIA. It was unthinkable—and it is.

Though hope won’t cooperate, you race in her direction and force yourself to prepare for the worst. The air is so cold it feels like tiny razors to take it in. Nothing hurts more, but nothing is more satisfying than taking that next breath.

Heaps of snow slow your horse’s pace to a crawl. At the sight of Petra and a small, hunched form against the tree, you think, To hell with it, and tear off your horse. In desperate leaps through the snow, you crumple down next to her.

Without a second thought tear off your cloak and drape it over Levi (as Petra already has her own), who sits eerily still. He still has a pulse, she tells you, just as her emergency flare finds the sky.

“He’s not sh-shivering, but I couldn’t just—”

Tearfully, you cut Petra off with a bark of Levi’s name. His skin is cold like the underside of death, the pallor of it too. Frost sticks in his bangs. He doesn’t answer. Petra watches, frozen stiff somewhere behind you. You don’t hear her.

Next, you tear off both your gloves, and tuck the thick cotton beneath his chin—any warmth you can get. When you don’t immediately find a pulse there, a shot of twisted desperation eviscerates your insides. Bringing your palm back, you slap Levi across his face.

The first blend of colors and shapes that bloom in Levi’s half-lidded vision turn out to be you. He fights to say your name, slurring it heavily, fights to even recall when he fell asleep.

“Where’d…” Petra’s here too. “Huh?”

It’s best to keep him talking. You do just that while Petra, relief written all over her face, races to corral your horse over alongside hers.

You wrench off your woolen hat, then your scarf—neither of which are uniform—and fit them on Levi instead. You don’t even sense the fresh cold invading your skin. Nothing else exists.

He blinks, dazed, when you stumble through the question of, “How bad is it?”

Well, his cheek stings. As he is he can barely work the muscles in his face to speak, let alone stand up.

“Not…N-Not bad,” he replies.

“Right.” You could laugh. “No sleeping, you hear me?” You pat his cheek again, pained that you had to hit him, before Petra crouches at your side and hands you the bundle of cloths.

“Captain?”

His closed eyes sluggishly twitch.

Petra and you exchange a glance. You’re desperate. “Levi, a Titan’s about to get us, it’ll eat me if you—”

With a jolt off the bark he jerks straight up, giving you the opportunity to drape your arm around his upper back. It’ll cost you if you aren’t gentle.

He breathes hard amidst the sea of your body heat while Petra takes the cotton presses (these, staked over a closed flame until night fell before you left camp) and covers his lap, his chest. That is the best you can do for now. Your cloak ends up tethered around him like an extra coat.

“Hey…” Levi fumbles to press the small mountain of warmth closer to his cold body, mumbling, “M’gear’s broken. If. F’there’s…”

“At ease,” you murmur. “Petra.”

It takes two counts of Petra’s name before she reacts. She can’t wipe the shock off her face of seeing Levi in this state, and while it’s not the first close call you’ve had, just once is too many. Your heart is hammering.

She’s to join Oluo and Gunther, who joined the search as well. They must’ve seen her signal flare.

Her lips part, then close. “Lieutenant, are you sure?”

“Sure,” Levi mumbles from very close beside you, dizzily blinking at you. He’s beginning to shiver now that he’s warming up.

You shoot her a somber look, and nod. “I need you to report back. We’ll be right behind you.”

Petra nods, reassured, and rises again. It isn’t hard to catch up using the flares, and a word back to Erwin needs to come sooner rather than later. It’s easier this way.

Teeth chattering, “You ‘kay?”

“I’m okay,” you assure, your heart breaking. You can’t help but press your and Levi’s foreheads together, just briefly.

The fact that he can ask such a thing while hunched before you, having nearly froze to death, will never not hurt.

Gently, you invite him into your arms so you can pick him up, or at least help him to stand. Any sudden movements, as close to freezing as he is (or was) would strain his body too much.

He leans almost entirely against you, and you bear his weight. He doesn’t try—or is unable—to pretend he can stand on his own.

He even seems to forget Petra was ever here. “Don’t tell me. You came ‘lone.”

“No, sir,” you reply, breaths useless and shuddering.

Similar to him, you feel your legs may give out at any moment, but for different reasons. No matter how long your tenure with the Scouts, that urge to cry never fails to bubble up to the surface so easily, like your heart is made of glass.

He grunts, blinks harshly. “That’s my girl.”

It comes slurred and heavy, but the words split a pained smile across your cheeks.

He won’t succumb to the cold on the way, you reassure yourself. It’s okay. It’s okay.

Determined, you keep him talking as you meander your way to your snuffling horse.

It seems his legs don’t want to cooperate right now, but there’s warmth: you, and more: a thick layer of extra capes, cloths, layers buffing up his form. He probably looks like some kind of bear. He’s surely as warm as one, the heat sinking its talons into the aimless dizziness he feels.

As his foot is shoved into a stirrup and a saddle appears underneath him, your hands show up from behind, cradling him where he sits. He shivers harder than before, then shakes and shakes.

Your chest lifts. A good sign.

“You’re doing so well, Levi,” you praise, light like a feather, and kiss the top of his head—that beanie of yours—as you urge your horse into step. “Are you cold?”

“Be craz-y.. i-if I was–wasn’t.”

He ducks down a little more, cringing at the breeze. It feels like razor blades. At his back you’re a furnace, but he notices, idly, that you’re not covered up like he is.

He’s not in danger anymore, not of freezing anyway, so he meagerly protests. You have no gloves on, not even your cloak—just the uniform jacket. Somewhere down deep, he’s seething with panic.

“You’re one to talk,” you scoff, kissing his frozen ear. “You could’ve died.”

He coughs. He doesn’t think so, but he’s already lost that train of thought. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I’m okay.”

Is this real?

He thought he heard your voice or sensed you close by many times before this moment. The memory of the sting of your palm across his face is easier to recall than when you spoke so gently to him. Pain is always easier to remember.

“You—” He shuts his eyes, and sluggishly finds your free hand. The contact will have to do, as his fingers are too stiff to do much else. “Shit.”

You gave him your cloak, even draped it over his shoulders. It reminds him of one the first heart-to-hearts you both had, back when the Wall first fell. Now, the roles are reversed. His heart stalls in his chest. He shivers harshly.

There’s meaning in that, but none he can roll over in his mind in this state. He thinks it’s the cold that’s running his emotions so high.

“I’m here,” you assure, picking up into a gentle gallop. Worry grows when he doesn’t reply. “Levi. Talk to me.”

He realizes something, and feels sick. Maybe, if he really did die out here, he would’ve gone with regrets. Beyond the Titans—a war which won’t be over in your lifetimes—if he died and you lived, what would that mean for you? You’d move on, you’d have to, but he never would’ve gotten to speak any of these soulbound thoughts—things he wants you to know, but just… hasn’t gotten around to saying.

He doesn’t even know what it’s like to kiss you.

He rubs your wrist, signaling he’s awake. The shivers that wrack his body are almost violent, shaking out the cold.

Your lips are at the shell of his ear again. “I’ve got you. Forget the cold, okay, and when we get back, we’ll have tea. And I’ll clean your quarters. Does that sound good?”

He can’t answer; he’d stutter too much to make any of it make sense. He just grunts to show he heard you.

The woolen hat slips a little. There’s a dusty layer of ice coating the crown of his head, making the urge to brush it off almost unbearable. You fix it instead, and focus on the forest in front of you. On returning back. There’s no guarantee that the weather will clear up by tomorrow, that you’ll make it back, but one thing at a time.

Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips. Craning your neck, you notice his slow, shallow breathing. He seems on the verge of falling asleep again.

Dammit. You’d have too many regrets if he died today, or before you were back home, safe; as safe as you both could be, anyway.

You urge your horse into a stronger gallop, squeezing his now-sweaty hand. Yours are clammy too.

“Hey. What if—when we get back to Trost—I kissed you? Would that be crazy?”

At once his eyes fly open. He shudders harder. You think you catch a small noise in his throat, but he kills it before letting it escape.

You’re burning all over. “Like on a date,” you clarify, barely even hearing yourself. “Could I?”

“S’not crazy.” His voice sounds like he’s been gargling glass. He’s shivering, head bowed, as if shrinking into your arms. It’s too dark to see his expression.

“Y-Yeah? Promise?”

“I prom–promise.”

—

The expedition was cut short, of course. There were casualties on the way back (cutting into the Scouts’ wounded pride further), but everyone important to you was still pulling breath when you reached the gates. That’s what matters.

“If things changed…”

“We’ve been through everything together, this is no different,” you resolve, as final as a breath. You smooth that worried wrinkle between Levi’s brow with a single pointer finger.

True to your word, you both made it back behind Rose, but he wouldn’t let himself be confined to the wagons carrying the injured. Typical for the most stubborn man you’ve ever met. Rather, Erwin hesitantly allowed him to ride with the supply wagons (the safest part of the formation) while you and Eld oversaw the rest of the squad.

By the time the Wall was looming into view, you couldn’t tell if it was worry or relief that was making you sick. Levi swore up and down that he was fine, ignoring anyone who told him otherwise all the way into the night. He explicitly warned you’d have to drag him to the clinic before he got these death certificates signed and condolence letters written. That was until you slammed both hands down on his desk, told him, "Take a shower and get your ass in bed, or what did I go through all that worry for?"

If you were Hange or Mike, he probably would’ve glared you down with another scathing, Fuck off. He did look at you pretty viciously, but he has a soft spot for you.

After all, he better.

As it turns out, he fell ill the next day: scraggly coughing, a swelling fever. You didn’t need Hange to tell you that it was a case of a stubborn cold.

Honestly, you were relieved. You prefer a sick Levi than what could have been the day you lost your best friend.

Of course you petitioned Erwin to let you take care of him, which didn’t take much convincing. Hange was in the room when you informed Levi... for extra insurance.

He wasn’t happy with the idea of a nurse, but at least it was you. He surrendered with a dismissive wave of his hand the moment your brow began to raise. Hange laughed at the sight. It was only later, out in the hallway, that they said anything about it.

“You know, everyone and their dog thinks there’s something going on between you two.” They scrubbed their hands together. “C’mon! Divulge a little.”

Before all the blood in your body could attack your face, you acted incredulous at the idea and brushed them off, your stomach fluttering like a hundred angry butterflies. Levi couldn’t have heard even if he was well enough to prowl around; he was finally asleep by then.

As much as he rejected the idea of a caretaker, it’s only about as unbearable as doting in a sick kid. That is, and it makes you smile to think of it, Levi ironically gets bratty when he’s sick: He shoves away the sheets when the hot flashes invade, only to shoot you the most vehement pout when the chills return with a vengeance; coughing his lungs up and then insisting he doesn’t need any help (in his version of reality, he never needs help) until his throat starts burning.

Before then, it took a total of three lectures and a visit from the Commander (plus forcing a thermometer in his mouth) for him to accept the fact that he’d come down with something.

“Try putting that thing in my mouth and your fingers won’t bend the same after.”

“You’re impossible. C’mon, be a good boy.”

“Shut the hell up!”

Today, he’s much better. His fever broke sometime last night, taking the stiff aches and watery eyes with it.

It’s not as if you two aren’t stepping around the elephant in the room, but it’s easy to stick to his bedside like glue when he’s sick; you both have an excuse not to address it.

You have plenty of free time, too. Now that expeditions are on hold until springtime breaks in the new year, the Scouts have been given time off.

Your lips curl into a small, meaningful smile. Beneath his mountain of blankets, he sniffles through the congestion and eyes you warily.

Though his independence has been so violently stripped from him since that day, you both have bigger issues. You’ve sharply shifted the soft, tentative feelings you share, tethered beneath the title, best of friends.

This is the first time the topic has even remotely come up. He only felt well enough to indulge in deeper conversation with the rise of this morning’s sun.

You pretend the anxiety isn’t eating you alive.

His sick pallor still leaves him as pale as the snow, but you bet if he really tried, he could fool most into believing he just hasn’t slept well recently. Dousing your rag again, you dab the cold sweat across his brow away, only for his fingers to wrap around your wrist.

Another heap of anxiety, then guilt jabs at you.

Unsure, he watches you through bleary lids, licking at chapped lips. “Don’t avoid the question. You meant it.”

It’s a question, though he doesn’t phrase it that way. He knows you did, but he needs to hear it from you.

Gently, you pry his fingers away, giving them a little squeeze.

You did. It was out of the blue, sudden, but your feelings have been blooming for forever, from a sprout, exploding into a painful bloom who-knows-when. Maybe it was the last time you two spent the night together, or shared the last of his expensive tea, or…

To say it outright outside the Walls in the middle of blistering cold weather was stupid, too, but the words slipped past your lips before you could help it. You only realized it then, paralyzed by the idea that he could’ve died that day, that he would be gone, just like that. No blinding end, or long goodbye; just a frozen, quiet, wilting away.

“Yes.” Your answer balances on bated breath. “If there was any time to be honest, it’d be when you were…”

You trail off, reassured by his nod. He understands it, too, that feeling of regret.

“I thought it’d help you not to fall asleep, too. I was worried—if you did, then…”

“I’m alive,” he reminds you, voice low and gruff. “Don’t worry about that.”

You smile a little. The conviction in his tone is swept away by how comically rough the stuffiness makes him. Still, “I meant it. I really wanna kiss you.”

Levi’s chapped lips press together, brow wrinkling. It’s something he often does when extremely flustered, like he’s tasted a lemon.

But his eyes are still on you, bleary, and yet ironclad in focus. If the walls were crumbling around this room, it’s possible his gaze would stubbornly remain on yours, flickering ever so often down to your lips.

You skirt your forefinger across his jaw and almost lean in. It’s a helpless thing to stop, you both know that. You couldn’t kiss each other and then pretend it never happened; things have already changed, distinctly and irrevocably.

And if not now, what if time runs out before you can? If you don’t take that step today, now, what if you never get up the guts to do it again?

You go to ask if this is alright—a second nature between you two—before three fingertips fall over your lips. He leaves them there for a moment, brows drawn together heavily. He looks defeated.

His adam’s apple bobs when he speaks, tenderly, “I’ll get you sick. Don’t.”

He turns his head a little with a twinge to his lips, beyond embarrassed, and kisses the fingers on his own hand. Then, he presses them to your lips, rough against soft, and passes the gesture on.

You smile beneath them, puckering your lips so he knows exactly where you stand on the matter. His gaze is as soft as silvery moonlight, thumb swooping to trace your cheekbone before he pulls away.

More often than not, you know better now than to be insecure. Especially now, with the longing tugging his lips into a frown.

The way he looks at you, there’s no room left for doubt.

—

In the evening, you return to Levi’s quarters with limbs made of lead, more tuckered out than usual. Keeping Levi’s squad in top form keeps you on your toes, but that’s to be expected from the best.

With a catch of his name, you wander down the narrow hallway and brush his bedroom door agape. Inside, a strange sight greets you: Levi, resting halfway across his bed. The sheets are still made neatly, and his booted feet dangle over the side. His belts are sloppily strapped on too—loose and lumpy in places.

Yanking your dampened sweatshirt over your head, you step to him and bury a hand in messy, dark locks. “Hey, you. Training in dreamland?”

He wakes sluggishly, bats your hand away while grumbling about something only he knows, and begrudgingly pulls the rest of himself onto the mattress. He’s shivering, too tired to even realize his boots are on the bed.

You calmly croon his name again, a gentle sing-song as you crawl over and bully your fingertips beneath the belts tethered to his waist, freeing him. Evidently, he thought he was well enough to weather the two flights of stairs and train till he dropped.

You smile a little pitifully, something warm swelling in your heart. Didn’t even get that far.

It’s worse to imagine him perched at the side of the bed, boots stubbornly tied while scrounging together the strength to stand. Levi, who’s known for nothing if not his strength.

As you tug his belts aside, he actually whines. He’s starting to shake again with chills, and just like that, your heart plummets.

You admonish him a little, stroking his back: “I know this is hard. But if you want to get out of bed, and stay out, you need to stay in it a little while longer.”

He grumbles his distaste with the idea, his booted foot awkwardly knocking against your side. You catch his ankle, and gape incredulously at his beady glare. “So violent…”

“Fuck off.”

With a roll of your eyes, you pop off both of his boots, setting them down by the vanity on your way to the bathroom. You need to rinse off hours of pushing your body to its brink.

You take a brisk shower, and afterwards your muscles throb with a pleasant sort of ache. After a splash of chilly water from the sink, you almost feel brand new.

Levi isn’t in any better spirits back in his room. A lone, empty cup proves that he’s taken the medicine he needs to get better, but he doesn’t look better.

Always so stubborn, he’s sitting up again. The rest of the leather belts pool on the floor beneath his bare feet, and a mucky grey color has soaked through his white, wrinkled button-up—hot flashes again. He seems to be internally debating whether to take it off.

You say his name. Levi hisses a sigh through his teeth and hangs his head a little, dark bangs hiding his expression from you.

You know too well how he loathes to be seen like this. To your memory, he’s only been bedridden with illness a handful of times, or even less than that, but you don’t mind. It’s okay to be human, you remind him, and unless he wants a real nurse, he’s stuck with you.

With a dismissive shake of his head, his hand falls to his rumpled collar, popping the buttons in an arduous, slow process. “Nobody should see this. It’s pathetic.”

“We’re all pathetic at some point,” you rationalize, wringing your hands a little. It’s not often you get to see him shirtless. Shit, what kind of person does that make me? Ogling his tits when he’s sick.

“Not me.”

Unimpressed, your lips form a flat line. You pad over just as he skirts the sleeves down his arms, and snatch it from his hands. The glare on your face is set as you throw it aside without a glance and crouch to cradle his cheeks in your palms. His resulting glare looks more like a bitter pout.

“Yes, you. Remember that time you were nearly eaten by a Titan and cut its nape from inside its mouth?” You smile cheekily. “You reeked like a swamp for three days, but the Corps got enough funding for three whole expeditions.”

His brow furrows harder. “What’s that have to do with–”

“You’re sweaty and shit-mouthed and a real brat when you’re sick. But,” Molding the slight plumpness of his cheeks in your hands, you plant a sweet kiss on his forehead, “you’re adorable, and so strong. You’re kind and flustered so easily, like a grouchy little teddy bear that I could–”

“No. That’s, I-I–”

Quickly, His cheeks heat beneath your palms. Mortified, his shoulders hunch, and he averts his eyes to a random spot on the wall.

“You are, honey. Being sick and pathetic doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re the cutest. That you’re pretty and I love being around you–”

He wiggles to escape. “You’re crazy–”

“Do crazy people mean the things they say, you adorable asshole?”

You’re nose-to-nose now. He blinks at you through his lashes, sighing a little shakily. You press your lips to the scarlet-red tip of his nose, and his face scrunches, fingertips digging into your palms in some haphazard version of hand-holding.

“Careful,” he grumbles. “Keep getting in my face like this and you’ll regret it.”

Your brow quirks. “Oh? Gonna make me sick?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t bother hiding his straying eyes: If one of you slips up, your lips could easily brush together. “That’s a threat.”

You decide to let it go with a loose smile. Your heart thunders in your ears beyond a dry mouth, completely betraying how nervous you truly are. “Shit, well consider me threatened.”

He lets go of a tight breath. The harshest blush you’ve ever seen blankets his cheeks, creeping below his bobbing adam’s apple—probably his ears too, underneath sloppy tufts of hair.

“I’m a grown man,” he bitches more, nose scrunching. “Not... all that shit you said.” He sounds sheepish suddenly.

You hum skeptically, plopping his dirty shirt in the wicker basket and plucking a fresh, darker one. You round the bed and pointedly avoid staring south of his sharp collar. Instead, you squish his cheeks together again.

Quirking your lips, you pretend to give it thought. “Try again.”

Cheeks plush and pushed together, Levi huffs unhappily. The fact that he hasn’t wrenched your hands away yet is incredible, but you know he likes being praised.

“You look good without a shirt on.”

Coolly, he tuts. “Watch it, sweetheart.”

And then, it’s your turn for your cheeks to heat.

—

You sleep curled up like a cat in Levi’s plush sitting chair that night, and when you can’t sleep, you accidentally prick your fingers with each attempt at fiddling with his sewing supplies. Horror clambers into your memory every time you make your way to sleep’s door: a million flashes of a dark, sinister snowscape.

You think about him, bundled up in the room down the hall. Growing unbearably antsy, you open your eyes.

In the foggy limbo of three or four in the morning, you crawl into bed next to him. With the flu all but ebbed from his body, his head shoots from the pillow, thick blankets pooling beneath his chin.

All it takes is a look.

Levi understands. Like a blind gopher, he tugs the covers aside and nestles you in his warm arms for another night.

He sleeps long into the morning while you’re shoveling hay not too far from brown and black-speckled horses, next to a woman from your retired squad—Alina. She’s as clumsy as ever, and you’d scold her if you weren’t busy thinking, rethinking, and overthinking the previous day.

Like a tightrope yanked, raised high into the air, this comfortable back-and-forth between him and you is shifting quickly. He has your stomach dropping from the vertigo, stealing the air from your lungs. It’s scary, but how could you possibly reverse what’s already happened?—Do you want to? Of course not.

But then, there’s the idea of ruining your entire friendship with him. You’re as secure as a bipedal pony and he’ll sooner eat glass than ask for a helping hand. Is the possibility of growing even closer to him really worth the risk of losing him forever?

You can’t help but worry you aren’t ready; maybe change isn’t good for him right now, either. No one can dispute that you came on much stronger than usual the day before. What if you’re pushing too much?

What if, what if, what if.

White-knuckling your pitchfork, you shake away the begging whirlwind of questions. If he really felt one way or the other, all you can do is trust that he’d let you know—one way or another. If Levi’s one thing, he’s honest; mostly to a fault.

“Mayfest?” You shoot Alina a look, attempting to bury the fact that you weren’t listening. “I figured it’d be held later in the year, after how cold it’s been.”

Who are you kidding? More than the appeal being a festival to rejoice the end of a dead, dark winter, mingling, drinking and dancing is really the festival’s lifeblood. Cold weather or no, plenty will be celebrating. The implications of the whole thing runs your blood a little cold.

Alina tells you the same between foggy huffs and puffs for breath. Through a veil of bright bangs, the woman chuckles, planting her pitchfork in a fat pile of hay. “It’s funny. When we’re outside the Walls, you act like a totally different person.”

“Different?”

Alina flashes you a sheepish grin. “Shy, that’s all.”

Yeah, no shit. While it’s a good skill to practice and pretend, you’re more of a rabbit than a fox in person. Putting up a front, talking through an issue and getting the job done—simple. Making it personal, not so much. Gushing over Levi’s morning voice and hearing him snort, ask, What’s gotten into you? and accepting the ramifications of why you like it are two entirely different ballfields.

Alina muses on about who she’ll be attending Mayfest with: a whole evening of dancing and throwing back chilled beers beckons a date. With a sparkle in her eyes, she giggles and sneaks in a word or two about Eld, who always attends these sort of things with Gunther for merriment if nothing else. You’re happy to indulge her—anything to keep the conversation off yourself.

You’ve had your fair share of ill-fated dates to the festival, memories that irk you to so much as glance back on, but you’ve only been once in the past few years. Other people just don’t interest you, regardless of who’s asked for your hand.

A honeyed tone finds you with a friendly, “Squad Leader! Hey, Alina.”

“You don’t have to call me that anymore,” you snort, nodding in greeting towards Christoph as you slide the stable gate shut behind you. “Lieutenant’s fine—or my name.”

He laughs like he isn’t sure what you mean. Neither of you know each other that well.

You note how Christoph is out of uniform. Showing up to watch you and another comrade polish horse shit, on his day off? With tanned skin golden like honey, a speckled blush shows even darker on his face.

Gods, you hope he’s here for Alina; not to fraternize with his last Squad Leader in a show of something that’ll get you battered by the brass. War leaves no room for relationship, after all. None at all.

Hypocrite, you chide yourself.

“I’ve heard that Captain Levi’s come down with something. How’s he doing?”

Balancing on the neck of her rake, Alina smiles toothily at Christoph’s question. “You’re taking care of him, aren’t you, ma’am? You better find him a different nurse in time for Mayfest. You’ve gotta come this year.”

“Ah, well. You know Levi…”

There’s not a doubt in your mind that he’ll be back in top shape before next week—it’s just how he is. Christoph on the other hand, clearly asked just for pleasantries. He gives no sign of nerves, simply crosses his arms across his wide chest and bemoans how difficult it is to get a date; not many women in the military after all, too many maidens outside it who are too soft around the edges.

You see where this is going. With a nod and a casual wave you make your escape, leaving Christoph a comment wishing him luck. To a man like him, it’s enough for him to pin his tongue between his teeth with embarrassment.

—

It feels like puzzle pieces being neatly slotted together. Levi’s bangs frame his face, neatly combed, and he’s immaculately dressed for the first time in days. That familiar glare is even pressed into his eyes.

All the same, “What’re you doing out of bed, Cap’? You’re not cleared for duty yet.”

Hange’s lab is dank, smelling distinctly of musk and pine needles when you step inside. It’s messy, giving reason to the fact that Levi stands warily to one side, mindful of haphazardly sprawled textbooks and concoctions of all kinds. His shoulders hunch.

Hange glances between you two and laughs. Their feet dangle from the table they perch upon, just like a kid on a swing set would. “So that’s why you said you had to be quick. Your lady was out lookin’ for you.”

“Shut up, Hange.”

Not understanding and rendered a bit speechless, you look aimlessly between the two of them. Levi seems on his way out already, as if you’ve intruded on something.

Something pricks at you, but you decide not to ask. Smothering a sigh, you idle, telling Levi you’ll see him later. He grunts, and the door whines shut behind him.

“So-o, whaddya need?” Hange grins cheekily, friendly enough. “I love visitors, but two within the hour is a little much, isn’t it?”

You gesture dismissively and idle some more. Things are too cluttered to search for a seat, which might be why Hange is perched on the table.

“Just… men,” you snort, and wrinkle your nose. You sound like a teenage girl. “Needed an out, that’s all.”

“Yuck.” Hange crosses their legs and flits their messy bangs out of their eyes. “Well, you came to the wrong place. Levi was fretting about—well,” they quirk their lips, “he doesn’t like his dirty laundry aired. Unfortunately.”

You’re not worried. Why should you be worried?

Hange pries further. “Does your ‘men problem’ have to do with the festival? Did someone ask you, someone we know!? Or did you ask someone?”

“Someone asked me.”

Their eyes go wide with alarm. “Well? What did you say?”

“I—well he didn’t exactly ask, but…” You scuff the floor with a shake of your head. “It doesn’t matter. Never mind.”

“But–”

Louder, “see you later, Hans!”

—

You spend the last hours of daylight kicking around the courtyard, and picking up idle tasks from those who can’t be bothered to do them; wasting space, wasting time.

In your mind’s eye, Hange’s shocked expression bugs you: how awkward it was, and how with Levi it was much worse. It’d be stupid to assume he avoided you just because he was up and walking around when he shouldn’t have been. He doesn’t trek down to the ‘shithole’ (as he calls it) that is Hange’s lab on a whim—it must’ve been for a reason.

You don’t get it. Reasons are gnawing to you, even though you have nothing to back them up with. The fact that he’s clearly keeping something from you is enough.

Evening creeps over the horizon, and the dining hall is buzzing with plenty of able, hungry bodies. Too nauseated to eat, you opt out of dinner and march right up to Levi’s quarters. Like usual, you pick out the key and enter without knocking.

There he is in the center of the room, idly pacing back and forth. He doesn’t even notice until you slip the door shut that you’re there. He pauses, then stands frozen and watches you as if you carry with you some horrible news.

“Hey Lev’,” you greet, feeling strangely unfit for your body. “Feeling better, I see.”

He shrugs, the muscles in his jaw twitching in a strange, nervous way. Without a word he strides across the room, into the kitchenette, and you’re inclined to follow. He’s setting out a teapot and bags, and naturally you fall in step beside him—only, he bats your hands away.

“Sit,” he tells you, curt and unreadable. “I’m making it.”

A cold stone worms around in your chest. You frown, but do as he says. Even with the room perfectly lit and his presence not too far from you, the wrongness persists.

“You didn’t eat dinner,” he gathers.

“Well, neither did you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches at your attitude, but all he does is tut before pinching open a cupboard and pulling out foodstuffs: a bag of rice, some preserved vegetables, seasonings…

Sometimes, you swear you don’t get him at all. He’s distant—has been distant today—and yet practically vibrates with nerves.

The last time he’s been so finicky in your presence was the first night you slept in bed together. Under the warm glitter of sunlight peeking through your curtains, you’d woke to him beside you. You remember his furrowed brow, the dark bruises beneath his eyes. He’d asked if you slept well after keeping awake most of the night, too tense over possibly thrashing awake with a terror and disturbing you in any way to sleep himself.

You hold your breath as he sets a steaming cup of tea down in front of you. You feel like a broken bone. “I’m worried I did something wrong.”

He stares a little incredulously at you, then lightly pets your head before turning back to the stove. “You didn’t.”

“What did Hange need?”

“Nothing…That blabbermouth didn’t gossip to you, did they?”

“No, but–”

“Who asked you to the festival?”

You could scream. “Nobody! Everyone’s acting strange as hell today, including you, and that’s the worst thing of all! I don’t–” As he deflates in front of you, you gesture stupidly to wrangle your scattering thoughts, “–I’m just worried. About everything, like usual. So stupid.”

Blurry tears of frustration crowd your vision.

“Look. I…”

“No,” you sniff. You dismiss it. “If you’re okay, that’s good. I’m just being–”

“If you call yourself stupid again…” He trails off. He doesn’t have the heart to threaten you. “You aren’t. You’re only stupid to think of yourself like that. Like…”

"Like?”

He scoffs, setting a pair of oven mitts aside. “Like you’re not the opposite of all those shitty words you call yourself.”

“I’m sorry.”

He ruminates for a moment, thinking, before padding over and petting your head again. You lean into it, so he stays, idly slipping his free hand beneath your chin and settling on your shoulder. The hug is strange.

“No. It’s fine.” His hand buries in your hair, and suddenly you’re afraid you might cry. “Erwin pissed me off today. He always gets like a mother hen when something goes wrong with me. It’s annoying.”

You snort weakly. That sounds about right, except Levi doesn’t mind when you ‘mother hen’ him. That must mean you’re special.

“Something else,” he goes on, a heavy pause following.

You wish you could see his face, but all you can do is press closer and hear his heart. His hand is still in your hair.

“I wanted to ask. I thought you had… or, if you—fuck,” a tense huff, “it doesn’t matter. I-I want you to go to that festival with me.”

Your eyes snap to his, a little alarmed. You have to ask if he means Mayfest—“No shit.”—and whether you two will be going as friends, or simply for the alcohol, or–“No. You know what I mean. I wouldn’t be ripping my hair out over asking if all I got out of it was liquor.”

“Oh,” you say. Any second, you think you might float away. Silver eyes watch you, both meek and hopeful, gauging your response.

Just then, the rickety oven timer set aside on the counter cries out. He jolts like he’s been shot and pulls away; shuts it off, tends to supper.

“So?” He shoves the oven mitts on like the air is on fire. “Your answer. What is it.”

“You were scared I’d say no?”

A thrilling shot of something lifts you to your feet. It occurs to you again that he absolutely loathes functions like these, and then how an evening beneath lights, swimming in music would be the perfect time for all sorts of romance.

“I’ll get you sick. Don’t,” he’d told you.

Your stomach flips.

“I wasn’t scared,” he argues, like the word disgusts him. The meal he’s baked is a savory-smelling casserole, which he sets atop the oven.

“So—what were you talking to Hange about? Can I hug you?” (Levi still doesn’t appreciate being snuck up on.)

“Tch, it’s fine. Listen, I told you it was nothing.”

The realization dawns on you, sparking a grin as you surge up from behind and slip your arms around his waist.

He sighs. Still grinning, you tuck your face against his neck, nosing playfully at his collar. He smells like soap, mixed with a forest after it rains. You picture him begrudgingly descending the stairs to Hange’s lab, tripping over how to ask you out for the evening; or maybe about Mayfest, whether you had a date already.

A giggle escapes your lips. He must’ve lingered outside the door after leaving, overheard you say, “Someone asked me,” but stormed off before the rest.

Levi, jealous? Oh my god.

Everything is prepared, so he’s out of things to do with his hands. Levi senses your breath tickling that spot behind his ear and battens down the urge to shiver.

“I can hear you thinking. Let it go, you brat.”

“Mm.” You’ll never let this go. “Awe… You needed advice on how to ask me. That’s precious.”

More than a bundle of kittens. He’s mentioned it before, so you know it’s true how popular he is with women—that’s why it’s strange that he went to Hange.

He finally surrenders and relaxes against you, clasping your hands. “People fucked in the Underground, they didn’t date, that’s all.” He tosses a smoldering look at you over his shoulder. “You think I’m insecure?”

“I said you’re precious,” you return.

He rolls his eyes and promptly slips around in your hold, clumsily reaching for your hand and squeezing it. “Whatever you say.”

“Why Hange?”

“Because Erwin doesn’t get laid and it’s Mike’s day off.”

You hum. That means he’s on a booze trip—likely with Gelgar and Nanaba, the members of his squad. Hange is at least in bed with their research; and Moblit.

Taking your interlocked hands, you kiss his bony knuckles and admire the scars licking at his forearms. Strong muscles peek out of his rolled-up sleeves, just shy of his elbows.

He looks good, but just as precious. The apron he dons, colored like eggshells, has a picture in its center. It took quite a bit of badgering, but he gave in and let you iron it on, once. It’s a light-colored kitten poised with a ball of yarn. You can’t stop smiling.

“I’d love to,” you tell him, just in case he didn’t get the message the first time.

—

Most of those in the military—Scouts especially—live inside the barracks without a separate place to stay during the holidays. Levi gets paid enough to buy or rent one and you have family deep in Wall Rose, but neither of you ever bothered.

This makes the fact that Captain Levi has an apparent date to the annual spring festival hot gossip in Trost HQ.

Whatever, he thinks, and taps his foot against the wooden floor of your sitting room more frantically. Morons with lives so boring they feel the need to stick their noses in his own must be pretty miserable.

Hange suspected for years that there was something going on between you and him, and badgered him constantly for answers like a starved pigeon; Erwin too, even if seldom and being much more subtle about it. Mike always knew—with a nose like his, Levi’s sure he smelled it on you both, but never said a word.

For the nth time, he wonders if what he has on is too much for an event like this: a sharp button-up loose at his collar, tucked neatly into shockingly dark slacks which a pair of suspenders are also tethered to. He spent about fifteen minutes wondering about a blazer (knowing you took double that time just to shower) before opting out of an overcoat entirely. He neatly folds his sleeves again, exposing veiny forearms.

He wonders if you’ll ask him to dance. He’s escaped attending Mayfest every year since he first reached the surface, so the bulk of what he knows about it is it’s in Mitras, where the city centers are reserved for music and dance for the evening.

He’s never gone dancing in his life and he never planned to, hence the sturdy leather shoes on his feet. Cows, and by extension the leather, is quickly becoming a luxury in your world.

Would he have the gall to turn you down, though? Certainly not if you shoot him your lost-puppy look.

The effect this woman has on me is ridiculous.

At last, your bathroom door yawns open and out you peek, like a groundhog woken from its winter spell. Your mouth is moving, but he’s trapped in a dazzled stare, blinks a few times, then flounders like a fish to respond. “What?”

“My necklace,” you chuckle, all too nervously for how stunning you look in your cinched, swooping cotton and ruffles. “Give me a hand. And, do I look okay?”

It’s not everyday he gets to see your hair so immaculately styled, just the right amount of makeup complimenting your features to render him positively braindead.

You’re wearing lipstick.

He nods, stands at once, and in his reverie doesn’t answer your question.

In your words, he looks nice. Suddenly, he understands the stupid, dopey look Moblit gets on his face anytime their personal lives are brought up in conversation—like he was dazed, dreaming awake. Damn four-eyes.

“…Thanks,” he replies, his mouth like sand, and handles the delicate piece of jewelry loosely in his palm.

You step into the bathroom, and he trails after you. Your eyes briefly meet through the mirror’s reflection as he shuffles up behind you. He’s going to mess up your hair. “You don’t look bad.”

You laugh, so genuinely your shoulders bounce. “Shakespeare’s blushing.”

His brows furrow, partly in concentration, partly in confusion. “Who?”

He doesn’t read much old literature. You explain that you mean he has a beautiful way with words, which only perturbs him more because there’s no way in hell that’s true—until he realizes you were being sarcastic.

Idiot, he calls himself.

He grumbles something lost on you as he brushes your stray locks to the side, not to get in the way of your jewelry.

You wouldn’t be able to avert your eyes if you tried: Levi really does look nice. Handsome, really, in an effortless way. He looks like the creation that was made to top the most glorious thing already existing on earth, and also he looks like you want to spin around and yank him in by those tight-fitting suspenders for a kiss. Every bit of his outfit looks plastered to his body.

You tuck your tongue between your teeth to keep from shivering as his fingers glide across your skin.

Cool silver loops around your throat. You hold your breath, and he seems to be holding his, too. Still, he never falters. There’s a signature sound of the metal clasping, then you giving it a very gentle tug to make sure it’s secure.

Meanwhile, he tuts a little and smooths your perfect hair back into place. He clears his throat, deciding humor is the best way to rectify this feeling of teetering on the edge of a sheer cliff. “By now, the entire Corps suspects something of us.”

“Oh? That Humanity’s Strongest Soldier is dating his Lieutenant?”

He wrinkles his nose at your honesty. You know how much he hates to be called that. “Maybe.”

You turn in jest and smooth down his primly, already-perfect collar; simply an excuse to touch his chest. “My family thinks we’re dating already.”

He chokes on air, scanning your earnest smile to check if you’re serious. Your self-defeating shrug says it all.

In the end, parents will assume all sorts of things about their kids, especially mothers, though he doesn’t have the personal experience to say for sure.

He’s met your closest relatives before. They’re kind people who overheard that you’re friends with such a man, and how said man didn’t have loved ones to attend to for the winter holidays. You let it slip that you’ve been friends for a few years, and suddenly your mother hears wedding bells.

With a stern shake of his head, he smooths down the smooth cotton that stretches beneath your collar. The blue ribbon looped above your chest is askew, but he doesn’t dare touch. If he did, the golden buckle cinching your waist would be calling to him next.

“Why am I not surprised?”

That’s his only comment on the matter, until it isn’t. He thinks of the coy look on your face at his disgrace of a compliment towards your appearance. You’re practically glowing—you deserve more than ‘not bad’. You deserve perfection; in more than just one sense.

While memories of his mother are as fleeting as the seasons, he’s certain that she would be overjoyed by someone who made him feel and act this way. As young as he was when she died, he knows how she would feel. Memory of love is impossible to forget, however short-lived.

To you, it’s perhaps the highest praise Levi could give. Quietly, he tells you, “glad they like me already, then. Mine would feel the same.”

—

Levi greets the hordes of dancing drunks tripping over one another’s feet, the tangy stench of fruit juices and spilt booze, and the strung assortment of hued lanterns with a sour sort of reverie. Bodies in flowing colors speckle the streets, and lights stretch into the sky. He isn’t particularly pressed over the years he’s missed these festivities, but you’re so awed and giddy he forgets all about his own qualms.

Your attention is regularly snagged by the vendors and all their sweet, sugary snacks; drinks that seem to fizzle; streamers and flowers passed in the streets, symbolizing the joy of a new spring. You lock eyes several times in a silent question of just how much he’s tolerating all the excitement.

He really doesn’t mind it at all.

He’s thankful: he can stare at you in absence of heavy thoughts, feel his head buzz despite the lack of alcohol and let you lead him along. Sometimes, the brazen sunset—setting the receding day so alight the sky seems to burst with colors he’s never seen—snags his eye.

Your arm is anchored with his. When the crowd grows thick he squeezes your hand in a silent request to—Keep close. I don’t want to lose you in this mess.

Your shoulders knock together, and you shoot him a smile. No worries, it says.

Mayfest is almost exclusive to the capital, Mitras. This means the tea is so sweet that even when you both ask for an extremely simple order, the stuff has even your nose is screwing up at the taste. The air is soft, and thick with the smell of fresh flowers as you two stroll through gardens, content to idly chat and muse about the events of the evening.

“How many city squares are in Mitras, anyway?” you ask, munching on a gooey cinnabon.

“Four.”

Technically, Levi lived in Wall Sina for most of his life, if underneath it. The occasional MP he spots keeping the peace this year probably even recognizes him. It was only about four years ago now that he got out of the Underground. Visiting Mitras never fails to make him feel nostalgic, in a sickening sort of way.

You hum at his side. He breathes the brisk air, and savors your warm presence by his side, his drink heating his palms. Even at a time when steel lamps are flickering on and dusk is seeping in, many people are still out and about.

“Did you ever think you’d go to an event like this?” There’s mirth on your tongue.

“No,” he answers immediately. “It looks like a rainbow vomited everywhere… but it isn’t horrible. You look happy.”

You snort. “True. Well… are you happy?”

For what it’s worth, in a world where joy is precious, sweet tea and cinnabons aren’t a horrible thing to jump for joy over. There’s a silent question of how much you both deserve it, and how fleeting it’ll come to be. He knows better than most that loss waits around every corner, so he takes his time to answer.

Truthfully, there’s no place he’d rather be right now. He is happy, but to admit it aloud to the world is like telling a secret; it’s making the feeling tangible. And the world has a knack for stealing it away once it knows.

“I’m glad I came here with you,” he decides.

You understand his hesitation all too well. With your pointer finger you tug his attention towards you, regard the rare sense of peace on his face, then the silent question.

Not yet, it seems. You gently pat his cheek, then hop to your feet. “Let’s go dancing—please?”

“I don’t dance,” he tells you for the hundredth time tonight, but stands. Your jewelry seems to glitter in the lamplight, but that same ribbon on your chest is still askew.

Flippantly, you rock on your heels. “‘Don’t’ is beginning to sound a lot like ‘can’t’. Don’t worry, I’m a good teacher.”

“You better be, you train our squad.”

Our squad. Your heart glows.

Levi discards his empty cup in a wastebin. That pout on your face is back the next time you close in on him, taking his hands and rocking them like a bridge in high wind, crossing them this way and that.

“Please?” you ask. The puppy-look is coming out. “Please, ‘Vi?”

With a scoff, he squeezes your hands and reels you in, smoothly slipping his arms around your waist so you don’t end up smacking into him. He gently squishes each side of your mouth—not dissimilar to how you did it when he was sick—so your lips puff up.

The result is too cute not to feel gooey about, so he straightens out your ribbon instead. It’s a sleight of hand so quick it’s easy to miss.

He takes your hand. “Fine. Lead the way then.”

—

Compared to Mitras’ narrow backstreets, the wide, open space of the square is like a stream running off into a lake. Fiddles, handheld instruments which thump and jingle, and humming violins seemed like a dream from far away. They come to life now that you’re both in the thick of it.

Levi automatically closes the space between your bodies, alert and put off by the sounds and the crowd. They’re dancing, many paired up, streaming and lunging around with such grace it almost looks practiced. He’s oddly intimidated by it.

You laugh at his clinginess and loop your arm around his waist, straying to the outskirts of the chaos. “Let’s wait for a slower song, yeah?”

He nods at once, doubting his voice will carry over the happy bedlam. It’s a superbly rare feeling too, your arm snug around his waist. He feels comforted, and as such is completely out of intelligent responses.

You notice his nerves, and your expression shifts. Despite your earlier badgering, you insist that you two could go somewhere quieter if he needs, but he turns you down. No matter how temporary nerves rattle him, he was resigned to the fact hours ago that the evening out would end here. He’s also been wondering what that dress of yours will look like in a twirl.

You find a space relatively devoid of suits or dresses. Reflexively, his hands find your waist when yours land on his shoulders.

“Before it starts, let me show you how it’s done.”

He’s eager to learn, and learns quickly; how your feet will move in tandem so neither trips, and if he loses his rhythm, to follow your lead. It’s nothing incredible, not in so little time, but at least he won’t make a fool of himself—if he can help it.

The strings wind down. People hoot and holler their applause, a new array of red, pink, and purple petals dashing into the air from those who throw them.

“Well?” Levi’s voice is scratchy. He hears a steady beat, then more strings. It’s quaint, a song he imagines would play during your evenings in front of his fireplace. “Lead me.”

Unexpectedly, the command takes your breath away. You squeeze his hand, and his heart wobbles. “Gladly.”

At first, his motions are uncertain and delayed, but he watches you carefully, and picks up on what to do. It isn’t as hard as he expected. He can feel your eyes on him, and his brow wrinkles. “Quit laughing at me.”

“I’m not!” you protest, arms gliding over his shoulders. Your giggles betray you. “I just think it’s cute. You look like such a pretentious bastard when you’re thinking.”

He scoffs at this, but can’t quite stay angry, not with the profound fondness behind your irises. He suddenly can’t look away.

The tide of the music sinks, then slows to a more intimate ballad. The violin player must be having a field day leading the rest of them along. He thinks the song is pretty, but he doesn’t know much about music. But then, the smile on your face grows, and it doesn’t matter—he definitely thinks it’s pretty.

Levi’s hands glide across the small of your back as you meander into step with each other. It reminds him of an embrace, almost, and a little tension leaves his brow when your steps slow. He senses your fingers playing at the nape of his neck as you drift together—as if there was no better place for you to be.

You’re close, so close it’s possible you’ll hear his heart hammering against his chest. The lofted lanterns cast a gilded glow over your features. The golden hour comes to his mind. You look like sunshine.

“This good for you?”

He huffs at the question, betraying his scattered breaths. He’s sure you hear them; even more so that your lashes are kissing his cheekbones, you’re so close. The sweet music’s timbre is all around you both. The rest of the world has gone somewhere else, or maybe it no longer exists.

Things will be different this time, he thinks, and isn’t so afraid of the idea anymore. The music drifts on, your perfume dancing in his nose, and from somewhere deep and dark, he feels like he’s lifting away from himself. The hand on your waist drifts to your cheek, so he can take you in.

“Levi?” His name is gentle on your lips. Only you can make it sound so kind.

He never answered you before, come to think of it—whether this is good for him. It’s perfect, which is why he’s afraid to open his mouth and blurt it out.

He finds his throat dry when he swallows. His entire body shudders when your hand follows, trailing the sharp line of his jaw, idling at his lips. All he can marvel at through the whirlwind is how bright your eyes are.

Your name has never felt sweeter on his tongue, then a hoarse whisper. “Kiss me.” His heart is in his ears. “Please.”

Eyes frantically searching his, you don’t hesitate.

It’s as if time slows and creeps to a pause: your heads tilted, his hands cradling your face, yours tender on his jaw. It’s like sunshine. Somewhere, the music is swelling.

You meet. Your lips are soft, he notices immediately. Soft and plush and sweet like the peaches you had earlier. He can taste the minty smooth pull of chapstick when you shyly move your lips over his, and he stutters to do the same.

Levi has warm, full lips—silky almost, as if he’s anxiously wet them multiple times tonight. You lean in closer, the curve of your smile molding the kiss together.

It occurs to him that your slow dancing has eased to a pause, along with the world. The kiss deepens, and he smolders, pressing your waist closer in turn. He wants this to never end. Then your hand shifts, playing at his nape, caressing. The touch says: Stay. Stay with me, as if he wants anything else.

Though, the magic of moments like this is borne in bitter ends.

You glide together, sinking into a comfortable stride. Past your hesitance, his awkwardness, you breathe deep through you nose—very soon kissing him comes as naturally as the tides dance with the coastline; like you spent far too long waiting.

In this small snippet of time, you both remain long enough for him to taste small traces of sugar—as if you were made of the stuff, even if it’s just the cinnabon. He must taste like sweetness too.

It isn’t over when he senses eyes on you two somewhere in his periphery, Hange, who cries out, delighted, but doesn’t approach and instead flees back into the square. Plenty of people you know are here.

His attention is only snagged for a moment until you bring him back with a coaxing hand on his cheek. With your lips swelled, almost lewdly pink, he chides himself for pausing for even a moment. He feels a whole different brand of elation when he realizes he can kiss you all he wants now—if you liked it.

You grin at him. He feels dizzy.

“Levi,” you say. His chest lifts. “You’re a good kisser.”

“I’m? Sure.” Even to his own ears his voice sounds ragged. He’s glad for the low lights, else his cheeks would glow rosy.

Now that you’ve done this, it’s well and truly it for him, undoubtedly. There’s no turning back. He surrenders.

Again he kisses you, lips slotting together frantically, then tenderly. Again, and again.

And again.

Chapter End Notes

AHHHH i hope i did the first kiss justice.

until next time ;)

closer, harder

Chapter Summary

Things are different after Mayfest. Hearts mingle and undefined lines blur—ones so very thin. Lost in the aftermath of what Levi wants to believe is right, you show him it isn’t, whether you know it or not.

Chapter Notes

hi!! um! this chapter is very long😭 if u follow my tumblr then u probably know already + how psyched ive been to write this fic hehe. i advise u to settle in. i also changed the rating of this fic to explicit bc - porn. especially in these last chappys. i rly rly hope u guys enjoy :))

some warnings:

-mention of eating abnormalities (twice, but does not refer to intentional disordered eating)

-vague blink-and-you'll-miss-it mention of SA (comes up once in a conversation)

–explicit and severe panic attack

-slightly graphic, however minor, injury recovery

-themes of self-hatred

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

Levi has always had hobbies a little softer than the way he portrays himself as. Mike or Hange would blanch if they knew he enjoys threading a needle and making scarves, for example. You know he sews, crochets, and surprisingly, dabbles in reading.

That’s a pastime he took to especially after you opened up him up to the world of books. There’s the typical slice-of-life affairs, and secretly (as in, tucked in the lowest of his dresser drawers, secret) contemporary romance.

After years of lending him your own tattered blouses to stitch up, then watching him work at it himself, a few months ago he started showing you the ropes. He’s just so good at it. Apparently, he learned when he was a kid, just out of necessity, but there’s something to his calm frown and steady hands that makes you think he’s just talented.

You, for one, have finally managed to stick a thread through a needle’s eye without pricking the sides. Mostly.

“Hm.”

He sounds just as disinterested as a man like Levi could ever sound. A little discouraged, you crane your neck over the back of his velvety armchair. In one hand you hold a small sock—in case you ‘wrecked’ it, in his words—and in the other, your triumph.

Your breath catches, and in case he can somehow tell, you hold it. Hastily he’s writing something, bent over the edge of his desk in dark, pleated trousers rather than his usual uniform. It’s not like you share his quarters, and the chaos that was Mayfest has again settled into calm waters of normalcy since that evening—so you’re allowed to ogle at his backside in a tight pair of pants, if quietly.

Sewing suddenly doesn’t interest you much anymore. His lips are still pressed together, focusing, so you decide to fool around a little.

The fabric may as well be firmly pasted to that round ass. You imagine it’s just as thick as his thighs: at special moments, you’ve sneaked in little pinches and strokes here and there. They weren’t too romantic since you figured out he’s ticklish in only very specific places—but still.

He looks good. He really does have a small waist, too. Your imagination runs away from you a little.

“Hey, Lev’.” You make your voice as placid as humanly possible. “I’ve thought about it and I think I really like the Military Police.”

Nothing—just a small sound to show he heard you. Your eyebrows shoot straight up to your forehead, laughter bubbling up in your throat which you manage to not let escape. An opportunity like this is simply too sweet to ignore.

Quietly, neatly, you shift your things off your lap and dawdle on your feet a moment before allowing yourself to drift over to him. It’s easy to feign interest somewhere else, and then once you’re close behind him, take a handful of the same round ass you were gawking at not a moment ago.

Levi reminds you a bit of a steel spinning top, how he immediately straightens up and bats your hand off his backside. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think there was steam pouring out his ears.

“W-What the hell are you doing?”

You mimic his aghast expression. “Oh, so you do know I’m here.”

“You’re…” He presses himself flush with the wooden desk, flustered to hell. His expression pinches (as always), like he’s tasted a fresh lemon. “You’re a pervert.”

You arch a single brow, gauging his reaction before moving in.

If he was much angrier, you’d have something to be worried about. It’s not the first time he’s called you a pervert before reeling you in for a kiss. You think of the last time he snapped your bra straps when you were in bed; all because you wouldn’t stop shifting around, trying to get comfortable.

These last few months have been fun.

He does nothing but stare you down when you cage him against the desk with both arms, leaning in close and pressing a fragile peck to his lips. “Oh? But I couldn’t help myself.”

Levi curls his hands into fists, but that doesn’t keep his whole body from shuddering. He’s normally so in-control, but when specifically you take that away—well, he’s hot under his collar.

He was signing off on documents a moment ago, and barely registered what you said. With a wrinkled brow and topsy-turvy feelings raging inside—notably, the heat in his lower half, which is winning the rest over—he knows why. It’s the way you’re looking at him. He’s one silky word out of your mouth away from kissing the hell out of you.

“Liar,” he breathes.

“Your ass just looks too good in those slacks.”

If he could somehow overdose on air, he would be dead. It isn’t fair. You’re close enough to feel him hardening in his trousers, but if he didn’t know you as well as he does, it’d be impossible to tell whether you’re simply getting another laugh out of flustering him.

“Daring today, aren’t we?” he mutters, regaining his literal and mental balance. His hand dives beneath the straps tethered around your torso, yanking you in so there’s no space left between you from the chest down. He’s feeling like quite the daredevil himself.

You meet him in a bruising kiss, only for your own to part when his palm slips into your back pocket, stretching down to take his own share. He grunts at the sound that escapes you, and molds his palm with the seat of your ass. It fuels a fire in his belly and the rush of blood in his ears. It’s still not as loud as the smacks from your kissing.

He wants to tell you that he wants your hand back again, that he wants you all over him, but all he can manage is a breathy “Fuck,” between breaks for breath. Your noses keep bumping together.

He burns. It’s with a fluttery twist of lust that a soft, sweet sigh leaves your lips, half-mounting him so your hips have perfect access to the spot between his legs. You grapple the desk as not to crash right into him, and shiver, shamelessly.

“Levi–”

You breathe each other into a wet, hasty kiss. Yes, he decides, he’s going to kiss the hell out of you.

He tastes sweet, in a subtle way, with the slightest hints of earthiness from his tea that’s coupled with something purely Levi that it makes your heart and every little eager nerve of yours sing.

You’re out of practice and him, experience, but it no longer matters, not when you want each other this badly.

Somehow, based somewhere in instinct, your hands find each other on the desk on either side of his waist. His squeeze on the rear of your thigh disappears so he can lock them together, all-in.

The position has its drawbacks. Your straddle over him slacks a little, so—without thinking much beyond the throb of your heartbeat—you press right up against his solid body with a slippery whine. You’ve never felt him hard like this, not on purpose.

You see it when his lids flutter, and he pulls a lungful of air between his teeth. Your fingers grope together, uncoordinated. Briefly, you get the idea to reach around and take his ass in your hands again. That’s before his own slip around your wrists, trapping you against him.

Regardless of the fact that you should have him caged in, he’s the one in control; this is the way he wants you, and it makes your face heat. You hike your thigh up around his waist and roll your hips, bumping your knee against the wooden surface in your haste.

Licking pleasure causes a moan to roll through his throat, the first sound he’s made at all, and just like that the spell is broken. He smacks back against the desk, breathing hard. His fingers fumble away from you; all this without a clue why, but he’s horribly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he croaks.

At first, you don’t think you heard him right. “What? No—are you okay?”

He stares at you, desire quickly bleeding away to shame. The fact that you make room and watch him, worried and earnest, darkens the feeling. He feels exposed, and meeting your eyes feels like confessing everything, so he can’t even look at you straight.

“Yeah. Sorry.” That’s the second apology that tumbles out of his mouth. “I didn’t think…”

He doesn’t know why he makes a fool of himself like this. It’s too much is a defense that comes to mind, which doesn’t make sense because he’s nothing if not glowing in your presence.

He chose this with you, whatever ‘this’ is, but the rest of the jagged lines that make Levi up won’t straighten out, so you can’t match up. They aren’t even defined, as you’ve never sat down and talked about it.

You’re still so patient with him, even now: “Hey, I don’t need that. You did nothing wrong.”

He knows. That’s the crux of the problem. If you were to ask him what exactly begged that Sorry, he wouldn’t be able to say. He’s never been scared when hooking up with someone in the past. Then again, you’re so much more than that, to the point that it hurts.

The issue of stopping is redundant because sex has never been, isn’t, and never will be thing your relationship revolves around. He isn’t torn to bits because he pulled away, and you could care less about that when he’s backed into a metaphorical corner, white-knuckling his desk for dear life.

“It’s okay,” you say right beside him, frowning at the feeling of rigid steel that is his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain. But if something happened in the past–”

“It hasn’t.” He’s confident of that.

You nod. “But if I overstepped, I just need to know. So I don’t do it again, okay?”

With a shake of his head—being snuck up on by someone he knows as well as you hasn’t been the issue for quite some time—he takes a handful of your bandaged fingers (all that damn sewing), then squeezes. It helps him to calm down, and by the way you deflate, the feeling is mutual.

“No.” A peck to your temple. “It’s good.”

Unlike before, when every damn thing you did was like an electric shock to a hundred nerve endings, at least then it was mutually exclusive. It was either something you both wanted, or it wasn’t, and you stopped: that was that.

These days, though, things are different. You pull him closer, and he’ll kiss you; take him to bed, and he’ll happily become your personal furnace for the evening. When you both want it, you make it clear in one way or another—emphasis on or another, in his case.

Too much is a new issue, gauging for how long and when to pull away. It’s like dancing in a field of bushfires blind, wondering when you’ll get burned.

He hates how insecure he’s made you feel. He can tell. No one can read you like him. Like an optical illusion resolving itself, he finds it written all over your face.

“Are you sure?”

With a small, deadpan look, he brushes your hair away. To his own fault, it’s a little messy. “Are you blind?” Another crumpling feeling of embarrassment. “–Or deaf?”

It’s like your voice is carried on a breeze. “Hm. Not the last time I checked.”

“Then that’s your answer,” he returns, glancing down and straightening your collar. His fault again: it’s rumpled.

“Just so you know, it’s good for me, too.”

Levi tuts to smother how that makes him feel. He made you feel good. You liked it. You liked his hands on you, and his tongue licking into your mouth.

He’s inclined to call you a pervert again, but only rolls his eyes and pats your head. Like a puppy starved for affection, you duck beneath his hand, not that he would dream of throwing away the chance to wrap his arm around your waist.

Even affections like this feel different from the era before the festival. She feels it too, right?

“Just let me know,” you mutter just below his ear. “And sorry, about your papers.”

Some of them fluttered to the floor; too bad he’s a little distracted. He’s also never told you about that spot below his ear, come to think of it.

“I do. I will,” he assures. He can’t even remember what shit he was signing off on before you jumped him. “Do the same.”

“Mm.”

Comfort puffs and swirls like a calm cloud in his chest. Maybe it’s in his head alone, this spiky, demonstrable change, or maybe that’s what he wants to tell himself. The one thing he’s sure he has pinned down is, somehow, he’s more terrified than ever; even more than before.

Of what? A million things. One of those just might be the fact that you’ve never rutted up against each other like bunny rabbits before. Levi is the same person who, when you ran your hands up and down his jaw and leaned in for the first time after the fact (the next afternoon, actually), he stalled when your lips met. It was like being cradled by a butterfly wing.

But it wasn’t that he didn’t want you and it wasn’t that he regretted it: it wasn’t the worst-case scenario that always comes to you first, usually knocking you sideways.

Somehow he simply didn’t expect it, you finding him just after the sun reached its peak and—wanting to kiss him. Of course he kissed back, he always would, but he still had to stop, pull away and ask, “Wait, are you sure you–” and you never let it go.

“I thought you were gonna show me your progress. Don’t tell me you’re dressing up like a mummy for fun.”

You gawk at him. “Mummified—fingers, maybe.”

You stretch your fingers in front of yourself and wiggle them, as if that’ll prove the point.

He bites his lip, pinching hard in efforts not to smile. The strain in his cheeks dissolves into mild stupefaction when you clarify that you need to change clothes—panties, specifically.

“Fine,” he coughs. “Go.”

You don’t share a living space. He still makes a small mental note to do your laundry again. His reason, and eventually yours became that he buys impeccable fabric softener. He can also scrub pretty much any stain out, even hot cocoa—he knows all the tricks.

He can imagine you now: “Sweetie, do you mind ironing my clothes? I can’t do it like you.”

Why does that make him feel so giddy, still? You make him want to iron your clothes for the rest of your life, as long as it pleases you.

And then, he gets thrown in the ditch of ‘rest of your life’, and the fear shoves him to his knees once again.

—

Why the hell do you always have this effect on him?

Today, at the end of a long stream of paperwork, your palm slinked around the nape of his neck, and you asked to take him for a picnic—which isn’t unheard of at all. At least twice a month you end up dragging him somewhere (occasionally, it’s the other way around, but Levi is more of a homebody).

It was by a lake like twilit glass, beneath one of those ancient, gnarled oaks that must stretch its roots just as far below ground as its branches pierce the sky. He took the liberty of making these sandwiches with light, fluffy bread; these didn’t stand up to your bright lipstick, smeared with even brighter, tangy strawberries.

You insisted on popping a few in his mouth, just to return the favor by brushing a few stray leaves out of your hair; tucking the prettiest flower he’s ever seen in his life behind your ear, too. You were the one who wouldn’t quit babbling about it, calling it that, but that sentiment only became truth when he put it there.

He raised a brow. “Doesn’t seem very equal.”

And then, a strawberry between your fingers, you just kept on smiling at him.

He allowed his eyes to rake up and down your breezy summer dress and sighed evenly through his nose. “You smile at me too much.”

“Have to do it enough for the both of us.”

He snorted, then it was your palms swooping around the backs of his thighs, inviting him into your lap. This, with the promise of giving him a crash-course in making crowns out of (“Are you serious?”) daffodils and all manner of wildflowers.

Levi sits now, perched on the edge of his bed with his hands braced over his knees. You’ve just left—a few minutes ago, actually—but he can’t get his dick to calm down, not after your lips and hands were all over him, kissing just behind his ear and roaming up and down his chest. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and traces of your lipstick still persist.

You got to the flowers eventually, but before that his hands were on you. You’d teetered onto your back and brought him down with you. Turning it over in his mind, the word that rounds out the experience perfectly is honey-glazed.

Just your noses bumping together in a maze of smacking lips, the heat of your breath, and the salty-sweet taste of your skin beneath his tongue. He remembers now, fighting so hard to breathe over the sweltering haze of strawberry rolling over his tongue. It created a pulse in his head that pulsed on and on.

“Sweetness,” he muttered between wet kisses, royally whisked away out of his mind. The shakes in his hands gave him away; the nervous shine in yours. “Look at you.”

You grinned at that—some cheeky comment about needing a mirror. He kissed it off your face, knocking your teeth together.“Gonna report me to the brass, Captain?”

“Brat,” he huffed.

He touched you, too. He asked, and you slotted your thighs around his hips and spared him a look that set a fire in his belly before you took his palm, guiding it beneath your collar, where the strap had fallen away.

Swallowing heavily, Levi pops the collar of his shirt open. He just buttoned it, but it suddenly feels too warm to wear it at all, the front of his trousers too tight, too hot.

Your skin was warm like an oven, and the weight of your breasts so soft in his palms. He could hardly believe his ears when you sighed in his ear and asked if he wanted to see.

He unbuckles his belt with haste, an earnest shudder following when he palms the front of his pants. He hangs his head, though it isn’t the first time he’s had to touch himself when you leave your mark on him, like some kind of vixen. Really, all it takes is a look and suddenly he’s left in the dust, hot and bothered.

Recently, all semblance of control has begun to dissolve when he’s around you and he’s losing his mind.

He squeezes, then he thinks, to hell with it, and shoves his trousers down to bunch up at his ankles. He kicks them away, lets his shirt hang loose at the front and scooches back to lay down. His heart stomps against his ribcage.

Never has Levi wanted a woman so badly in his life. Without guidance on what to think or do, the memory of how you touched him and cooed in his ear rouses back to the surface the moment he wraps his fist around his dick.

With a few loose pumps, he’s just as hard as he was before that long stroll back. There was you, whetting a handkerchief and cleaning lipstick stains from his skin, evidence of where you explored him—but he almost wishes you didn’t. He strains before his eyes, squeezes his round cockhead, and spit-soaked lips part as he throbs.

A gravelly sigh. “Shit.”

For no reason, he’s searing hot with embarrassment. But desire this time has a louder voice, and wins out.

He nudges his briefs down, kicks them away, and spreads his legs. What he wants, what he imagines, is you crawling between them. Then again, if you were here his own mortification would kill him rather than just running his blood a little hot. He’s hopeless.

It’s good, though, even with just his own hand. His cock is thick beneath neatly trimmed, wiry hairs, pulsing when he traces the long vein on the underside. He never thought about it, whether it’d be good for you, whether he’d look good…

Would you do this to him, too? Cup his heavy, round balls and glide a tight fist—just the way it runs his blood the hottest—up and down? Would you praise him, Oh, that’s good, baby. Fuck my fist—there you go, or tease him? So fucking needy, Levi.

He sinks his teeth into his free hand and sighs, high in his throat. The scene is so vivid it begs his imagination; neither would be unlike you. In fact, he guarantees you would tell him to let you know what he likes, and if for some reason he needs to slow down or stop, you would still want him after. You’re so good to him. You’d drag his arm off his face and order him to be louder.

Let me hear you.

He’s wetter now—he hears the slick smacks of his fist, and he feels the hot coil in his belly growing even hotter. He dares to glide his free hand over all those tensing muscles, flicking his hard nipples on the way, and flops his head back on the pillows.

It’s really hard to be quiet, much more than he thought it’d be—or how it usually is. He doesn’t get off like this on a whim, not enough to commit the act to memory. He just knows you’d want to hear him moan, and that’s enough to inspire the sounds to rumble in his chest.

He dips a finger into his wet slit, and his hips give a small jerk. In small circles he teases all around it. What if it was her mouth?

“Gon’a–”

With trembling thighs, he sinks his free hand into the pressed sheets and feels his toes curl. Every muscle tenses, so hard it hurts as his cock begins to twitch. Pleasure pulses on, red-hot, sweet, warm. Throbbing waves wash over him.

His cock throbs, and spills thick cum all over his fist. Some of it even streaks his stomach in white, and when he thinks his climax is ready to recede, he groans low and pleased and throttles a little harder. He doesn’t get off nearly as much as he should.

It’s messy, horribly messy, and if he weren’t squirming all over the place surely his back would be making the tightest arch.

By himself, he’s never had such a mind-bending orgasm in his life—that’s what he realizes a few minutes later when the clarity slams into him and he realizes he cried out aloud to absolutely no one; except you, maybe, but only in his fleeting imagination.

—

Things are the same as they’ve always been. That’s what Levi wants to believe.

It takes outside intervention to shove the facts in both your faces—other than Hange shooting you both the look when Levi just so happens to pour two cups of tea and set one down front of you during a meeting; other than Mike, whose nose screws up when he sniffs the air and you both know he knows you’ve been wrapped up in bed together.

None of that ever mattered in the past. Remarks and jabs dissolve into awkward passes between moments—a look, a joke to be forgotten. It’s the same with everyone else among Levi Squad, until it isn’t.

Oluo gets a kick from poking at you, but it still isn’t as fun to him, apparently, as joshing around with Petra like an old married couple. He goes tight-lipped whenever Levi’s within earshot, and to Oluo’s credit it’s all in good fun.

With Eld and Gunther, things never stray beyond professionalism. They make good drinking buddies for you (and if you make your sad-dog eyes at Levi, him too), and they’re damn good fighters. All of them.

Levi has known each of them for years, just like you. It’s a web woven by mutual respect and trust, which is why what happened didn’t rattle the squad as much as it very well could have.

The six of you have just wrapped up a brief discussion in the echo chamber that is the dining hall. It’s late, and with so few bodies, shadows dance across cobbled walls.

You flash Levi the briefest of smiles. “I’ll have that report on your desk by tomorrow, Captain. G’night.”

You both know it’ll be sooner than that. He nods like a bird would, and watches the last of his murky tea swirl in its ornate cup as he swishes it around. Petra is usually the first to bed; she’s damn responsible, which makes it weird that she’s still here, nervously tapping the table. With it so quiet, she might as well be playing drums.

He asks the question cordially: “What’s wrong with you?”

“Could… Could I ask you a question, sir?” she stammers.

“Go on.”

The tapping grows a little more frantic. The question is whether or not they’re friends—a pretty stupid one. There’s life-or-death business, straight-laced and coarse, and then there’s camaraderie.

You or Gunther are the ones who do all the pep-talking when Petra needs something, though. Levi isn’t exactly someone people go to for comfort. Rather than a matter of her ODM belts fraying though, it seems a pep-talk is what she needs. She’s hardly ever this nervous around him.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she requests that they talk, as friends. It drops his stomach to unknown, wretched places, but he agrees anyway. People—a friend who ‘wants to talk’ never has good news.

They might as well get out of the dining hall, though. It’s a clear night out.

Beyond the front doors of HQ, the air is cool and breezy, which is surprising for the new summertime. Along the way an occasional firefly will glow to life, intent on getting to wherever they get to. Pondering the lives of the fucking fireflies distracts Levi from Petra’s obvious, unbearable anxiety. Unlike yours, it’s infectious.

He strolls alongside her, keeping in step as she goes on about her father. His letters—and by extension, hers—naturally pass by his desk occasionally. He knows the man is a tad overbearing, how he never wanted her in the Corps, but any set of parents with half a brain are wise to think that way.

“He wants me to get married,” she chitters, clearly troubled by the idea. “Can you believe that? I’m so young.”

Levi isn’t young anymore, and he doesn’t have a family, but he empathizes. “People are too young for plenty of the shit they go through with, whether they got a say or not. So if you have a choice, make up your own mind.” His advice is better than usual. “If you wanna get married, then go off and do it.”

“Oh, no! I don’t want to, that’s not…”

His stroll stutters. “Then, what did you want?” comes the blunt question, and he (to the best of his ability) rectifies it: “Just… get to the point. You have a concern, speak it. Or go to someone who gives better advice.”

Petra scrubs her arms as if it were cold, and stares at the ground like there’s something interesting there.

Confused and a little concerned, he stops too.

“It’s related to that,” she finally says, and looks up (it’s always strange that she’s shorter than him), but she can’t meet his stern gaze.

His brow wrinkles. “Yes?”

“Well… a lot of people admire you—and it’s more than warranted. I look up to you, i-in my case, literally.” She shakes her head, but his lips twitch, because it’s funny. “I try to find someone, but no one quite adds up to you.”

You’ve helped Petra with love troubles a million times—he knows that already, sort of. Without thinking, he shifts his footing.

“So…” she trails off.

He blinks. “I don’t know how to help with that. Find someone different to admire, I guess.”

Her head whips up to look at him again, startled. It’s combed over with a small laugh, and she smiles, ruefully. It’s with a sinking feeling he realizes he misunderstood.

“No,” she chuckles, entirely to spite the muck of awkwardness. “That’s not what I… do I really have to come out and say it?”

He would prefer that; if she stopped bumbling around the issue and disproved what he’s thinking this is. Assuming usually ends in Levi making an ass of himself, because in social situations it’s not uncommon for him to be wrong. The crux of what makes their squad work so well together is communication, anyway; during business hours or no.

Crossing his arms over himself, he tells her so: “Yeah, you do. So just be out with it, Petra,” and watches her pass by him and plant herself on a bench. It has no back, so she’s forced to hunch in on herself a little. Maybe she’d be doing that anyhow.

It’s quiet for a long moment, so long years could pass and he would still be frozen to the spot, maybe morphed into a statue. Then it’s confessed, anxious and unbearably quick, but nonetheless firmly, like Petra is ripping a bandaid off.

She has feelings for him.

“I know this is unprofessional of me.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “I’m sorry. But, if things stayed unspoken, I, I was afraid I’d regret it.” That stings, a little. “But no matter what the answer is, I’ll find a way not to now that you know.”

“…I see.” The words seem to drip off his lips. He idles stupidly, brows furrowed. Then he comes to terms with what she’s admitting and lets it sink in. “But you can’t get the-the wrong idea. Look…”

Their eyes meet somehow, and it feels like touching a hot stove. Levi could go on and on about ‘unprofessionalism’ himself, which is precisely why he doesn’t. There was never going to be another answer, but that’s only a nugget in the reasons why this feels shitty.

He’s not good at this. He’s given a million, deathly-worse pieces of bad news before, but unlike anything else, warring with feelings never gets easier. It isn’t like killing monsters, no matter how he wishes it was.

Will you and he stew in regret if things go unsaid, and why haven’t you both discussed it? Petra wouldn’t have been so inclined to say a thing if everyone knew, and he wouldn’t have to crush whatever fantasy she has of him in her head.

There’s never been a good, safe time—times are never safe. So, does there exist such a haven as the right time? How could there be?

Petra must be braver than Levi, because right now, in the simplest meaning of the phrase, seems to be it. But whether it’s safe, or good, he just can’t bring himself…

“Ah.” Her voice is lighter than air. Her head hangs again, ashamed. “I’m sorry, sir. If you’d prefer if I was booted from your squad, then I’d understand.”

Now that’s just ridiculous.

“You’re a member of an elite squad,” he tells her, “not my dog. Don’t talk like that. But I don’t…” He swallows, collects himself. “Do—you get what I’m saying, or what?”

“It’s fine,” she resolves, nodding. True to her word, her shoulders sink, like something heavy has tumbled off them. “I understand. I won’t mention this again.”

“Good.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Petra rises to her feet. Her face is splotched with red, especially her eyes, but she hastily wipes them with her sleeves and sniffs.

It’s easy to stay friendly with Petra because that’s the way he’s always viewed her. Things will work out this way, but he can’t say the same for the web of fluff entangling you and him. It’s a dull, anxious twist of realization.

As he passes her, he pats her shoulder in efforts to be reassuring. “Look. You’re a valued comrade, and we’re not at each other’s throats, are we? Don’t beat yourself up. That’s foolish. Just go to bed.” A pause. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you…” She wipes her eyes, where tears are clinging. “…and the same for you, Levi. Goodnight.”

Right, of course.

He doesn’t remember the walk back; even the fireflies join the fog at the back of his mind. Once he’s trudged up the stairs, swiped out his keyring and retreated into the warm glow of his office (you must’ve lit a candle once you realized he’d be late), he starts to deflate. Knowing you’re here, especially at the end of the night, makes him feel better.

He has work to do, but getting this off his mind will be impossible if he doesn’t let you know. Keeping quiet about the confession—as inconsequential as it is—would feel hollow, like a betrayal to you. It wouldn’t be right.

The smell of roasted cedar immediately swells when he enters. You’re lounging cross-legged on his sofa, chowing down on a bowl of blueberries snug in your lap with one hand, propping up a thick novel with the other.

Flames lick in the fireplace, which casts the room in gold. It’s serene, almost domestic, and this huge wave of—relief crashes over him. It feels like coming home, and that hurts.

He leans back against the closed door, thinks in a string of curses, and closes his eyes. His face feels hot, and the room’s gone blurry.

You notice him, or did, a moment ago, and greet him once he plods over and plants himself in the armchair. He immediately shades his eyes with his hand, wrung-out, exhausted.

It’s better not to ask, even though it’s clear something happened. He’s still in uniform, pressed and perfect as always, but you know him well enough to tell. You ask whether he’s eaten dinner, whether he’d like some berries, and he gently turns down your offers—he ate earlier.

“You think of me too much.”

“Hm. Wrong.”

Your feet take you to his small kitchen. There’s a kettle on the stove from earlier, which you lift and pour steaming, earthy-smelling tea in a mug for him. It’s black, no good for relaxing, but knowing him it’ll get the job done.

You take the saucer to Levi, who doesn’t appear to have so much as twitched since sitting down, and hold it out. Immediately he lights up, and sets the china aside so he can cradle the cup in both hands, savoring the heavy aroma, its warmth. It never tastes quite like the way he makes it himself, but close enough—it’s good.

By the way the sofa whines under your weight, it sounds like you’ve sat back down. He wouldn’t know; his eyes have drifted shut again.

Quietly, “Thanks, sweetness.”

“Anytime,” you quip, and curl up like a cat against an armrest. Back to reading.

By the time he’s drained the cup and his stomach is warm, he’s recuperated enough to collect his thoughts. He pulls himself into a proper sit, and informs you quite plainly what happened. You deserve to know, and it’s not the end of the world. It doesn’t break the squad like snapping driftwood, and it shouldn’t break you two either; though it rattled him, sure.

“…Oh.” A little wide-eyed, you stare at him. Your reaction startles even yourself a little bit. You flounder, opening your mouth, then closing it. A wave of cold, cold feeling breaks over your chest.

He turned her down. That makes sense.

Unless he made that choice, not because he entirely feels nothing for Petra, but because he feels some obligation towards your own feelings. Levi makes time for everyone in your squad, but everyone is close to Petra—everyone who has a brain, anyway—because she’s open, and supportive, and one of a kind. Just like him.

You frown. It feels like you’re falling. You couldn’t bear it if Levi contradicted how he really feels for your sake. It wouldn’t be like him, but stick the words for your sake in the equation and he’s made plenty of sacrifices before—life-risking ones included. You can’t count the number of times he’s quite literally shielded you from attack, completely compromising new, raised scars and a dislocated shoulder, or (not so literally) a broken back. It’s never the case that you do too much for him—as he’s often insisted, over more meaningful things than fruit—but completely the opposite.

He frowns as you launch into small questions about his choice. You can’t help but sate the craving to ensure that what he said is what he really wants.

Since forever, it’s been a slinking thought creeping around the back of your mind: What are we doing, if not just spending quality time together the way lovers would? That title alone is blacklisted from your relationship—however you should define it as.

Am I holding him back? Not in the scope of his reputation, or the dream you both dedicate your hearts for, but in life. It’s never been clear, and that’s how it’s been between you two since (what feels like) forever. It’s as muddled as it is perfect; in many ways it’s perfect, but so fragile. What are you supposed to do while you’re drifting, stuck in the threshold of a grand promise like that?

How, concretely, does Levi even feel? What does he want? You realize that you don’t even know, not that the lives you two lead give you much opportunity for prancing in fields without a care in the world.

Now’s a good time to get the answer. With your book effectively forgotten, you’re sure to forget everything else until you know for certain.

You both idle now in the space between the golden sitting room and the dim kitchen. The more words that pass between you, the more he becomes (more and more) impatient.

In your defense, this isn’t an issue of flipping to the wrong page of a book—or however casual he thinks this whole conflict to be. You’re not overreacting. This is important.

“No,” you insist, “I’m not trying to judge your choice, I just don’t understand, because—she’s Petra!”

His befuddlement sinks into a glare. “And you’re you. What’s your point?”

“My point is…”

You’re not sure. The topic of a potential relationship with people outside your merged bubble isn’t something you two have ever talked about; not in such frank terms as someone outright confessing their love to one of you. That was especially true before you and he kissed for the first time.

Christoph was different because, to you, he was objectively unattractive, and he never outright spoke the words: I love you! Go out with me! Be with me! into existence. This is different, so much different. She confessed to him.

Anxiously, you pull at your sleeves and step away. You need to think.

“Are you…” He doesn’t understand. “…upset, because I turned her down? I didn’t do that because we’re—exclusive, or….”

He trails off, at a loss. Fact is, you’re not exclusive—that’s not a baseline you ever established.

While you stand there, very clearly upset, the possibility that you’re feeling insecure comes to mind, but that wouldn’t make any sense. You ought to be pleased with him if that were the case. He told Petra the truth: he doesn’t want that kind of relationship with her.

“I know,” you say, a little stupidly. You meet his troubled eyes head-on. “We’re not. That’s fine. I’m just—I am upset.”

His brow twinges with confusion.

You shake your head, resigned. “You deserve better than for me to be upset about it. I shouldn’t be, but Levi, if we’re not in a relationship, or dating, or exclusive…”

Each press of the words, for him, stings.

“…Why did you tell me all about it? That seems personal, since me and her are close.” You frown, deep in thought. “She probably would’ve told me, actually. I’ve known Petra a long time.”

Frozen on his feet, he stares at you like the front of a door. Not even a reason comes to mind, because he doesn’t know. It never crossed his mind not to tell you.

“I see,” he replies, lips twitching.

What does he say? You’re right. And now, he’s rendered you frowning miserably, anxious, likely tearing up your sleeves. He did wrong by you, too.

“What’s on your mind?” You free your sleeves, opening up a little, and wander closer, if just to show you’re not angry with him.

He isn’t looking at you. When there’s no reply, you tilt your head. “Of course you’re free to make your own choices.”

I just think Petra would be a better one.

You swallow again: it feels like there’s no saliva in your mouth. “I just think Petra is really great, but if that’s the way you feel, then I’m glad. I’m just—worried I’m holding you back.”

A little incredulous, he jerks his head to look at you. “What? How does being—content with our situation mean I’m limiting myself?” He doesn’t understand at all. “Why the hell should that even matter?”

“Because you have the opportunity to be even more content than you are now!” you insist, then tear apart inside. Really, what gives you the right to micromanage Levi’s happiness?

He keeps his voice carefully even. “I don’t care. There wasn’t ever gonna be another answer.” He’s actually angry, you belittling yourself like you’re nothing but a pastime for him. “Get that through your thick skull.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter. Even as you speak, you sense a rift pulling you apart. “I’m just insecure.”

He huffs and retreats a little, leaning against the doorway. “Shit. Coulda fooled me.”

You’re reaching the end of his patience. Briefly, you close your eyes, seeking a breath. There’s insecurity, and the blunt-force claw of selfishness, too. It’s an ugly facet of yourself—and not the real issue.

“But there’s something else.” Again you swallow, but there’s a snag there this time. “I also got worried ‘cause I don’t want any of this to stop, I want nothing to change—because you’re the best person in my life, and, I don’t feel like I deserve it, so I’m so fucking terrified you’ll…”

“I’ll what?” Flush with the doorway, his voice is low, and thick like molasses. “Get bored of you? You’re smarter than that. But think about our fucking jobs—we’re always in danger. You’re the oldest veteran besides Eyebrows, and I know what I’m doing, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“No–”

“You need to be prepared for the worst. Are you not?”

It’s this type of thinking, specifically, that’s been gnawing at his bones for months. Life could change, or end, at the flip of a coin; it always has. How you could possibly forget that, he doesn’t know, unless it’s his fault for lulling you into a false sense of security.

The best person in your life? That’s practically a screeching alarm, warning to something horrible about to happen, either to him or you. He hopes it’s him—in a sick, destructive way. Everyone who’s ever talked like that, or showed it in even a fraction of that way has left him behind; living or dead, but mostly dead. Nothing has ever stayed as long as you.

You don’t answer.

“If I got unlucky, you’d have to move on,” he insists, leaving no room for argument. “And if it were you, I’d do the same.”

“Levi–”

Your eyes look like glitter. He can tell you’re about to cry, but you can’t not be prepared for that. He can’t wreck you. He can’t do that to you.

“Listen,” he goes on, “f’you live with regrets, you might as well count yourself among the bodies… You’re right, I shouldn’t have told you. That was shitty to Petra.”

“I know.” You’re not entirely listening, too busy cracking wide open. This conversation left Petra a while ago. “I’ve had so many friends die. You were there for that! But we’ve made it this far–”

“And one day we won’t. I thought the same about–” he sneers, “–n’ look what happened to them. The world will chew you up and spit you out all it wants—it a-already has. You deserve better than me or this shitty world could ever give up–”

Hearing him talk like this is a punch in the gut. “No. That’s not true! I just want you!”

His eyes go wide. “It doesn’t matter what we want! Don’t you get it? This world is cruel. It’s not gonna listen to you or me and let us stay happy, no matter if we’re Titan-food or two fat, ugly nobles.”

“Wait, you’re happy?” you sniff, picking at the skin of your fingers. Hope hurts. “I make you happy?”

Realizing what he let slip, he seals his lips. It’s like his insides have dropped inside a chasm, that’s what it feels like, and no longer in a good way. His chest caves in.

He knows—what he feels for you is so rare, maybe he’s never felt it in his life: call it happiness, call it anything good. Never could he keep it. It’s been ripped away each and every time, so eventually he stopped reaching for it.

The first time he kissed you was the first time he reached out again, resolved to the fact that things would be different. Of course they are, and more than that, they’re new, and overwhelming. You want him, and maybe you can tell the feeling’s mutual; or not, by the way you belittle yourself so much.

Either way he’s sick to death. He refuses to wait around for you to be ripped away. Not you, not yet another person he failed to protect. Terror forces him to say nothing.

Yes, Levi’s happy, but his lack of reply tells you that he won’t allow himself to be. You’re not the same. Be it a bloody death, or how cruel the world is—you could never bring yourself to care. It’s hard to say whether he’s a coward, or you’re a fool.

“So… what?” You brace your head with your hands, sounding like a strangled bird. You feel like one, too. “We can never be happy?”

By his sides, his hands curl into fists. “…No. I guess not.”

But he foolishly believed you could be, once.

It’s always the hardest words to say, the lowest thing to do—but it’s true. He knows this. It’s cruel and it’s unfair, but you’d be fooling yourselves to believe otherwise. Isabel’s severed gaze, and Farlan, waving goodbye. People with faces and names and lives. This world is too bloodthirsty to let happiness stay.

You stand, arms crossed tightly, like you’re hugging yourself. Then you snivel, a wet sound.

Automatically, he straightens up and looks down at the floor. Things have always easily reduced you to tears, so he’s heard you cry, but it never gets any easier to listen to. He feels ripped out of his own heart. Everything he feels goes against what he’s done here.

Without another word, you sniff, and begin to move. He’s never felt more disgusting, foolish and evil than that hope twinging. In the past, he couldn’t pry you off with a hammer when you were upset: you always completely latched yourself to him. Maybe that’s why you’re carrying yourself like that.

The soft, wet sound of your weeping retreats down the hallway. It’s hard to breathe. He did what he gave his word not to. Maybe you don’t even remember, it was years ago, but he’s pushed you away.

But it’s true, the same thought protests. Was there any other option where you could possibly maintain this dance of friendly romantics, and face the threat of it all being torn to shreds—every day for the rest of your lives?

If you shared each other completely…

A long breath. He doesn’t know. He’s never felt this for anyone. Imagining the opposite, losing you, it would be worse than loss. Worse than the biggest bone in your body shattering, worse than staring down at the blood pooling in your palms and getting the first inkling of what you’ve done. Loss hurts like hell, so he can’t even imagine.

But hurting you hurts like hell, too, so he must be damned either way.

The side-door to his quarters shutting is a gavel going down. Muffled, further away, your retreat from his office is a ghost letting go.

—

It feels like a vicious whip has cracked a jagged line through the center of everything you are. The result is manic, and it’s numb and raging—all at the same time.

Numbness easily pilots you back down to your hall, to your dark, oaken door. You stare for a while, hating that you left. There’s a thousand things you could’ve said, and a million more thoughts still crammed in your head. It’s Levi, so you simply can’t think of it any other way.

The crest of the door-knocker is a stormy gray, above which sits the coppery plate proudly displaying your rank as Lieutenant, followed by your last name.

The knob is cold when you grip it, and incidentally the chill reminds you of Levi. Here’s where the knot in your throat lurches, and the shapes in your vision stretch as it clouds with tears.

You step inside, and go to bed.

‘Crying all night’. In your life you’ve cried plenty, but a phrase like that only ever rang as true as ‘you’re perfect’, or ‘endlessly, forever’. A contrived game of hyperbole and extremes, usually to play up terribly average feelings. Say it enough, use it enough, and the meaning will drain from the words.

But your entire body lurches with the force of your sobbing, screwing your shoulders up as far as they’ll strain.

You can’t get over it. It’d be easier, somehow, if Levi didn’t want you. No, you make him happy, but he refuses the eventual heartbreak. In his case, he can’t afford to be distracted, not the most valuable soldier the Corps has. What only rubs salt in the wound is you understand why he said what he did.

When it grows late and your tears have dissolved to whimpers, the pool of anguish sits like a stone in the center of your chest. As heavy as your body grows, as soaked as your pillows, as heady as the blankets framed around your face—that dull urge to weep keeps grasping. It feels like you could cry yourself to sleep. As long as you remain in this dark, drowsy void, you could keep crying, on and on until you wake, weeping in shallow gasps.

This turns true, along with the fact that people are more than capable of crying all night long.

It’s early in the morning. You can tell by the gray that waits outside your drawn curtains. Somewhere, a mourning dove is crooning, outshined by a drill instructor shouting his commands. HQ is already awake.

A deep, shaking breath, and more grief worms its way up your parched throat. Your eyes feel somehow chapped when you open them, and sting when you shut them. That’s not exactly fair—but neither is anything.

Curled up, sleep is drifting back in, warm and inviting.

It’s easy to write off most of the jabs Levi throws as dry, poorly-timed jokes, or instances of him ‘just being an asshole’—his words, anytime you asked. But he always means the things he says, in lieu of chattering along without a care. He’s not good with words, but only because he fails to say what he means much of the time. That’s not his fault.

Last night, there was hardly any room for deciphering a different meaning between the lines, “You deserve better than me or this shitty world could ever give up,” and “If I got unlucky, you’d have to move on.”

He was worked up. Case in point, you never talk about either one of you dying: that’s like seriously discussing how likely it is that humanity will one day eradicate the Titans. He’s never yelled at you, either. Not like that, when he wasn’t Captain Levi of the Survey Corps, but just Levi.

You sniffle, cringing at your sloppy-feeling, clogged sinuses, and wish he’d never brought up Petra. Then again, the thought persists, a conversation like that had to happen eventually.

Your relationship, or a hypothetical one—you try to sort it out by yourself.

Friends—even friends with benefits—don’t hug and press little kisses all over the other’s face to wake them up after the nights they stay together have bled into the morning. The only benefits that you and Levi really shared in that sense, was each other. It was never going to work, lines jumbled and unclear like that, but.

With a small whimper, hot tears drip down your cheeks, which you smear in the pillows. Thinking about it isn’t helping.

You’re deeply inclined to sleep in, but chastise yourself for your laziness. There’s work to be done, if only that means interacting with Levi, or rather, Captain Levi: the most shallow, professional part of who you know him as, completely on face-value.

And it goes about as well as you expect.

Long since springtime came and went in its unfurled blossoms and light, smoky days, summer has come to take its place. It’s blisteringly hot outside, and while weighed down by fourteen kilos of straps, gas and wires, while also wrangling the new recruits—to mold them into certified Scouts (though, no one is really a Scout until they make it back that first time)—you’d rather be shoveling horse shit.

On the other hand, Levi has plenty of excuses to be stricter than usual. If a disagreement over gas tanks or something else just as asinine breaks out, he’s quick to break up the fight with just as much tenacity: a swift kick in the ass and a few biting curses at the ‘brats’. Hange, in honesty, just likes to make them squirm, while the stablehands (and Petra, you notice) aren’t happy with any of it.

You’re perched in the hulking tree branches alongside Eld, guiding screeching, unsteady wires—and the new blood attached to those wires—when it happens.

Like a lonely marionette, you’ve been on auto-pilot since breakfast’s gruel. Maybe it’s hours of muscle memory finally derailing, or you haven’t kept as hydrated as you should for the sweltering sun. Either way, one moment you’re coasting through the air, and the next, your vision’s a green spinning top.

You hit the forest floor pretty hard, and for a while you can’t find the strength but to stare up at the blinding gaps between the leaves above, heaving and hot and fuzzy.

Eld leaves no room for argument when he clasps your hand, urging you to your aching feet: “Let’s let the Captain know, just in case. It’s the right thing to do.”

“No… I just took a fall. That’s all.”

His bright bangs flop in his face when he shakes his head. “It’s gonna be me, or me and you. No offense, Lieutenant, but you look like hell.”

You hate to see where this is going, but you smear the sweat off your face, and let it go. No doubt you feel like hell, that’s for sure.

The first, brief look of alarm on Levi’s face when he first catches sight of your skin and uniform scuffed, scraped, dirty vanishes in an instant. You have the guts, at least, to come out with what happened, but he still deals you quite the verbal whipping for it. His tone is just about as sharp as the kickdrum beating between your ears.

Levi dismisses Eld with a jerk of his head, and then his eyes are squarely on you. “You idiot. I didn’t see the sun for twenty years and even I know what fucking heatstroke looks like.”

“It was a mistake,” you insist, curling your toes in your boots to stay steady. Wavering now would just be embarrassing.

“Yeah,” he sneers. “Mistakes kill people.”

You grind your teeth like shaving wood, willing yourself not to speak. You’re getting chewed out by your Captain, not your friend (Whatever he is, you admonish yourself).

“I’m just tired, sir.” Emphasis on the last word. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

Several beats of silence are clogged by the thick air. He won’t look at you, or maybe he can’t. Finally, he decides to let you off for the day.

“Get it together. You’re dismissed.”

Cheers to you for maintaining maturity. Still, you scuff up a little bit of dust than you meant on your way through the grassy courtyard. The hot shower you take burns like acid, fostering a new batch of bruises dotted up and down your limbs. You burn on the inside too, ashamed.

Will we ever talk about this? If your performance keeps slipping, yes. Will we ever talk the same? You don’t know.

You get to thinking.

It’s accepted that shouting matches are a normal part of relationships. Maybe it’s even expected, but still: The sooner an argument like that sweeps through a relationship, the worse-off two people are for each other—especially the more it goes on. If that’s the case, it makes you wonder if you and he are still persistently bared to each other on an artificial level.

You’ve never landed yourself in a shouting match with Levi before last night; not a real, world-ending argument over such vague, precious topics like commitment.

Did that make us wrong in some way? A better question: Why the hell should it?

It’s a depressing thought. If it’s inevitable that two souls are bound to grate and screech together when rubbed the wrong way—is anyone truly ‘made’ for each other? It’d be the case then that some things are made to be broken. They tumbled out into the world deficient and cracked.

Does everyone tolerate? Does love mean you still have to settle?

You make yourself sick thinking like this. Too nauseous to eat, but knowing full-well you should, you decide to wait until the dining hall clears out.

Hopefully, Levi is eating enough too. You can’t help worrying. He tends to forget.

You’re smoothing the headache out of your temples when there’s a light, almost shy knock on your door; too soft to be Levi. You’d recognize his even if you went deaf.

Petra practically oozes concern when you summon her in, all the way down to the tray she carries, crammed with leftovers. She didn’t spot you at breakfast, either, so she decided to come by.

You sniff, take the tray, and gently place it down on your desk. It’s also crammed, just with cluttered paperwork. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” she says kindly, and picks at her fingers. It seems she picked up that habit from you at some point. “If there’s anything I can do, well, you know.”

She, for one of the few of your closest friends, knows the sort of ‘crybaby-turtle’ you are—Oluo’s words. You’d be damned to ever let your nature bleed onto the battlefield, or onto your closest comrades, who you’ve bled for.

It feels good, not having to pretend in front of her, but not even Petra knows about you and Levi; not any of it, no one. You hate that she was the catalyst, but it’s not her fault.

You reassure that you’ll be alright with a small shake of your head. “What’s new with you?”

“Well… I embarrassed the hell out of myself in front of Captain Levi the other day,” she laughs. “I hope he hasn’t told you.”

“It’s nothing,” you remark, “I think gossiping went out of style for him forty years ago.”

She sniggers at that. No one (including him) knows his age for certain—Levi doesn’t even use a last name—but not even recruits will bet on forty. His looks speak for themselves.

“Well, he’s been in a mood.”

Your interest is snagged. “You think so?”

Petra gives you a look that says everyone thinks so, but she’s still a little ashamed about gossiping. “So, I’m sorry anyway. You two are just—connected in a way, you know?”

“Hm. Maybe.” Playfully, you knock your boot against hers. You needed that. “Really. It’s alright. Maybe Oluo will get down on one knee one of these days, hm?”

“Agh. As if.”

You can tell she’d rather you open up and let her know what’s wrong, especially after your fall this afternoon, but she’s just as quick to trust you and leave well-enough alone. Demons follow just about everyone in this regiment, and you’re a hard shell to crack anyway.

She bids you goodnight. It’s stomach-churning to finish your supper, but you manage to force it down before strolling to your bookshelf to pick out a book.

“Oh,” you mutter, and slide a paperback off the pine shelf. Levi will be missing this one right about now. You sigh, and hug the book to your chest. Shit.

Just as you suspect, he is.

Levi frowns into the drawer, the lowest one he always has to crouch to get to. His fingers play at the polished wood, glaring into the emptiness. He looks mildly resentful and a little hollow behind the eyes, but that’s just his thinking face, more or less. The one he can’t find, you were reading together; bought in the most pompous bookstore in all of Wall Sina—or it must’ve been.

His gut reaction is to let you keep it, finish it on your own time, and if he never gets it back, so be it. Your duties are slipping, along with your mood, and you, and it’s all his fault. Guilt like a millstone roils around in his chest.

It had to be said, he reassures himself. You’re both better off not getting involved, or you will be. You must be. Feeling piss-poor and empty isn’t the newest feeling, but he never planned to drag you down with him. He tells himself again that you’ll bounce back, but that reassurance feels emptier than the first.

The sounds of your weeping retreating down the hallway needs to be worth it.

He rubs the bridge of his nose. Still. No matter how this thing between you ends, he shouldn’t have left things like that.

She walked away first, one part of his mind meagerly protests.

Because you made her cry, berates the bigger, seething part. What kind of piece of shit gets ‘I want you’ screamed at him and does that? What’s wrong with you?

Plenty. He rolls it around in his mind as he makes the trek through cobbled hallways, speckled with shadows thanks to the wall-mounted torches. The way he was brought up wasn’t exactly pretty, but that’s not an excuse. You know so much of it now, anyway.

When he quit locking up like a rattlesnake whenever you so much as wrapped your arms around him, you asked much later if the man who raised Levi ever hugged him. The ridiculousness of the question took him by such surprise that he actually laughed.

He shared a cigar with me, once, he remembers telling you. Then he added, The expensive ones. From Mitras, as if that cushioned the blow.

You really teased him for it, but you had to. Otherwise, it’d just be depressing.

Either way, the crux of the issue, and the conclusion he’s forced to come to, is maybe he never learned to hold people no short of arm’s length, but it’s that no one ever taught him any other way.

It’s almost like when he was learning to write just a week into his promotion to Squad Leader, when reading and writing became a requirement rather than a privilege. Everyone around him could do it without a second thought—some with their eyes closed, even—while he could barely manage making out the letters of his own name. The words he was an expert at no longer meant shit, either: eloquent ones like ‘tavern’ and ‘KEEP OUT!’.

You’re not obligated to mend a bone that snapped before he was born; you deserve better than that. If he had any say, he’d want your relationship to be smooth sailing and sweet, as close to perfection as you can get.

Thing is, he isn’t convenient, or perfect—or any of those other things you deserve. In some places he’s odd and broken. In plenty.

Sometimes, often, he even gets a sneaking, oozing feeling that he’s deceived you in some way when you make it so clear how highly you think of him. He never got that part: Why you seem to bask in his shadow so much. He can’t help but feel he poisoned you, because those horrible words you attach to yourself, so utterly incorrectly, is him.

He feels even less than a human being at times. If there’s anything he was taught, it’s that his body is a weapon, and he’s to make it in this world. Not much else matters other than avoiding getting dulled down or broken in half.

So no, the serial killer who raised him never hugged him much.

With your door—your plaque spelling your name across its face—staring back at him, he once again scrounges together the nerve to knock. His knees have locked up, along with the rest of him, but if Petra can get the balls to confess to her superior officer what she did, he can at least do this. He needs to.

He needs to fix things, or patch them over. Something.

You made her cry.

Levi raises his hand, and knocks. When the door cracks open, then whines a little further, he instantly forgets everything he planned to say—about the book. Keep it, he wants to tell you, but what comes out is: “You look constipated.”

You idle behind the threshold a little, sort of like a little kid. “Uh-huh, I know. If I lose any more sleep, I’ll start looking like you.”

That casual remark makes panic shoot through his belly for some reason. He might as well just be out with it. “I wanted to talk.”

“Okay,” you venture. Rather than a little kid, you now come off as a wary, wide-eyed cat. “If it can’t wait… Is it important?”

Important? He sure would like to think so. “…I’m not here for paperwork.”

The air turns thick. Now, you aren’t even looking at him: you’re glaring at the floor, swallowing as if there’s something stuck in your throat. The next few moments, he doesn’t really hear before the door shuts. You tell him, “I’m sorry, but I can’t. You make me too sad.”

An apology sticks to his tongue, but if he opens his mouth, it’ll just be told to the door. His lips twitch, not understanding.

Why did that hurt so much? You didn’t tell him you hated him, you didn’t even slam it in his face. Levi makes you sad, that’s all, but suddenly the sky is falling inside him. He can’t even feel the floor beneath his feet.

Okay, he reasons to nobody. If he makes you sad, removing himself ought to make you happy. Maybe it won’t for a while, but… If I give it time, it should. In retrospect he was conceited for expecting anything else.

In any case, he’ll try his best to do right by you.

As his steps finally start to recede, you’re left at the door, sniffling, idling. You cry too much—which isn’t his fault. It’s just the fact that you’ve never felt more disgusting, hopeless, and evil than that hope sticking to you like cobwebs. Some part of you is so angry with him, but you wanted him to stay, too. It’s not fair.

You can hear Levi’s sardonic quip now: “Fair. Is that a joke?”

This whole mess reminds you of the first real night you stayed together—a million years ago, it feels like. Maybe three or four. For once, he actually slept, but his hands visibly shook when you crawled into his arms that night.

It worried you, whether he was anxious beyond all measure, or you were overstepping bounds he wasn’t ready for, but he insisted he just wasn’t used to going to bed with someone. Now, you’re sure he was afraid—of waking you with a nightmare, or being close to someone, or every bad thing, all at once.

He was warm and solid, and he cradled you to his chest, your breaths falling in sync with the rise and fall of his own. It felt so safe. He must’ve felt that way too, for you woke even before him, and strapped on your uniform back in your own tiny quarters (fit for when you were still a Squad Leader).

But a few minutes later, there was a rapping on your door. It was Levi of course, strung-up and glaring, but his eyes gave him away. By then you had an idea of just how often they do.

“You could’ve told me you planned on leaving first-thing. I told you I’m not used to this.”

“Oh.” You were a little blindsided. “I just wanted to let you sleep in.”

His eyes grew sharper. “Well don’t, you shitting idiot.”

You were flabbergasted then, but now you look back and know he felt abandoned. Even though he was still the one to approach your door this time, now it’s your turn to feel that way. Maybe you both do.

You’re so tired of crying.

On the other hand, Levi has never been a crying person. He couldn’t do it even if his Commander ordered him to, not even if he wanted. After you told him to go, he let the front of his desk bear his weight for a while, jaw locked up and aching.

You’ve seen him at quite a few of his rock-bottoms, in a state of icy grief or blood-red rage, but he’s still never been so pathetic as to let you see him blubber and sob like a baby. If he can’t do it alone, how can he expect to let you witness that horror show?

Doesn’t matter. You don’t want to see him at all.

So, he gets started on paperwork: he scratches dry parchment with the end of his quill so long that the inkwell runs out. Without pausing to mind his aching neck, he replaces it and gets back to it.

He writes some notes, too—ones the recipient will never see, so there they sit. He works some more. He throws the notes away. Sunset drowns in the dark gray of evening.

Levi is, self-admittedly, so good at math that he can tell distance with a single, squinted look. He’s always been that way. The logic is a comfort to him somehow, so that night he ends up calculating the Corps’ budget as far as two months from now. Sooner or later, he finally feels the hunger pains sinking its jagged teeth into his stomach.

Eating isn’t a new chore to forget, no matter how important it is. He lived with hunger for so long, it became just like dealing with sore feet, or aching fingers after quite a bit of writing; it’s just another task to get done a few times a day. Once he let you in enough for you to notice his weird patterns, you really jumped on his ass about it.

It used to piss him off, because it was his business and he didn’t get why you cared so much. Now, as he manages to scarf down some leftovers that taste a little better than cardboard, he just feels shitty the ritual of you reminding him has been broken.

Falling asleep would be a pointless fight, he decides.

Unsurprisingly, Commander Erwin is awake this late—or this early, rather. The lantern on his desk is burning its weight in oil when he drops an even stack of papers down.

Lately, Levi has driven himself so hard into the ground that the stream of bureaucracy has whittled down to just a few drops, but, “if you’re looking for something to do, allocate some funds to buy a suit. A few select officers of each regiment have been invited to Mitras.”

Levi’s nose screws up. “You mean it’s time to kiss more pig-ass. Play politics, right?”

The shadows dancing across the walls make Erwin’s chuckle seem a bit more foreboding, but, as usual, Levi’s right: he has a knack for shaving the fluff off Erwin’s words.

Rather than play politics though, it’s almost entirely Levi’s job to stand around, keep his mouth shut, and look like Humanity’s Strongest Soldier. Erwin, Hange and Mike always do him the favor of ass-kissing, but if possible, “bring your Lieutenant. She’s just as impressive, but unlike you she has a clean mouth.”

“Tch. You’d be surprised how many idiots around here don’t brush their teeth,” he grumbles. Then, he steps away from Erwin’s long desk, and connects the dots. “Wait. You said I have to play dress-up for this. You wanna make her my date?”

Levi knows he’s being bitchier than usual, but Erwin’s cool gaze gives nothing away. He simply locks his hands under his chin, and explains: “Officially, yes. Nanaba is joining Mike in the same way. Unofficially, it isn’t my business. I’m not interested in disciplining you or her for fraternizing, of all things.”

If Levi and you are in bed together, Erwin doesn’t need to know—how relieving. Fair, though. Recruits crawl in bed with each other all the time. Still, this little revelation boils his blood to no end.

Fucking shit, Levi thinks with disdain. What great timing.

If just the sight of him at your door is enough to make you sad, a hokey date-night in Mitras will send you spiraling—better he not tell you and spare you the anguish. The news will find your desk on its own, and sooner or later you’ll learn to coexist, just like that.

But…

It’s when he’s sat hunched over in the reclusive safety of his quarters, shining a blade, that a selfish sense of possession swoops over him like an evil shadow.

Levi pauses with the cotton-white handkerchief clutched in his palm, thinking hard. He needs to think. You’ve always pointed out that he spends too much time in his head.

No matter what, he’ll always try to attract your gaze; let the room be crowded, dark, or empty. In some ways he feels he’ll die without it, hence how he needs you just to function. The crux of the issue is that if you did die, he really might just follow you. It’s pathetic.

He imagines cradling you as the life in your eyes is fogged by muddy, gray film.

Worse. What if he isn’t there when you land in trouble? What if he could do something, but fails? What if your blood splatters his cape, proof of his helplessness and your painful end?

There’s a title he carries—Humanity’s Strongest—but still, somehow, he always manages to fail in protecting the ones he cares for the most. For you, if there was something he could’ve done, or done better…

His expression screws up, because that’s wrong: No matter what it’d be his fault. Whether it’s logical or not, it’s how it is. If he’s strong and that’s his right to life, then he’s the one responsible for flubbing that one and only talent, and by extension his duty, over and over again.

He’s never told you this, he realizes with a hollow feeling, but he still finds himself anguished that he did nothing for his mother in those last days she spent bedridden. He knows he was just a kid, but he can’t convince himself that means anything, even now.

His old friends, faces with names and lives—those deaths ended up leaving him stronger. He was able to channel the grief, and mold it into power. But when he inevitably comes up with the image of your body amongst the dead, his hands pick up a tremble.

A carefully even breath. The knife he cradles in his palm is old, rusted a coppery brown and whittled down at the edges from years of wear and (literal) tear. It’s the one that clashed with Mike’s and Erwin’s blades; it’s the one that carried him through a good portion of his years running with gangs; it’s the one he brought up from the gutter.

It’s no longer good for practical use, but he never lets go of things, even when he knows he should. Even if he can’t hold them or even see them, they stick in his mind. If he doesn’t get it together–

“Shit,” comes the curse, then a small string of others, one after another. A clean, brittle snap of the blade. Where now two pieces lay in his palm, the metal around the break is especially weathered, like terminally-sick silver.

Levi knows his way around a knife, so he knows the art of fixing them up. There’s not a damn thing he can do for this one.

He can’t idle on the equally-anguished snap somewhere deep in his chest. What does he do with it? It’s useless now. His last tie to his home is dead and gone.

Home, he thinks with sorry spite. That’s a funny word for it.

Without thinking, he tears his cravat from around his neck, craving air, and stands. His step stutters, but he can’t help it. He needs to pace.

Levi doesn’t have a home, or a family. His meaning is the cause, with the Corps, and maybe he found a family once, but they were wiped out.

The knife means nothing, the Underground wasn’t home—it was a dead-end gutter where dogs are born, lay, and die. Maybe home was his mother, but she laid and she died, and he was so young when it happened. He doesn’t even know what home means.

The broken knife suffocates in his tightly-knuckled fist. It’s too dull to pay any mind to. Crushing it is better than feeling sorry about it.

He senses a pattern. That’s his way with all precious things. Whatever soft, golden thing sprouted between you two, he crushed it before the grief could ever snag a chance to crush him. He’s a killer, in the most elementary sense of the word.

Dull, burning hatred. He hates what he’s done here, and he hates himself for his actions.

At a loss, he crosses the threshold between his personal quarters and his office, swipes his keyring out, and jams it in the small lock of a desk drawer; the one closest to the floor.

There’s a ponytail holder of Isabel’s he only noticed he still had tethered around his wrist after the fact, a pair of ancient dice, and a dozen other odd things within a sea of strung-out patches displaying the Wings of Freedom. Most are bloodied, aged stiff and brown. He has nowhere else to put it.

He sniffs. The heaviness sinks somewhere way down in his chest, as heavy things do, and slinks away; dull, but unbothered. He’s not equipped to do anything else with those feelings, much less unload all of this bullshit on you. Even on good days it was hard.

He shoves it down deep instead, buried like a chest crammed with rotten, cheap treasures. It’ll find its way to the surface in another way—a pattern he believes because you explained it to him. He’ll just have to wait and see what it’ll be.

—

Two days later, Levi breaks his finger.

He’s running himself ragged with all manner of exercise he can manage by himself in Trost HQ’s claustrophobic gym: maintaining a plank until sweat from his brow drips to the mat below and his core is on fire; pushups until even he loses count; donning a pair of gloves and bruising the hell out of the leathery punching bag until Mike, who’s bracing it, gets knocked on his ass—or just about.

Mike’s the one who grins in approval, a smirk curling despite his bare, heaving chest. Much like a dog, he sweats buckets, so much so his skin looks more like tinfoil. He asks how much Levi has managed to lift lately, and sensing a challenge, told him honestly: “Two-hundred.”

“Shit, man…” Mike gawks at him in disbelief. “What’re you made of?”

It’s well-known that Levi’s abilities stretch far-beyond the best in the Scouts, or the military as a whole. You were always of the opinion that he’s the strongest man alive.

The times when you and he trained together, one-on-one (something that didn’t happen as often as it should, come to think of it), you worked off each other constantly, building strength, endurance. You never managed to knock him down, though, other than that one time years ago; you caught him off guard by demanding to know why he hated you. That was because he pushed you away.

He abandons that train of thought. Few people can take him in a fight, at any rate.

He believes the closest you ever got (fairly) was when he requested mid-plank for you to add more weight onto his back. He’d been able to maintain the same position for several minutes, and all he had to show for it was a bead of sweat broken over his forehead.

You indulged him gladly. Only, you were kneeling beside him, pressing both hands to the sharp planes of his shoulders. You were helping out gravity more than giving him a challenge.

“S’not working,” he huffed, and shrugged your hands off, adjusting his tight brace above the floor. “Sit on me.”

You were incredulous with him. “What, like a pony?”

“Ugh.” He rolled his eyes, flicking his sodden bangs away from his eyes. “Sure.”

“Only if you neigh.” You said this like it was the chief requirement.

“…Fucking neigh. Hurry up already.”

You chided him for acting bossy, but you quickly lurched into action. Your chief complaint was the sticky sweat pasted to his bare back. Still, he could feel you staring, gliding over the places where his muscles were pulled taut and flexing beneath his skin.

Levi, at the time, felt prickled that you might have been scrutinizing some particularly ugly scars with your eyes; those still stubbornly raised, the color of severely diluted blood. You weren’t.

He grunted and strained under your weight. With a whole human body managing a recline long-ways as if he were a hammock, who wouldn’t?

He dropped—according to Hange’s stopwatch—after another hour and twenty-two minutes. As a result you were severely bored, and babied the hell out of him for the next few days until he could at least stretch his arms above his head without every one of his muscles locking up in that crumpled way he only gets after a good workout. He thanked you, told you he owed you, even, but you never asked for anything back—not even for him to give you a proper neigh.

He hates you for that, he swears he does. You went out of your way by the hour to make his days a little easier, and demanded nothing in return. That only happens in storybooks, or so he thought. Either way, he didn’t deserve you.

No, he corrects himself, not just ‘a little easier’. You managed to make him look forward to eating, as if it were a candlelit date instead of a task to get done, you made swirling, happy feelings break over his chest by doing so little as yawning too widely, and at the end of so many days, he learned to hate sleeping a little less. He was less defensive, and smiled more—yours was just that infectious. But when your heart broke, he wanted to protect you, too. He could’ve handled feeling as broken as you, at least for a while, so you wouldn’t have to brave it alone.

And he still wants it. You make him so happy it hurts—that’s why he can’t stand it.

It was just an accident: Mike saw an opportunity, bet he could take him down in under five minutes in the ring, and Levi rose to the occasion.

That gigantic hound of a man was the strongest in the Scouts before five years ago, so they duke it out anytime Levi actually agrees to it. Most times not, especially if Hange bets on money, chores, or gods forbid gets Erwin wrapped up in the gambling.

This afternoon they weren’t present, but even if they were, he wouldn’t have cared. The blood in his veins was boiling to fight, which is unlike him. Back before he met you, it would’ve been: he had a much shorter, nastier temper before the sun ever shone on him, but fighting has always come as natural to him as flipping a page. Everything else seldom does.

It must’ve been right before he kicked Mike square in the chest, putting him down for the count. They were rolling around quite a bit before then, so maybe Levi’s hand got pinned at some point. Doesn’t matter—it’s no one’s fault.

Mike even grasped Levi’s hand and shook it at the end, but he didn’t get the lurking sense of his ramrod-stiff finger until he stepped in the shower right after. It’s his left index finger, and it’s puffy and swollen. In sharp contrast to the others, it’s taken on a morbid, maroon color.

He was weary when he first set his eyes on it, and he’s weary now as he kneels before his gaping bathroom drawers. This exhaustion somehow supersedes all his physical wear and tear.

He grinds his teeth to keep from wincing—despite the fact that he sits alone—as he roots through his drawers. It was only when he saw the ugly thing that the length of his finger started throbbing. That didn’t go away, and now it’s tender and flaming simply on sight.

The first-aid kit—where is it? He doesn’t misplace things: organized would be his middle name, and he considers it his last as long as he doesn’t know it. The only reason he even keeps such a thing is to avoid siphoning resources from the medbay in cases of minor grazes like this.

He shuts his eyes as he smooths his sopping bangs completely off his forehead. The least he did was pull on a pair of briefs, but he couldn’t dry off before attending to this. Scavenging for a memory when he can hear his heartbeat in his mangled finger is a bitch.

The cabinet is deliciously cool when he leans his forehead against it. And then, it comes to him as all terrible revelations do, sinister in its clarity, abrupt and sinking: His first-aid kit is in your quarters.

You got sick of him tending to his injuries by himself—hiding them, you insisted—and all but pilfered it from him. He teased you about it and pretended to throw a fit, but he didn’t even think of it, not until now. He didn’t care, because if you had it stashed away he could do the same. It felt good to take care of you, even though he couldn’t stop the injury from happening.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wobbling around a dozen heavy, clunky feelings. It was more than just patching you up, too. You, taking care of him like that, he liked it—or the idea of it. It was nice, you keeping it for him. Reserving his well-being for the front of your mind, no matter how slight the hurt. No one ever did that for him before. He used to be so alone.

The acid-cork in his throat breaks like popping a tap. Hot tears spring to his eyes, and a croaked sound escapes before he can stop either of them.

With another wave of weariness, he comes to the realization that he’s so sick of hiding away, covering up, locking down and burying the key. It’s like the hint of something split him the moment you met, and it never stopped since. Only, he didn’t realize it until the something started to take shape.

It’s like you cracked him, and like a dam he’s broken open, impossible to stop. He’s crying, and it feels like he can’t ever stop. It’s as if he’s been flung from his own reins, throwing him out of control. It was his choice that let him ruin things all by himself, but he’ll die before he brings this to you; he normally would, after he got a hold of himself, but he makes you upset just to lay eyes on.

He’s out of control. This realization tosses him into an electric panic: The pangs of his heart reaches his ears, he begins to shiver, and his hands morph into prickly icepicks. He hasn’t gotten one this bad since Kenny left him.

Then, something else. That sense of danger that’s resided in him since he was young prickles, sending the shaking and anxiety and impending doom-feeling into overdrive.

Only on instinct does his body kick into action, but completely deprived of thought, all he can do is slam a cabinet shut, cringe at the reverberation, and pin himself against it, gasping noisily. The danger isn’t real—he’s in his bathroom at HQ—but the sense is never wrong, either. His eyes dart around for a weapon, but when he doesn’t see one his hands reflexively curl into fists. Big fucking mistake.

The wince, this time, is audible—it shows all over his face. Pain rattles him from the static in his head to the curl of his toes. He hears it through the cotton stuffed in his ears, but he can’t be bothered to muffle it anymore, if he’s even capable of that much thinking right now. He cradles his scathing finger, pinned between his folded legs and his chest, and feels himself from the perspective of a broken spinning top.

He’ll swear to the end that he never heard you knock on his door, nor unlock the door and go on searching for him until you heard the slam coming from the depths of his bathroom. You rapped on the oak in an endless mantra of Levi’s name until his head jerked up, finally hearing you.

You knew better, so much better than to barge in on him in the middle of a panic attack. With his clamoring gasps for air stretching through the door, barging in on him would’ve done nothing but plummet him into worse places. He’s broken parts in that way: When he’s in dire need of comfort, that’s the last thing he’ll reach out and grab for. It weighs too much.

He hears your voice through the wood, and sighs high in his throat at the sound of it, relieved and a little helpless. You haven’t spoken this tenderly to him in so many days, so hearing it now is like falling back into a bed he’s slept in since birth.

For a while, you simply go back and forth; mainly you, guiding him through it. You tether him back down to earth, as dizzyingly rough a return it is. Sooner or later, much later, you gently ask if it’d be alright for you to come in, but he’s not ready for that just yet.

The first-aid kit—Levi’s first-aid kit—dangles at your side when you do come in, after he has more clothes on his back and he’s wrangled the air back into his lungs. In… and out.

The first order of business in his mind is how you knew, and if you were somehow forced to come, to leave. In yours, it’s his stiff, swollen finger, which has reached the color of rotten gala apples.

You came because Mike mentioned it, you claim. You’re here for Levi, though, and that’s enough of a reason.

Gently, you knock the door closed with your booted foot. “So? Sit down and let me do this for you.”

Objections, immediately. He tries to sound firm despite the croak still thick in his voice. “You don’t have to. Leave it here and I’ll handle it on my own.”

You shoot him a look—displeased, but patient.

“I’m fine,” he insists, but is sure to add, “I’m fine now.”

“Levi–” you plant the kit down on the counter, “–there are a million things I could’ve done instead of this. All he said was you were pushing yourself much harder than usual. I still came straight here, didn’t I? I got worried.”

“Because–’cause you have the med kit,” he stammers, and screws his nose up in shame with himself. “I can splint my own fucking finger. Leave. Get out.”

Your face goes hard. “You want that?”

“That’s what you said you wanted,” he points out, not resentfully, but plainly; like it’s an argument on behalf of a ghost.

The tension hangs in the air. You’re still hurt, and you’re angry about what happened. You can’t pretend you’re not, not anymore, and not when he’s standing right in front you. All this time, you didn’t dodge all his bullets, just denied that they hit you.

The next words leave you in a long breath: “Levi, what’re we doing?”

His lips twitch. Sensing the path this conversation is going down, he crowds up against the counter without thinking. “…Don’t know.”

You want to ask what distressed him enough to make him panic, partly because of how rare it is, but you know you won’t get a straight answer.

Telling him it would make you feel a lot better if he sat down gets him to at least give you a chance, however reluctantly. He perches himself on the edge of the tub.

You plant yourself next to him and pop open the cotton-white kit. This part comes so easily you can talk while your hands work: “I really wanted you to stay the night you showed up, but I was upset, too… But I think that’s understandable. Don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Obediently, he spreads his hand over your knee when you tap his wrist. You elevate it a little.

“Can you feel this?” You take your pointer finger and carefully trail it down from his third knuckle.

The way he cringes tells you he can. While beaming red and stiff like a tree branch, it isn’t bad, all things considered. Splinting it would still be safer though, no matter how quickly he heals.

“I take it you won’t go to the infirmary for this?”

He makes a low, unhappy sound. “Not if I don’t have to.”

“…And if I ask you that you do?”

“Same thing.”

Taken aback, you pause with the two pieces of metal bracing his finger. You didn’t expect him to say that after making it clear that it didn’t matter what either of you wanted, but he made it just as obvious that he wouldn’t dream of leaving you.

You decide not to comment: it’s high-time you stopped belittling yourself so much. Look what happened last time.

“Hey…” he mumbles, swallowing around the acid-shot of pain as you delicately splint the injury. Busy measuring his words, the silence drags on.

“Hey,” you say.

“…I meant what I said. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the same as you.” He remembers what just transpired, and tenses involuntarily. “I realized that. Then… I. I thought there was danger where there wasn’t.”

“Oh, honey…” You sigh, quietly lending your ear as he wanders through an explanation. All the while, your hands go on working, taping the splints. Levi can be chatty when he wants to be, but he takes time with his words anyway.

It doesn’t surprise you much that that discovery would make him panic. You get the feeling that he’s afraid most times. Maybe the root of it isn’t that physical anymore, but the fear is still there, nestled just beneath the surface.

All you’re afraid of is him disappearing on you for good while it can still be prevented.

“I don’t know what–” he swallows. “We can’t. I can’t go through something like that all over again.”

He could go on about how you deserve someone decent enough to follow through when they’re told that you want them, that he’s mangled and jagged in places, that he’s not good—but he doesn’t try. He knows you don’t see him that way, not one bit.

The splint is finished. You wrap up with a tired shake of your head and stand, striding out of the bathroom without saying anything. You leave the first-aid kit behind, too.

That troubles him enough to rise to his feet. He follows you out into the sitting room, where so many dear memories lie. It feels like defacing sacred ground, inhabiting it like this.

You’re sitting at the table next to the window, clearly swathed in some anguished thoughts. He has no idea what to say to make it better—honesty and comfort go together like oil and water.

“Look,” he begins, eyes darting aimlessly from your face to the floor. “We can’t ever be normal. That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Friends?” The idea scrambles your brain. You look up at him, brows knit. “Maybe it’s easy for you to cram all your emotions into a tiny box in a dead-end ditch where they’ll never be found, but–” you shake your head, “–we can’t be friends, anymore or otherwise. I’ll always see you as something else.”

To him, you’re implying you want nothing to do with him. Not an option, he decides immediately, because that’d be even worse than if you died. You’d still be putting too much syrup on your pancakes and fighting with more tenacity than anyone in his squad and scrunching up your nose in your sleep—but you’d be strangers then.

Your jaw drops, hurt. “You think, after all I’ve cried over you, I’d be okay with not having anything to do with you?”

As you speak, you quickly rise to your feet and plant your hands on his shoulders, giving them an even shake; as if to wake him up.

“All? You’ve–” He’s busy being jittered by the first hit of your pearly perfume, along with any bit of your touch in days to think straight. He feels stuck, like roots. “Don’t cry over me.”

“Then don’t make me cry,” you shoot right back, stepping away and planting your hands on your hips. You’re determined to stand up for yourself this time.

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say to that. Either way, you could, you will. There’s always a chance. The difference is there’d be nothing he could do then, and no way he could make it better, not any longer.

“Stop that,” you sigh, like you’ve heard the argument—the root of his doubt—a million times. “We can’t think in ifs. If everyone spent all their energy worrying about dying, there’d be no point in doing anything. Is five years still not long enough to prove to you that I’m capable?”

He grinds his teeth. “You’re more than capable. I’m just…”

You fall back in the smooth, ornate chair and sniff. It’s asking too much for Levi to ever finish that sentence and admit he’s scared. Love hard, lose it, and you force yourself to stop loving; he’s lost so much, so he’s entitled to that fear, but you’re so sick of being scared. “Is that any way to live?”

It isn’t. He knows that it isn’t. Freeze up at the wrong moment, and it’s all over. That’s how most recruits go out, or the ones foolish enough to join the Scouts, anyway. Not death by Titan, but fear.

Losing another person precious to him, not by death, but by his own fault isn’t something he could tolerate. You’ve had some close scrapes of course, and you’ll have more, but while you’re both here you have a choice.

But…

One day it’s almost guaranteed you won’t, and if he lost you for good, it wouldn’t leave him that much stronger for it; it wouldn’t be like Isabel and Farlan. Your end would sap the life right out of him.

Stop that, your words remind him. How can I even bitch about that when she’s sitting right in front of me? What good does it do?

None. Seeking a little support from the table, he’s silent for a long moment, letting the words stir, thinking deeply.

It would be like taking his heart and leaving it completely in your hands. Whether it gets shredded would be no fault of your own, because he trusts you. It’s the odds. Just as well, yours would be in his hands too, and he hasn’t taken care of it lately like he should. Yet you bare your heart, and persist.

“I need… to think,” he decides, and eyes you above your hand, which you prop up your chin with. “Maybe that’s asking too much, after wasting so much damn time, which—was shitty of me. Sorry.” He hangs his head a little, avoiding your eyes.

You deflate, relieved. He’s not the only one who’s wasted time.

If he needs a while to choose what’s best for him, or to come to terms with things, you don’t hesitate to grant him that. All you ask is that he makes the choice. This rift torn between you has felt like tenderizing a nerve, every damn day since that night. You never want to feel like that again, not when it’s perfectly possible for things to be okay. “–is that okay?”

He nods, circling around the table. Once he’s right in front of you he crouches down and rests a reassuring hand on your knee—his good one. He needs you to know that he means this.

It takes him a moment to find the right words, but it takes you the same amount of time to lean forward, smoothing the ramrod-stiffness of his shoulder. His mind goes blank. He missed you like hell.

“I swear to you.” He finds your other hand, takes it delicately between his injury, and kisses it. You’re too precious to throw away—he will never, could never. He hears your breath shudder. “Understand? I’m serious, so don’t worry about those things that scare you.”

He also wants to warn you not to get a single scratch before he can settle on this, and that if he lands in favor of putting his heart in your hands, he wants to make it perfectly special the way someone like you deserves. You’re one of a kind. A moment like that—just like the night of Mayfest—leaves no room for any sort of heartache trailing behind. That sort of mushy fluff he can communicate by squeezing your hand, and the small look he quickly shoots you.

Your eyes gleam like he’s just as precious, which stings in the best of ways.

“Understood.” You squeeze back. Your other hand rises to the top of his head, petting.

A long breath he had no way of knowing he was holding leaves through his nose, and the tension, it feels like, eases away like runoff from a river.

The utter relief on his face must amuse you. “Cute. Relax a little.”

With a small grunt, his chin lands on your knee. Your fingers buried in his hair feels too damn good—always too good. That’s familiar, at least, but after it’s all said and done—whatever that may mean—it won’t matter if it feels normal or not. It’ll be good, because you’re good in any sector of his life.

“Stop, ‘m not a damn cat. You’re using that against me.”

You tut a little, and then your bound hands break away. His eyes shoot to your face, confused and a little torn, only to watch you press your fingers to your lips. At once you place them on his pout, and by the look on your face, you did it on purpose.

He smacks a small kiss to those fingers, leans up and catches your soft cheek, and takes his time leaving one on your forehead, then the side of your mouth. When it comes to the quirk of your pink lips, he stalls a little. He can’t decide if it’s appropriate or not to leave you hanging. He eyes you, wanting.

You tilt your head, lashes fluttering a little. You resist the way the pull between both of you yanks. “Take your time, ‘Vi.”

That’s a funny thing to say when he’s half-straddling your leg, not to mention his hand straying over your jaw. You have the collar of his shirt wound up like a knot, wanting just as much. He just needs time.

“Don’t worry,” he tells you again.

Chapter End Notes

this is the heaviest this fic is gonna get i think 😀 i want comfort out of this more than angst/cliffhangers... LET ME KNOW WHAT U THINK PLEASE THANKS💖

till next time!!

let go (part 1/2)

Chapter Summary

Levi has trouble letting go of his fears. Happily (and not so happily), you give him two places to start. In Mitras, his defenses are down.

Chapter Notes

HEY this chapter has been split into 2 parts (the more i update this fic, the more i write it seems) - but this chappy still isn't as long as the one before it. the crux of the issue is the sheer amount of smut - but it's the first time and i wanted detail yk ... there's smut in part2, as well.

ALSO, i added a tad more backstory for the Reader character, the most specific being the addition of stretchmarks. hopefully no one minds - i wanted some personal representation in my fic and my fingers slipped hehe

again: THIS IS PART 1/2 OF THE CHAPTER :)

warnings:

-vague description of past child abuse

-descriptions of social anxiety

Over the next month, Levi’s quality of sleep takes a nosedive. It starts to become an oddity for him not to jerk awake every other night in a week, if he can get his mind to shut off at all.

And not just that: he’s even quieter than usual. Distracted. It takes a few tries of his name for him to hear you, but ironically enough he’s never strayed so close to you physically, no matter where you are: his kitchenette, the hallways, a crowded courtyard, and so on.

You tease him for staring; for the way he tends to idle to your side no matter who’s around, but all he can do is look away and complain that you stop being so ‘worth looking at’ if you don’t want his eyes on you.

You can’t say you’re surprised. He’s been forced to come to terms with “this lovey-dovey shit”, so no wonder—not that you don’t quietly revel in the attention. You remark that he’s just the sweetest for being so attentive lately, and smack a kiss on his cheek while you tend to his mending finger. He can make a mean face all day, but he doesn’t put up a fuss.

Then again, when you mention that you’re worried about him, he spares you a shake of his head and rakes his fingers through your hair.

“Don’t,” he tells you. “You’re good.”

You trust him. Plus, he isn’t pushing you away. It’s not like he’s been slaving away at his desk at all hours of the night (on purpose), and he’s been eating alright; and doing a dozen more little tasks for you than usual. The most telling of which—no matter if it’s just a training exercise—is that he takes good care in quality-checking your ODM.

You count your lucky stars that the Corps’ next expedition isn’t for a few weeks, but HQ is abuzz with papers to push and check to balance, even so soon. That’s the exact reason you’ve both taken to spending late nights burning candles at both ends to get it all done, with an excuse to spend some much-needed time together. Even better, you get to cook up warm meals for him and try your damndest when this or that needs cleaning (even though his brow scrunches up when it’s not quite up to his standards).

It only takes a few weeks for the splint to come off too (a medical phenomenon, as far as Hange is concerned), and a few more for it to both look and function normally again. Very little bitching was involved whenever you fixed up his splint, even; not so much when you insisted on kissing it better, but no matter. You’re happy just to have him.

Things aren’t perfect—more like your relationship dangles upon a tightrope at the moment—but you trust him, and you suspect he’s coming to trust you, too. Since the day you found him in the bathroom, torn to ribbons, a lot more of those moments have begun to seep through the cracks of your day-to-day relationship.

This means—in the hazy purgatory-hours of three or four in the morning—he’s gently rolling over and nudging you awake with his forehead, both hating that he needs something from you and trusting that it’s okay to need anything at all.

Where you’re curled up, facing away, you rouse back to the waking world with a flurry of blinks. “Lev’?”

“Can’t sleep,” he whispers, and tucks his face in the warm shade of your neck. “Can you–” A pause. “Forget it.”

You blink the remnants of sleep-fog away, fighting a doze. Curled around you, his chest could double as a heated blanket. “Want tea?”

Lately, you’ve been perusing the more exotic tea shops in Mitras. It started out as a dumb pastime before turning useful. You’ll taste-test and mock-review a bunch of sugary crap, and between that and all the joking, it’s exhausting to him; forget even the nightmares. A lifesaver is what it is.

While a grossly appealing idea, he shakes his head.

This snags more of your attention. You roll over in the tangled comforter and take him into your arms, where he gladly surrenders; like that is what he was waiting for. And there you lay, like two spoons in a drawer.

“Can I hear you talk about it?”

It’s much easier for Levi to ask a favor, you’ve found, as long as you present the request like it’s something that you wanted all along. More often than not, that’s the case anyway. You like doing him favors; he’s done so much for you for ages.

His forehead wrinkles and a little more softness bleeds into his dark eyes. Many moments pass.

“…I guess. I just wanted–” His lips press into a thin line. “Don’t indulge me. Don’t want you acting shitty tomorrow if you lose sleep.”

The least he (begrudgingly) decided to wake you for was what you’re giving him now: a little attention, or swaddling him up in your arms, or some warmth to vanquish a bunch of chilling thoughts. He imagined resting his head on your chest, but he’s not that picky.

“Too bad–” you yawn, “–you’re being indulged. I’m listening.”

He has to look somewhere else. “…Would you live with me, if I asked?”

The roundabout way he shares his feelings is a bit lost on you at four in the morning. You blink lazily and glide your hand beneath his shirt to rub his back, up and down. You know how nice it feels, since the rampaging waters of your mind are silenced when he does the same for you.

He murmurs your name, beckoning an answer.

“Would I live with you?” You test the words on your tongue, idling in the aroma of his clean hair. “You’re so cute.”

His brows knit. “What?”

“‘Cause it’s obvious. I’d do anything you asked me to.”

“…W-What?”

“You heard me,” you whisper. It wouldn’t be unlike him to ask you the meaning of life during a picnic or something, but whatever he means by that, it’s a yes.

The silence lingers. “…I would, and, if that’s your weird way of asking if I’d move in with you, that’d be good. I keep telling you I get our clothes mixed up when I stay over.”

A feeling claws at him to pull away, but he can’t. He buries his face in your throat instead.

The meaning of his question didn’t get across the way he meant it, but you answered more than enough. It’s his fault for being vague, but how can he be specific when he can hardly unravel his own feelings? He didn’t mean it in any other way besides you and him, living side by side, until you lived no longer. That’s all.

Hours and days of sleep deprivation is exactly like being drunk, but without the incentive people have for drinking in the first place. From his heart to his limbs he’s heavy, and he thinks zigzagged instead of straight, but there’s no buzz about it.

That’s why your foolish answer inspires hot tears to spring to his eyes; maybe it’s all these nightmares he’s been dragged through lately, too. He’s so tired. All this shit leaves him feeling vulnerable, with that day as the trigger.

Staying away from everyone and needing no one was an ailment he didn’t know ran in his blood. If you’re his life support in that way, he ripped it out, and only then did he see that way of life was only out to kill him.

If only both those things weren’t so painful.

“I don’t deserve that,” he hisses; not cruelly, but with all the desperation of someone staring down a loaded gun.

“Honey…”

You don’t go on, though you were honest and he’s as wrong as could be. It means so much to him. The most he communicates is through the mirrors in his eyes; when they’re soft with affection, or glassy when he’s primed to break.

He doesn’t even cry to you, so to sense hot tears against your throat means you tread on razor-thin ground.

“Don’t be stupid. I don’t deserve that,” he repeats.

“Who cares what you deserve?” you whisper. “It’s your choice.”

He wants to curl up and disappear into nothing. The first part is easy, but the second is impossible, just like finding a way for you to be wrong. He grasps at straws instead: “Is it yours?”

“Of course. Even if…” Never mind ifs. “You make me so happy.”

“Yeah. I know.”

But his voice comes like he’s been gargling nails. Him making you happy—what a double-edged sword. It’s easy to loathe that he can’t convince you otherwise, just like it’s easy to loathe that you two could be wrong together; not because you aren’t the best person in his life, but because tragedy follows him. But, if your mind is made, it’s not his right to try and change it.

You kiss the top of his head, and he feels pleasant pins and needles. “It’s the same for you, right?”

“Yeah.”

You want to hear him talk some more: about his doubts, or about anything. Of course he’s scared, but he bears that weight silently. Always has. You’ve reminded him over and over how he can’t carry the burden of the world upon his shoulders (neither can you, for that matter), so he doesn’t have to be alone in his own burdens, either. You remind him.

“I’m here,” you say. “I’m right here.”

Maybe he’ll tear your shirt from how hard he grips it, but that’s okay. He’s tucked himself against your side, in your neck for so long your skin begins to grow swampy, but it can’t just be that: his breaths are pinched, and so small. You think his eyes are squeezed shut, but somehow you know for sure when a knot rips, gets blown to ribbons, or dissolves into pieces. You know for sure that he’s crying.

Instantly, tears spring to your eyes. You’ve never heard Levi cry. Suddenly, a frantic urge swallows you—to protect him from the very shadows in this room from prying to hear, even ghosts, or the lightning bugs outside, or everything. You cradle the back of his head, hold him tight, and make sure they don’t.

“You deserve so much, Levi,” you whisper, hushed. “I’m here.”

He pushes closer as if he means to barrel right through you, and speaks like scraping metal together. “Fucking. Pathetic.”

“Let it go.”

His shoulders wrack freely with sobs—ugly, hiccuped things that he can at least bury in your instead of himself. He’s not good enough to not cry, and he’s not good enough to be anything but consumed by shame when he does. A normal person doesn’t kick a beaten dog when it’s down, but he’ll do it to himself, all the while hating that it dared let itself be beaten in the first place.

Forget it all.

His tears turn into sloppy weeping. It feels as though it will never stop.

Get a goddamn hold of yourself, he thinks. This is ridiculous, sits on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t get a hold of himself, and you keep saying you’re here, and you keep calling him my Levi, so what comes out is: “Don’t leave me—behind.”

“I’m scared too, honey,” you whisper, because you refuse to lie to him. “So don’t leave me behind, either.”

It’s wrenched from down deep in his chest, all this wet blubbering.

He’s thankful you don’t make a promise you can’t keep—rather, you don’t lie to him. In the same way, he still wants it; to be tied with you like two black and blue ribbons; blood to blood, mind to mind, heart to heart. It’s worth what it costs, or he will die to be proven wrong. His love will crash into dust.

It was his own promise to make a choice, but that feels wrong somehow now, as if no good alternative to what he wants exists, let alone one that would leave you happy. Maybe—just like back then when Petra confessed—there was never going to be another answer.

This is all he can do. Let go, if only it could happen all at once, like shattering glass. Sometimes that must mean holding him like a loaded gun, but you’ve both carried each other this far, haven’t you?

He’s unlearned so much along the way, but never has it felt so profoundly like dying until now.

And you never stop talking to him—being here. You sound a lot like how downy feathers feel, all around, everywhere, always.

You say, “You’re so good, angel,”, and you tell him that even if being this selfish makes you two the worst in the world, that you wouldn’t regret it, not for a second; but his choice is his own and you will be here either way. He has no power to scrounge a reply, so all he can do is listen, and remember you.

Even when he wrings himself out, a millstone up high in his chest wobbles. It feels as though it will never stop, and maybe it’ll never dissolve into crumbs he can’t feel. That doesn’t mean it can’t crack in half so he can live without it crushing him.

You run out of meaningful quips, and meander on other insightful things, like how his hair smells nice. “You were sweet to iron my jacket yesterday,” you say, and “Maybe Oluo and Petra will stop bickering one day,” and this and that and this: “I’m here.”

He imagines you make all this noise for him, or to keep yourself awake. Either way, he surprisingly cannot, and he drifts as though between the underside of a silky-smooth stream and just above it where it runs lazily.

It gets him lost, and when awareness reaches him next, silvery-grey dawn presses through the curtains. The colors are all dull, like they’re just waking up.

He raises his head from your chest, cracks his eyes open, then closes them and feels their sting. While he gets back all the air he lost by breathing long, slow and deep, he smears the sticky, cold tears away with baggy sleeves. It’s too warm, but the cottony texture feels good to rub his eyes with.

What a mess. Guilt trickles into his stomach, because this is your sweater. He’ll wash it later.

Then, your sleeping face and the utter peace etched into your soft brow. That’s good.

He doesn’t like to see you asleep; not because you’re not the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on and he gets an excuse to stare, but because of other reasons. It’s already morning anyway, so he decides to poke the sleeping bear and wake you up.

His kisses are butterfly wings—to your cheek, the tip of your nose, then the smooth stretch of skin just below your eye. There’s some longing feeling picking at him to kiss you all over, and even then he still wouldn’t be satisfied.

Your lashes give a tiny flutter, but you don’t wake. His lips find your forehead, and he watches it wrinkle a little. One more, just above your lips, where the air you breathe passes through. Your fingers twitch over his shoulder, where you must’ve held him all night—or since hours ago.

This reminds him of your stubborn insistence that—in the case of his nightmares—you claimed you had them down to a science: “It’s mostly when we’re sleeping on opposite sides” and, “Well… you always reach for me when you wake up.” He rolled his eyes, then retorted that all you needed were a pair of goggles and you’d turn into Hange.

But maybe your theory isn’t just a load of hot air. He’s a light-sleeper (a ‘hair-trigger sleeper’, Mike says), to the point he’s woken before to some faceless soldier padding down the hall; outside his living space, outside his office, past his door. Whenever you’re whimpering and twitching in your sleep and he rouses you awake, your arms usually find him in the same way you described, just like a shot’s gone off. He believes you that much.

With a deft thumb, he traces the length of your cheekbone. You’re really beautiful.

Heart clenching, his lips meet yours just briefly; long enough to get an idea of their light chapped state. For just a moment he thinks that did it, but your hold on him only tightens a little. Fondly, he kisses you again.

Even after that day he made the promise and decided not to kiss you, it fell apart not hours later when you gave him a peck without thinking; he had brought over your laundered clothes in the evening, the hamper braced on one hip. Your eyes blew wide, but all he could do was shake his head, a little stunned, but not surprised.

“I changed my mind,” he told you, “If you’re gonna be so forgetful then—forget what I said.”

He resists the urge to sniff away the last of his stuffiness. What’s worse, his eyes must be red from crying, bruised circles underneath. It’s not a pretty sight to wake up to, but just when he’s entertaining the idea to let you sleep in, you take a big breath and open your eyes.

“Morning,” Levi rasps, somewhat unceremoniously, and gently knocks his forehead against your temple in a manner you’ve endlessly described as ‘kitten-like’. He does it anyhow so you don’t get a look at the state of his hair, let alone his face.

Your hand plops in his hair anyway. “Mm. Awe, this is just like sleeping beauty. Are you my prince?”

He scoffs a little, not because he knows the story (beyond your anecdotal version) but because you called him that. His bad attitude doesn’t stop you from pecking him on the lips, though. Once, twice, but he leans in for a third, a much longer one; to get across that he’s thankful.

“There’s no curse,” he mumbles, and pecks your lips again. He can’t get enough, and neither can you, if your hold on him says anything. “You’d wake up anyway.”

“But are you my prince?”

“…If you never shut up about it.”

Your lips break into a small grin. As you smooth the worry off his brow, you let him know he’d make a very handsome, albeit grumpy prince, and reach around to give the back of his thigh a squeeze. In a perfect moment of weakness, you manage to make him crumple right on top of you. He’s so sensitive there.

He makes a low, warning noise, and raises up with his forearms, which lie at both sides of your head. That’s when your mouth strays below his ear, suckling.

Pleasant shivers lick through him. He dares to play at the hem of your stretchy top, where underneath lies soft skin warm like a furnace. He feels you.

Neither of you have time for this, fooling around, which is why you sigh longingly at the hint of hardness trapped between your bodies, and make an attempt to tame his mangled bedhead instead, where below lies a grumpy expression.

“G’morning,” you murmur, and squish his cheeks.

“Ugh.” His brow draws further, but you know and he pretends not to that he might as well be a razor-eyed teddy bear. “I said that already.”

You snort a little, but you didn’t forget last night. “Do you feel better?”

Levi pries your hands away and kisses a few of your fingers. “I’m hard. What do you think?”

This makes you laugh, shedding the last of sleep from your bones. He plants your hand over your mouth, both passing the kiss on, and in efforts to shut you up. This only makes you laugh harder.

Especially warm heat curls low in your belly, no matter if he meant it as a joke or not. You’re dying a little to know if he’d be interested in doing something about that, and despite how scandalized he looks, he doesn’t say no. Tragically, both of your schedules are jammed full of tasks for the day.

Tonight, or as soon as possible, whenever, is his opinion. If you want to measure the right time to screw around depending on how much he likes it when you kiss him all over, you’re wasting your time.

A white-hot thrill rolls through you. That’s enlightening—if that’s the case, a bit sooner than ‘as soon as possible’ is your preference, personally.

—

“Not gonna fall asleep.”

You snicker. Usually when Levi says something like that, the opposite is true, but a disgruntled huff against the back of your neck insists he’s serious.

It’s been a long day, but somehow, someway, you managed to drag yourselves (mainly you dragged him) to bed early. While the late-summer sun has long-since sunk below the horizon, the oil lamp on his bedside glows, and you’re so warm. That’s thanks to a hot bath, plus Levi, who’s always run warmer than most.

You skate your fingertips along his tough hand, easing aches out of it from the ODM; a massage was his demand if you wanted him to turn in early. His hand is tense, but he’s a little tense all over.

To be fair, you are too. Because of (finally, for once) taking things easy, or the stubborn daytime heat, you’re dressed down to just a pair of thin panties and a summery camisole: the sort someone might wear to go swimming, if they’re so privileged.

In comparison his bare chest rises and falls at your back. He almost never dresses down this much, which you used to chock up to his extreme need to be ready and dressed in case of absolutely anything. That was until you learned that it’s not just hyper-vigilance, but the whole idea of being exposed.

“Are you kidding? I’m practically naked,” he grumbled once (on a night just as stuffy), all the while dressed in a tight-fitting t-shirt and cotton boxers.

You haven’t forgotten this morning either, but ironically it’s not on your mind when you squirm back against him—he simply radiates heat like a furnace. A disgruntled noise follows, which (naturally) has you giggling and doing it again, this time harder, this time using your hips.

He inhales sharply, and his hold around you grows tight. “Hey… Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Hm…” You pretend to measure your hands. “You have long fingers.”

A little gasp leaves you when he nips at your earlobe. Heat wobbles in your lower half.

Dumbfounded, you turn your head, and you get to watch your hair whip at his face. “Did you just bite me?”

His sharp gaze narrows, calculating. “No.”

“Liar,” you laugh, and shift back around.

You fear you’ll pop like a firecracker from nerves. As much as you push his buttons, you don’t have the guts to start anything, not when it comes to something you’ve never done before.

It’s back to his veiny forearms, where muscles ripple beneath his pale skin; his pallor is like porcelain, in this light. You can’t imagine how lifeless his skin looked before leaving the Underground.

Like molasses, he eventually relaxes and becomes a blanket draped around your back again. He peers over your shoulder, eyeing where your curiosity currently lies: the fat, round scars dotting his forearm the color of full moons.

You normally don’t talk about such things—the past, that is—not in any excruciating detail, at least. He’ll tuck his hand beneath his chin and listen aptly as you gossip about anything, but even for you, some shadows the past holds stay there, buried.

“It wasn’t the man who raised me,” he mutters, reading your mind perfectly. “But they are from cigars.”

You feel a blip of surprise, hearing him speak so plainly. Many (too many) traumas in his skin make him up, so intricately-webbed stories don’t exist for every single one, as he’s explained to you before.

You ask for more, if he doesn’t mind sharing. Maybe it’ll ruin the mood, but you care about this more. Plus, he has a nice voice.

By the tightness in his brow, he’s grasping for an unpleasant memory. You lean over and kiss the tip of his nose, and he bashfully ducks his head.

“It’s not a nice story.”

You give his hand a squeeze. “I don’t mind.”

One last time, he searches your face for any objections, then starts: “It was frowned upon to have kids where I lived, when I was younger.” He pauses. “Obviously. So the owner always had it out for me.”

A thread of rage winds around your heart. He must see the look on your face, because he shakes his head.

“Nothing we could do. It was his roof we lived under. That freak made plenty of threats–” his lips twitch, “–never mind. I had babysitters when she worked, so he was hard to avoid.”

He stops there, and just so he doesn’t feel pressured to continue, you worm closer and dot kisses where the scars lie. The tissue feels rough, fused somehow, where his skin will never be the same. Your lips touch each one.

He sighs through his nose, a quiet, even breath, before it lands on the slope of your neck, nudging you like a chipmunk. The gesture is very cute, so much so that you somehow smile after such a tale.

“I have shitty stories too.”

Levi visibly deflates, relieved now that the spotlight is off him. He waits patiently.

You doubt there’s a thing he doesn’t know about you, really, but as for scars, there’s the stretch marks streaking your skin in places; a strange feature for a longtime soldier—let alone a Scout—to have.

You only joined up at fifteen, the age where teenage rebellion snarls its loudest and barrels through with intent to inflict as much havoc as possible. Still, if you could go back, you wouldn’t hesitate to do it all over again.

“I always wanted to go outside the Walls—but I think it got worse after we moved to the Interior.”

That is, your father found the sort of pompous, nothing-work that kept your family more than fed. He was alongside the same people who call Levi ‘the Commander’s dog’ just five years past his recruitment.

The caveat of your cushy life back then was the memory of your life before it, when your knuckles were tough and the air was fresh and stained with dew, a shadow of what the air outside the Walls is like.

Levi knows, but not the details: like how hard you fought your family on joining up, how much you hated and bickered and fought just to get another lungful of that same air. The marks on your body have always reeked of shame.

Running away was selfish, maybe even suicidal, but Scouts are the only people who don’t fight for their own lives. If they did, every speck of grass out there would belong to the Titans because no one would dare fight them.

“It’s not shameful to make your own decisions.” His low voice rumbles by your ear. “If you put it that way, waiting would’ve just staved off the inevitable.”

You’re lulled into a dull sense of comfort by his reassurance; his hand, too, moving mindlessly just below the hem of your shirt.

“Thanks.” Thick words of affection stick to your tongue. You have to blink in your stupefaction, for how naturally they floated to the surface. “…I appreciate that. You.”

Suddenly, you would do anything to just not think. With a little haste, you roll around in his arms and kiss his cheek, his pink lips, then his jaw, and his lips again.

This time, he meets you feverishly, rolling over so you drop in a heap right on top of him. Your lips smack obnoxiously, but you don’t hear. Your noses mash, and in him you taste bitter tea, and mint leaves. When he breaks it, his face is flushed like pink late-spring flowers.

Levi blinks like he can’t quite believe his eyes. His lips part, then close. “Okay.”

Fondly, you grin. Your hand roams up and down his chest. “Okay? Okay-what?”

“Okay-good,” he huffs, “I don’t know what made you do that, but okay. Good.”

In reality, he doesn’t know what he’s saying and his mind has been reduced to syrup and butterflies. He wants you closer, so he pulls you there.

Shivers rise up on his skin; all from your hands riding up his bare chest before splitting apart to scoop up his jaw. And all the while, you just keep smiling at him—not the one where you’re laughing at him behind your eyes, but the one that makes him feel fragile and happy.

Your foreheads brush when you kiss this time. Soft lips leave him, then your eyes skitter down below his jaw. “What about this one?”

He blinks lazily at you. “What one?”

You make a little motion towards the pasty tear seared into the skin below his adam’s apple, a silent ask of permission. He shrugs, then feels a shiver run up and down his spine when your finger glides across the thing. It’s overwhelming, like being cut without the blade.

The slice—made with an actual blade—is old, so old it’s hardly visible compared to his pale pallor, but it’s there. A close call, he tells you, from back when he was surviving on his own, but not for very long.

“That’s scary,” you mumble, somehow afraid; not of the close call so much as how simple and yet how devastating a slip-up like that must’ve been; a cheap shot that gave him no chance to even defend himself.

“Yeah.” His lips dip to your hairline. You smell like rich shampoo. “It was, at the time.”

You stroke the fine line a moment longer, then lean in.

A feather-light kiss ghosts his throat. Immediately, goosebumps rise to his skin and heat trickles into his lower half. You almost never kiss him there, but only because that place is so vulnerable.

“Sorry.” Your voice is just as soft as the press of your lips. “I should’ve asked first. Is this okay?”

He watches you carefully through his lashes, then nods. As you slowly speckle kisses down his jawline, then down and down, he feels himself twitch and harden. His hand drops to your waist, where your camisole has ridden up.

You must feel it, but you don’t stop, and that’s new.

He finds himself half-sprawled on his back with you flat on top, kissing his throat. You’re hesitant at first, mindful of how sensitive he is, but when his breath breaks and he leans back to make room, your confidence grows.

They linger, grow hot and open-mouthed—and it’s good. With nothing else to do with his hands, he fingers the hem of your panties, and pins his tongue between his teeth. His spare falls in your hair so you don’t leave, especially when you trace the scar with your tongue.

Then, your teeth. He hears himself gasp, his chest lifting at the suction of your mouth. You hum while a small sound slinks its way past his lips, and it’s so much he almost retreats. Thing is, his lower half is nearly fully hard and throbbing. He realizes it’s not too much, rather it’s not enough.

“Marks,” he whispers. With a handful of your hair, he guides your sticky mouth lower to a place his cravat will cover. You hum like a songbird, but oblige. The wet trail you leave cools on his skin, and he shivers hard.

Desire claws at him. His hips involuntarily twitch, then roll up into the heat between your thighs. The sound you make has him abruptly rolling you over so he can treat you the same way. Your pulse races under his tongue.

“Yeah, ‘Vi.”

The way he hovers over you now reminds him with chilling clarity of a time many expeditions ago. You both work (and fight) so well together that some moves have you acting in tandem, and once, something went wrong. Before your body could slam into the earth, he forced his wires slack, seized you, and your bodies went barreling.

He took the brunt of the impact—that is, he shielded you—and when the world was right-side up and still again, he found himself on top of you just like this. The difference is, right then in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t slip his palm beneath your head and kiss you like the world was ending. He was also injured then, and you gave him quite a bit of hell for his actions later.

Didn’t matter: All he saw was you falling out of the sky, and he acted. It doesn’t get any more plain than that. Just how a strangled embrace can wordlessly speak, ‘I thought I lost you I thought it was over stay right here,’ you murmur now, “Please. Don’t stop.”

You coax him in for a sloppy kiss. He didn’t plan to, and he doesn’t, not until you take his plump bottom lip between your teeth and he’s forced to pull back for air. It’s hard to breathe; after all, his head is already buzzing.

“You said not to start something I couldn’t finish…” comes the quip, then your lopsided smirk. Another pillowy kiss. “…What if I can?”

Levi pretends those honey-soaked words don’t make him throb. “Always such a smartass.”

He takes your hand and places it in his hair in silent permission. When you kiss him again and your tongue parts his lips, heavy and wet and scathing hot, it feels like the very air is being dragged from his lungs.

Somehow, it’s so much different than the countless kisses you’ve shared. Your tongues glide as gently as silk, as if tasting each other rather than devouring. This has none of the roughness he’s used to from sexual encounters, not even the hurry. He shivers in excited fear.

Then harder when you tug at his dark hair, ushering him the slightest bit closer. Another small sound vibrates the kiss. Almost immediately you make the kiss bruising, and when you suck on his tongue, he moans. An eager heat joins the blood in his veins.

When he hears you too, the sound vibrates the warm fog in his mind. Your unsung praise, not to mention your lower half shifting somewhere beneath him and caging in his waist, encourages him to take the lead.

What he knows you enjoy he does best: he makes himself a little more heard, slipping his hand past your waist to grope at your plump ass, while his free hand flirts with the hem of your fine top. The way your body twitches and bows towards his own tells him he’s doing everything right.

When you pull away—to find air, to shudder a sigh, or both—he doesn’t wait. He nods your head back to reach your neck. You taste like salt and heat and trace perfume.

Once he can get a wrangle on a proper thought, he asks if you’re good. It’s not the most eloquent way to check in, but it’s the most straight thought he can manage. He’s never this nervous around you anymore. It’s like as long as you’re touching in any way at all, he gets the same sensation as dragging socked feet across carpet and touching cold metal.

“S’good,” you reply, and to prove yourself further, your hand falls over his and drags it up, underneath your top. He finds silky-soft skin, then your ODM scars etched down your waist in a V shape. Since the fabric is so stretchy, very quickly the rest of your top follows suit, so everything from your collar down is exposed to the cool air. You’re glad to be wearing a bra.

It’s not exactly a word, but a sound on the tip of his tongue very close to your ear, like the air’s been sucked from his lungs: “Oh.”

You feel oddly vulnerable beneath his silvery eyes, so you speak in a rush: “Are you good?” Then you get distracted. “Gods. You look so fucking pretty, Levi…”

It’s the pink peaks of his nipples that have the praise roll off your tongue; the swell of his cock through his briefs too, which is almost too perfectly visible. You wonder if they’re small on him, or if he’s just that hard already.

His perfect brow knits together. “I’m? I’m good.”

Then, it’s bunches of kisses on your wrist, to your elbow, then the slope of your collarbone; all places a partner otherwise wouldn’t pay mind to. You‘re flattered, but it tickles. You find yourself giggling, only to be cut off by his hand dipping into the cup of your bra, and shuddering from what he feels there.

Then he snorts, and when you look up, his eyes faintly gleam with mirth.

“Cute bra.” His fingers skirt across the loose frills at the bottom, then he gives the bow in the middle a tug, right below your cleavage. “No way you wore it just for me, right?”

Fighting every urge to squirm, you bite at your lip. “In your dreams.”

But you did. You think he can tell you did, too, by the way he looks at you, which is why you squeeze your tit through the fine cotton and slowly rock your hips against his.

You get what you want: his lips part with a small groan, and suddenly he’s stooping over you and meeting you halfway, where you’re soaking wet, he’s hard and you’re both bleeding heat. Your thighs part, inviting him in.

Maybe it’s what you should’ve expected, or maybe it’s Levi, but between your thighs, he’s so much harder than you expected—hotter, too, like it’s pelting off him in waves.

The friction is mind-numbingly good on your clit, but there’s too much fabric barring you from him. You need more.

Levi moans soft, drives his hips down hard, and must feel the same way. His gaze lifts to you, looking for direction.

You give it by leaning up just a tad, and reaching behind yourself. The sound of your bra coming undone is near-soundless, as is his palms roaming your dips and curves like you’re unfathomably beautiful. Maybe it’s your heart roaring in your ears.

It isn’t exactly the first time he’s seen you topless—you’ve fooled around before, and in general, life as a soldier sometimes requires communal-showering—but you find yourself stiff with nerves anyway.

The sigh that leaves him shakes as his palms roam further. “Sweetheart. Can I–?”

“Yes.”

Your tits feel soft and warm and full in his palms. You’re already whimpering. He bows his head and gives you his hands while his tongue traces the gnarled ODM scar straight across your chest—something he always wanted to do. Then, he sucks one of them into his mouth.

“Oh, Levi.” Your sigh sounds more like a ghostly whine. His tongue is heavy and hot, teasing around your nipple, then flattening his tongue so it’s brought to an aching peak. With his spare hand he gives your other the same treatment.

It seems he’s unhappy that he can’t do both at once; he squeezes them together, eyes glazed, and while you moan for him, he bows his head and digs in. He sucks on your tits and indulges himself until your nipples are raw and his lips are deeply pink. You immediately miss him when he leaves—the cool air is nothing like his buttery mouth.

You scoop up the back of his head, combing his undercut backwards in efforts to steal more and more of his lips. His hair is all messed up now, but you think he’s too turned on to care.

Just below, you’re stunned to feel him throbbing. He meets the rolls of your hips like you could possibly get anywhere without taking off the rest of your clothes.

“Levi, baby,” you try.

He whines softly, like he can but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. Two lithe fingertips slip beneath the hem of your panties, tugging, playing at them.

Your voice is small. “Please… touch me, if you want to.”

If you want to. He thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t. One of his hands falls between your thighs, beneath that yet another little bow decorating your panties. He makes a light sweeping motion up and down where you’re clearly the wettest with two finger tips, and you jolt. “Levi.”

You must really fucking like that. So, he presses down on your soaked mound with one wide palm, and rubs. Your hips practically jump into his hand, and he gets chills. You get so damn loud.

“So fucking wet,” he breathes. You’re positively soaked through the thin, cotton fabric, actually. He feels the wetness gather on his palm.

You gasp in kind, rutting up so he cups your pussy just right. The friction is to die for. “Levi, please. Quit teasing me.”

“But you like it,” he retorts, and parts your thighs a little wider so he can skate his fingertip in circles. He presses down a touch harder in a spot where your voice shakes. Admittedly, he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing.

He’s so hard he’s aching. It doesn’t help that his dick is trapped. He doesn’t want to squirm, so he reaches between his thighs, palming himself. He thought it’d be embarrassing, but the way you practically ogle the sight of him now erases his doubts.

“Shit.” Dark eyes flutter. His cock is actually pulsing.

You lean up on your haunches, ask, “Can I–?” and he pins his tongue between his teeth before giving consent. You’re nervous and so is he, but you’ve both earned that right after years and years of flirting around each other and doing next to nothing about it.

He saw your hand moving, but he still goes rigid when your palm lands over the obvious bulge in his briefs. In some effort to reassure you, or guide you along, his hand falls over your own, and he rocks his hips. His jaw falls slack. “Ah.”

“Oh.” Your lips part at the sight of him so earnestly rocking into your touch. You feel electric. “Off?” Again, your voice sounds ghostly.

He hesitates. In his version of events, all the attention would be on you, not him, but if that’s what you want, it’s good enough for him and the hot ache twisting in his lower half.

He tugs at his waistband, freeing his cock, then shoves the stretchy fabric down much more so he can kick it far away. His dick slaps against his rippled stomach, dusted by dark hair that trails down and down between his thighs. He’s hard to the point of straining. Your lips part at the sight, your breath growing heavy just from looking.

He’s thick, too, from the base—where his balls are fat and swelled—to his plump, round cockhead, where cum has beaded and dribbled down, practically begging for you to wrap your hand around. It’s a pretty pink, too, a shade lighter than his lips, but just as dark as the blush stretching down his neck.

“Is it–” he squirms, “Am I…”

You remember yourself. “So fucking pretty, honey. Fuck, it’s so thick. Gorgeous,” you babble.

Closer. You tug at him until the wide planes of his thighs are flush with the bottoms of your own. Then, you bend your knees to give him room to get even closer. Anything closer.

He squeezes his eyes shut even though it’s the praise he craved so badly, and tugs for you so you’re propped up against a few pillows; no matter that you’re already close as can be.

“C-Can’t just say that.”

“I mean it. And you like it,” you huff, just to get him back for earlier. “S’twitching, so hard for me.”

You run your palm up the wiry hairs just below his navel, up his chest, chiseled and packed with muscle. It’s so easy to adore him.

You can’t imagine ever tiring of this; until he got sick of it you’d touch him—while burning with the satisfaction of how he twitches and squirms from the littlest touches—and admire the strawberry peaks of his nipples, how soft his skin and how rough, how he moans for you and how he complains when you compliment him.

You want it all. It’s deviously appealing to spread him out and map every one of his scars with your tongue. You could leave wet trails over the curves of his muscles, and bright red bruises along the dark indents where the ODM has permanently made its mark on his body.

Levi watches where your gaze goes, feels your hands wandering all over his body, and his heavy breaths become open-mouthed panting. He can’t help but squirm—your pretty hands are groping his tits, for fuck’s sake—and yet he lift his hips, craving more.

“C’mon already. Fucking—wasting time.”

“Oh?” Your pointer finger finds his chin, lifting his head up. “I’ll take all the time I want. You deserve to be admired.”

His brow wrinkles, absolutely helpless. After pulling away, he doesn’t even realize his thighs have pinched closed a little. It’s becoming more and more clear just how deep his embarrassment, or fear, runs.

“Don’t.”

Your brows lift. You didn’t expect that; like years before, outright pulling away when you shower him with compliments. Then again, the most you ever did was pat him on the head. Now this, well.

With a quiet apology, you kiss his temple, tasting salty sweat, then his chin. And you are sorry. You didn’t mean to upset him.

He takes this ample opportunity to kiss you. “Can it be your turn now?”

“Yes.” You almost laugh. “Please.”

Surprisingly, he hesitates before letting his palm roll over your cunt, barred by (those goddamned) panties. Your whimper rises into a moan when he thumbs them to the side and dips into your slit.

Oh, fuck. One finger glides between your soaked lips, causing your pussy to flutter so hard your jaw goes slack.

“Are you–? Shit, pretty girl.” He shudders a sigh at the way you practically hump his hand; or rather, at the sight of you. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you whimper. You vaguely register that that’s not at all the question you expected, but the thought runs off the rails as soon as his thumb rolls around your clit. Heat sweeps through your belly. “Oh. ‘Vi.”

You make a quick grab for his heavy shoulders, craving support, but he stops.

He lurches back to look at you. “Did that hurt?”

You could cry. A wet whimper falls from your mouth instead with a sharp shake of your head.

His obliviousness makes you question how much experience Levi really has; not that it’d be a bad thing if it wasn’t much, or if it was bad experience, but you figured he’d know it would feel good, playing with your clit like that.

“No, it’s good. Really good. Do you not know?”

His mouth opens, then closes. He pats your thigh, motioning for you to lift your hips so he can help you shed your (most definitely ruined) panties. You do so like a shot’s gone off.

He finally gets a good look at you, but he doesn’t look at you for long.

“Not about—someone like you,” he manages, and picks at the sheets below you.

Your brows lift.

With a sharp twist of embarrassment, “Sorry… I should’ve said. You got so loud, screaming like that, I got worried.”

The shot of surprise passes you by when he exaggerates so much. You deny that with a giggle, and gather more pillows behind yourself so you can sit up without all the strain.

With your ankles resting by his waist, his knees hug your own. The position is strange—if you launched forward you’d drop right into his lap—but you both have plenty of room to kiss and touch each other.

“I’m sorry, for assuming.”

Anyone would. He shrugs and invites you closer by the small of your back, then kisses your shoulder, shy.

“Hey, I’m a good teacher.” You let your foreheads fall together.“You’re really good, but not scream-worthy, Captain. Maybe one day, hm?”

His chest lifts. “Fuck.” His shoulders drop. “That’s not fair. Fuck you.”

A little snag of curiosity wants to exploit just how much he likes his rank being used against him. Instead, you flick him on the ear as punishment, and kiss him before he can bitch any more.

You have an idea, and you tell it to him—touching each other at the same time.

“If you can focus on two things at once, sure.”

As he says this, his palm slides down, and strokes your slit.

He watches your expression pinch, your chest lift, and he’s fascinated by just how soaked you are. It’s too easy to imagine his cock slipping right between your folds, plunging inside, but it’s an overwhelming image, too. This is the first time you’ve done anything at all, or he’s pretty sure.

He asks, just to know for certain, but at the last possible word his voice dies a little. Your hand is so close to his cock.

Touch me, he thinks. Touch me, touch me, fuck me.

Sheepishly, you nod, which is why he guides you with his free hand, his other much too busy stroking around and around your pink clit. The way you lift your hips like that, it reminds him—in a twisted, perverted way—how your body moves when launching off with the ODM.

Focus—what a joke.

Every one of his muscles draw tight when your hand takes the base of his cock in a loose grip. The air thickens somehow, laced with electricity.

He helps you stroke up and down, so slowly his hips stutter forward for a little more. A little tighter, and he shudders. Cum oozes from his slit and dribbles down his cock.

“Oh,” you say.

Once you’ve picked up on the way to properly work him—and you’ve always been a quick learner—the resulting slide licks tender flames at his insides.

Each time he opens his eyes to watch you pump him, while your wet cunt is right there, he feels profound satisfaction. It’s not just the sensations, but it’s you touching him, you moaning all sweet and soft when his thumb rocks your clit. Amazing chills run through his bones.

You don’t notice his guiding hand fall away; only feel it when it falls over your shoulders to hold you closer to him. He looks so gorgeous you forget the rest.

You stare. Levi almost never wears short sleeves or shorts, so if the rosy pallor of his face was anything close to tan, the rest of him is porcelain. Because of the sweat, or the sex, his pink lips, his eyes, and between his thighs (where he runs the hottest) seem to shine, almost.

Under your hand his cock is hot and slippery. Thick, too. He doesn’t even need length for it to be impressive; intimidating, even. It feels different to touch than you thought it would. His skin in particular has always felt deceptively soft, past the callouses, muscles, scars.

He sounds so pretty, too. No matter if his teeth are constantly hooked in his bottom lip, the softest, sweet noises escape him anyway. It seems he hates the sound of his own pleasure, but there comes a point where he just can’t help it.

He flicks your clit. You clench around nothing, and a soft sound escapes your parted lips.

“Fuck.” He shudders as your finger scales a large vein on the underside, where he’s sensitive and throbbing and coated in cum, and you agree: “Yeah.”

Soon, it becomes unbearable. “Can you—use your fingers? Please. It’s-It’s easy.”

Of course he can, but since you got undressed he’s been curious: It’s not just the sweet, heavy air of sex in the room that makes you smell so good, does it?

His fingers are webbed in your cum when he pulls them away. He’s just about dying to taste them—there’s no way, with how saliva floods his mouth that there’s anything gross about it—but your lost puppy-eyes are out. It can wait.

Your hand falls away from his cock to spread your legs for a better angle. Along the way you’re trying your damnedest to keep a train of thought and explain that, “You almost never have to… prepare me, or anything, and you don’t need anything extra–”

And then a single finger is prodding, circling your rim, and your head is spilling back onto the pillows. You gasp out loud, and it leaves in a quiet moan when he shallowly slips it inside. Then deeper.

Like a dimwit, his mouth drops open; it’s just that your cunt is so hot, like a velvety cushion growing somehow tighter around the intrusion, swallowing him in. His cock pulses in the air, helplessly.

Doesn’t matter. He’s watching your blissed expression for any signs of discomfort before gently bullying in a second one. It could be totally unnecessary, but that’s the way he’s used to doing it.

If you were feeling good before, you’re fucking euphoric now; especially when he decides he’s done with testing the waters and starts short strokes. Gently, he stretches his fingers apart, then curls them inside. He’s just down to the second knuckle.

“Oh, fuck.” Your thighs squeeze his waist tight, so he does it again. It’s the easiest thing to pick up a steady pace, splitting your pussy open around two fingers. His are slender, so they don’t add up much to how thick his cock is. If he goes on too long imagining your tight, pillowy heat swallowing in his girth, just how full it’d make your cunt, the image of the gorgeous woman before his eyes will run away from him.

You’re moaning, dragging your nails along the big planes of his thighs, and when you beg for more, he’s laying you down a little more and giving it to you. It’s a stupidly appealing thought to drag it out, to tease, and make you whine for him, but he wants to please you more; this time. This time he wants to watch your expression split with bliss as your tight pussy gushes around his fingers. Maybe he’s drunk on you.

“Levi,” you gasp, “Levi, Levi–”

He whines and finger-fucks you harder. The pain is dazzling when you pull his hair this hard.

A little further down, the soft weight of your tit feels so good in his grasp; looks good, too. It reminds him that he’s the one making you feel good. You’re calling his name. His.

You’re close. You feel it—licking pleasure cresting into a sweltering wave, that buzz rising into a roar. And he’s right there, kissing all over your throat when you’re too far past the brink to move your lips properly to kiss him.

Your hand shoots between your legs to rub your clit, but quickly he nudges it away and adjusts so his thumb can take over for you. In the same way his fingers plunge into your cunt, he blankets your clit in quick circles without his pace faltering even once.

He breathes hot and heavy by your ear, says, “Shit, you’re so close, aren’t you? My pretty girl, so tight–”

It’s enough to make your thighs shake and your back arch. “Levi–”

“That’s right,” he noses at your throat, “come all over my fingers.”

Your cry hits the ceiling, but to him it’s louder—the hot, sloppy sound of his fingers fucking your cunt. It’s so much wetter.

You’re coming for him. He has to hold you flat on the mattress while you moan all pretty in his ear—his fucking name—and your cunt no longer hugs him, but squeezes so tight he struggles to keep his pace. He moans along with you, but he’s not so caught up that he can’t fuck you through it just right and watch you while he does it.

Only when your back has collapsed back on the bed does he slow down, dragging his fingers through your shakes and little whimpers. Not only did you somehow turn his name into a prayer, but you’re still clinging to him; you’re curled around him like you’d fall away from earth if he disappeared.

Past the aftershocks, your thighs twitch, then fall loose around his waist. There’s a question on the tip of his tongue—whether you’re good; it’s second-nature—as he pulls his fingers from your fluttering hole.

But you beat him to it. “God, ‘Vi. You just…”

You trail off. He thinks you’re just speechless, but he goes to smooth your hair from your face, making sure you’re laying comfortably again as he does so. It’s not in him to assume a single thing while you’re high off the first time you’ve done this, after you came that hard.

“You were…” Maybe he’s speechless too. Just now, he remembers what he said in the heat of the moment and chides himself silently. “I didn’t hurt you.”

It’s a question, really. You shake your head. The kiss you share next is a wreck that smushes your noses together. You glow, it feels like, from your feet to your twitching fingers. There’s a pleasant buzz rolling on in your head, and it sings when he sighs into the kiss.

“Sorry,” you huff, partly amused. “I was–”

“–good,” he finishes for you, and kisses you again, this time chaste. “Don’t be stupid.”

You snort, but then he goes to pull away. Your hand lands in his wrecked hair, leading him back in; not unlike taking a dog by the scruff of its neck. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“You came already,” he reasons, brows knit. “So you don’t have to.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. “Oh, I fucking will.”

He lets you hoist him up and into your lap. “…I don’t get what’s so funny.”

And he really doesn’t. He’s serious. It’s not like you’re obligated to get him off unless you want to. Maybe it’s prudish to be so self-sacrificing—as if his balls aren’t fucking aching at the moment—but he doesn’t believe this, or what you have here, is transactional, or obligated—or expected. You can do it if you want to, but.

“Honey. It’s not that serious.” Sat up, you guide his arms up and around your shoulders so he’s spread in your lap. His thighs hug your waist, your knees bent a little. There’s not much wiggle room for him.

“It is,” he insists, secretly hurt. “In what world is it not?”

That’s not what you meant. Rather, there isn’t a speck of doubt in your mind that you want to—it’s hardly even a question, but you appreciate him for keeping you at the forefront of his mind, like always.

You sense that he’s sensitive about this topic (which in hindsight you should’ve had in mind from the start).

“Oh,” he breathes. He wasn’t expecting that. “Okay. Obviously I would.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He watches you for a moment. In this light, in this moment, his eyes appear a tad more blue, like a twilit sky. He’s searching for any hesitation on your face, and finds none. He nods, but then: “Wait.”

“Hm?”

His fingers are still webbed with your cum, two of which are pruned. Cautiously, he brings them before your lips. Your expression is only mildly scandalized, more smug, which is what has him squirming a little.

“Have you ever tasted yourself?”

You look very pleased with yourself. “Haven’t you?”

“Are you crazy? That’s–” He actually gives it some thought, and his nose screws up.

Yeah, but not mine, is how he’d answer that, but he doesn’t. In his experience, cum tastes pretty gross. But then, you push one of his fingers past your lips, sucking, then leisurely painting his finger with your tongue.

Your hot mouth works to swallow around his finger—around a smirk, of course—and the show you put on has his cock stirring. With your soft tits pressed to his chest, his dick trapped between his thigh and your belly, he ruts forward a little.

A whine dies in his throat. It’s not enough, not until you wrap him in a hot fist and start moving. A new bead of creamy white spills over his cockhead. He whispers your name, begging.

Maybe you can tell, or maybe you know more than you let on—because you press into his slit, rub his sensitive cockhead, and his eyes roll into the back of his head. He doesn’t register his finger slipping from your mouth, coated in spit rather than cum.

“Fuck,” he moans. He has to shut his eyes, and just shake. It’s so much more intense than he thought it’d be; all it is, is your fucking hand, but that’s not it at all. It’s fiery hot, and tender and consuming, and he’s bound to burn up any minute. It’s you, that’s all.

Your hand slows so you can tap his hand. “You still wanna taste?”

He doesn’t say anything. Only, he squeezes the wrist attached to the hand that isn’t jerking his cock anymore before bringing his finger to his lips. His tongue darts out, but he does so in a way that doesn’t let you look at him while he does it. It’s too embarrassing.

He hums around the sweet taste that rolls over his tongue when you speed up. There’s your teeth nipping at where his collarbone juts out, the heat licking away at his wet cock, and the way you taste—which he can’t focus on over all this happy noise.

It’s not at all like the hint to the way you smell, or even your taste when you kiss with all tongue. It’s heavier than that, so much sweeter in a way he didn’t expect; not overly so, but it’s slick, complimented by a touch of bitterness too. He finds himself disappointed when there’s no more left to lap at.

A small groan rises in his throat. His hips rock. He could eat you out, drag his tongue between your folds and suckle on your clit, fuck your wet pussy with his tongue. He could taste you all fucking day if he did that. That has to be better than just his fingers, just like sliding his cockhead into your sticky mouth compared to your hand. But, he wants it all.

With a catch of his name, you motion his head back and take his plump lips. You taste like your own sweet musk and old toothpaste and heat.

“My baby,” you whisper, and a wet sound is punched from his chest. “How do you like it?”

You already know how sensitive his cockhead is, how he practically keens if you pay good attention to his balls, but there has to be a way to jerk his cock that runs his blood the hottest; a way he prefers when he does it himself. You want to know.

He mashes his face in your throat, which makes you stop. Unhappily, he huffs through his nose, because humping your belly is, unsurprisingly, not enough.

“Captain…”

You are using that against him. His soul leaves his body for a second. His eyes squeeze shut, because he can’t, and his balls feel so full. “You’re—such a fucking pervert.”

He’s quicker to give in than usual, you notice, but first he guides your fist back around his plump cock, at the bottom. You’re more than pleased. You wait patiently, watching with quiet reverie when his expression pinches and his lips twitch.

“Tighter.” His voice is hoarse. “Hold it tighter. And, flick your wrist.”

You do as he says. Immediately, his jaw drops with a mewling noise.

“Like this?”

“Yeah. S-Sweetness, faster.”

Heat he can actually feel rises to his cheeks; not only from the sensations, but you giving a shit about what he likes and going far beyond. He’s never had someone do that before.

You reach with your other hand to fondle his balls, and his pretty lips part with a moan. He’s too beautiful. You tug his earlobe with your teeth (again, to get him back for earlier), and he jumps.

“S’good?” Your voice is like torn silk. “Gonna come all over my hand, ‘Vi?”

He says your name around a gasp, and works in a few hard thrusts. It’s so wet that he can fuck your fist effortlessly. His cock throbs in your grasp, then pulses so hard that a hiccupped cry is torn from his throat. The answer is yes, yes, I’m so fucking close, but all he comes out with is your name again, pleading.

You smooth over his hard nipple and rub. Mostly, you speak without thinking: “Be good, hm? Come for me.”

He does. With a soundless cry, that tight heat explodes, and crashes over him. His toes curl and his muscles lock and he comes so hard. It’s a white-hot pulse that swallows his whole body in euphoria, from the slack in his jaw to his thick thighs and the shots of warm cum that pelt your torso. Constantly, moans are dragged from his throat.

Through it all, you jerk him as if you mean to empty his balls, but for the vast majority of those precious first seconds, he’s thrusting erratically into your fist with no mind left to how his hips move.

You don’t mind: he’s fucking gorgeous—a sight you wouldn’t dream of missing. With how his back arches, he’s practically curled around you. Even now he smothers his noises, but you can see his temple painted with a sheen of sweat, and his pinched brow, his gaping mouth.

Heat sinks like an anchor in your belly. His cum spills all over your belly, some in your lap; even your chest in places.

“Just like that, Lev’,” you praise, when you’ve recovered the mind to. He’s whimpering with the last pulses. “Fuck, yes.”

He heaves an open-mouthed breath, shivering. Your fist has only just now stopped, leaving his cock twitching through those last shocks. He feels carried by a warm breeze; blissfully weary and spent.

Already, he squirms in your arms. Complaints come to his mind, like, I need a fucking shower, or, Stop drooling, but he’s never stayed in someone’s arms afterwards, either. Ever. When you were done, you dressed, parted ways, and you were done.

On one part, you’re gently putting kisses on his temple, then his cheek: he could sink into your embrace, relax for even five minutes, and feel like a warm ball of fluff.

On another, he’s somehow scared. There’s no reason to be, he knows that, but it’s there. It feels like being smothered by an invisible blanket; it’s sharp, like sandpaper, and he needs to get away as soon as possible.

Feeling torn, his brow knits when you ask if he’s good. But then, you do that trick where you listen without him saying anything: you give him ample space to get up if he wants to, but all he does is roll onto his back. However, not a moment passes before he jerks back up and snatches a handkerchief from the bedside. First, he wipes the streaks of cum off your belly, then his.

You chuckle a little as he does, as if you’d prefer laying around in his mess. It’s common manners, and he tells you so when you kiss the tip of his nose and call what he’s doing cute. If you make him blush any more, there won’t be any blood left for the rest of his body.

That question, once more: “Are you good?”

He nods, and leans in to just briefly kiss you. It turns longer, lazier when your hand lands on his cheek, though. Even now he feels sparks from it, but those are lazy too. He’s tired.

What just happened will have a fat impact on what he wants later, but he’s so sick of the idea pressing down on him. For now, he’s pleased that you’re pleased. It feels good to toss a thin sheet over you once you’ve laid down, but even better is your head on his chest. He gets to hold you. Even better, you worm your way in close.

“No shower?” Your shock sounds dragged down by weights.

He clears his throat. “Yet.”

But that answer doesn’t feel quite right, so he has to dwell on it for a few more moments. He noses your hair. “You’re staying here tonight. You got any objections?”

Some unsung understanding passes between you. It’s hard to tell what it is exactly, except you want to cry. You imagine rain showering a spread of earth still bathed by sunlight.

As far as first times go, you’re still reeling. You wriggle closer still, making your cheek well-acquainted with his chest. If you had any say in the world, this moment would become forever.

“Mm,” your hum is carried on a breeze. “I’d love to.”

—

It becomes glaringly obvious that you’ve entered a new stage in your relationship when—the moment you get a good moment alone—the air turns heavy and electric and you simply can’t bear to be anywhere but all over each other.

Sex-crazy, Levi wants to dismiss it as, but he can’t be spiteful because he’s gone crazy too.

Fully within working hours, he didn’t tell you off for dropping under his desk and crawling between his legs—he couldn’t, because you stole all the air from his lungs. You popped his cock in your mouth and learned quickly how to suck him down like he’s candy. Either you just want him that much, or it’s your way of goading him into taking a break for once. Maybe both.

Either way, he can’t bring himself to throw too much of a fit about it. It’s strange, willingly taking what you have to give, not that he isn’t finding any conceivable way to shield his face (and by extension, his voice) when time alone together turns into more.

He didn’t sleep a wink the night before because that’s been on his mind—that is, taking what you have to give without throwing a fit. In general, not just the sex, but heat stirs below his waist thinking back on those times, too.

It’s still so early his bedroom looks more like dusk than morning, but his attention is more caught by you. That was his whole night. He knows staring is creepy, but you’re better than the clock on the dresser, or gods forbid the cracks in the ceiling that irk him to no end.

He lays backwards in your embrace so he’s using one of your arms both as a pillow and something to hold; his head lies on your shoulder. The longer you sleep, the more the sight of you doing so makes his skin crawl. It’s an irrational fear.

He’s dozing a little, and his internal battle has shifted: whether to have you wake up with his mouth between your thighs, or whether to wake you up beforehand and ask first. He’s half-hard, he really wants to get rid of the dirty cottonball taste that not sleeping has left in his mouth, and he wants to.

There was that first time he did it, and you chanted his name so much it no longer had meaning when he did—you loved it—but that was then and this is now. No matter if you’re giving or taking, it’s not a guaranteed Yes! every time, or ever for that matter. He was half the size of some scum he knew that disagreed with that sentiment in some way, and even though it was none of his business, he made them pay. Levi only has a certain tolerance for irredeemable crimes.

He mashes his face with your arm and blinks hard to get off that train of thought. You’d probably agree to it anyway, even though it’d dampen the surprise, but…

What feels like acid stings his eyes when he closes them.

But, she needs to sleep too.

An expedition is set to start today. The lack of sleep will surely affect his performance, but he never sleeps the night before an expedition—a pattern so consistent he’s apt to call it a ritual.

An orgasm isn’t a bad thing to wake up to before life or death business begins, and it’s utter nonsense to even get the idea in your head while you’re out there. It’s only funny if the offenders are caught and Erwin is forced to court-martial them.

Another time. A big part of him is still driving blind. It can wait—that is, until the night before, if he can muster the gall to open his mouth and ask; if you’re still doing this kind of thing, too. And if you both live through this one.

All these ifs. He doesn’t know what to do.

Sleep doesn’t come.

—

Between the new leaps in your relationship and the gala in Mitras you’ve both been mandated to attend, another week-long expedition passes you by. Its outcome was critical to the Survey Corps’ reception in Mitras. The point of it is to earn funding and positive word of mouth, and people aren’t exactly willing to throw money at a bottomless graveyard.

The losses were minor, and under Erwin’s command the Scouts managed to secure two new supply routes northeast of Shiganshina. No matter the successes though, blood still spotted green cloaks by the time the formation crossed through Trost’s gate, injured in tow.

You and Levi strayed especially close to each other this time. Reason being, Eld and Petra counted two of those laid in the wagons reserved for the injured. You had no personal losses, but you could have, which was enough for him to carry a dark, faraway look on his face until long after the sun sank below the horizon.

You had a good guess what he was thinking about, which is why—after the death certificates were signed and stamped, you both checked in with the squad, and a long, scorching shower—you spent the entire evening tucked against each other. It started when he exited the bathroom, and where you were curled up on his sofa, you opened your arms. Somber, comfortable quiet joined you both.

For how many expeditions you’ve both endured and survived, it becomes harder to let yourselves be so easily convinced that you made it, when it should be easy. Survival is proof of your endurance and your skills, but your good graces, as well. Some are unlucky—some recruits, some even you graduated with—and it never gets easier. At best, the toll on your minds the expedition demands stays the same.

Bundled up in Levi’s lap, he protectively cradled you, and you laid your palm flat over his chest, where his heart beat. Your other hand was draped over the nape of his neck, and he mimicked you, except his thumb and forefinger was steady on either side: a stark reminder that you were both still here, despite everything, and neither could be more glad.

Occasionally, you nosed his cheek, and he rested your foreheads together, exchanging each other’s breaths. You lounged like that sitting room was the entire world: past Wall Rose, and whatever laid beyond Wall Maria. Nothing needed to be said, except maybe, I’ve got you.

That was days ago, but like many expeditions blemished by a close call, it’s still on your mind as you smooth down the pleated ruffles of your ballgown; a sophisticated (expensive) one too, but it lacks the poofiness that would leave you looking like you’re wearing a balloon otherwise. You can walk in it, in other words, as the hem is just long enough to sweep the floor.

Not horrible, you think. All this was out of Mitras’ pocket, not the Scouts’ (or Levi’s, for that matter), so you followed through when he practically ordered you to go all-out.

The neckline is cut fine so you can show off a bit of jewelry, and maybe the way it fits you flatters your body a lot more than you thought it would. Your pensive reflection reminds you of a doll, but you’re well-aware of how much Levi loves lipstick.

He hasn’t seen how you looked in it yet, or even laid eyes on the dress, but you haven’t seen what he bought to wear, either. That’s the little game you came up with, and he agreed to. You almost wish you hadn’t said anything now: you’ve never attended one of these things—not one in Mitras of all places, where funding for the next three expeditions depends on how many faces you manage to impress. You want to look good.

Maybe you do, though. Levi always hears you out when you have doubts, but he makes it a point to hammer in the point that your way of thinking is stupid; not that you’re stupid, he’s sure to clarify.

You close your eyes. I look good. Eyes open. You feel sick, but close enough.

Your nerves are well-founded, though. Levi is your official-unofficial date to the gala, as is Mike to Nanaba, and Hange to Moblit. The news found its way across your desk eventually, but you’d only skimmed the parchment before skulking down the hall to Levi’s office and playing dumb so he’d have to tell you. You thought it’d be hilarious, and it was.

It was too much fun to watch the utter bewilderment on his face morph into bashfulness, but when he figured out the trick you played on him, he got back at you by making you dust all his shelves. But, not before making you shriek when he hauled you over his shoulder and took you to bed. The memory leaves you giddy, even with the future sitting in a cloudy bubble of uncertainty.

You should go find him.

You tug the bathroom door open, then freeze. With your hand slapped over your mouth, you smother a laugh just in time.

Who knows when Levi decided to let himself into your quarters, or—your gaze is drawn to the planter by your desk, where a fresh assortment of your favorite flowers have been tucked in—replaced the wilted flowers in your planter, but he lounges on your loveseat now with his head tucked against his chest, asleep.

You don’t want to wake him. He’s missed so much sleep lately, but there’s also the once-in-a-blue moon opportunity to see him sleeping for once. A strange thing about him is he’s always the last to fall asleep and the first to wake up between you.

It’s excruciating not to laugh. He often likes to complain that he could take a nap in the time it takes you to get ready for anything other than everyday military duty.

You pin your tongue between your teeth to fight a grin. His arms and legs are crossed lazily, and he breathes long, slow, and deep. Unfortunately, you don’t have a perfect view of the three-piece suit he must be wearing from where you stand; there’s a pair of black slacks he must’ve ironed three times to get them that good-looking, with matching shoes so clean they practically shine.

His hair. It’s slicked back all the way over his forehead; very similar-looking to the pomade Erwin uses. A good deal of where his hair is buzzed short shows as a result.

You wonder if he was ordered to do that or not. Knowing Levi, definitely. He’s always very particular about his hair. Your cheeks grow red under your palm after holding your breath so long. Stubborn giggles creep up your throat.

Unable to resist, you tiptoe closer as if the floor was nothing but a sliver of glass. You’re close enough to get a hint of how good he smells—like lavender mingling with something deep and smoky—while you experimentally brush your fingers through his hair. It’s shiny, somehow, and feels a little like wax. Then, you take another look at his face. One side of his mouth is curled in a tiny smirk.

You gape. “How long have you been awake?”

Finally, his eyes flutter open. In a flash he steals your wandering hand. You go to reach with your spare, but he snatches that one too, so you’re stuck shooting him a pout where you stoop down.

“Long enough to see how perverted you really are,” he replies, voice rough. He blinks the sleep from his eyes as you roll your own and wiggle your fingers in efforts to hold his hands. He’s always had thick lashes, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d assume he put on eyeliner.

“Says the one… restraining me,” you grumble.

“Tch.” He matches your pout. “Because your grubby fingers were in my hair. Don’t touch it. It has shit in it.”

“Erwin’s pomade has shit in it?”

Abruptly, he leans forward and practically scoops you to your feet. He has a smartass remark on his tongue, something about you being a little brat, but he finally gets an eye-full of your appearance and is left utterly blank. You look like a princess on the day she’s to get married, while he’s as dumb as the fool rolling out the red carpet.

He’s stunned. You take the opportunity to yank yourself free and throw your arms around his shoulders. If he can’t even process the fact that you’re petting down his cravat—which is tied up in a flowing bow, you notice—you definitely did something right.

It’s impossible not to smile. “I look okay?”

He finds himself and puts his arms around your waist. It’s sweet, but he looks at you like you’ve just grown two extra eyes. “Are you stupid?”

“Such a flirt,” you scoff, but he doesn’t hear anything you say. He’s much too busy staring at your lips moving.

The rich color you used leaves them shiny and plump, but if he kisses you, not only will his face be painted, but you might just convince him to make you both late. He prefers to think he’s much too responsible to neglect political duties without an angel of seduction goading him into it.

He swallows. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he does so, hands wandering beneath his suit-jacket, where he’s strong and warm. Warmth pools below your waist.

“We got somewhere to be,” he tells you, as if it physically pains him to say it, and stops your hand tangled in his belt loops.

With a voice as smooth as dark silk, “Captain…”

His chest rises. “Careful, pretty girl. Let’s go.”

—

“Stop drooling. My hair’s shitty,” Levi mumbles, for the third or fourth time since he made a show of helping you step off the carriage; more of Erwin’s orders, or so he claimed. “Fucking hate these things.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It looks good.” You squeeze his arm a little where it’s linked with yours.

His sigh is stressed. “…Sure.”

You recognize a few faces from the Garrison—those you remember graduating with, that is—as you file into the entrance hall. Ornate decorations decorate it, some polished and in so many colors it leaves your head spinning a little. Your earlier anxiety returns and churns in your stomach.

Maybe he senses it, because he shoots you a look. It’s a lot more earnest, somehow, without his bangs in the way. “You’re gonna be fine. Do the talking, if you want.”

Meaningfully, you smile. That’s Levi-speak for, Feel free to join me if all this excitement makes you anxious. You laughed when you learned he’s not really supposed to speak at these things.“Thanks.”

The hairstyle really does suit him: it accentuates the short, buzzed parts and exposes his ears. Without his bangs in the way (though, you like his hair in any form), his features seem much sharper, and somehow more handsome.

One downside: a few strands tend to find their way back onto his forehead, which he flicks away now and then, but they’re stubborn. Eventually, he stops trying to tame his hair.

For some reason, it’s a comfort to you; as if his issues with his appearance validate your worries somehow. Even if he didn’t say anything, that alone would’ve made you feel a little better.

After introductions, a million conversations, a few cocktails, and two hours pass you by. Things are going well.

Hange, the most dolled-up you’ve ever seen them, does the best job at selling the potential that more funding presents for the Survey Corps. They speak frantically in animated motions that Commander Erwin in no way imitates, and yet he draws the same sort of attention.

You’re not doing too badly yourself, but you’d rather attest the approving looks and nods to Levi, who needs only speak in one-word responses for nobles to be impressed by him. If you confess that you don’t know who Captain Levi is, you’ll get laughed at.

“Fake it till you make it,” Mike says, popping another bonbon in his mouth, much to Hange’s chagrin. Moblit cut them off after they ‘only’ had ‘about’ a dozen.

He shoots them a peeved look at the fine round table you’re all seated at now, save for Erwin. Levi said that’s because Erwin loves the sound of his own voice, and no one really corrected him; you included.

The tablecloth feels silky-soft, and looks white as fresh snow. You fear you’ll somehow dirty it by resting your arms upon it.

Hange makes a sound like a field mouse. “What? That’s horrible advice. I just compare my people skills to Levi’s, and I feel better every time.”

You snort despite yourself, and give him a look, but he’s busy glaring daggers at Hange across the table. The way his arms are crossed low over his chest reminds you of a petulant child—an adorable one, anyway.

“Am I wrong?”

His glare only deepens, and while Hange celebrates their victory with a bellied laugh, you slink your hand beneath the table and tap his thigh with your little finger. As enticing as it’s been to mess with him tonight, you haven’t dared, and neither has he.

What you want is his little finger too, which he reluctantly gives you so no one seated gets even a hint of an idea of what you two are doing. As much as Levi is repulsed by the idea of gossip—especially revolving around you both—you can at least link your pinkies together and feel that much better for it.

Buttering up a ton of nobles by practically gloating about the Survey Corps’ achievements has gotten under your skin more than you’d like to admit. You’ve slayed monsters that dwarf most buildings in Trost since before Levi joined up, but gods help you if you’re selling to a crowd.

As many times as you’ve run out of things to say, Levi has spoken up and changed the subject, or added onto your points. It was easy to doubt his claim that he’s under explicit orders to talk as little as possible during ‘political duties’, until a prim lady asked him what the Titans were like, and he told her: “Shitty, I guess. Ugly, too.”

He gives you what you want, but the shiny lights and chatter is reserved for the back of his mind for the moment. He’s back to thinking about you two again, weighing his options. It’s gotten to the point where he’s forcing himself to imagine shit that would never happen in efforts to beat back what he wants.

For instance: He tries to imagine the face you make when you step in horse shit, but it’s more amusing than anything. He imagines you tracking it all through his quarters, then; maybe jumping on his neat, pressed sheets. Disgust licks up and down his spine for obvious reasons, but two of those things you would never do.

Anytime you make a fool of yourself in general, the look on your face makes him feel fond, in a way. It flashes him back to the rare occasion he’s made your head throw back, cackling at his attempts at toilet humor. You’re very pretty when you laugh.

Whatever you’re laughing about, you laugh harder when Hange waves their arms about wildly. Levi’s busy pretending to be listening, but then his attention gets caught by you dabbing more shiny lipstick on your perfect lips.

Hange says, “Didja get it, Levi?”

He blinks. “Get what?”

They heave a great sigh. “I don’t know, didja get dropped on your head when you were a baby? I told a funny joke!”

“Hange,” you chide,” don’t project your childhood onto him. Levi just doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

Levi bites his lip, and hides his expression behind his fist. When your eyes meet, you grin, showing teeth, and he wants to kiss you; in the same way he wants cool, spring mornings and steaming black tea late at night. He wants your lipstick smeared all over places your lips have never touched him.

Hange laughs so hard they nearly tumble out of their chair. Clearly, they’re drunk. “Not wrong at all! Touché!”

When it’s back to work—that is, making rounds with investors and playing up looks—Levi left your side when Erwin beckoned him. As his best soldier, and in the eyes of aristocrats one of Erwin’s greatest achievements, it was a given.

Now he’s giving his voice (but mostly his mind) a rest. He sips fine tea out of ornate china, and although it’s very good, his eyes are heavy and his mind is jammed.

He’s thinking again, about you. It’s not just him, though, because your eyes have found him from across crowded rooms all night; he’s bristled up like a feral cat when pompous men become a little too friendly with you; with a shred of guilt, he’s traced the curves of your evening dress. You caught him once, and flashed him a wink before taking a good few seconds admiring him up and down back.

Maybe his defenses are down because he’s sleep deprived, so it feels impossible to go with an option not involving you. No, that’s stupid. It’s been this way for a while. Rather, he doesn’t have the energy to fight himself on his feelings like usual.

Shrinking them, let alone smothering them isn’t working. The more he denies them, the stronger they grow. It’s been that way for a long time now. So distracting.

That’s a good excuse, actually: I won’t be able to focus on cutting down Titans while I’m so distracted.

The Titans, you, the impossible issue of retaking Shiganshina, one day exterminating the Titans, possibly having a repeat of Shiganshina in Trost (they still know nothing about the abnormals that attacked that day… Wall Rose could fall next) and you. There are other priorities, ones he chose to forgo another life for, and he will continue to do so until he loses this one.

In terms of logic, you’re a distraction. If there ever came a day where the cost of your safety became his life, he shouldn’t pay it, but as for what he would do, he still doesn’t know. At times, his body simply acts and takes over for him. At times, he isn’t just strong, but unstoppable.

The thing you both share never distracted him to the point of any real issue, though. It’s more distracting when he’s away from you. He worries, or he’s afraid (Ugh.), that if you promised each other everything, the fear would whittle him down to caged prey.

But. He closes his eyes briefly, the lack of sleep making them sting. Your experience still trumps his own, and you’ve saved his ass a good number of times too. He’s trained you himself; to the point of bruises, angry ODM welts, scrapes, and even tears. Maybe you should train together more.

Or like you implied, maybe he should grow some balls and accept the chances for what they are. It’s good advice.

He rises from his seat. For now, he has more social problems to attend to. Most of the problems he has with these cocktail parties is how personal they get; like the genuine mirth on doughy faces when a joke is made about Levi’s appearance, his past in the Underground, or the way he talks.

He’s beyond being offended by some—he doesn’t care how he looks very much—and once every millennium or so, they’re clever. Most aren’t. It’s a good way to butter up someone who’s round enough to be made of the stuff to tell them their joke is funny, but he’s not an actor.

“Captain Levi,” a potbellied man greets, and holds his hand out for him to shake. “It’s a privilege to meet you.” He talks far too earnestly, like Levi was the first in the delivery room when the man’s wife gave birth.

Still, he returns it without consideration; a strong, firm shake. “Sure.”

This noble—the proprietor of a company based in one of Sina’s industrial districts, he recalls—is worth impressing. He introduces himself as Maron, and he goes on and on. It’s a good thing, too. People like Maron get flattered just by hearing themselves talk.

“I was wondering if the Survey Corps would be willing to spend a small dividend for a product my company is planning to produce—the same one that manufactures your omni-directional mobility gear.”

He talks of ODM like Levi doesn’t know what it is. “You would have to take that up with the Commander,” he replies, unphased.

Maron’s caterpillar-mustache bristles when he smiles. “I wanted to come to you first. Reason being, they’re for physical performance, making them quite useful in battle. Fighting is what you do, isn’t it, Captain?”

Is he messing with him? It sounds like steroids. He’s familiar with blacktar-type drugs like that, back from his days Underground. There are all sorts of ways Levi can let him know his idea is worthless; while careful not to stray from Erwin’s good graces.

He pretends to think about it, but can’t stop himself from saying, “like dick-enlargement pills?”

“Hm.” Maron’s round eyes go slant, and mischievous. “That’s certainly an idea. Would the Scouts be willing–”

Levi stares at him like shit is leaking from the noble’s mouth—there might as well be. “Are you kidding? That was a joke. Our dicks are big enough, thanks.”

Maron’s eyes somehow grow wider than saucers. “By the Walls! Do you speak to your mother with that mouth?”

He stares. He has to pin his tongue between his teeth so hard he risks biting it off, and turn his back when he walks away. Maron’s disgruntled mutterings are totally lost on him. He’s much too busy counting up to ten, then down again.

Pig’s lucky, he thinks behind a face of utter murder. If he ran into Levi ten or so years ago and said that, he’d be missed by whoever gave a rat’s ass about a guy. Despite the limited space behind the Walls, people go missing all the time. Plenty of rivers around.

Granted, these people don’t know a thing about Levi’s life; just like Levi doesn’t know a thing about politics. He’s upset over nothing new. He’s used to being talked down to by nobility; difference is, he’s not allowed to defend himself.

It’s not like he’s killed anyone at one of these things before, but he’s broken glasses, and almost a face, once. But only because baby-faced idiots are impossible for him to get along with.

The way things used to be, he’d get insulted freely. They talked table manners and corrected his grammar every time he opened his mouth. For all they knew, Levi was some dog Erwin trained into being a soldier using sorcery.

Erwin always felt sorry in some capacity and made up for it (after he became Commander, by pilfering tea shipments or something just as illegal), but it didn’t get under his skin any less. Shadis never liked him; not that Levi made himself very likable in the first place.

You wouldn’t know about that, because you’ve never been to one of these things, but back when any average Scout was unhappy about criminals (or a criminal) joining their ranks, you’d get so pissed there might as well have been steam pouring out of your ears.

Kicking someone in the ass has never been your specialty, but you were a Squad Leader just like Mike, Erwin and the rest. You knew how to give a verbal whipping and a month of stable duty to someone mouthing off.

Even when he was an asshole to you (like he was to everybody), you didn’t throw stones. He thinks the only time you gave him shit for anything in the beginning was before Levi saw a Titan in the flesh for the first time. You called him a fool for acting cocky at the idea of fighting them. If he listened then like he would today, maybe his friends would still be alive.

Afterwards, you were still somehow there. He threatened to break your arm it if you didn’t quit talking to him so much, and you only believed him for three days. Then he picked out things about you that he didn’t mind, maybe even liked, and suddenly you were something like friends.

You didn’t know Levi back then like you do now, but you’ve always been kind, always a good head on your shoulders.

Having you on his mind tames his temper quite a bit, as usual. Throwing a look around the hall from one of the far corners where he’s retreated, he frowns when he realizes he hasn’t seen your face in quite a while. You’re not in the great hall, under all the shiny chandeliers, or anywhere a guest ought to be. It wouldn’t be like you to flake out on your duties.

It isn’t hard for anyone with ears to find Hange, so Levi finds Hange, face ruby-red from just how drunk they are. They’re pretty impossible to talk to, but Moblit is attached to them; via some magnetic field, probably.

He claims you weren’t feeling well, and sheepishly let them know you had to step outside.

“How long ago?”

“Uh–” Moblit puts on an exasperated face in wake of Hange, who’s shaking the hell out of a servant’s skinny shoulders, yelling something about shots. “About a half-hour. Sorry I can’t be more helpful—Hange, please!”

It’s fine, because Levi already has a pretty good idea in his mind of what’s wrong.

To be continued.

let go (part 2/2)

Chapter Summary

You and Levi have a heart-to-heart. There was never going to be another answer—it’s time to let go. Afterwards, you both step outside your comfort zones.

Chapter Notes

hi and welcome to another update!! this chappy is. a lot of smut, but also i got teary editing it😭 hope you guys enjoy <3 and please comment if youre so inclined🤲

also, i thought it would be helpful to add (seeing how this is a precanon fic) that it's year 849 (1 year before the main events of aot begin).

Warnings:

– brief description of panic attack

– use of tobacco

– description of subdrop

– slight exhibitionism

– light use of restraints/gags

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When the frigid night air hits him, Levi tugs his suit jacket tighter around himself and descends the marble steps. Without thinking he does so two at a time, but the tension leaves his shoulders when he sees that you haven’t gone far at all.

Around the paved path, bunches of carriages form an arc. Every one of them looks the same, as if one after another they’ve been cloned, but there’s only one dark silhouette donning a flowing dress: you.

He’s confident, because even if he got the carriage wrong (which isn’t likely; Levi has a good memory), he’d always know you, even while draped in shadows.

You look like a helpless little thing that’s been locked out of the house for too long. Once your head shoots up in his direction, there’s surprise, crumpled relief, and then a mask of neutrality falls over face; count that as double when he gets past the quip that you look extremely shitty and he goes to ask what’s wrong. He knows all the tells of your anxiety—tearing at your sleeves, scraping the cuticles around your fingertips raw—but he won’t assume anything of you when you look so out of sorts like this.

It only prickles him when you tell him nothing is wrong. Further, how it was thoughtful for him to come and find you, but it’s about time you let all those lights and all that food and all those people swallow you back in again.

But, you’re fighting air, which is why he feels something inside shrivel up, and plants a hand on your shoulder to stop your yammering. When he frowns, gets a good look at you under the streetlight, you don’t look well. He feels under his palm where your shoulders lift with your breaths; like the outside world has been vacuum-sealed.

“Stop,” he says, both hands on your shoulders now. Though the order is careful, he means it as just that: an order. “Breathe.”

Your gaze swivels between him, then this way and that. “The party—”

“Doesn’t exist right now,” he finishes for you. It’s just you two here, right now, for however long it takes until this notion that the world is ending evaporates. Maybe he can’t comfort even a little kid, but he can coax your attention towards him well-enough and try. Eventually, finally, your arms slip around him, and your frame becomes a little less like razor wire and more like a heavy blanket.

Suddenly, he no longer hates what he wants, what he does, what he is. Suddenly he’s not a predator. He’s a watchdog, or a pillow. He can be something safe and strong for you.

It’s “Relax, alright?” and, “Good job. Keep going,” and when you give a heavy sniff, he cradles the back of your head. Your hair is delicately done-up, not too unlike his own, but he can’t bring himself to worry much. This is the least he can do.

You’re lovingly crushed under the weight of how much you have to thank him for right now; but first, you swallow like a stone is in your throat, and pull away a fraction. He looks as concerned as you’ve ever seen him, and that measuring frown pulling his lips down twists your stomach again. You feel so anxious that it hurts.

“Thank you… But, we should still go back,” you resolve with a sigh, and try to stand up a little straighter. “Wasted enough time.”

The side of his mouth twitches. “Wasted? You’re kidding. You needed air, so you got air.”

He notes the fine sheen of sweat on your brow with an air of caution. “Did this whole thing really get to you that much?” Maybe it’s his fault, for leaving you alone. “Something happen?”

Vehemently, you shake your head, and it’s honest, which is why you can’t be honest about breaking down over nothing. Or maybe it’s a string of every little thing that mixed to create a ripe concoction stinking with panic.

“No, really,” you try. “I’m just a little tired… It’s not worth all this fuss. I know you’re worried,” you give his arm a reassuring rub, “but I probably just haven’t been sleeping well.”

His gaze sharpens, because if that’s truly the case then that’s his fault too. “Not sleeping well? Why?”

You shake your head dismissively, and immediately regret it when the world does a few extra wobbles. “Stress, maybe. I don’t know, but I don’t want anything bad to happen to our funding because of me, so—”

“You’re a lot more important than pig cash.”

In the dark, his stern glare looks almost supernatural. Without thinking much of it, you give a little shake of your head. Frankly, arguing is making you feel worse.

He makes sure it doesn’t show on his face, but it feels like hot coals in his chest, hearing you fully admit that you’re nothing but slop for those pigs. It makes him sick.

Of course securing funding is important—it’s the second lifeblood of the regiment, besides lives—but why should he give a damn about that now, when the night is a step from being done with and something is wrong with you? That is, you can’t breathe and the air becomes calcified to his lungs too? Maybe this problem isn’t all that catastrophic in the grand scheme of things—maybe you’re just the air Levi breathes—but it’s still his fucking air.

You really do look ill. Your skin isn’t running terribly warm when he touches the side of your face, but he feels a cold sweat sitting on your temple that tells him you’re anxious and drained and overwhelmed.

He doesn’t want to leave you alone—“It’s just for an hour.”—and you’ve done enough; he bets they didn’t earn half of what they would have without you—“Please, that’s not true. You don’t need to lie to make me feel better.”

A careful sigh slides between his teeth. It’s not new, you talking like this, but self-depreciation isn’t helping your case (nor did it ever) because for one, he’s stubborn and set in his feelings, and two, you’re his air. He maintains careful patience, though, because it’s worse than usual.

You stare at him, pleading. “This isn’t a big deal, ‘Vi. Just tired. I’ll nap in the carriage and you’ll be there when I wake up, right?”

Those words chew him up and spit him right back out. He has to steal a breath, because something is cutting at his insides.

“Shut up. Don’t–” he wrenches back, “–ever fucking say that.”

Your brows shoot up to your forehead, stunned. Then you understand, and guilt floods your stomach.

“Don’t.”

“No,” you breathe. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

You are tired, to be fair—from all those faces, from three or four days worth of supper lining silken tables, from some kind of unbearable pressure crushing you that is invisible and attacks from nowhere.

You have to be better; anxiety feels like a cheap excuse, even though it isn’t. It isn’t at all. You wish calling for help didn’t feel like speaking mute. You can’t put on a sugar-coated mask and convey to the world that you look okay, act okay, sound okay—and be okay. It’s not possible to be fine all the time; but how fucking weak that makes you feel.

It’s mildly tempting to say you didn’t ask him to come, but you feel cornered. You shouldn’t have lashed out when he was trying to help, and the very fact that you didn’t ask is likely why he went looking for you. It’s not his fault you’re like this.

His tongue feels too swollen in his mouth to say anything. He doubts snapping at you for something you didn’t even mean helped very much. It’s not your fault he’s like this.

“Tell me it’s nothing one more time.”

You don’t; it doesn’t even cross your mind. While you deliberate, your hands stray to your sleeves again, and gingerly, he pries them apart. He doesn’t say anything either, but he won’t look at you: just off to the side, rather.

A little sigh. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“I get it.” He does.

“I am,” you insist, “and I need you.”

He nods like a mannequin would, squeezes your wrists, and his touch goes away. “Okay, tell me what…” What you need, except you already said that. “…what to do.”

Your smile is fragile like a feather. The most you need to ask for in words is a moment by yourselves; in the carriage, that is, where the seats are comfy and it’s quite dark—save for the slender streetlights and what little of their gold trickles through the windows.

You sit side by side as Levi allows you to drag his hand over and fidget with his bony fingers. It lets air enter your lungs easier, not fixating on yourself but Levi, who you like much more than yourself.

The coarse skin on his palm runs a little cool, but you sense the strength in it under just a few fingers. There’s the creases and edges etched into it, the myriad of tiny, wobbly lines, his own fingerprints; they’re unlike yours, or anybody else’s. These countless little rings remind you in more clarity that Levi is unlike any other person, and you’re unlike anyone else, too. Billions of patterns which are clear, even pleasant to the eye, others tiny and unknowable unless you took your time searching. He has a jagged, almost invisible scar on the fringe of his palm, below his thumb. You trace it and recall that when you asked, he couldn’t remember where he got it from.

Now, your head rests on his shoulder like there’s a pillow there. You have to slouch a little so his head rests on your head. No surprise that his eyes are heavy.

“No,” he’s saying, “I only heard of her through Nile, since he’s married to her. Two kids and a house or something.” He’s not sure why you’re asking. “Erwin really gave you a straight answer about all that?”

You snort. “He never gave you one, did he?”

“I never asked.”

Now you laugh, and he’s inclined to smile a tad from a fond feeling.

You were curious about Marie, a woman who Commander Erwin was apparently set on marrying before he graduated from the Cadet Corps. Though, the couple guys in the Garrison you spoke to who claimed they graduated with him insisted it was the other way around. But of course, that’s something only Erwin and Marie know, and if the Commander never chatted with Levi of all people about it, then it’s a closed case.

It was the first you heard about it, and it made you wonder; not why he chose the Titans over the supposed ‘woman of his dreams’, but why she didn’t fight him tooth and nail on it.

You imagine—in some faraway, alternate universe—living day by day for three years in the Cadet Corps with Levi. Even though you’d still be fighting for that fresh, unknowable haven—freedom—and even though it must come first, you would do just that. No matter if you or he ended up making the ultimate sacrifice; that excruciating moment that would tear through you as time freezes and the air becomes sludge, only to be buried in the cold aftermath of love’s death. Even further, even if you were forced to live the rest of your days half-alive until you eventually met a similar fate—there would be nothing you wouldn’t do.

“Maybe he just didn’t like her that much,” he quips, forcing you to muffle an amused little huff into his fine suit jacket, where you gladly drown in his cologne.

But he honestly doesn’t know. He knows that—once every three blue moons or so—Hange grows low and serious and insists that joy is a diamond cradled in the mud at the bottom of a swamp cradled deep deep deep in the bedrock of this world.

“Seriously, shorty,” they’d sigh. “You have no idea what you’re gonna miss if you keep on this will-we, won’t-we stuff.”

In lieu of leaving you high and dry and without a likely answer, he decides to settle on, “Erwin’s got his own ambitions. Who fucking knows how many laws he broke getting me here in the first place?”

You squeeze his hand, and he bullies his fingers between your own to squeeze back. “You think it’s a little selfish?”

“Maybe.”

“Aren’t we?”

His lips press into a line. Yes, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Despite all the reasons we shouldn’t be.

Selfish, like the times (many times) where you lay sprawled on Levi’s little sofa in his office. The thing’s pretty small, so your knees tend to dangle over the armrest. On those days, you always do your paperwork your own way. All the while, he’s hunched over his desk, doing nothing at all spectacular—signing his name, reading, maybe—but your eyes dart over to him, watching him do nothing while the giggles start bubbling up in your throat.

The smile reaches the apple of your cheeks, showing teeth, and when he shoots you the exact opposite look and asks, “The hell are you laughing at?” and subtly glances down at himself in case something’s out of order—you can’t offer him any real answer. You just get the feeling of flowers and flapping butterfly wings and a good night’s sleep when you look at him.

And through the little giggles you try (and fail) to hide under your hand, you tell him, “I don’t know. You’re just–” and you have to pin your lips between your teeth. Cute isn’t the right word. “I like you.”

And he stares at you, the way he would a stubborn stain. “…Alright then.”

Levi’s knocked from his mind when your hand lands in his slicked hair again. He has to do the unthinkable and grab your wrist, then do something less unthinkable: slide his grip down so he can link your fingers together.

He forgot all about your current topic of little talk, which he and you—but mostly him—still pretend is hypothetical: what would change, what it meant if you took the leap. There’s been a surprising amount of long pauses so far.

Normally, he avoids this topic like the plague, and you don’t push him. It’s not so scary to muse on, though, not like it used to be. As for you, your shakes have gone away, like the anxiety has spit you back out so you can clamber to your feet.

“…I wouldn’t have to lie to everyone. And you,” he eventually answers, well and truly grasping at straws now. “About wearing your stupid sweaters.”

You bump his cheek with your nose: you have too much lipstick on to risk stains. He’s adorable. Since the biggest sweaters of yours puddle around his waist and swallow his hands, Hange loves to point it out while Erwin pretends not to avidly listen.

“Honestly?” You turn your head, and your voice is clear. “I already knew you loved them. You really think I mind?”

He rolls his eyes at the word you use. Of course you don’t mind, and of course you know how he feels. He’s the same. You’re both a week of sleepless nights past agonizing over selfish feelings, actions, and maybe even promises.

“How could I forget?” he retorts. “You know everything.”

You nudge him and shake your head. “I don’t think anyone knows anything.”

He recognized a long time ago that you’re much smarter than he is, which is why he can’t contribute anything that meaningful and instead changes the subject. He needs to talk to Erwin, but he’ll be back, so: “Don’t move. I’ll send a search party if you disappear again.”

Your brow wrinkles as he shuffles away from you. “What about?”

“Your job is to kill Titans, not schmooze to assholes,” he replies, after a little deliberation. “The night’s almost over, anyway.”

A pause. You open your mouth, close it. “…Okay. I trust you.”

“…I know.”

Cold air slaps him in the face, but the sound the carriage door makes when he shuts it feels final, in a good way; something like closure, the gavel going down after the judge deems you innocent. It feels like you came to an understanding somehow.

And he helped you. He knows how important performing well at this thing meant to you; but proving yourself is always important to you.

Old habits die hard as well. He knows all about that.

Navigating the crowd inside is a challenge, but the Commander has hair like cornsilk and he’s as tall as a tree. Levi gets a sinking feeling when he spots him schmoozing to a few straight-edge looking corpsmen with green horse patches on their leather. Good thing Erwin has his priorities straight, because the MPs clear away almost as soon as Levi’s name is out of his mouth. It seems he still has a reputation with them.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Levi crosses his arms when he gets the suspicion Erwin is carefully concealing a smile. “It’s not—whatever filth you’re thinking of. I said she’s not feeling well…These things make me sick to my stomach too,” he grumbles.

Erwin hums wisely around his cocktail glass, but that funny look in his eye has gone away now. Levi informs him you got overwhelmed, and Erwin agrees that’s understandable, considering the circumstance. Levi believes he means it without question.

“Things went well enough, right?” he goes on, a little dumbly.

“They did. The results of our last expedition contributed to that. You work well together, both on the battlefield and off of it.”

As much success as they reaped then, he’s referring to the two injured in Levi’s squad. You two played quite the role in ensuring Petra and Eld lived back then.

As Erwin speaks, he turns his back and heads in the direction of at least three table’s worth of drinks. Levi obediently follows behind, thinking to himself that Erwin should lay off the booze, but he doubts any one of them will be appreciating their livers in another fifteen years. It’s understandable, even, what with the heightened responsibility Erwin carries. Levi doesn’t envy his job at all.

He says nothing.

“Those casualties weren’t your fault. You’ve always been masterful at quick and efficient decision-making.” He sets the empty umbrella-shaped glass down on a table of crystal.

Unimpressed, “The sun will rise before you get to the point you’re trying to make.”

Erwin’s lips crinkle at the edges when he smiles, reminiscent of a genie, or a guy who thinks he knows everything; for all Levi knows, that might be the case. He can never quite tell what Erwin’s thinking until he goes on and says it.

“What I mean to say is, you ought to make a choice before you lose the chance.”

Cryptic as ever. Then, Levi’s eyes widen a fraction with understanding: he comes to Erwin and requests you both return to HQ early, and Erwin decides it’s time to divulge romance advice for the first time ever.

“Normally… I wouldn’t lecture you on personal matters. It isn’t my place,” he goes on, uncharacteristically sheepish. “But I wanted to speak from personal experience. It’s none of my concern, one way or another.”

Levi blinks up at him. “I intend to.”

“You’re welcome,” he teases.

“Ugh. Shut up.”

With that, Levi turns his back and leaves this friendly exchange. He marches away like Erwin just gave him an order, but he didn’t, and ironically enough he already planned on it. He already decided.

Back in the carriage, actually.

—

The sight looks promising: you, no longer hunched up inside the carriage, but leaning against one of the paneled doors, smoking a fat cigar. You have to raise it to your lips around the giant, puffy sleeves, and suddenly he’s no longer just relieved, but amused.

“You must be feeling better.”

“Mm.” You sigh. He presses the back of his hand to your cheek just in case, and it’s deliciously warm. “I threw up.”

Levi takes a perilous look around your immediate vicinity. He repeats after you, incredulous, before you insist that you feel better now; not that you caught a bug, but this time anxiety triggered your stomach, as it has on more than one occasion in the past.

He believes you, mostly because he’s seen firsthand. Then again, he wants to know where, exactly. “–not in that tiny box we have to get back to Trost in, right?”

You shake your head. Your mouth feels like tumbleweeds and acid. “Those ‘pigs’ will have something to clean in the morning… Did you know they keep a whole box of cigars just—in the carriages?”

He knows very well: a pig’s favorite pastime, after all, is indulging in good mud. But he only indulges in tobacco every once (once) in a very long while, because otherwise you’d go around stinking like smoke with teeth like baked corn. That shit never comes out.

Thing is, everyone and their mother in the Underground smoked. Kenny in particular always had a pipe in his hand when it wasn’t a knife or a tankard, but if Levi wanted to be adventurous, Kenny would dangle it above his head before locking him out for the night—to be certain Levi learned his lesson. Very kind in retrospect, considering the man Kenny is, or was.

The smoke is a comforting, disgusting smell, but either way Levi still does it. As for you, you indulge only when you’re past carrying all the stress your shoulders can handle.

You swallow. Quietly, “We’re not going back?”

No. Erwin already thinks you’re sick besides, which is why Levi cranes his neck to get a look at where the stagecoach should be, and isn’t. Odds are, they’re off rolling tobacco or chowing down on whatever slop that doesn’t measure up to what the guests get. Either way, you can’t leave. Maybe that can work out.

The chilly air cuts when he breathes too deeply. He’s thankful when you offer him the smoldering cigar, trapped between all five fingers.

Around a huff of amusement, he takes it between two of his own. All these years, and you still handle your tobacco like a toddler.

“What?” You sound like you know what he’s thinking.

He spares you by saying nothing and inhales deeply, pleased with the rich taste that curls over his tongue; pig’s mud indeed.

A smirk threatens one side of your mouth. “Only you can make smoking that stuff attractive.”

He blows the smoke out one side and clears his throat, flustered. No way you’ve always thought that and just never told him—you’re fucking with him. His eyes go somewhere else. “Tch. Watched and learned is all.”

You decide to tease him if he’s going to assume you’re doing that already. “Am not. It’s only sexy on you, princess.”

He opens his mouth, stammers horribly, and shuts it with a buzz in his head; probably the tobacco. “Th-That’s–” He plants himself against the carriage. He needs to recover. “Shut up. Now. Shut your sh-shitty mouth.” You don’t. His lips wrinkle. “Stop laughing already… That’s enough.”

He flicks your forehead and your laughing dissolves into giggles. How thankful he is that it’s dark: he can feel the heat flock to his cheeks.

“Your joke isn’t funny,” he complains. “Unless you intended to creep me out.”

“Who said I was joking?”

“I did.”

He’s done with this conversation. It’s too late to go back, and while Erwin excused you both, the stagecoach is absent to do just that. It’s not the end of the world, though. Carriage rides, no matter the destination, tend to drag on so long it’s worth more of your time to find patterns in the upholstery than look around outside. Neither of you are inclined to add nearly an hour to the trip by sitting inside.

Let’s look at the stars, you suggest. He caves, surprisingly without much fight at all, considering it’s colder than the underside of an ice cube tonight.

But first, he’s bullying a mint between your lips and thoroughly, furiously lathering every bit of your hands with a cloth soaked in something clean and cold he draws from the depths of his lapels. Just in case, he claims; who knows what germs stew around in the stomach all day?

“What is that?” You almost gag. “Gin?”

“Absinthe. Stop fucking—” he spreads your palm, “—jerking everywhere.”

I’ll jerk something—

You laugh, mostly at yourself. “Where’d you get absinthe?” That’s some strong alcohol, the sort heavy enough to even roll Levi over like a train.

The side of his mouth twitches as he tells you he has friends in high places, as if that means anything. He probably threatened someone rich. You let it go and shake your hands out, appreciating the clean taste of the mint.

That’s until he swipes the absinthe-rag across your lips—“Ugh! ‘Vi–”—and dabs around your mouth like you have crumbs stuck there. He considers asking you to suck on it like a lozenge, an old trick for stomach problems he learned from no one other than a boozehound like Kenny, but it might just put you out. It usually worked for Levi, though.

“Why?” you ask incredulously around a shot of nausea. Your nostrils feel like you’ve snorted floor cleaner. “Lemme guess. It put you to sleep?”

“No.”

You don’t get an explanation at first. He’s too busy tossing the rag in a bin, drying his hands, then fiddling with his waxy hair with a sour look on his face. You take initiative, and he melts a little.

“It got me drunk, and I threw up,” he finally relents, expression thoroughly pinched with disgust. “But you’ve had enough of that for one night, right?”

You tut. “Yeah. Not very romantic.”

Saying that, you slip your arms around his waist and tuck yourself against him. His skin is soft and fairly salty here since you’ve been under lights all night. You note also, with a touch of longing, how his whole body clams up before strong arms stray over your shoulders. Technically you’re in public here, where not a single person doesn’t know you and him by your faces; it’s not the anonymity you’re privileged to in Trost, or even Stohess.

Nerves turn your stomach. You bury your face a little deeper to escape it, and his chest lifts with a deep breath. Under an oily night like this, it’s unlikely you’ll be noticed, but you hope you didn’t make him uncomfortable anyway.

“You’re warm,” you whisper, voice muffled as if by a pillow.

His eyes sting when he allows them to slip shut. Maybe he’s tired or amused or fond, but there’s a raw feeling in his chest that glows to hear you say that. You’re warm, too.

He pets your hair. “C’mon.”

With all the factories tucked in the industrial district south of Mitras, the air is more clogged somehow. It doesn’t taste as clean as the countryside air in Wall Rose, let alone outside it in what is now Titan territory.

The height of the castle, however, makes up for it plenty. If the stars could somehow be reached, touched, taken—those mere pinpricks in the fabric of the nighttime blanket—then the castle stretches far enough into the sky to convince you of that illusion. Tons and tons of drops of pure light.

You both lounge on a long, shady stretch of cobblestone, protected at all sides from a finely-cut stone barrier. The chill nips at your bones much more up here.

Once you settle in, Levi goes very still and very quiet, almost as if he was at a funeral, but he’s just craning his neck to marvel. It’s a solemn sort of wonder, one you understand.

“I’m gonna sound crazy,” he mumbled once, but he didn’t need convincing to admit it. He always has one last weak defense in his arsenal; always before exposing a raw and very tender nerve. “But just listen. Doesn’t it look like you could….”

The quiet was severe that late at night, even at the Trost barracks. You understood. “Like maybe… You could reach out and touch one?”

And he stopped looking for one moment to shoot you a sidelong, thoughtful look; you and the blanket over your shoulders, because Levi always runs hot and he didn’t like to cuddle back then.

“Am I wrong?”

He looked away and didn’t say anything for a long time. So long you didn’t think he’d reply. “Not at all.”

You weren’t sure if you quite pinned down what he was thinking, whether you read his mind exactly right, or whether you said something he never considered—it’s still hard to tell now, sometimes. Levi has a million facets to him, some quieter than others, no matter how far your history stretches. Some a stranger can discern with just a passing glance, some only you know; no matter what, you always get to learn something new about him this way.

In comparison, your heart is permanently tethered to your sleeve, and you talk freely about this or that. He’s a very good listener, always sharp-eyed and attentive. That’s how it is now, though this evening’s chaos bouncing about your mind doesn’t allow you to go on and on as much as usual.

The night is stunning. You think back: a dark, mildewy blanket of a sky, endless and echoing into nothing—that’s what the Underground ceiling is like, or that’s how he always described it when he opened up about it. You can’t imagine growing up in darkness: trapped, small, never-ending.

But a kind word, an I’m sorry goes a bit over his head, always has. You learned to accept his grief for what it is, just like he learned to console you when you so much as forget to tip a waitress. You learned an apology is what you give your subordinate when your handwriting is a bit too messy to make out, or you show up a few minutes late to a meeting. True sorrow is as rare as true love: just as you can’t mend a crater in the earth with a bandaid, you can’t convey true love with words like, “You’re warm.”

You know what you share, and you think he knows that too. Part of this means listening rather than just hearing him, and if you can’t understand his trouble, you always understand how he feels. The amount of times he’s spared you the same reverent attention makes your head spin a little.

For all these little facets of what you share, a smile is drawn to your lips when you breathe in his cologne. It’s hard to pinpoint a time you’ve ever felt closer to him (nevermind the scarce amount of physical space between you now), though you’ve almost always been—in some invisible, demonstrable way—together. You walk on air.

Cross-legged, Levi does nothing to stop you as you toy with his long fingers some more, tracing patterns all over his hand. Beneath moonlight like this, his skin looks more like porcelain, making the baby hairs and pasty scars here and there a little more shiny.

“You have small wrists.”

Your sides touch, and you vaguely register that he’s fidgeting the slightest bit.

“Keen observation,” he drawls, thick with sarcasm. “Did you happen to notice my eyes are gray?”

You’re scandalized. “Huh? They’re blue!” You ignore his surly glare. “Like… Like how starlight looks. Or the sky when the sun’s about to come up. And in the dark? Right now? It’s how water looks when the moon’s reflecting off it. Don’t you get it?”

A flare of embarrassment ripples your chest—you’re rambling, and it’s obvious you’ve ruminated on his eye color, of all things—but he doesn’t mock you. His eyes are a touch wider, and the exact color you just described. The pull of some emotion raw and blatant looks outright uncanny without his bangs in the way.

You ask if he ever gave such a thing much thought, and really, no. Parts of himself he can’t change—the shape of his face, the slope of a small nose, his short, stocky build—he never gave much mind to. There’s no part of him capable of spewing poetry like you just did.

Suddenly, he feels convicted.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, furrowing his brow. “In general. Not just tonight,” and to add onto that, “Not just your looks, either.”

The look on your face reminds him of a very soft, pretty flower. He resists the urge to look away and leans forward, kisses you smooth and slow. You kiss back with earnest. It’s a shock to his senses when your chilly hand lands on his flaming cheek.

Your eyes are quite dazzled. Your lips part, then they close. “Have you given it any more thought?”

He knows that thin pull in your voice isn’t because of anything he’s done wrong, but he wants his arm around your waist anyway. It’s without a moment of hesitation that you shuffle up close. He stretches one leg out to make room, and suddenly his mouth is dry.

He realizes he didn’t answer you and nods a little stupidly. All day today (technically, since two nights ago when he last slept properly) he’s been ‘giving it thought’.

“I shouldn’t have asked, sorry. I don’t want to rush a decision like that, but you make it hard when you–” you nose his cheek, kiss the flaming skin there, “–call me that.”

You, as in all that you are. He doesn’t just stop at a pretty face, but it’s the little quirk in your laugh and the way you walk; your subpar cleaning skills and your knack for putting on a brave face no matter if it’s the fall of Wall Maria four years ago, or if a yowling cat trapped in a damn thicket. It’s just a word, but it means so much; you can’t quite tell if you’re overreacting or not.

His answer: A hand buries in your hair and he shakes his head. “It just isn’t easy for me. I don’t even…”

He stalls, because the first explanation he jumps to, he realizes, is a lie. “I know how I feel. I know how you feel, and it’s selfish. But I wouldn’t have regrets,” he head hangs, “I’d—I’d rather suffer than regret anything with you.”

You give a small, sure nod. “Me too.”

Your heart is on a rampage in your chest, but you’re very still, like a statue. You fear any slight move could dim this moment, or make him quiet. If only you could stay like this forever, or at least until the sun comes up. Together.

He’s reminded of how you reassured him shortly before Mayfest. Unsurprisingly, he still carries those words with him: “We’ve been through everything together, this is no different.”

He clears his throat, but his voice remains rusty. His duty demands he reiterate this: “W-We have a job to do. But even so, things have always been the same between us.”

“Yeah… Hange will always be making kissy noises when we’re in the same room together.”

That too. His heart twists up, and an ocean of warmth washes over his chest. He feels protective suddenly; with both arms he cradles you closer, and nudges your temple tucked beneath his chin. He has to strain his neck a little to do it, but he doesn’t care at all.

“You’d t-train one-on-one with me s-several days a week,” he blurts out. He keeps fucking stammering. “On ODM, too. That’s, my condition.”

You’re happy to—thrilled, in fact, to bust your ass a hundred times and slash at cardboard Titans every day out of the week, if he preferred. His lips part like he plans to go on, but doesn’t. And don’t get killed, you think he’d say; Don’t get killed for me. Neither of you can uphold a promise like that.

There’s no air in his lungs. His voice is like thin, crystalline glass. “So, if, if you’d live with me, then…”

He stalls; he knows the answer. When you kiss him, you knock your noses together. It feels like fire and tastes like spirits. There’s no need to use so many words.

Where he’s slowly grown remarkably tense, his shoulders fall, welcoming your arms around them. The cold bristles your cheek where his hand leaves you in favor of the nape of your neck. Stay here, it says, and you mimic him. Stay with me.

Levi stews in the confusion of this solid, warm feeling cramping his chest; it begs tears when there’s nothing to grieve. Death of the past, maybe. Too many sentiments roll around in his head to speak any aloud. You’d probably be better off counting the stars. The frustration is like a red-hot coil, deep in his chest. He feels the longing like a pinprick in the middle of his ribcage.

He tilts his head and pushes more passion into the kiss. You must understand that this is him, trusting you, and giving himself away; and he will take care of you in return. He’d be horribly remiss to do any wrong by you.

More; the way your thin breath stutters and your fingers dance at the prickly hairs, short of where his undercut lays. Your lashes kiss his cheeks and your pulse thumps beneath his thumb. If you wanted to kiss any deeper, he’d have to part his lips for you.

He imagines—in some faraway, alternate universe—in which things never led to this moment, like naming a color no one’s ever seen. It simply wouldn’t make sense. He wants you to keep in your mind, to never think of yourself as any less than Levi at the best moments you have framed of him in your mind.

He thinks himself lucky, despite the rest; one precious jewel this world finally, for once, took upon itself to hurl at him despite all its wretchedness. But, that would be giving the world too much credit.

He wants you.

Your velvety tongue rolls across his lips, allowing you to breathe each other in, warm, hot and heavy, and a ghostly moan rises from his chest. For all his patience, he doesn’t want to stop; that’s until his palm lands on your cheek, and finds cold, sticky tears there.

He pulls away as if he’s been burned, but you’re smiling with abandon; you tell him, “No, I’m just so happy,” and he is too. If only he had any say in this world’s inane rules, tears wouldn’t walk hand-in-hand with joy. Why should people cry when they’re happy?

“Oh,” he replies.

He wets his lips, tastes absinthe and mint and you; your lipstick is smeared, which means his are stained red. It doesn’t feel like he can move when you look at him this way. The shine in your eyes puts the stars to shame.

Then, your thumb traces his high cheekbone. He twitches and realizes he’s trembling all over, like a cornered mouse.

“You see?” You smear a silent tear from his cheek. “You’re doing it too.”

He has thick lashes; no matter how he blinks, tears stick to them. His nose is stuffy. If you were to ask if he’s happy, so happy, then he would melt. You kiss his smile—again, again, then once more. Tremors lay in his thumbs as he wipes away the tears pasted to your cheeks.

“For the record,” you tell him a very long while later, when the flashy lights and sounds from inside have dumbed down, when suits and flowy gowns have poured out onto the sidewalks, “you’re beautiful too.”

No, Erwin won’t mind that he ended up fibbing by spending the death of the evening anywhere but riding back to HQ. You ask him how he can be so sure of that, but he shakes his head. If by the slimmest of margins Erwin does mind, the excuse is your missing stagecoach.

Levi locks his arm with yours as you walk—one part not to lose you to the crowd, mostly because he can—and you’re scarcely able to avoid the Commander, but there’s no such thing as avoiding Hange. They’re steering Moblit in all directions (as they please) despite being exponentially more wasted than him, and nearly pass you both by. Levi is propping the carriage door open with his elbow and lends you his other hand while you pick up your dress so as not to trip over the steps.

You’ve just gotten situated when a screech—“Captain Shorty! Looking dashing as always!”—that could only be Hange sounds from very close by. Moblit may tear his arm off in efforts to drag them in the opposite direction.

If they get a good look at him, his hair askew, his collar utterly rumpled despite all your attempts to straighten it, a scene will be made. There also may or may not be red splotches from your lipstick on his neck, so all he can do is flee into the carriage. Already you dash for the hatch and slam it shut.

“It’s not over,” he croaks, and on cue the door lurches under Hange’s two hands. They stare in through the round window, big brown eyes wide with curiosity.

He darts back just in time. You have to slap your hand over your mouth so as to not laugh your head off.

Finally, peace and quiet once Moblit gets a handle on them like the good assistant he is. Not soon enough, the carriage lurches forward, and you both start breathing again.

You’re still laughing as you attempt to comb his greased hair back to its original shape, and the only reason he stays still and takes it is because it’s the only thing that can unwind his frayed nerves. It’s helpless until he can wash it out, but it’s a valiant effort on your part.

But (and for once), he’s not so stressed just because of Hange’s antics. You share another cigar, but only his hands are steady enough to light the match.

It’s a dirty habit, even dirtier to light it up inside someplace small and confined like this, but the evening and its happy lunacy warrant a little indulgence. He can wash, iron, and dry your outfits later, all you like. He can brush his teeth a hundred times and you can wash his hair until he’s brand new. You can do anything.

You take a small toke of the fat cigar. “We need a shower when we get home,” you say without thinking, and at his raised brow, you blanch. “Oh.” You think fast. “This reminds me of something that happened between me and my first boyfriend.”

Like a dolt, he blinks at you. He opens his mouth, then closes it. You’ve never mentioned this person before. “What did you say?”

You knock his shoulder, eyes wide and expectant; it reminds him of a little kid. You play innocent, insist that he knows him, like it’s the most basic of information. He nearly goes cross-eyed wracking his memories for any mention or face of some man you’ve dated in the past.

You always strongly disliked the heart-eyes one of your past subordinates always shot you, besides this faceless steelworker or that stablehand. His brows furrow and a frown tugs his lips down. Jealousy sweeps over him in longer and larger waves.

Finally, he shoots you a petulant, vaguely helpless look. “Who are you talking about?”

Your lips break into a snarky grin. You sigh as if you’re about to explain something to a child, and climb astride in his lap (careful not to tangle your dress in the process). Close and comfortable.

He doesn’t move. “What–”

“It’s you, dummy. You’re my first.”

Before you can congratulate yourself on your wit, Levi sneers and captures your lips. His hand seizes the back of your head so you can’t try anything.

It isn’t the first time you’ve accidentally referred to Trost HQ as ‘home’, but he’s also feeling petty from that joke; enough to pinch your bottom lip between his teeth, enough to do nothing when your dress slips from your neckline and exposes your shoulder to the rapidly warming air.

Your round thighs squeeze his hips, stoking warmth below his belt, but still manages to act petulant between the wet smacks of your lips: “You’re such a pain in the ass–” kiss, “–idiot.”

“Dummy.”

“Idiot.”

You pass him the smoldering cigar as a peace offering. His tongue darts across his shiny lips as he takes it. Spicy tobacco smoke plays around your nose until you duck your head and taste his soft cologne, his salty sweat. He nods his head back to make room, and regrets it as soon as he sucks a strangled gasp through his teeth when you circle your tongue around his adam’s apple. Your lips are smoldering.

The tobacco has his head spinning brightly, and your teeth make his cock stir. Briefly, he abandons the cigar to just feel.

A sweet shudder tickles your spine. You love to feel him cling to you despite how hard he fights to smother the slightest hint that you’re getting to him. You’ll never get over how reactive Levi is, perfectly pliant under your mouth, your hands.

You can’t help yourself. As you suckle a stretch of skin (that his cravat has no hopes of covering) between your teeth, you roll your hips where you’re perfectly slotted together, and gasp when you feel the ridge of his half-hard cock through your slip.

He screws his eyes shut. “You better stop that.”

You only vaguely ease off. “Why?”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna deal with a hard-on for two fucking hours.”

You whisper in his ear, “What if you don’t have to?”

He almost drops the cigar, which is only barely still clinging to life. His free hand squeezes your shoulder—more for his stability than yours, honestly. “Ah, I see how it is. You’ve gone crazy.”

It seems you try to rub your thighs together, but you only manage to squeeze his hips instead. Your mouth has quit though, your hands gone still just in case he really means that.

You watch his dark eyes grow glazed when you wet your lips, and insist: “Tell me you’ve never thought about it. Like this, here…”

But he has, and he’s no liar. He sighs instead—in defeat, lust, relief, or all three—and drags your hips over his lap with both hands. The way the friction has your breath audibly catching in your throat stokes the fire low in his belly.

He wishes he could see more, with your dress and all the other barriers out of the way.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Have it your way.”

You catch him in a bruising liplock, sharing hot breath, tongue, touch; as if it’s been ages since you’ve brushed paths, as if close has never been close enough until this very moment.

Levi takes care to flick what’s left of the scorched cigar-butt into an ashtray so he can make a desperate grab for more of you. You sling both your arms around his neck and cling.

Your lipstick, ruby-red, makes the drag of your lips like honey. It mingles with the sticky taste of tobacco, but he needs more, so he takes your bottom lip and licks into your hot mouth when he first gets the chance. He loves it when you moan for him.

Your hand snakes up, massaging where his hair is prickly and short. Higher, where all of it is at your disposal, as slicked as it is—the sensation has pleasant shivers shaking up his spine. His lungs beg for air.

A moment to breathe. His blue-grey eyes have gone glazed and a tad lidded, and strawberry-colored smears decorate his swelled ones, and all around his mouth. You kiss his cheek, and revel in the saccharine satisfaction of the stain that’s left behind. There’s something about leaving a mark on him that licks flames at your insides. Irresistible.

You’re going to be forced to clean up later, but a part of you wants others to see the lipstick stains on the apples of both his cheeks; following down his sharp jaw, his high cheekbones, even his forehead.

He doesn’t stop you either. In fact your heart leaps because, as breathy and small as it is, he very well could be laughing (his voice always cracks when he laughs for how rare it happens), so you start to laugh too. Then you’re laughing and kissing and grabbing at each other like two drunk idiots.

Your lips fall below his chin, driving a shiver up his spine. Goosebumps rise to his skin, then his skin between your teeth, and he lightly gasps. He makes a blind grab for your thigh, but comes up with a handful of silk instead.

Levi remembers himself finally— “Fucking dress,”—and scoops the hems up in both hands. He catches sight of fine, fleece stockings colored like snow; then garters. Fine, black lace following up beneath your slip, surely clipped to your panties.

A breath is punched from his chest. Your heels clatter to the floor with the haste that he hitches you up further, closer. His belly does somersaults and his mind fucking melts.

“The fuck—didn’t you tell me?” His hands roam all over, gliding up and down and under the thin lace. You laugh at the incredible petulance in his voice; shiver nonetheless when he thumbs under the stocking’s frills and has them snap back against your thigh.

“Our outfits were surprises, weren’t they?”

He scoffs, thoroughly through with your tricks. His palms slip inside your panties instead, taking two handfuls of your ass, and the gasp he gets in return has his chest fluttering. It’s your hips he takes hold of next, rolling his hips up shamelessly.

You curse in surprise, burning like a fever has come over you. So much fabric bars you from feeling him, and that has to change.

“Are you—”

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. You’re not going to be the one calling the shots this time, and thrill like a firework shoots through your belly.

He holds you close, and doesn’t stop. When you begin meeting him in the middle, rutting hard against the hard ridge of his cock, he curses under his breath and throbs.

You like the look on his face—pinched, bloomed pink—so you bite that feather-sensitive spot under his ear and his whole body shudders with a barely-concealed cry. He starts panting.

“I want what you want,” you whisper.

Levi wastes no time. He puts you where he wants you: your backside on the cushions, sat up with your dress a heap in your lap, knees bent.

Before he slides down to the fuzzy carpet, he kisses your chin. “Not a sound, right?”

Your teeth clack from shutting your mouth so abruptly, nodding like a bobblehead though that’s certainly not a promise you can keep. Between your thighs, your clit is throbbing.

Kneeling, he decides you’re not close enough and abruptly yanks you closer by the fat of your thighs.

Your soul leaves your body, the ease with which he handles you. He could easily drag you into any position he wants—like now, he spreads your legs wide—and you would go limp and pliant and let him take you any way he’d like.

Now he hitches both your legs up over his shoulders, exposing your soaked panties to the cool air, and his mouth. You cross your ankles over his upper back, where his shoulderblades lie, and hear your heart like a stampede in your ears.

You want what he wants—and he wants to taste you. Somewhere there’s a twinge of surprise inside you, but there shouldn’t be; that first time he shuddered when he first licked you, and seized your thighs to take more and more and more.

Like now: he licks a long line over your panties from your hole to your clit, and though you gasp from the bottom of your lungs, though you urge his head right there, he’s determined to tease you.

He made out with your messy cunt until you whimpered if he so much as kissed your shaking thigh, that first time. You shook like a leaf all over in fact for the latter half of that night, and in the morning there was a crick in his jaw.

Now he thumbs your panties to one side, spreading your lips with his other between two fingers. His tongue—deliciously hot, heavy, and wet—laps between your sloppy folds, no barriers left, and you were crazy to ever imagine staying dead silent to be possible.

Occasionally, blindsiding you, his lips will close around your clit and suckle, and the gasp that leaves you makes your head spin. Your gasping is obnoxiously loud, but so are the squelching noises his lips make smacking on your swollen clit.

It doesn’t even register that your hands are greasy from the gel slicking his hair. Half of your attention is paid to staying quiet and the other on mashing his face in your pussy.

And he gets off on you jerking him around like this; yanking him any way that pleases you, getting used by you.

He never knows what to do or how without bruising his mind thinking, and this way it’s so much easier to let go and let you take him. There’s no reason to doubt that you want him, either. Need.

Spread open for him, he breathes hot and open-mouthed over your glistening lips. You’re soaked because of him. He did this, and a feeling randomly seizes him.

He yanks your panties further aside, practically ravenous, only for fabric to tear abruptly, like yanking off a bandaid. If he didn’t pull them aside they’d drop from your hips on their own, surely.

Through a thick haze you hardly hear, just feel him stop. You look up, and by the rueful look on his face, Levi must’ve forgotten his own strength.

“Sorry.” He actually sounds genuine.

You could laugh. “Come back here,” you whimper, giving his collar a small yank, and before you even finish he’s back between your slippery thighs.

He breathes carefully through his nose and adjusts you for an easier angle. Only now, distantly, does he notice himself idly rubbing his thighs together when that thick, heavy sweetness rolls over his tongue once more, and the realization vanishes.

A squeak just barely dies in your throat, your grip painful again, and he wants to fuck his hand so bad he aches. He paints your clit with his tongue, drags his heavy tongue through your soaked folds and actually whimpers, it’s so hot, so damn tight.

Your thighs pin him where he is, and it’s a wickedly appealing desire to have your thighs to smother him; cushion his head so those sheer stockings mess his hair while he makes you come on his face again and again.

Your voice—breathy and high and choked—has broken the surface; he can tell you’re close. It’s wetter, soaking his face from the slope of his nose down his chin, and he sweeps his tongue to lap it all up, but your hips keep fucking his face and there’s more every time he licks into you.

Over and over is a grossly appealing idea right about now, all fucking night.

He sucks your clit, and you jerk, fighting for air. You gasp his name, and flames lick at his lower half. So close. He needs it.

Faster, he strokes your clit with his tongue, for the first time uses his fingers to circle your entrance, and you’re in grave danger of keening out loud at the ceiling.

For him too, a moan is almost wrenched from his throat. Shit, because the carriage is rocking—he’s licking you out in a fucking carriage—and there’s no way you’ll stay quiet this way.

He squeezes your thighs so he can pull away and climb up between your legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as does. Cushions hug your back, your thighs awkwardly pivoting back to accommodate his waist.

“Sorry—”

His palm falls over your mouth and he holds his finger up, glistening with your cum, to his lips in a way that says: Quiet.

You breathe noisily, gasping really, and tilt your hips towards him, silently begging.

Your thighs are hefted up high next—folding you almost completely in half—so your ankles end up dangling helplessly over his shoulders. Your thighs strain immediately, a dull pain, but it’s thrilling to be exposed this way; from the waist down you’re spread open, allowing the air to kiss your glistening cunt. You vaguely register that you’re trembling.

He leans forward and props your chin up on two fingers. “Can you handle this? Or too much?”

You open your eyes. His lips are plump and shiny, and a daring sheen in his bright blue-greys tells you Levi likes having you at his mercy like this. Still, he asks, and for some reason that leaves your head reeling.

It’s a touch too painful for your thighs, being bent like this, and without so much as batting an eye he props your knees up high around his midriff instead. You cross your calves behind his back while he spreads his knees apart further so your backside doesn’t slip forward.

“Better?” He whispers this.

You sigh in relief. “Thank you.”

An abrupt bump in the road forces him to brace himself against the wooden rail above your head. Before you can yelp, he has you taken care of. His palm slaps back over your mouth, and your nostrils flare.

“That’s another problem.” He thumbs at your bottom lip and forces your lips into a pucker. “This mouth of yours. So,” he searches your eyes, “you gonna shut up this time? Or do I need to do it for you?”

Your pussy flutters hard, and the sound you make in kind has him huffing in amusement. Clearly not.

Experimentally, he bullies three fingers past your lips while his free hand falls between your thighs to play with your clit.

You just about gag in surprise when his fingers press your tongue down flat, and swallow around them to compensate for the whines that vibrate around his fingers. Your cheeks hollow out, and as much as he likes to watch—you make his heart thump in his ears and his cock strain between his thighs—it’s no good.

You notice him yank his cravat free from his collar because he’s forced to pull away from your clit to do so. The ones pruned from your mouth he wipes off on his pant leg.

You swallow furiously, nod your head and breathe hard as it’s knotted tight around your head. Obediently you bite down, experimentally working your tongue around it. It’s silkier than most of his others, but you taste what light scent he wore this evening, plus thick traces of spice from the cigar. It’s good, you decide.

You’re to pinch him if something’s wrong, and it takes every last speck of your patience not to force his hand and beg him not to treat you like thin glass that could shatter.

The carriage keeps on rocking, but he’s got you. It sharply occurs to him that you may be very short on time now, so his hand falls down to smear more cum coating thighs and pussy up, all over your clit.

The way he rubs you in these quick little motions reminds you of the way he handles the ODM triggers. Grinding your teeth, you force yourself to stay near-silent. Your hips jerk sloppily, out of rhythm, shameless.

He sighs and sinks two fingers into your cunt. In the next breath he picks up a quick, steady rhythm, and finger-fucks you deep.

You’re already drawing up shivery and tight, whining for him, groping his shoulders. The squelching sounds have you physically hot all over; your fabrics stick to you like an ugly sauna.

Between the gag, he thinks you’re trying to say his name, and kicks his hips forward at nothing but air. A third finger slips through your folds before bullying in beside the others and your chest lifts, head nodding back.

He swallows a groan, not that he’s interested in getting caught, but no matter how he tries you just can’t obey his order. That’s how good it is for you, that’s how much you crave him, and that’s what’s getting him off. You’re far from silent, but quiet enough.

“That’s better,” he sighs, curls his fingers in a c’mere motion, fucks them deep, and is forced to cradle the back of your head so you don’t end up hurting yourself, you reel back so hard.

While you’re trying to say, Levi Levi Levi, he pecks one of your stuffed cheeks, then kisses, suckles your bottom lip. They’re split by spit-soaked fabric, but he’s too fond of your muffled, broken attempts at his name to resist.

You’re turning your knuckles white for how desperately you’re clinging to him. His thumb slips through your sloppy folds to give your clit some needed attention, and your cry, this time, is audible.

He’s attacking your throat with kisses. Never does he ramble so much, you’ve found, than when you’re fucking.

“Dirty girl.” His voice is severe. “Wish you could see yourself, getting fucked on my fingers,” he’s panting, “gagged and soaking wet for me. I want it, give it to me.”

So tight—your pillowy cunt split around his three fingers, your thighs locked around his waist. The first wave makes your vision flash between tumbling breaths over a high, red-hot peak. It shakes its way through you and then a little more.

Levi groans under his breath, fat cock pinned to his thigh, and protectively shades your face in his throat while your slippery cunt gushes all over his fingers. All for security, safety, privacy—and, this is for his eyes and ears only.

It’s quick and it’s dirty; drool paints both sides of your pretty mouth while he works your pussy through those last little flutters.

His fingers slow until your hips have picked up a tiny tremor, shying away the slightest bit this position allows. The world floats like a heatwave behind your eyelids, then fingers are working in a flurry behind your head, and you’re free.

Soaked spit webs his cravat and your tongue, connecting them. With a sore tongue you wet your lips and just breathe. Your thighs seem to vibrate, but he’s letting your legs down, sarcastically asking if you’re alive.

A smile breaks your cheeks. Your hand moves without much thought at all, in lieu of words you simply don’t possess right now; stroking his cheek, then to his destroyed hair, which you rub affectionately.

Your eyes are still closed, but they open as he briskly goes about fixing up your appearance (however you’ll have to go without panties; he throbs at the thought) in order to straighten him out too.

“Fuck,” you giggle like a dream. His pupils are round with lust, cheeks stained red by a blush (and darker lip-shaped imprints speckling his face). Dark strands of hair can’t decide whether to stay pinned back or fall over his forehead, where they belong. You decide on the latter, and through a glowing fog ask how he can talk like that.

Embarrassed, scorched by pride, he smugly pretends to not know what you mean. You like to think even Levi blurts things out in the heat of the moment sometimes.

Beside you, he flicks the curtain back, finds the glass fogged as if by a hot shower, and whips it closed again. You’re likely both stinking like sex, and all he has are mints.

Your rumpled hems find the carpeted floor. Attempts to smooth them down are in vain, but you’re both in various states of rumpledness.

You’re dabbing a clean cloth over the lipstick stains on his chin. “Are we close?”

A snort, making you pout. Clever choice of words. “We’re here.”

He flicks his cravat in a wastebasket, and just when you’re about to apologize—silk costs a fortune these days—he points out that your underwear is wrecked, and neither of you paid for these outfits.

He wouldn’t be able to see himself ever wearing that cravat again, anyway, out of his others. Wearing refined silk or jewels, expensive furs and this fabric or that—it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Always has.

The wheels stutter when they come to a stop over gravel, the carriage itself shuttering with it.

He keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs, and you’re asking, “Mine or yours?” while the echoes of slamming doors shutter outside. Levi suspects Hange and Moblit, but mostly Hange.

“Mine,” he replies, then works his jaw in that strange way he does when he’s stressed. “Or both.”

Without needing to speak, you both already agreed to retreat inside after the rest of your comrades have passed, but now question marks wobble in your mind. The air grows somewhat awkward.

“Both?” Your mouth dries up. “You mean ours?”

He shoots you a little glance. “You’re still getting our clothes mixed up when you stay over, right?”

You laugh at this while Levi pretends to be casual, but his eyes are just as bright as they were on that balcony and of course, obviously, “I’d love to.”

—

The door only slams shut when you shove him against it as soon as you’re even remotely inside. Your kiss is a mess of heat, tongue, and salty perfume, reawakening his earlier lust with a fiery vengeance.

All this, but he still manages to fumble for the lock before his wrists are seized and slid up above his head. You hold tight.

Instinctively he gasps around a sloppy kiss, stomach dropping into somewhere bottomless, and bows back against you. He’s trapped, pinned, and he can’t decide if he likes it—not until your thigh pushes between his legs.

His cock surges, and the fear feeling evaporates. Your breath is trembling—or maybe it’s his own—where you suck his skin between your teeth.

All of this happens in a whirlwind, but he manages to hook his leg around your waist so he has you closer, tighter, harder. He gasps when the rolls of your thigh grow desperate, and throws his head back so he doesn’t make an embarrassing noise.

Then you, whispering filth in his ear. He tastes metal, because squirming isn’t enough, and the pain mashes with the pleasure so exquisitely that he doesn’t register that he’s right on the edge.

His hips are rolling, humping your thigh like a filthy fucking animal, and you’re whining in his ear, “Ah, never took you for such a whore, Captain,” which flashes his mind in blinding light.

“Fuck—” he slurs, “—wait, fuckwait—” but he’s already shaking through his climax. He throws his head back, gives up, so he has no choice but to let you rub him through it.

This realization prolongs the throbbing in his cock and has him whining towards the end of the hot waves. For a long, endless moment you’re both (but mostly him) catching your breath. But then—once he has his mind back—he tugs his wrists free and gives your shoulders a weak shove.

You stumble a little, startled. “Oh, I thought you–”

You’re doing my laundry tomorrow,” he huffs, shedding his vest, undoing his buttons in a flurry then yanking his shirt over his head.

But when a beat passes without your reply, he watches you with his shirt bundled in his arms, good-natured, because he did like it.

“Well?” he says weakly. He’s struck by an odd sense of insecurity.

Your mind catches up from moments ago—from calling Levi a slut and him shaking in your hold, the heat you felt spill under his slacks—to this very moment in a flurry. Your cheeks heat like an oven.

“Yes,” you manage, taking the bundle from his arms once you’re close enough. “I just wanted to make sure that was okay. Clearly I was right.”

Better, actually. His adam’s apple bobs when he swallows; this between a neck riddled with hickies. “You’re being embarrassing.”

“Do you want to stop?”

He wants to ask what there is to stop exactly, but there’s a mischievous glint in your eye and he can feel he isn’t quite satisfied yet. Stamina like his can be a nuisance sometimes.

His endurance, too, is normally relentless, but not this time. Partially he blames you, but unsurprisingly, he’s a stranger to his own tastes. That much is clear.

You’re not mocking him either—behind your eyes or otherwise—which makes whatever you’re implying much more tempting.

Finally: “…I’m listening.”

“Undress, then.” You’re actually smirking. “On the bed.”

He pretends getting ordered around like this doesn’t make his knees weak, and follows your direction.

It’s pointless to act prude and fold everything, not with the state of his slacks and underwear (disgust and relief war inside him to be rid of them finally), so he shucks everything in the same pile by the foot of the bed, along with his socks and shoes.

You’re left in just a thin, silky blue slip when you push him on his back and crawl between his legs. Casually, you stroke his thighs until he parts them slightly, but he can read your nerves, and he feels clogged with them too.

“What’re you planning?” he murmurs, now half-hard and certainly not squirming at all. His inner thighs are glistening, mostly around the creases of his pelvis.

Honestly, you’re not completely sure. He gives it quite a bit of thought before shaking his head when you offer to try restraining his wrists above his head, and you get a shaky feeling imagining going any further than what you’ve tried so far. You imagine that’d be too much for him, too.

This is how you both agree, simply, to do as you please. His cock twitches a little against his thigh as your heavy tongue traces trails over his mess, speckling pecks, then long, open-mouthed draws of your tongue.

“Ah.” The hard muscles on his belly tense. He can’t quite bring himself to lay back than to watch you through thick lashes as you dutifully lap up his cum—now scraping your tongue through the wiry hairs below his navel.

Where your mouth goes, his skin cools, causing goosebumps to prick up.

It’s completely unlike how he licked you in the carriage—rushed and feverish—this time you’re clearly making it a point to work him up slowly. You kiss his big thighs almost innocently, nudging bruises into the pale skin with your teeth.

That’s the part that’s getting to him the most. He can’t recall ever being treated like this before. His elbow falls over his eyes, somehow embarrassed, thighs twitching.

Without his realizing, he’s inching them shut. He only realizes when you tell him gently, “None of that,” and gently pry them apart again. “Legs open, princess.”

His chest lifts. He doesn’t know what to do with himself besides exaggerate your request—using his absurd flexibility to his advantage to spread them much wider than you probably wanted—then feel his hips twitch up and into the soaked heat that closes around his tender cockhead. Just before, you called how he spread himself perfect.

A mumbled version of your name is smothered by his elbow, pleading. He’s still sensitive, wracked by overwhelming jolts so soon after just coming—but somehow, it feels good. He can’t help twitching away from your mouth, the feeling borders on pain, but you hold him still and it feels like liquid heat.

You lick into his slit, gently pumping the base. The only reason you pull off is to say his name. You want him to watch.

His lower half melts. Somewhere, he’s knuckling the sheets. If he allows you to look at him, he’ll just embarrass himself. He’s too exposed like this.

“I can’t.” He shudders. “It’s. You’re goin’ too slow.”

You lay your palms spread across his thick thighs. Muscles draw a little tense. “You want me to go faster?”

Somehow, you doubt he’s upset about any more than being touched like this. His fat cock, almost fully hard again, idles up high in the crease of his pelvis. It’s even leaking from the flushed head already.

You’re hot between your legs, but you don’t want this to be about you anymore. He deserves to be loved on too. You gently beckon him with his name.

“No,” he whispers, though it sounds more like a question. He peeks over his arm at you, hesitant. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” you lean over and kiss his forehead, “You don’t have to talk, or even look. I just want you to feel good.”

You wrap him in a tender fist, and his eyes fall into slits. “I already do.”

He can hear the smile in your voice. “You know what I mean, ‘Vi.” Your spare hand roams his strong chest, swiping over his nipple. He grunts. “I want you to do two things: tell me to stop, if you need to…”

His hips rock into your hand, face pinched. “I don’t.”

“If.” Your lips quirk. “And tell me when you get close, okay?”

He still doesn’t know what you’re planning—though, he suspects you intend to try something new—but he nods. That specific command makes him heat up. He wants to please you.

Another kiss, and then you’re back between his legs, still pumping him. Faster, then slower. He’s beside himself with impatience, waiting for what you’ll do. Then one stray finger, he feels, slips down to rub his taint, and his thighs nearly jerk shut again. His heart is in his ears.

You’re already there prying them apart. Then, still rubbing, sweet heat swallows in in his cockhead—already sucking. A soft moan dies in his throat, and blindly he’s groping for your shoulder, then the nape of your neck; not to push or pull, but for something to cling to. The sheets aren’t enough.

His mind is buzzing. You suck him in so tight, soft like velvet, sticky and buttery and warm. It’s not his first time getting similar treatment, but it’s different when it’s with you; when you treat his body like something to worship, and reel in his pleasure instead of roughly taking it.

It’s you eagerly lapping salty cum welled over his slit, your heavy tongue tracing that sensitive vein on the underside, your touch down below, alternating between gently massaging his balls and sweeping over his taint.

He still can’t bring himself to watch what you’re doing to him. Instead he feels you squeeze his ass in both hands while hollowing your cheeks around all you’ve taken so far, and he snaps his hips forward with a wet moan. This has his swollen girth pushing past your lips and over your tongue, bottoming out finally.

You only gag a little before going down on him harder, bobbing your head even, which has him throbbing under your tongue. His hand buries in your hair, panting hard. Another falls over your bulging cheek. He can feel himself just on the other side, a fiery realization that punches a gasp from his lungs.

Maybe his grip turns a little tight in your hair, maybe it happens just for the hell of it, but a long moan kisses the sticky heat swallowing his cock, and his head falls back. His hips rock and he tosses his head to the side.

Gasping, “I’m close.”

The sound that follows your mouth slipping off his cock makes his toes curl. At first he’s confused, then his climax fades and whittles away, and he’s filled with desperate disappointment.

“What—” He was staring at the backs of his eyelids so long the scarce lantern light on the bedside blinds him for a moment. Then he spots the self-satisfied smile you kiss his thighs with. “What’re you doing?”

“Making you feel good,” you rasp, going on smacking kisses that do nothing but frustrate him. “How about you just be patient, hm?”

A curse. Miserably, he squirms around, attempting to both earn back your mouth and distract from his red, swollen cock, but you can’t be swayed.

“That’s not—fair,” he tries, still watching you. No reply. Between a soft sigh, his hand falls over his chest, and he hisses his pleasure.

You most certainly don’t seem to mind, for you sigh too, breezily, and soothe a smarting bruise you left upon a scar with your tongue—that is, a deep indent years of ODM have impressed on his body. These stretch around both his thighs in double rings.

Where he needs you most—his cock, hard and glowing with spit, besides what cum has spilled over since your mouth left him—remains ignored.

His hips stutter. Both his nipples are sensitive to the very air from his pinching the next time he speaks, bright and peaked. “Fucking do something already.”

“Watch your tone, Levi.” Immediately, dark thrills shoot through his stomach. “I’ll leave you like this.”

He freezes. Chancing a glance down at your expression, he can tell you’re at least halfway serious, so he shuts up.

Three fingers abruptly fall over his taint, rubbing slow, hard, then buttery heat swallows in his balls. Your tongue massages them.

His hips nudge up, craving more, only for your other arm to pin him down by his waist and stay there. It draws a rough groan from his lips. He feels unbearably high all the sudden, up in clouds, drowning in sweltering waves.

He’s out of control, and he actually likes it. He’s in your hands.

Over the rush in his ears he can vaguely register his voice cracking between all the sounds he’s making. You’re not even touching him; you’re bowed between his legs, tonguing at his taint, kneading the firm flesh of his ass with two spread palms.

So, he plays around his weeping cockhead instead, smearing cum. His muscles ripple, lips parting with a shuddering moan. No part of his body wants him too, but he warns that he’s close again.

Your tongue was so dangerously close to dragging over a tight, much more sensitive spot too, which is why he whines so loud when you pull off. His lost climax feels so much more this time; his balls are heavy, cockhead as red as his lips, and he shivers, feeling you mindlessly rub his thighs and kiss his eyelids.

But you also brush his sweaty bangs off his forehead, and that’s much better at least.

Your voice is silk. “You’re so pretty like this, ’Vi. I wanted…” You laugh a little. “…I just always wanted you like this.”

He really likes that—knowing what he’s doing is right. Complaints are outside his mind. His eyes open now, but he looks away instinctively. “Well… you got it.”

And he really is pretty; with his pretty cock straining between thick, muscular thighs, these bruised in places. Above, where dark hair dusts up his navel, soft muscles twitch under your touch. His nipples are hard, as red as the lips he hooks his teeth into; these still a shade darker than the rich blush stretching over his face, down his bruised neck, sharp collar, heaving chest.

You find yourself admiring him more than his patience allows—if he has any left at all. The fact he warmed your heart by accepting a compliment without shying away confirms that. The trust he holds to let you worship and unravel him in this way puts a flutter in your chest.

Carefully, you wipe what tiny tears have pricked at the sides of his eyes. “Give me one more, I’ll let you come.”

Finally. “Then hurry,” he whispers without air. As for what he wants, what there is to ask for or what to say—he’s helpless. A wobbly feeling.

When your lips meet he grabs for you, rougher than he meant. His arms over your shoulders, gliding all over the silk that hugs your waist, lightly scratching down your back. He’s humming strained as you lick into his hot mouth, almost a whimper.

Your hand falls around his thick shaft, steady at first; slow enough to let him fuck your fist. Then, you abruptly speed up as if you mean to get him off right there, in a sloppy flurry. He’s teetering on the edge in moments.

A moan is wrenched from his chest, vibrating between your open mouths. “Ah, coming I’m gonna—” he gasps—

—But of course you stop, stealing the release he’s in dire need of and all his breath in your wake. He’s on the very cusp of begging. That’s why the relief when your hand wanders lower has him shivering. He craves something to do with his hands, but there’s nothing, so they clench into pointless fists behind your back instead. All that’s left is to cling and writhe.

You watch his jaw clench, and ask breathlessly, “Have you ever been touched here?”

He nods, aching too bad to lie or even consider lying. His pride died the exact moment you both stumbled through the door.

It’s up to you, whatever you wish to try, if anything. You don’t have to, and he reiterates this at least three times in the time it takes for you to kiss and lick back down his rippled body.

Also for the third time, you shake your head. Your heart is pounding; you’ve never tried, but you want to.

He squirms around to accommodate you, so his knees end up bent apart, his feet flat on the bed. This pleases you enough to hum where you’re licking; a place that already has him twitching and resisting the irresistible urge to whine.

Sensitive, reactive—as always. You’re glad to know you’re doing this right. He tastes good, like clean sweat and spice, all complimented by a heavy musk that belongs to only Levi. Wet smacking sounds.

“Yeah,” he whispers, and a hair lands lightly in your hair. Much of his earlier nerves sound like they floated away. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

His hole is pink and hairless. You sigh, unable to resist rubbing your thighs together. After spreading properly you glide your tongue over that very spot; once at first, to hear Levi’s low, punched cry; then you gain confidence and drag your tongue in even strokes up and down. Your surprise to feel it twitching under your tongue is burning hot.

He’s been so shamelessly loud since the third time you deprived him. Maybe this is even the loudest you’ve heard him, period. The most desperate. You shiver.

Your tongue circles his hole like you’re drunk, or that’s how much he’s squirming, and almost constantly, little sounds are punctuated with his breaths. All with abandon. It’s a challenge to force him still.

A tiny thrill shoots through your belly. You often forget that in any situation he can easily overpower you. This makes the fact he’s gasping and mashing your face flush with his tight entrance bordering on a mental aphrodisiac.

Shuddering, you let yourself go completely slack except for your lapping tongue; above you, he’s grinding his hips down on your heavy tongue, riding your face.

Your lips are swollen and tender, and spit dribbles down to your chin. It’s a challenge to breathe, but that problem is whisked from your mind when you realize just how loose and pliant he’s become.

After just a brief reprieve for air, you suction an obnoxiously loud kiss right between his cheeks, and a cry shatters the air before a hand abruptly tugs you away.

“Lev’—?”

Panting, he shakes his head helplessly, trembling all over. “…Too close. I, you didn’t—” he stops for air, “—I’m too close.”

You blanch. No wonder: thanks to your tongue, his hole is lewdly pink and glistening. Silvery cum has drooled all down his girth, and compared to his entrance the head blushes a swollen shade of red. It strains helplessly above his full, heavy balls.

“No, honey.” You wipe your mouth, and, not understanding his panic, reach for one of his hands. Immediately, his hold turns deathly tight. “I said one more, didn’t I?” A fretful pause. “‘m sorry, I should’ve been more clear.”

You’re doing nothing but holding his hand, yet he’s outright panting.

“You didn’t say I can,” he offers meekly.

Any moment it looks like he’ll shy away under his elbow again. You search his wide blue eyes, and sense his state of mind has definitely softened, or grown somehow weaker.

He seems almost fragile, so you’re determined to treat him as such. To some extent he’s right, too, so you reach forward and gently tug his arm while your hand makes a brief home in the absolute disaster that is his hair. With soft words you reassure him.

A stuttered sigh, and he shakes and shakes. A prick of clarity makes him realize he ruined the moment. For some reason, the guilt finds him like a punch in the gut. “Sorry.”

It’s almost endearing, but you shake your head—“Levi, angel,”—and bring your hand down to play around his slit.

First he gasps, then immediately tosses his head from side to side. It’s too good. He blushes a deep, dark shade of crimson.

“I’m not mad. You know how wet you’ve made me?—just by watching you?”

You keep talking, all in that sweet, buttery voice of yours. He barely hears, what you’re doing is so fiery and confusing. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. “N-No.”

You’re jerking his slippery cock properly now, bowing over and licking his hard nipple into your mouth. He clings to you and fucks your fist, his head thrown back. Ghostly sighs rise into half-weeping, half-moaning, falling from his parted lips.

“Keep making those pretty sounds,” you sigh by his ear, and, “You need it so bad, don’t you, angel?”

His nails dig into your arm, the one you throttle his cock with. Thick thighs hug your waist and he tosses his head feverishly, hips rutting. “Gonna—gonna come…! Don’t stop don’t—”

Suddenly he goes very still, his back draws into the tightest arch (nearly throwing your balance), followed by what can only be described as a soft wail from his open mouth. Even the wet sounds are smothered by him.

He shakes through the first wave with a hard shout into your sweaty neck, but even then he’d be heard if someone happened to pass the hallway beyond his office. Loud enough to be unmistakable, which is why you all but collapse on top of him and let him thrash and jerk and bow up underneath you.

The whole time he’s shooting ropes of cum between your bodies you’re cooing by his ear, working his pulsing cock. You’re close enough to feel his jaw slacken against your cheek and enjoy the sweetest moans that leave his parted lips.

“That’s right—” muffled, he’s moaning your name, “—that’s so fucking good, Lee.”

So messy. Heavy spurts of cum dribble down his cock until he’s weakly rocking into your tight fist. You’re watching avidly, not slowing at all.

“F-Fuck…”

With the receding waves he writhes in your arms, pretty sounds from his shiny lips dissolving to hiccuped sighs. There’s a heavy sheen of sweat on his temple you lick away, the unbridled bliss etched on his drawn brow falling gently slack, then tight again when you thumb his slit.

Breathlessly, “Can you give me one more, ‘Vi?” and he’s nodding, spreading his thighs, then shuddering when you guide his palm down around his twitching cock. It’s hardly gone down at all.

It takes nearly a minute, if even, while you’re hugging one of his thighs and licking around his hole. You even dare to reach between your thighs and use the thick wetness to breach the tight ring of muscles with two fingers.

His second climax is a testament to just how much you worked him up, especially since you were too worried about hurting him to finger-fuck him too hard, nor any deeper than your second knuckles.

He’s working his cock and desperately grinding down on your face when he shudders again and his muscles lock up tight. Your name, again.

A soundless cry with the first, pounding pulse of his second (technically his third) climax. It’s a white-hot heat—almost as strong as the last—that crests, then seizes his whole body in amazing tremors.

Where his thigh muscles are twitching hard through the last tremors, you slow your thrusts. They shake. You’re still partly drunk on the way his walls clamped down when he came.

Breathing hard, you manage to sit up and work them out from inside him while he reels.

Amidst the warm weightlessness he must feel everywhere, his softening cock pulses gently where it lays across his pelvis. His shaky gasps for air while he catches his breath is the loudest sound in your bedroom. The air positively reeks; of heavy sex, sweat, and—you huff gently to yourself—debauchery.

He’s melted, he’s convinced. Grasping for even a modicum of a thought, all he comes up with is the warm buzz wrapped all around him like a blanket on the inside; he can’t remember a time he’s ever been this tired. Pleasantly drained. His fingers twitch. Drowsy.

Then, he hears his name quietly murmured from the side. You’re carefully soft in all you do, including touching him; your hand on his waist is enough to break his skin in goosebumps.

He surfaces from a thick warm place to you gently tracing his brow with your thumb. Then your voice and the words attached finally register: “—did so good, Levi. So good.”

A sleepy sound he’s never heard himself make rumbles in his throat somewhere. He needs a long breath before his eyes finally crack open.

Then he spots it: the cool thing gliding over his middle is evidently a rag you retrieved between his utter blackout and now.

“Are you okay? That was a lot.”

“I.” His muscles sing when he shifts. If it’s possible for his dick to be sore, it’s sore, and there’s sweat pasted to his skin, especially his back. He feels used, in the best of ways.

Shutting his eyes again is an appealing idea, but you look very spent, and very very beautiful.

Finally he blinks at you and mumbles, “Kiss,” like he can do much more than quirk his lips a little while you lean down and give him what he needs.

“Bath?”

“Can’t move. Your fault,” he mutters, but as he says this he meagerly tries anyway. He ends up braced on his elbows, stomach dropping from just how sweaty, messy, and especially hickey-ridden he is. “Ugh. Gross.”

You’re still wiping streaks of cum off his pelvis. “So this is gross, but I’m not?”

He feels weightless and glowing. Like a golden light. “It doesn’t taste good,” he settles on.

You pause and gawk at him. “You tried it?”

There is nothing even the least bit intelligent he can say to defend himself, so he lays down again. The sheets are too damp for him not to make a face under his veiny forearm he’s slipped over his eyes.

You ask if he’s alright. A nod. More than anything his eyes are weighted by stones. The last time he slept properly was two nights ago and you fucked his brains out just now—he’s so thrilled to finally sleep.

A thread of feeling makes him a little sorry he can’t do anything for you, but you shush him before he can even be done talking.

“Let me clean up, and change the bedspread at least.” You trace his jaw. “Clean clothes?”

Tonight his world flipped right side up, everything that locked into place, rolled over, changed. But, he’s at least going to shower off. He doesn’t want to fall asleep before you, either. Doing nothing isn’t how he’s wired.

A pause before you nod. When you kiss him next, your lips don’t glide together as much as lock lazily. You both need rest.

So, while you put on fresh bedspread and clean up, he sighs when rushing hot water hits him, then washes down his body like a waterfall.

He doesn’t need but five minutes, but he regrets not inviting you in here with him. All by themselves his fingers hold a tremor still, like his mind has neglected to quite catch up from the onslaught you gave him; maybe he’s still back on that roof even.

He cried, he was so happy, and you did too. His throat tightens now like he wants to cry, but for polar opposite reasons too profound to describe.

It’s an awful yearning. It would be easy for him to believe, even, that you’ve somehow disappeared into thin air and don’t plan on coming back. This horrible emptiness is cold mud.

Afterwards, he steps back into the dim room while the mirror is still steamed up, and smothers the hell he feels; you only need a few minutes to shower. The candles you lit are like little stars—he smells soft lavender and fresh vanilla. You kiss him with a smile.

He’s shucked on fresh underwear, but he feels a little lost when he throws a look at the neatly made bed. Laying down means sleep, which means falling asleep before you, but before all else he’ll lay there alone.

The feeling still hasn’t left him, so that idea for some horrible reason, is more than enough to leave him standing, despite how he wavers.

Instead, he stupidly idles by the bathroom door for a long while, clenching and unclenching his trembling hands, waiting.

It blindsides him. He’s low and depressed, clingy, and not in the way he’s used to, not in a way that’s good anymore. Heaven’s gates only open when the water finally cuts off.

Breathing hard, he’s looking aimlessly at a bookshelf, the window, the floor in fast rotations. His legs are jelly.

Then you open the door and you must be surprised to find him just standing there. Your eyes grow a touch wide directly to concern.

“Levi, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, or his eyes. “Nothing. I just—” But it’d be stupid for him to miss you. “—I don’t know.”

You step very close and rub his shoulders, to which he immediately melts. At once he goes very slack in your embrace, tugging at your sweatshirt, then anywhere he can reach, really. A gust of relief falls over his chest to be squeezed so tight.

You ask, but in no way did you do anything wrong. Your shoulder turns into a pillow for his head while you suggest he’s much more sensitive (Stupid, he’s apt to correct you, but doesn’t) after so much. Like a raw nerve.

“You could’ve told me,” you try, a little hurt.

A sigh. What he wants to say gets garbled somewhere, so ends up overlapping two sentences at once: “Don’t need to worry about me,” crosses with, “Didn’t want to worry you.” It’s better he just stop talking, he decides.

A precious kiss to his forehead. “Let me take care of you.”

“We can’t drop everything every time something’s wrong,” he grumbles, but also puts up no fight to be pushed down into bed, under the covers, then tucked so close to your side he can feel your slow breaths drift across his cheek.

You nod, because you know that. “But you don’t need to hide.”

“Neither do you,” he retorts. His eyes shut as soon as he settled into the mattress, but he cracks them now to make sure you agree. Softly, you hum.

This is so much better than before. He doesn’t have to think when you’re cocooned in thick blankets, not while you stroke his back in lazy circles. To the bottoms of his feet he’s very warm all over, even inside.

In kind, you sigh blissfully and rest your hand on his nape. His arm is a firm, protective fixture around your waist, and lower, your legs are even tangled. It tickles to move.

Persistently, he’s just barely trembling. Nothing is wrong, but it’s not quite right.

He tries again. “Are you…good?” Alright or Okay are dull words.

“I’m good,” you snort a little. Many, many leagues above good, in fact. “But your legs are hairy.”

“Get lost then,” he sighs. A shadow of a ghost of a retort he actually means.

This makes you laugh, which encourages him to admit it. He hides in the crook of your neck.

“It’s too good,” he whispers, and nuzzles a little. This is a secret he’s telling you. He repeats himself. “It’s too good.”

At his cheek he can feel you smiling lopsidedly. “What, the sex…?”

“No,” he scoffs. “Or, yes. All of it.”

As soon as the words leave him, affection grips your heart and you want, terribly, to tell him you love him. You’re stunned into silence.

You’re not one to hide your feelings: if he did something wrong you’d be the first to admit it hurt, and you were the one to chase him as much as he tried to pull away when what you share was still blooming.

Years later, the first time he ever broke down to tears before you was over a month ago, right around the time you first tried intimacy; much less, your relationship only took its first breath hours ago.

You’ve loved him for a long time.

“Oh,” you say, a little tearfully.

He goes like a board and stiffens. Feverishly he searches for a reason that may upset you, but finds none.

It’s been ‘too good’ for a long time. Yet, he still struggles to mold a racing heart and sweaty palms into something definable. He’s never admitted this out loud until now.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he gathers, unmoving. He’s frayed glass.

He prepares for you to pull away and stumble through some kind of denial, but you only do so to kiss him so hard he’s pushed back a little by the force of it.

“Not at all.” You’re still kissing him all over his plump cheeks and the cupid’s bow above his lips.

The way you look at him hurts, it’s too good. He never wants you to stop looking at him like that.

“You’re good,” you say.

His eyes fall shut, dazed and warm and sleepy. He whispers back, “Yeah,” even though he means, “You too,” and muses to himself that if you both had more time to settle, he could learn to believe that.

For once in his life he could relax and be normal. If you had more time, you yourself could live your life unapologetically. Your emotions tear through you like you fight without armor or even skin—you feel heartache like a raw nerve feels a strike—and if there was time, you could leave your ball and chain behind.

But every hour is a privilege, every passing day trickling down an hourglass. Time is precious, let alone times of peace that allow for such faraway dreams.

He again thinks, and he again can’t imagine a world or chain events that didn’t lead to this very moment: the two of you.

Soft blankets scrape his chin. Upon a weightless sigh, he pulls you closer into his strong arms.

Time is precious. All of this. He thinks, I’m a fucking fool, because, like he confessed on the rooftop, he would rather suffer than regret this life with you; barreling towards the blinding end of a fight that he, nor you, may very well never see.

In any other circumstance, it is foolish. But his feelings can’t be changed.

No regrets, indeed.

Chapter End Notes

PLEASE COMMENT IF U CRIEF of if you liked it (👉👈)

btw:

after this series is over, i have some short stories(?) aka add-ons to the universe i wrote up some time ago, and will post here! im excited.

all of me

Chapter Summary

Just when you think you know everything about each other, Levi has a way of surprising you after a close call. In wake of the worsening odds against the Titans, you “punish” him for taking an unnecessary risk.

Chapter Notes

i call this the ‘learning to unconditionally love every fact of each other’ chapter in addition to the more general name of the fic, 'levi therapy hour’. alternatively, the 'oh my god, is that a reference to canon??😱’ chapter.

it’s autumn year 849.

originally this chappy was gonna be split in 2 parts, but since every other chap is centered in one period of time b/n longer stretches (because it’s an anthology, duh), i decided the last one is too separate to call it pt2.

BUT this is the real bonafide guaranteed second-to-last chapter. i mean it this time lol. that one is v close to being finished (i am stubborn and refuse to finish the closing paragraphs w/out finishing the one last singular scene, which.. is smut) and im thinking mid june or so!

ps: for all intents and purposes of getting railed by levi, pregnancy doesnt exist.

warnings:

-minor injuries

-some descriptions of dissociation/reaction to post-traumatic events

-minor character death

-nervous breakdown

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Your first time is that following autumn, in all its golden-browns, dashes of fiery red, and silver skies. The summer season had finally burnt itself out, and it was time to breathe a sigh of relief for another season you both left still fighting.

Levi returned in the early evening from a days-long trip to Mitras on official business between him and the Commander. With paperwork out of the way, you had made a warm, filling dinner (with real butter, too, though meat was too expensive)—for no other reason than you had missed him, and you knew how irritating he finds those trips.

Afterwards, in bed, he stirred against you and leaned over to kiss. You kissed him harder. It was certainly no surprise when he crawled between your bare thighs, hands stroking up and down your freshly-shaved legs—nor when he pulled away and asked, “Did you change your mind while I was gone?”

You knocked away the covers, as it’d quickly grown too muggy, and shook your head, heart suddenly pounding.

Before he left days before, you had asked his thoughts on going further than you ever had in the past, on him being inside you. His eyes had grown a touch wide, but he had nodded, and since he had been gone, the anticipation took over your mind.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t nervous.

“You think you need more?” he asks now, earnest, but his voice is muffled against your slit, lapping, then suckling over your puffy clit. He licks in maddeningly hot, lazy circles.

You shudder with a light cry, hands in his hair combing it backwards. His heavy tongue has you clenching down around his three fingers that slowly fuck into you.

“No.” At least, you don’t think so—he’s been so thorough, and so fucking careful—but the bunches of butterflies fluttering in your chest want to say otherwise.

You stammer, “T-Two times not enough for you?”

“Believe me…” He sits up on his haunches, three fingers curling inside you, his other hand idly pumping his red, swollen cock. “It is.”

You make a blind grab for the sheets and rock your hips to meet him. “Then hurry.”

He licks his swollen lips and gently withdraws his fingers. While clambering on top of you, he nonchalantly licks your sweet cum from them, though his nerves beat like a racehorse in his chest.

Your hand replaces his around his reddened shaft, the slide so easy from how much he’s leaked all over himself. More than before, you take in his size and realize how thick he is.

“Levi,” you whisper.

He rocks into your loose hand, and sighs in bliss. “Yeah.”

“C’mere,” you plead, but before you can finish your buttery lips are already moving together.

“But you—” kiss, “—stop me—” kiss, ”—for any reason.”

You admire the sheen of sweat on his hairline, the heat on his cheeks, the slope of his jaw, and almost forget to reply. “You say that every time, and guess what happens every time?”

“This is different.”

“Nu-uh. Same, ‘cause it’s you.”

With a huff, he hoists your knees a touch higher around his slender hips and lines his cock up level with your mound—to see how deep he’ll go. You shiver.

He cradles your hip as he feels you draw tense. “I assure you it is.”

Your teeth hook into your bottom lip. You’re so damn nervous, it’s easier to think so. Levi will take care of you, though. That’s guaranteed.

“I’m nervous,” you surrender. “But it’s probably not much different, right?”

He shakes his head into the shade of your neck; even without knowing what it’s like with a woman, he’s confident you’re wrong.

In return, you throw one leg over his back, digging your heel in.

“Hey,” he gasps, “you can’t just—”

You drag him that much closer, caging him in with both arms and thighs. Between your spread legs his hips involuntarily twitch towards, then grind down against your sticky wet slit. He nudges your clit with the head, just to see how you’ll react, and your hips bow up against his, whining miserably.

To reassure him, you massage his lips with yours. You don’t want to feel anxiety crushing you while you ache and clench for him around absolutely nothing. You need him. You need him.

“C’mere,” you beg again, and he lines himself up. Something hot, round and hard catches on your rim, and then pushes inside.

Levi’s desire pounds between his thighs and thunders in his ears. The drag is hot, soaking wet, and hugs his cock so tight that his jaw falls completely slack.

He’s certainly never felt this before.

For a moment his mind is utterly blank, reeling, and you cling onto him so tight.

“Fuck,” you croak by his ear. He’s only halfway. “It’s so big.”

He says nothing—if he opens his mouth a string of noises will tumble out; showing how good he feels when you’re not there yet doesn’t feel right—and cradles you between both thick biceps, panting hard. It’s like your pussy is tightening to suck him deeper inside.

You shakily whine his name, seeking purchase by the strong planes of his back.

All you can think of is the uncanny feeling of your body stretching to take him. Levi isn’t big by most standards, but he makes up for it in thickness, and it’s plump even while flaccid.

It feels like he’s splitting you in half. Like all that preparation hardly made a dent in this blindly intense feeling. He was right.

“I know, it’ll feel better soon. Jus’ a little more, sweetheart.”

He watches your features carefully and bullies his hand between you to fall over your mound. In firm, easy circles he strokes you, kisses your temple, then the side of your parted lips. “That better?”

A sigh is punched from your lungs. “Yes.”

Pleasure licks up your spine when your hips finally kiss. He’s here. “Levi, Levi.”

He says your name in return, his breath fanning over your face. It’ll get better from here. His hand moves away from your clit upwards to cradle the back of your head.

You crack your eyes open, only to find his shut above you, jaw tight and features pinched in pleasure. His bangs dangle in his eyes, so you push them back, and his eyes flutter open.

Bright eyes the color of twilight blink back at you, his pupils like two round black pools. It doesn’t feel like much else needs to be said.

His calloused fingers hug the thick of your thigh, where you’re shaking slightly. “I’m gonna go slow at first. Relax—can you do that for me?”

His endless care is anything but lost on you, which helps you relax all by itself. You nod, physically going soft and lax in his arms.

A small gasp sounds against your lips to feel you throb gently around him. He will last, certainly, but never did he imagine it’d feel this good before even properly starting. It frazzles his mind as much as it seems to do yours.

“Baby,” you groan, scraping down his back. “Move.”

Experimentally, he grinds into all that heat. You whimper. Then he goes further, rolling his hips, and rocks in slow, shallow thrusts to the feeling of your own twitching up to meet him halfway.

Actually doing this, there was nothing—and is nothing—he feared more than hurting you at all. Pain should never be a given in this, like he falsely assumed in the past—which is why he burns brightly to take in the pinched bliss on your face now; even though he wants to lay you back and slam into you so bad.

“There you go,” he murmurs, hot breath fanning over your lips. “Good. That’s my girl.”

A soft moan falls off your lips. Pleasure apart from the feeling of Levi rocking into you, but just as intense, writhes in your chest. Your walls flutter hard around where he’s begun to properly fuck you, and then he catches your rim, and your hips abruptly buck up into him.

A louder groan rumbles by your ear. “Fuck, you’re so tight—”

“Please! F-Fuck me so good.”

Deeper, faster he buries himself inside you enough to hear his balls slap against your pelvis. If you want more, he will give it to you gladly. Hearing you beg for him, moan his name, winds him up hotter and hotter.

For once, his embarrassment evaporates—it doesn’t even register. It’s how sweet your voice and how good your cunt feels taking him so deeply, so readily.

All of it: all of him, all of you.

The bedframe whines, and he can’t remember when, but at some point your palm snakes over his forehead, tossing his bangs back so you can grab a good handful and coax him in for another breathtaking kiss. Immediately you take his bottom lip between his teeth, and his mouth parts obediently to let you in.

“Fuck,” he groans. You can’t even think to lick into his hot, sticky mouth and rather gape into his mouth, crying out when he slams into that perfect spot. “Right there?”

Your ankles lock around his lower back, moaning shamelessly right by his ear, which is enough of an answer. He squeezes your inner thigh, spreading you wide open, which changes the angle enough for him to slam into that perfect spot every time.

“Yes!” you gasp in approval, head falling back to expose your neck to him. Your chests heave together, and it suddenly and swiftly registers in your mind—he’s fucking you, taking you, on top of you, all around you. You feel yourself getting close.

He feels you too—that subtle lift in your back and the added sting of sweet pain from your tight hold on his dark hair. Where he grinds, his thrusts, splitting your pussy wide open, he feels you spasm and tighten.

“Look at me,” he begs quietly by your hairline. Heat rolls through him. Quieter, “Please.”

You pry your eyes open half-lidded, and you do—you look deeply into his soft, blazing eyes, inspiring your whole body to shudder. A hot blush paints his sharp features, tight from pleasure.

Just watching him somehow hurls you closer to the point of no return. His pink lips are perpetually parted for you, and once, his eyes flutter, a fragile moan escaping, and you grab for his hand. He locks them on the pillow beside your head in response.

Your tits bounce along with his quick thrusts. You try to tell him you’re close, but you can’t. Each sound ripped from you is punctuated by another wet slam of his hips.

A grunt is punched from his chest, so much so his sweaty forehead falls on yours and his rhythm skips. He’s about to come, too.

“Fuck—” He noses your cheek, panting, “—you hear yourself? Fucking gushing around me—”

“Yeah, yes.” You paw for his sturdy shoulders as heat like an electric bolt rolls over your whole body, drawing you up tight. His fat cock splits your sticky cunt now in a flurry of hard thrusts. You uncontrollably struggle to writhe when a hand bullies itself between your bodies, and the frantic attention he gives your clit shoves you into your climax, dashing your vision in bright white.

“Fuck!” He slams into your cunt, “Good fucking girl.”

You don’t have enough mind to hear yourself let go, but Levi does—the loud cry ripped from your throat, your babbled whimpers, and his name and his name and his name being moaned at the ceiling. You’re so fucking loud that if someone was walking past, the sound would be unmistakable.

You writhe so fucking hard in his arms that he has to hold you down to fucking you through the silky-soft spasming of your cunt. You go so nice and tight, practically milking him, and combined with the rest runs his blood white-hot.

His end hits him close behind yours. It slams into him hard and sudden, making his cock surge, making him gasp. His hips stutter and his balls give a deep throb, and then he falls into it just as you’re coming down from yours.

Shaking and shuddering, these little mewls fall off your lips as you get to watch his jaw fall slack and utter bliss take over his blushing face. You get to hear a loud, rasping moan above you and feel him fuck you to completion, then his hot cum shooting deep inside your pussy, making your toes curl. So much, and a little more.

And then, when all that’s left is for him to slow and the swift heavy sounds of both your breaths, you feel him throb softly as he starts to soften inside you. His face is shaded in your neck, and neither of you move at first. Your sweaty hands are still squeezed.

He makes a noise. Idly, he realizes the mess that’s begun to dribble out between where you’re both connected, and pulls out slowly, rubbing the tremors out of your thighs.

Softly, you whimper at the sudden sense of loss you feel, stroking his messy hair with tingling fingers. A completely whole sense of warmth drapes over you now, leaving you sleepy.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly from beside you. He feels it’s the right thing to do no matter what.

“Yes,” you whisper, and roll over towards him. You squirm to feel it—a creamy mix of his mess and yours caking your inner thighs. You’re a little sore, but completely fucking satisfied. Your limbs are heavier than steel.

He shakily shuffles out of bed, and you stay still, spreading your legs so he can clean you up with a lukewarm washcloth. After he seems satisfied with his own state, you lug yourself up into a sit and kiss him tenderly.

It’s slow, and it’s lazy, but it rattles you to the core.

Levi still occasionally gets overwhelmed after. He stutters to pull away first, looking spent in a strained way, doesn’t reach out to touch you. Only if you initiate—this time by stroking his sinewy arm does he relax slightly.

“Are you okay?” you ask him in return, and immediately he nods, eyes softly closed. You take his cheek towards you and kiss his forehead reverently, like you mean to bless him, before you decide to take a bath.

He, ironically, likes bubbles and soaps with the softest smells; mostly fresh daisies and sweet smells. After helping you into the blissfully hot water, causing you to sigh softly, he sinks in behind you.

Washing has to ask for less time. As he does your hair, you take a small handful of bubbles and plop them on top of his head.

He is thoroughly nonplussed by this. “You’re such a brat,” he tells you quietly, in that same tone he uses to compliment you.

You shift back around, rocking the water, and hum as a pair of strong arms close around your waist. “My legs are still shaking.”

And for that, Levi clearly doesn’t give himself enough credit.

With one wide palm he rubs the aches out, and busies the other with smoothing your hair back so no shampoo stings your eyes. It took quite a bit of practice for him to get both good and gentle at doing it; he used to wash Isabel’s hair, but that was a long time ago.

“Thanks,” you murmur. Bubbles wobble around when you shift to make room so he can stretch his legs.

In reply, he kisses the shell of your ear. It’s nice, but it can’t last forever, either. An expedition is coming up soon—the last of the summer season.

You’ll be breathing clean air while your comrades’ blood is spilled for two weeks straight.

—

And spilled it is.

You haven’t seen running water or a warm bed in almost two weeks since departing from Karanese District. Some days are better than others, even some mornings less dire than nights, but considering how little you can bring yourself to sleep out here, you catch yourself thinking of it as one eternal, bloodsoaked day often.

However, today was—to put it lightly—especially dire.

The night is humid. The sun stole away the worst of the heat a while ago, but the air is thick, leaving dew staining the grass. Your mind is muddy, abandoned on the battlefield, but the adrenaline never really dries up outside the Walls. You could spring into battle the very next moment if the situation called for it.

The tent flap collapses shut behind you. As soon as the strategy for tomorrow and the day after was charted, Levi pushed himself off the wall and fled.

You always give him space when he needs, and you had concerns for the Commander: mainly a couple of caches that were abandoned after Maria fell, and whose retrieval was the main objective of this expedition.

But after today, you’re breaking that rule.

Levi being Levi, no one questions what he does. It’s like him to skip pleasantries, but he isn’t waiting for you outside the tent, nor at the makeshift canteen (a glowing bonfire) where watery stew and ration crackers are being handed out.

It’s easy to pinpoint when things went awry, which makes the fact that you don’t understand what exactly happened all the more frustrating.

ODM was nearly useless in those long stretches of plain green fields. What made the situation more precarious was the old riverbank in the area that—back before Maria fell—used to carry ferries back and forth between districts with a metal pulley system. Given its size, it’s impossible to cross, and the rushing water is a drowning risk if the underlying metal didn’t break your back first.

And that’s exactly where Titan numbers grew overwhelming today. At the time, Gunther and Petra were elsewhere in the formation to assist other squads, leaving you, Eld, and Levi to yourselves.

With every step, if you focus hard enough you can still feel giant footsteps rattle your bones. Shitty luck had it that you were swatted by an Abnormal close enough to the steep riverside to be hurled into the water like a stone into a pond.

When you were a girl, your father’s political standing with the royal government allowed you the privilege to take swimming lessons. They would have, for once, proven useful if your loose wires hadn’t tangled you in a steel web after you hit water.

One free arm and as little as you could kick your feet didn’t mean a thing as you were tossed from rapid to rapid. Weeds and algae had infested in the absence of the ships, making what sparse rocks there were too slippery to grab.

You’re sometimes pushed to believe that Levi is attached to you not by heart or feeling, but an invisible twine. Lack of air combined with the constant red flood of adrenaline dragged the nightmare out exponentially, but you were told later it was a minute, if that, before Levi did one of the most reckless things he’s done in a long time and dove in after you.

In his defense, Eld told Levi that he couldn’t swim, so Levi lied and said he could. Otherwise, you would’ve drowned. Eld covered your backs during that time.

You remember a force stronger than the rapids taking hold of you, you remember hacking out lungfuls of water, shouting, the shove and yank of the water, and the scrambling—for something, anything. Dirt, even now, stays clotted underneath every single one of your fingernails—except two, for you no longer have them.

The only thing he did that was more bad than good was hold onto you, causing the tangled wires to be pulled tight like a snake around its meal. It was you who managed a snag on a fat, bulbous root wider than your palm could wrap around, but he was the one who plunged his sword into the wall of muddy earth, snapped his blade in half, and cut you free as much as the chaos you were neck-deep in allowed.

He ordered you, hold still, and then dread, as thick as oil. You don’t remember how he lost his hold on you—it all happened so fast—but as if in slow motion you can easily recall pivoting downstream, your palms greased from the wet earth in order to save your savior.

Levi can’t swim.

But then the surface of the water broke in the center of it all. Your shoulder is still killing you from where he first seized, then hauled you back to the wall with one arm, the other pushing the water aside.

You hadn’t froze up in years in battle, not until today, because who was carrying you just wasn’t Levi—not with glowing, unseeing marble in place of his eyes, not saying a word, not with that look on his face.

The next thing you knew, air was punched from your lungs with the force you were thrust upwards. Dirt smeared your cheek in ugly clumps and you clawed for purchase—ripping out earth for all you cared—waterlogged equipment and all.

Despite the fear running through your blood, you were about to call out to him when earth squelched and his elbow hooked around yours. He was himself again, with the command to either shed your gear or move faster.

So, you leaped. Wildgrass, stringy and thick, was all you needed—besides him shoving you by the bottom of your boot—to swing yourself over the precipice like a climb out of hell.

He was still normal when you literally dropped your arm over the edge and helped him the rest of the way—eyes sharp and determined, but still normal. If he hadn’t been, you have the feeling now that he wouldn’t have even needed your help.

That was somehow scarier to imagine.

Eld, blood steaming off his face, rode by on horseback to escort you due to the wretched state of your bloody hands. Levi stayed behind to clean up the rest of the Abnormals.

There’s nothing anyone should, or even could discuss in the heat of battle, but you still waited for a second look, something, even though that was foolish.

At first, you managed to convince yourself it was the white-hot adrenaline, or the pain so sharp it made your working mind feel somehow outside your body that conjured up what you saw. But after emerging from sleep in one of the wagons for the injured, you refused to doubt.

Levi is strong, but no one is unstoppable.

This rift wasn’t because you were slow to react for those few moments, or even that you let your only vantage go to save his life. In fact when the two of you next spoke—before charting strategies with Erwin and the rest, but after the sun sank into the earth—he didn’t seem to understand at all beyond what was only obvious to him.

He asked, “How bad is it?”, and all you could bring yourself to do was shake your head. It felt so hard just to look at him; you were afraid if you did, you would see that other person again.

You haven’t spoken since, but to be fair you needed to recoup, to gather your wits again like a bunch of loose feathers. For all the scrapes, cuts, and contusions, you put the most energy into processing that power that overtook him for those few precious seconds. You struggled.

But it’s time to do something.

You grip the belts of the ODM tethered around your waist so you don’t end up picking at your bandaged fingers. Nervous habit.

You can’t forgo what little reprieve from the fight you now have without discussing it, and it’s guaranteed Levi won’t be the one to instigate the conversation—not until his frustrations completely boil over. He’s always needed help communicating, and this is certainly no exception.

Near the barricade at the entrance to the village is where you find him, seated on a log before one of the smaller campfires. It’s not necessary: where buildings don’t cover, makeshift barriers stand, and green capes in full ODM stand posted around the perimeter, but Levi is nothing if not vigilant.

“Hey,” you say.

He grunts, not so much as twitching at your approach. The roles are reversed now: he can’t seem to look at you.

You both bathe in the heat from the fire in silence until you can’t take the quiet anymore. Hands on your hips, you watch the flames. “You saved me today.”

“You would’ve done the same.”

“That’s not the point,” you argue calmly, making yourself heard over the crackling firewood. “You can’t swim.”

Dirt scuffs behind you. Once his warm palm lands on the nape of your neck, tears immediately spring to your eyes. You feel yourself pull towards him—something almost scarily inevitable, like gravity pulling rain to the earth.

You return the gesture and sway there gently in silence. Both of you smell like dead fish dipped in blood, leather squeaks, and your gear clunks together, but neither of you care.

“Your injuries?” he asks against your lips, a little blandly.

You sway a little. “I’ll live.”

In response, he bullies the fingers on his free hand under the belt tethered by your hip, and holds you there.

In terms of an apology, he won’t give you one: there is no risk from today that he wouldn’t take all over again, but in terms of an explanation, he can’t.

“I just… knew what I had to do,” he attempts to explain, only to watch the look on your face turn pensive.

He recalls the look on your filthy face, eyes blown wide in fear once back on solid ground. By the time he rejoined the formation and you woke up, it hadn’t gone away, not completely.

A fear of his own seizes him, so he pulls away. He can’t look at you. He fears that if he does, he will see it oozing from your expression again.

Very rarely does he see you truly afraid. You’ve almost met death multiple times. It’s him, it must be, because he can’t fucking swim and yet he saved both your lives despite every facet of the situation that should have made survival impossible.

In that moment, he felt, or was, unstoppable. He’s felt that way before, and you’ve seen him do the impossible before—he fails to understand what’s so different this time.

“What is it?”

He makes his voice carefully even, but you know him better. You take a steadying breath before launching into an explanation of your side of the story: what you saw, how you didn’t believe it at first, and how you felt—how the fine hairs on the back of your neck stood up when he grabbed you, how your blood froze and how astounding his sudden strength.

Now he’s sitting, arms crossed over his knees while you scuff the dirt with the toe of your boot. When you describe the way he looked, he asks, “What was wrong with them?” and you look away.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

He frowns. “Spit it out.”

“It was like you weren’t even there. They—well, glowed.”

Silence. You attempt to make the one-sided conversation light. “It’d be impressive, if it wasn’t life-or-death, of course.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” he admits quietly, barely audible over even the crickets.

Shadows dance across his face as you ask what he means by that.

He shakes his head and repeats himself like a broken record. He never remembers those moments. It’s an experience only comparable to spectating your own falling body while it expertly kicks and flails in search of solid ground.

Maybe it isn’t that he knew what he had to do, but his body. It acts sometimes without his permission, but only to defy death when he himself cannot. At that point he’s instinct alone, an empty mind, a blank slate.

“Have you ever had moments like that?” he ventures to ask, not looking at you because he’s confident what you’ll say.

You give it some genuine thought, raking through your memories. “No, Lee. I haven’t.”

As he thought. He says nothing, but scooches to make room for you to sink down on the log beside him. You ask why.

“Forget I asked.” If you were scared of him then, or now as you described it, then there’s the possibility of tomorrow; it’s better the conversation ends here.

You drape your bandaged hand over his scraped knuckles. “It’s okay,” you say.

Levi measures the breaths he takes. There must already be alarms going off in your head, alerts that he’s upset, but you wouldn’t understand no matter what he said. He understands it very little himself.

“It really was impressive,” you go on, squeezing a little despite the pain. “And I wanna know what you think.”

“Were you scared?”

You look up, but his hollow eyes are on the fire. The way he’s turned only lets you see half of his face.

Feeling frayed, “Everyone’s scared to die, aren’t they?”

“Not dying.”

“…You mean—” your heart falls, “—of you?”

He says nothing. Frowning deeply, you carefully put your hand on his shoulder, giving him the freedom to shrug you off, which he does, albeit hesitantly.

“Levi—”

He stops you. “You’d have every right to, if you were. Or are. Don’t spare my feelings because you’re—you.”

“I wouldn’t,” you protest. It stings that he assumes you’d lie.

“I know.” His expression turns hollow. “I’m just saying I’d get it—if you were scared. I didn’t know all that until you said it. So, if you’re scared—”

You’re happy to hear him out until he starts to repeat himself.

“Levi, stop.” You shake your head, incredulous with him. “That’s ridiculous.”

He scoffs.

“I mean it. I’ve never actually been scared of you; except in the beginning, maybe.”

Who wasn’t? One time, a Scout remarked that Isabel was a ‘snot-nosed bitch’ within Levi’s earshot, and he marched right up to the guy and said nothing before kicking the absolute shit out of him. He was put on medical leave for weeks.

In no way does he look or sound amused, but at least he doesn’t rebuke you. You go on, remaining truthful: the situation itself was at the root of the terror you felt, not him. In that moment, yes, you were scared, but it never crossed your mind that he would hurt you.

“Would I be here if I was scared of you?”

He scans your expression for a hint of exaggeration or doubt, but finds none. This conversation is new to you both, not because he went out of his way to hide it from you, but he always excused those blank moments away as heightened instincts.

He’s used to it, that power. He was as defenseless as any kid before it awakened in him. As for you, he can’t recall ever being in such close proximity when those instincts took over—not surprising, since it’s near-impossible to keep your eyes on each other when there’s a battlefield raging around you.

“Why did you ask if I’ve ever had a moment like that before?”

Levi looks away, feeling his eyes ache when he closes them. “It’s kind of unbelievable.”

“Try.”

Your pinkie closes around his own, and he links them. “The guy who raised me had those moments too.”

He opens his eyes. There are a plethora of reasons why Levi would rather not think of himself as related to Kenny in any way. He felt that way before he left him too, but the difference is that assuming he was explained away why he saved his life. Few things could explain why Kenny left.

So that conclusion is trembling, it’s cruel, and it’s shameful. It was enough that he had to come to the conclusion that Kenny left him that day because he couldn’t measure up to the strength he always spoke so highly of.

“…Can I ask a more personal question?”

“Try.”

“Did—your mom ever mention anything?”

For an endless stretch of time, he doesn’t reply. His knitted brow tells you he’s wracking his memory for something, anything. If not something about the power, then anything out of the ordinary.

“I was too young, so not really.”

You quirk a brow suggestively. Not really isn’t a Not at all.

“She told me once that she forgot our family name when I was born. Whatever the history was, she didn’t want to pass on to me,” he finally says, then pauses. “So, as I said, not really.”

And you know even less. You decide to let this topic go. “How I feel about you is the furthest thing from scared,” you murmur.

He gives you a small, meaningful glance, then nudges your temple with his lips. “Thank you.”

You rest there in silence for some time, just like that. Crickets sing their songs and lightning bugs blink in the darkness. It’s still sinking in that you’ve both made it through another day. He doesn’t want to forget, so he can’t bring himself to admit he needs to be alone right now. Not yet.

“Will you sleep?”

He gives you a look, because you know the answer to that question. Still, you encourage that he get a few hours at least.

“Later.”

If he’s not mistaken, a majority of the force is sleeping in barns, so he’s in no hurry.

You kiss his temple, and leave him.

Levi makes himself at home in his head until his backside falls asleep and the flames die down in the heart of the logs.

He’ll never know the answers—hell, if only he knew the questions. Power—the power—was Kenny’s religion, if some idiot could ever think him a religious man. Kenny loved to talk, but he never bothered to tell Levi anything important those years he looked after him. He never even learned Kenny’s last name.

It doesn’t matter, he reasons, because no matter the reason he possesses the power, no matter where it came from or if it’ll ever leave him—it’s his to use.

It’s the perfect strength, the keenest of instincts, and it’s his.

One thing is terribly obvious to him now. The reason, then, that he’s so often left behind is because he’s not good enough, compared to the power. There’s in the end no one, and nothing else, deserving of more blame.

But today he was good enough, and for that he can forgive himself. Just for today.

—

The most notable thing about the charge back to Wall Rose is the incessant rain: the ground more resembles mush than earth, the rivers spill over into the soggy grass, and everyone is waterlogged in one way or another, most from head to toe.

As a result, it takes three days longer than it should to reach the gates: visibility is worse than terrible, the horses have a hard time moving in it, and the quickest route runs beside the main riverbanks. It isn’t an option.

It goes without saying that Levi is jumpier than usual. He’s snippy you decided not to ride with the injured, and with the rain on top of that, he might as well have a stormcloud over his head (and Oluo too, for how hard he tries to imitate him).

But he never complains. Scouting leaves no room for bitching about the rain when any one of your friends got swallowed before your eyes days before. He very much wears a stony mask on expeditions, where he’s no longer himself, but fierce in his role as Captain; you as his Lieutenant.

Still. Through the mist and the haze and the rain clinging to your bones, as the visage of Rose plastered to Trost’s gate broke through the fog, you just about tear up. For once, it isn’t the rain. Petra laughs out loud and Oluo admonishes her for it, but then he starts laughing too.

“And just when I thought we wouldn’t make it!”

Gunther whistled. “What a sight.”

“Not until we’re all inside,” you caution them, remembering yourself, and the glimmer of celebration dies down.

Levi tosses a look back at you and motions towards the head of the formation, where Erwin is sure to be. Inevitably, Hange and Mike are already parting their squads to join him, as is customary.

You’re not obligated to join him like the rest, you two sharing leadership of the squad, so you shake your head. You’re not thrilled for the crowd of disgruntled townsfolk to crowd you all, to hear—no matter how hard you try to tune them out—their gasps of dismay, for them to jeer at the blood spilled and say: “Those damned Scouts. It’s like they want to die,” and so on and so on and so on.

Levi nods. “Meet back.”

That is Levi-speak for, See you at our place as soon as you’re finished showering.

You wonder if you’ll have the energy. You could doze off on your trotting horse.

A nod. “Sir.”

You spot the second most notable thing, ironically, once you’ve trudged past the gates ahead of the rest of your squad. Your mind is a waking fog, the world mere background decor, but it’s difficult to miss kids at a funeral. It’s the Cadet Corps.

You toss a look over, and spot them in a row with no sign of Shadis, unsurprisingly. It’s customary for them to attend the return of the last expedition before graduation.

Very few, as usual, are doing anything but paying attention, but three watch on raptly enough to make up for the rest. It’s easy to tell which ones saw Maria fall.

The bold stare on one of them unnerves you. Running away from Titans isn’t the same as slaying them, and even then…

The split-second the blond one catches your eye, you turn your head forward, feeling nothing but dread.

The rest is a blur until that first spray of hot water pelts your head, but even now you might as well be a ghost. Water beating the floor bounces off your ears, the saddle once beneath you now only an echo of an ache on your thighs and backside. Distantly, your entire body stings, sorest of all your hands. Even where you stand, scrubbing mud and grime and clotted blood still clinging to your hair, you waver on your feet.

On the way back, Alina died. Eaten. It’s hard to believe she was on your squad so long ago when even yesterday feels like an eternity ago.

She was always clumsy, you muse, hating yourself. The last time you saw her personally was Mayfest last year. Who was she with? What did you talk about?

You search for meaning in the meaningless. It was as simple as scanning the composite list of casualties two days ago, and catching her name. A life, a memory, a name—blinked out of existence, just like that. There’s nothing you could’ve done.

“Those goddamn Scouts. It’s like they want to die.”

Abruptly, a sob bubbles up in your chest. It’s dry, silent weeping at first, but then tears. Then more, and more, and you’re blubbering in the shower, the ache on the inside intertwining with the physical. Your head pounds.

You don’t register it when the water begins to bleed cold. With your bare legs folded against your chest, you sit against the wall dry-heaving because you’re out of tears to cry. More than Alina, it’s a pain that’s hard to explain.

You’re so tired of saying goodbye; the friends you’ve grieved, whose families you’ve had to give your condolences to, usually, if not always accompanied by either Hange or Levi. Your heart is a bottomless graveyard. You couldn’t possibly spare enough tears for each of them, but your heart is stubborn enough to try.

Levi finds you this way after he knocks on the door, hearing the water, but not you. You’re not quite there to comprehend his voice, nor his warning that he’s coming in—not until he appears in the open curtain, parted just slightly. Suddenly, you’re far too aware of everything.

“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself rasp. “I wasn’t thinking, wasted water, sorry.”

He tugs it a little wider. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he tells you gently.

The wooden mechanism cries as it’s shut off, followed by the drip-drip-drip, then the quiet, which is somehow deafening. You notice his cravat is gone, and he’s already peeled his jacket, boots, and waistskirt off, but other than that he’s still in uniform; it’s hard to imagine his shirt ever once being pressed and white.

Another apology sits on your tongue—eventually Levi was always going to come scrub the filth of the past two weeks off him—but you keep it to yourself, as he said.

“Can I come in?”

“Please,” you whisper.

He does, and crouches down heavily. A fluffy towel is draped over your shoulders.

“I’m still disgusting,” he warns, “but do you want help getting up?”

“Please.”

He rolls up his filthy sleeves, then helps you rise to your feet. Now that you don’t have to keep it together anymore, it all comes crumbling down. Even Levi isn’t impervious to it.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”

On the lid of the toilet you wring the towel through your hair. He does the rest, thoroughly, which reminds you that you have little idea how you’d cope without him.

He leaves you for only a moment to retrieve a fresh change of clothes for you, and it’s only with the stiff way he drops them on the counter that you start to worry it’s more than post-expedition fatigue.

Your jaw tightens. “Are you hurt?”

Either you’ve both been through enough, or he’s too tired to argue. “It’s not bad.”

First of all, he needs to clean up. You’ll get dressed, and he’ll join you soon.

You relent, unsurprised when “soon” turns into a half-hour. Levi’s brief, combat-style showers are unthinkable just after an expedition. It’s no wonder why, but this time you have reason to worry.

Too sick to even think of eating, you chip away at the paperwork at his desk—numbers to add, death certificates, field reports, numbers to subtract—while you wait. He must’ve spoken with Erwin. You wonder what they talked about; not even Erwin is immune to everything, no matter how his own mask portrays him to be.

While you work, you think of nothing, but at the same time, everything. Every second, every sound, every sensation. The snapping of jaws.

You rub your temples and rationalize that if Levi is injured that badly, he would have no choice but to see a medic, but never without some push and shove. Even if he was bleeding out he would claim it was a waste of resources.

After listening like a hawk for the water to shut off for an eternity, it finally does. In short sleeves and baggy pants, you meet him in front of the bathroom door, him staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“We still have shit to do,” he states blandly.

You ignore him and ask, “Where are you hurt?” as you lead him by the small of his back in the direction of the bedroom.

It indeed takes a little push and shove for him to relent, as always. He mentions something about a mother hen and a little bruising and more words that, at their root, mean, It’s not bad, up until you ask him to show you, and he hesitates.

“Levi.” Sat on the foot of the bed beside him, you remain firm. “I’m not asking anymore.”

“…It’s unnecessary.”

“To you.”

He scowls at you weakly. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“…To you.”

He straightens up when he hears your voice shake, then winces a little. “It’s not. I wanted to see if tightening my belts would make me more accurate, and it did. They’ll be gone by next time.”

You could scream. “You idiot. You run yourself into the ground already—what’s hurting yourself gonna do?” Your next breath shudders. “You’re too important, and not just to me.”

“It saved more lives,” he argues stubbornly. “Don’t you get sick of watching your comrades die?”

You stop, hanging onto your last breath, and hang your head a little. You’d think after so many years seeing death everywhere you look, you’d be used to it by now, but this was an old friend.

“Who doesn’t?” you remark, staring at a crack in the floorboard. “But you’re not just someone’s comrade, and you know that. You’re being careless.”

“…You lost someone, didn’t you?”

It’s less of a question, more of an observation. Calmly, he takes your twitching hand in his own to rub the aches out of them—always from the ODM triggers—careful to avoid bandaged spots.

With a shake of your head, you tug on his knee to encourage him to face you. “Let me see.”

He shuffles towards you, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “You were crying.”

“I cry at everything,” you dismiss easily, guiding his chin towards you. Though his frown is weighted by stones, waiting to see what you have to say, his cheeks are soft cradled in your hands.

Reverently, you lean in and press a fragile kiss to his forehead. “Levi, love of my life, this is stupid,” you tell him as lovingly as possible. “Even if I wasn’t here to worry about you, you can’t do this. All you can do is all you can do, and even then… I’ve seen you do more than anyone.” You often. “I’d feel a lot better if you showed me. There’s solutions to bruises.”

He melts—a little at first, then like butter in a hot skillet. “…Fine.”

With a little help, he stiffly pulls his shirt over his head. Forcefully, you put on a mask of careful indifference. You know how guilty he feels every time something like this happens as a result of good-intentioned, but self-sacrificing actions.

Bruising, as he said. Where his harness once was—four corners stretching both under his arms and over both shoulders—there’s bruising. Bruises criss-cross in an X-shape following down his lower back, which disappears under his trousers. His chest is no different: a mess of purplish-bluish-black stretches across his stocky chest, follows down his midsection, and disappears in a V shape below his waist.

You again resist an urge, this time to shake him. You’re willing to bet more circle around his upper thighs, that they wind down his legs, and dig into the bottoms of his feet.

You stand abruptly to dig through the bathroom for lotion and first-aid, but not without petting his head first so he knows there’s no more anger waiting to be spewed. “Stay here.”

He nods.

You’re more worried than even disappointed anymore. If it’s as you suspect and there’s no exception to where his ODM was strapped on, then the only places he was spared are his arms, his lower legs, and (of course) from the neck up.

That’s it, no more work tonight. You’ll strap him down if you have to.

Back in the bedroom, he did as you said, but with the favor of dressing down to just his briefs, which makes you feel a little lighter. There are bruises on his thighs. His clothes are neatly folded by his side.

He straightens up just as you climb onto the bed behind him and uncap the bottle. “I met with Erwin earlier. There’s death certificates to take care of. Letters too, after you’re done.”

“It’ll be a little cold at first.”

Then cold, cold cream lands on his shoulders, which you immediately begin to lather. You dig your fingertips in just a little, and he knuckles the bedspread, fighting a groan.

“Look, I heard what you said, but we shouldn’t keep those families waiting.”

“You look. If Erwin knew about this—” you pop your head over his shoulder and gesture down, “—he’d tell you to do the same thing I’m doing now. Say, hypothetically, he somehow found out…”

He’s not impressed by your threat of blackmail, but doesn’t argue. Erwin is a bigger force to be reckoned with. Levi could get put off-duty, or worse, lectured.

The stuff you’re massaging into his back, right between his shoulderblades, must’ve been expensive: it’s actually thick, actually consistent, and actually doing something. Eventually, the cold fades into an icy sort of burn that’s so powerful he feels his muscles physically loosen.

He had no idea just how tightly he was wound until you start kneading your palms in—not too hard, mindful of the bruises themselves—and he has to fight his eyes on shutting, then his mind on dozing.

This and that can wait until tomorrow, you keep saying. You keep rebuking him, and he starts to have real trouble arguing now that you’re almost through with the muscles on his lower back. It has to be the worst there, because it’s never been so hard to resist showing how much he’s enjoying this.

“Your hands—”

“—feel good?”

“No,” he huffs. “Your injuries—”

“Oh? They don’t? Should I go harder?”

He knows what you’re doing. Maybe it’s better he just suffers the consequences of his actions. His thighs throb dully.

Breathing hard, he finally manages, “What if I can’t sleep?”

“For once I doubt that,” you retort, sounding very pleased with yourself.

Fuck you for always reading him so well. He shudders a breath as you get through with his hips, and says nothing.

Now you round his other side and kneel down, looking almost scarily determined. There really is no changing your mind, let alone stopping you.

Strange. When he actually lets go a little, he feels less stressed. Nothing exists except for your magic hands and the focused little frown on your face as you work, and the sounds are your breaths and his much heavier ones.

So he doesn’t fall asleep, he watches your face as you move over his pecs. His middle isn’t as bad, so he can focus to talk, and explain.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that recruitment is in the ground—ah—has been for years now, and our living-to-dead ratio per expedition isn’t great, either.”

You click your tongue as you settle between his legs. “It’s better than before Erwin came up with the long-range formation.”

Not that he’s wrong.

The lotion is terribly slippery in your hands, shaded a very diluted yellow that makes his skin almost shine when you rub it into his twitching belly muscles. It’s obvious how well it’s working—not that you plan to tell him how expensive it was—but you also notice, with unease, the way it makes the violent bruising brighter and somehow angrier than before.

He grunts in disagreement, though you aren’t wrong. While Shadis was Commander—and before that, he’s told—a great deal of what the Scouts used to do outside the Walls was group up in squads, ride together, and recover as much territory as they could, until they could no longer.

Thing is, Titan country is never short on Titans, which frustrates Levi to no end.

As far as they know (as far as Hange’s figured out, rather), the way they breed is a complete mystery. Where they come from, why, and for what horrific reason they like to eat people has been a mystery since history became history.

He thinks, dejectedly, that the most compelling piece of data they’ve collected since he joined up was that notebook a Scout named Ilse Langnar was found clutching. His and Hange’s squads recovered her from the depths of a hollowed-out tree a Titan had stuck her in. It spoke to her, called her by a different name, even.

Now that he thinks about it, forget data: all they reaped from that day was a heap of more questions.

“I spoke to Erwin about a fortnight ago before we left,” you’re saying. You’ve skipped past his thighs for now, and sit cross-legged on the floor massaging the bottom of his foot, which is propped up on your knee.

He practically punctures the bedspread from clutching so hard in order to resist twitching, flinching, and especially launching into a fit of laughter.

“What—” He moans under his breath,“—What was it. What’d you talk about?”

You’re forced to pin his ankle down so he doesn’t twitch away from you. So ticklish. He’s lucky he’s cute.

“We—”

Levi squirms.

“Captain Levi, you better sit still.”

He huffs petulantly. “Fuck you. It’s your fault. Deal with it.”

“Is it really?” You dart your thumbs on his most ticklish area just to rile him up. You hear a gasp, then only a hint of a raspy chuckle before he nearly kicks you in the face—accidentally, of course.

Maybe it isn’t your fault. He’s willing to agree with anything you say if it’ll get him to sleep sooner.

His bruises pang dully, an amazing improvement from before. A profound heaviness drags him further and further into a warm nothingness. You make it very easy.

You decided to be generous and massaged his calves anyway. Up you go now. Almost done.

You return to what you were saying before. Erwin briefly confided in you and Mike over drinks when the discussion of future expeditions came up about two weeks ago; sealing Shiganshina bled heavily into that conversation.

Levi’s right that they don’t have enough bodies. The Survey Corps has always been an unpopular regiment for obvious reasons, and what’s worse, there’s no doubt numbers would be even less by the time you made it to the gates.

Even if you all traveled during nightfall, you’d have nothing to seal the gates themselves with. Stone is too heavy for the horses; Hange claims Titans aren’t tricked by tarp, nor canvas, nor wool, and even if they thought up a solution, there’s a good chance most of who’s left would die on the return home—if anyone is left.

You’re in a bad way, to be very vague and very blithe.

Levi grunts. You’re molding your fingertips with each side of his knees now, a fresh dollop of lotion making him shiver.

“Those abnormal idiots haven’t been seen in almost five years.” He groans. “Fuck, not so hard.”

You ease up, flex your smarting fingers, and wait until he goes boneless again. After what he just said, you almost want to knock on wood.

“Yeah, but that’s no reason to get comfortable.”

His hands planted back behind him are all that’s keeping him upright now. “Obviously. I’m just taking account of our shitty situation.”

“I know, angel.”

His eyes are closed. “Erwin will figure something out. He always does, is. His brain never stops working. Probably doesn’t sleep, that bastard.”

You chitter a little, amused. “You don’t sleep.”

“Yeah.”

You don’t think he’s listening. “Why don’t you lay back?”

He peels his eyes open. “With this slime all over me?”

“I’m not asking,” you tell him again. You are putting him to sleep if it’s the last thing you do.

With a little effort, he manages until his head is on the pillows. The bruises on his back throb a little, but the good pain wins over the bad until he floats at the very edge of a pleasant, dull sleep. The next thing he knows, you’re back between his legs, massaging more lotion into one of his heavy thighs.

He shades his eyes with his arm and ignores the fact that he’s somehow half-hard. After the past two weeks, how is that even possible?

“Almost done,” you sigh softly, sounding pleased.

All this attention generously given to him when you never addressed who you lost out there earlier. You never snap at him, and after what he said, that’s how he knew.

He wishes it was more rare that he found you in such a state upon coming back. Part of him too is still out there, fighting, so much so that the sight of you standing after he showered stunned him for a moment.

What can be done about those things? Nothing. There’s no fixed solution, no light at the end of the tunnel guaranteed, but there’s always something he can do as far as you’re concerned.

Whatever that thing is that makes him fearless, and somehow completely safe, and happy, but also scared—he can at least share that with you. Let it consume you both. He knows there’s a name for it, but he doesn’t want to name it, not right now.

His pensive eyes are on you as you finish up. Watching you so candidly leaves him feeling excruciatingly sappy even when all the grief forces him to feel nothing.

He gets like that after every expedition. Tomorrow, without fail, he’ll be on a cleaning frenzy (he’s been antsy; two weeks gives dust plenty of opportunity to collect), and you’ll likely be forging his signature so there’s less work for you both to do later. His name looks better in your handwriting, anyway.

HQ will be somber, quiet, in mourning. Unlike Shadis, Erwin mandates a day off after each expedition. In the worst of cases, two.

Much later—or not, time has blurred together—he instinctively rolls over to you and lays his head down on your chest. He’s wearing pants again.

Then, he sees the light dim down behind his eyelids, and remembers himself a little. “Your fingers.”

“Bad, but not that bad,” you murmur, combing his hair backwards. “I cleaned up while you were asleep.”

Overwhelmed, his jaw moves a little uselessly. “That’s not fair.”

“Tomorrow,” you assure him, but he insists on asking, just in case, about whoever you lost. The pain on your face earlier was palpable.

“No, I’m happy right now,” you sigh wetly. “It made me feel better to, to make you feel better. So please.”

He uses the very last of his energy to lean up and kiss you somewhere—he thinks your jaw.

“...Fine.” He’s whispering this. “But that goes both ways. Tomorrow, let me—”

“Always.” You kiss his hair. "I will."

Chapter End Notes

(in case anyone is confused, fingernails grow back lol)

THANK YOU FOR READING <3 COMMENT IF YOU ENJOYED🥺

endlessly, forever

Chapter Summary

You and Levi take a retreat. After your relationship comes to a natural conclusion, he makes peace with the future.

Chapter Notes

WOW HERE WE ARE!! finally!! omg! i am horrified i may not have made the last scene justice, but i have also never finished a longfic ever in my entire many years of writing fanfic LMAO😅

i never thought this fic would ever be. a favorite for me, but then it was, and then other ppl read it, and they liked it too :( im simply very thankful + proud of myself for this.

🚨ALSO!!!🚨 a while ago i began to write some… side stories to this series. i dont plan on writing a sequel to this fic, so imma be posting those (3 rn) sooner or later to fill in the blanks for fun, which is why i made a series for this fic. subscribe if ur interested! think of them like one-off oneshots that fill in the universe lol.

anyway here we go!!

warnings:

-two light references/descriptions of PTSD

-heavy themes of self-hatred at one part

-alcohol consumption

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It happens, as acts of fate often do, by surprise.

Today, the sky is awash with that crisp, clean blue that autumn does so well, but clouds are forming and the air is breezy, the first warnings of the coming winter.

You (by Levi’s request, unsurprisingly) have half a dozen seasoned soldiers raking the burnt gold, crimson, and brown leaves, tossing them beyond the fences, and finally scrubbing the gutters until they turn silver.

Meanwhile, fresh-blooded Scouts—those who graduated just last spring, but also lived through the summer expeditions—are on their third or fourth lap now, showing only subtle signs of slowing.

That’s because Levi is running with them.

He has always preferred the hands-on approach.

With a clipboard clasped in your hands, you smile slightly to yourself. It’s no crime to watch him frighten the others into shape while you add up some numbers.

The turn of the season calls for quality checks of all equipment before the Corps more or less enters hibernation for the winter. Besides, mice always find a way into the food stores time of year.

You turn your head as a Scout—a slim, doe-eyed man whose name you don’t know—thumps a fist to his chest in salute.

“There’s a situation at the gate that requires Captain Levi’s attention, Lieutenant.”

“At ease,” you reply with a nod, and he relaxes. Everyone knows about you and Levi, but most assume you both to share the same attitude.

You wave your hand in the direction of the field, but Levi is already on his way over, having noticed the scene. Under one arm is his uniform jacket, along with the padded weights he sometimes likes to strap on for the “extra challenge” when he trains.

Twenty damn kilos.

“What’s so important that you didn’t think to go to the Commander first?” Levi is asking, eyes narrowed.

As it turns out, a man waits at the front gates who wants to have a word with Levi specifically. He claims he knows him, and he hasn’t taken no for an answer.

Didn’t give a name, either—not to a bunch of screwy soldiers, anyway.

You shoot Levi an inquisitive look, but he has nothing in terms of explanation. He might as well go and see who it is, but no, “don’t waste your time escorting me. Get back to your duties.”

The messenger takes his leave.

You nod curtly at Levi with a promise to watch over the training (and the yard upkeep) until he returns, a task you take upon yourself without him needing to say a word. Just for that, a small feeling, like fear but sweeter, blooms in his chest.

During his short walk, Levi wracks his mind of any civilian men he knows with the audacity to show up to the Scouts’ headquarters just to “have a word” with him. It doesn’t feel right.

The Survey Corps aren’t taken seriously, everybody and their mother knows that, but they aren’t protested against outside of the returns from expeditions—usually because of grief, but always convenience.

He can’t think of anyone.

Out in front of Trost HQ stands a wrought iron gate of spear where another pair of Scouts acknowledge Levi with brief salutes.

He waves them away, revealing a scruffy mouse of a man standing outside, defiantly toeing the loose dirt with his shoe. A cigarette dangles from the side of his mouth.

An onslaught of memories rush through Levi’s mind, in sharp contrast to the slow smoke drifting up into the air.

Levi blinks, then blinks again. “Yan?”

A coy grin crawls over Yan’s cheeks, showing teeth. “Yo, Levi…! Good thing you remember me. Was afraid your comrades woulda arrested me soon otherwise.”

He shakes his head. Is he dreaming? “They wouldn’t have.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I guess I’m used to the MP’s way of doing things.”

Yan is as sheepish as ever, and as skinny, too. The last time Levi saw him, he was suffering atrophy in his legs, as lots of people Underground did. His treatment was the down payment on the job that got Levi in the Scouts in the first place.

Gripping one of the spears, he scrutinizes Yan with his eyes. “There are other ways to get my attention if you wanted us to chat. Why’re you here?”

Yan kicks at the dirt some more. He doesn’t seem peeved that Levi doesn’t bridge the gap between them by opening the gate just yet. It’s been years, not that Levi was ever the trusting type to begin with.

“You never liked small talk. I just don’t like owing people my life, you know?”

Levi’s lips press into a thin line. He means coin. “You’re not serious.”

Yan shrugs around another puff of tobacco. “I am.” He peers over Levi’s shoulder. “Your friends are being really nosy.”

A cursory look behind him proves Yan right. More than a few are now clustered around the entrance to HQ, curious as to what the Captain is up to, and more curiously, what some civilian wants with him.

Levi glares in their direction, causing them to quickly disband. “Caution is a positive quality around here.”

Levi doesn’t doubt Yan has honest intentions; he never was cut out for life in a gang. Any job he, or sometimes Farlan, ever gave him that was bigger than petty thieving made him go bright red in the face.

He was just a kid, like most of them were. Isabel’s nickname for Yan was ‘peep’.

Levi crosses through the gate, shutting it behind him. They end up strolling a few paces for guaranteed privacy despite the new clouds gathering above, threatening a drizzle. What few that are out and about on the streets are bartering coins for supper. Dew sticks to the grass.

Levi has a right to be wary. “I wasn’t the one who slipped you all that cash with your pay, back then. I didn’t even contact Lovof first. None of us could’ve afforded your treatment.”

“Hm.”

Levi crosses his arms. He can spew excuses all day.

“Still.”

He scoffs. “What’d you do, then? Steal the King’s purse?”

Yan smiles toothily. “That'd be breaking the law... I would never," he drawls dramatically. "I just seduced my doctor after she fixed my legs.”

He isn’t impressed.

It doesn’t take long to get an honest answer out of Yan, though. Apparently, he has been saving up for a long time now—some well-paying factory job in one of Sina’s booming industrial districts.

“Believe me, Lev’,” Yan tosses the cigarette away. “I know—"

“You better throw that litter away where it belongs.”

A throaty chuckle leaves the man, and he crouches down. “And here I thought military life might’ve made you go soft.”

“Are you a comedian now, too?”

Yan laughs again, but the light mood doesn’t last long. It dampens as the crooked smile on his face dissolves.

Levi braces himself in case Yan says their names. Out of everyone, he must’ve been the last to hear that they were gone.

“I don’t care about some slimy noble,” Yan says. “And about the extra pay, I know you didn’t know. You never would’ve okay’d it. You were a real penny-pincher when you wanted to be.”

Levi thinks back. His years in darkness feel like a recurring nightmare he one day stopped having. He says nothing.

But he can admit it feels good, seeing Yan again—like coming upon a keepsake that you were sure you lost years before. Levi has known loss all his life, and people born down there seldom ever get out, let alone live through the atrophy.

“Glad you’re doing well for yourself,” Levi tells him, and he is. “But you don’t owe me. Buy a house or something.”

“I got all I need,” he tells him, as serious as death. “C’mon, Levi. Don’t make me beg.”

The look on Yan’s face is pitiful.

Levi gets it. Just like the only reason Levi would even consider taking the money, Yan definitely came with Isabel and Farlan in mind. Not just him.

“You’re a fool,” Levi sighs.

—

“Well then,” you huff fiercely. “Hm, I have an idea. Let’s go over the reasons again.”

Levi’s tight hold on his reins tightens a little more, making Sweetie snuffle. He’s been dealing with two brats since you left this morning.

A shame that he checked out an ordinary scouting horse rather than taking Nibbles, his horse, but you made a good argument at the time, and besides, you liked her name.

“No.”

Mildly, you shake your head, smirking to yourself. “Well then. Are you gonna keep complaining about being given all that coin? Think very carefully about your answer.”

“Your only joy in life is embarrassing me,” he replies. No hesitation.

“It is not,” you laugh. “Anyway, let me remind you.”

He glances over his shoulder, past your connected wagon neatly packed in with enough belongings to last you this winter. That tree hollow doesn’t look any farther away than it was ten minutes ago.

Dammit, how much longer?

“First of all, HQ is dead in winter. Not even you can find a way to run yourself into the ground. Two: It’s money! It’d be a shame not to spend what’s left since you apparently don’t need it.”

He doesn’t. A week earlier, on the same day that he requested Erwin’s permission that he didn’t need to take a leave of absence (Erwin actually laughed at him), Levi had that recurring nightmare once again. He took a trip back Underground to deliver half of the “debt” to an old, trusted contact. A lot of good will be done with it.

“You’re right so far,” he says.

But he knows what’s coming next. With your horses lugging along the wooden wagon, he can’t gallop away to avoid a repeat of the reasons you gave him to do all this.

It’s not that you’re that serious, nor does he have anything to vehemently disagree with—it’s simply that embarrassing.

He locks his gaze straight ahead, focusing in on a single tree branch that looks like it would collapse if someone blew on it a little. He can’t wait to pass it by.

“Besides the fact that it would be good to take a holiday for once,” you go on, “unfortunately—”

“Stop.”

“—our headboard is cracked! And you didn’t want to be at HQ while it got fixed for some reason.” You smirk. “So there. And how could I forget reason number four?”

He drags your name out in warning, but apparently, you have become deaf. The crunch of thin snow beneath your horses hooves has no chance of drowning you out.

“Let me set the scene for you,” you cackle. You’re enjoying yourself. “There we were, in the privacy of our own quarters, in quite a compromising position, don’t you remember?”

He crushes the pathetic tree branch with his glare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Your high little laughs litter every word now. “S-Sure you do! It was the third time that month, Lev’, and it was the same culprit—”

“Hange is a fucking pervert, even worse than you, I know. Are you done?”

You spot the utter contempt on his red face and take pity on him. It’s only as much fun to tease Levi as readily as he plays along.

“Yeah,” you relent with a light sigh, fog puffing out.

He relents too. “Finally.”

“I know this is a big deal for you,” you say, a touch more seriously. “I can’t even remember the last time I slept in my own bed back home.”

He, who doesn’t have a tangible home to speak of, feels as pained as you sound. He nods, knowing.

You bring up your family a little more often than he does, which is never. But the thing is, in preparation for this trip, you were both passing through Utopia District and decided to pay them a visit since you find yourselves that far north so rarely.

It isn’t that some tragedy struck home in the meantime and you weren’t informed. No one got laid off or went broke, no one was even sick.

The exact opposite. Your mother and father were happier than ever, actually. Retired. What reconnecting you did came down to a slew of joyful nothings, which made it impossible to talk about your own life—except for one Levi-shaped piece of news.

Your mother practically launched through the ceiling, crying out in glee. It was mortifying for him, but up to then, he had only allowed two people in his life to ever hug him: his own mother, and you. Yours really knew how to squeeze the life out of someone.

But then, there were the nothings. How the cold snaps back in August were worrying, but December has been surprisingly warm, so the Chrysanthemums were miraculously still in bloom. Your mother’s old garden—“You started a garden?” you had asked—was flourishing. And now that he was retired, your father had nothing to say about the scar of resentment whose fresh wound had propelled you into military life in the first place. His biggest concern these days was watering your mother’s plants.

They were older. You told him that that part put it all in perspective for you. “I should be thrilled they’re doing well. I mean, I am, but…I’m too different now. They don’t feel like my family anymore—like we’re two different species. You know what I mean?”

After hearing that, Levi took you to your favorite bookstore in Sina to buy you something (as it turned out, somethings) to make you feel better.

Afterwards, he even let you kiss him on a crowded street despite his crippling embarrassment of showing affection in public. For that reason, you asked first.

Without saying anything, your cloth sack of books hooked under one of his arms, he turned towards you and scooped up your chin. That peck really seemed to make you happy.

In truth, he hadn’t known what to say at the time. Sure, he doesn’t know what Kenny’s up to, if he’s still breathing enough to be up to anything at all, but if he is, Levi dreads the day he finds out about it for many reasons. One being that Kenny’s dearest joys in life differed from most people’s, to say the very least.

“What’re you looking at me for?”

Your eyes stay on him. “I just like looking at you.”

Face pinched, he turns the other way. An image invades his mind of himself from a third person perspective, and he inwardly recoils.

“Well, stop,” he complains mildly, blushing. Since this morning this has been happening, because he just can’t get away, which you have been taking full advantage of.

“I can’t.”

He makes a sour face. “I mean stop looking.”

You grin. “Give me an hour to gather the strength.”

“We’ll be there in an hour.”

“That’s right!”

—

Levi doesn’t have a passion for decorating as long as things are in perfect order. This is why you tell him what you want where, down to exact inch, and he can do it all without a single margin of error.

He isn’t perfect of course, but he’s always determined to be.

The biggest thing you brought along (that wasn’t already here) was a mattress, and you don’t have a speck of dust in terms of decorations, but still.

Now that the wagon is empty (the largest piece of furniture you brought was a mattress, but still), your horses are secured in their stalls, and you’re done spending the better part of the late afternoon cleaning the cabin from ceiling to floor together, it’s time to breathe.

Levi leans back against the kitchen bar with his cravat undone around his neck. Seeing how he sweat through his shirt long ago, he has three whole buttons undone below his collar.

What are breaks, anyway?

He takes in the finished product and decides he’s pleased, but it still feels like a blank sheet to him, it being so new, so unused. What to do next?

That’s how you find him the next time you pop your head in from outside, dabbing your forehead of sweat with a handkerchief as white as the snow on the ground. You whistle.

He crosses his arms and looks away, looking unbearably coy. “What’s next?”

The possibilities have you rocking in the doorway. You simply can’t contain your energy.

“Well, it’s the golden hour, ‘Vi. Are you hungry?”

You both set up in the kitchen and get to work, however—odd cooking of all things soon becomes in his mind. Time isn’t counting down before work, and you have so many options, for once excluding watered down stew and bland military provisions.

He frowns as he sparks a match for the wood underneath the stove. The thunk of a knife on a cutting board, that’s you.

It hits him, sudden and severe, that he will be enjoying your cooking every day, at least when he wasn’t doing it. You always say he has a knack for making something out of nothing.

Earlier, you made fun of him for hopping back onto the counter in order to reach for a can of broth you had placed in the highest cabinet.

Whenever he pointed this out, you offered to get it for him, to which he scoffed: no, he obviously doesn’t need help. It was just a can.

An odd feeling turns over inside him.

Despite your earlier transgression, he still wanted to follow your recipe tonight. However, for as long as the cabin has sat empty before now, parsley, rosemary, and all manner of spices were overgrown beyond the clearing outside. While you were busy picking those, it was up to him to chop the lettuce.

Which quickly turns into a much more arduous task than he expected.

His personal dagger that followed him up from Underground had finally breathed its last years before, but he has always kept a collection (a habit that has followed him since childhood), including kitchen knives. Any weapon he can hold is an extension of himself.

Which is why it is frustrating him to no end that he can’t cut this damned lettuce right. Suddenly, he feels like a novice.

Brow puckered in irritation, he stops and measures the mass of filleted greens with one hand. With his other, he flips the blade backwards absentmindedly as he reconsiders his approach.

This isn’t flesh, and it most certainly isn’t a threat. The kitchen air is dense with steam from the wood burning under the stove, screwing with his head.

Come to think of it, he can’t remember the last time he took all this preparation into cooking. Maybe he’s been killing things for too long.

This is how you find him, asking, “How’s it coming?” to which he grunts noncommittally. It’s not coming along at all, which makes him even more determined to make some progress.

So, he lines the thin pointed edge up, and tries again with a flurry of quick chops. What results is a murder scene on the lettuce’s part.

After a long moment, he senses you watching over his shoulder, so he stops, waiting for your judgment.

“Baby, you’re stabbing them.”

“Tch.” He flicks the blade around once more, and shaves the cracked, brown pieces off the board and onto the napkin. “No, I’m cutting. There’s a difference.”

Then you’re closing in on him from behind, and loosely taking his hand that he grips the handle with. “Well, you’re cutting like it’s going to attack you,” you say softly. “There’s not gonna be that much resistance, either. Hold it looser, like this.”

Without thinking much of it, he slowly relaxes against you, tilting his head a tad to make room.

“I would’ve figured it out eventually,” he argues weakly. His chest flips in embarrassment.

“I know,” you reply. “But I’m already here, right?”

A nod. He decides to follow your direction if you insist on giving it, it’s just unthinkable that he would require help with a task like this. It’s a surprise, how complacent he has become.

From behind, he hears your breath hitch. The steam. Neither of you say anything, but you’re hasty in lowering the flames after that.

—

It takes two weeks to adjust when this vacation was to last five. By mid-January, the frost will have melted away enough for there to be work to do again. In the meantime, there is only the two of you.

No matter what environment he’s in, Levi pours his energy into a clean environment, but suddenly the environment started begging for his attention even more, like the loose gutter leaking due to melting snow.

What about the mess of leaves plastered to the roof, too? And all the damn weeds crawling up the side of the cabin closest to the forest like leafy tendrils?

So this is what average people get fussy over? he thinks. These are their worries? Their priorities?

Either way, they are yours to share.

Most things you do, you do together. You pull the weeds and rake the leaves, he fixes that dangly gutter on the roof, and while he was at it, replaces the rotted bricks in the chimney, and cleans soot out of the fireplace, and also—

Surprisingly, he begins to find immense satisfaction in getting these simple, but crucial tasks done.

The problems that sometimes erupt are even simpler, and even at those rare times where they aren’t, they’re still child’s play in comparison to the more hellish ones he’s used to.

Like the acorns. Levi got it into his head that he would clear the entire yard of anything but grass, including acorns. You started snatching up each and every one he tossed aside, plopped them in a wicker basket, and threw them back to the squirrels.

By their nature, however, the acorns never stop coming. It infuriated him. He only came to enjoy this chore once it became a routine each morning, following slow blinks and easy yawns.

To such an extent that he constructs a simple wooden bench for the rear side of the cabin. Most of the squirrels live in the forest, so you could throw your acorns out all you want without tiring yourself out.

It was a surprise, too.

You weren’t done thanking him even as you were shaving it down and polishing it, having been an apprentice to a woodworker in your youth. The result was more elegant than Levi could ever have dreamed of doing himself.

The best part of all however, was waking up together. You can always wake up together. Every morning carries a slow, gradual rise to awareness, and your warm lump under the blankets is always there for him to reach for. Plus, he can always, always grant your request for “five more minutes”.

The mornings are his favorite, to say the least.

The bedroom is simple, but larger than you’re both used to (despite your ranks, especially Levi’s, luxury simply doesn’y exist in the Corps). The perpetual smell of ceder, laundry, and more faintly, old paper always sits inside. The folded curtains, hued like thick cream, stay closed in the mornings to block out enough sunlight for you two to sleep in.

But Levi can never bring himself to. Instinct, or habit, always wakes him around dawn, and at dawn he still trains. It was unthinkable that he would allow himself to grow soft, so there was no argument.

In fact, you join him more often than not for the same stringent exercise routines you’re used to back at HQ. Sometimes you spar, and at others you hike into the forest while the sun is still creeping up into the sky, flooding the morning with purpley pinks. Even the birds are just waking up.

It’s not yet that time when you jolt awake this morning, or rather, late enough for it to be considered that.

Why? A freezing hand is brushing over your bare belly where your blouse fails to cover. An arm curls around your waist.

You whine sleepily and knock away the ice cube. “Hand’s cold,” you groan, eyes stubbornly sticking shut. “S’wrong, Lev’?”

No reply. You toss a look back to be greeted by what you can make out to be a blank look on his tired face.

He blinks, and then you blink, long and slow. “Was I not touching you anymore?”

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he mutters.

Levi doesn’t deny it, which means yes. In response, you tug his hand back around you, causing him to grunt.

Sometimes, one of you rolls away from the other during sleep, causing him to always snap awake shortly thereafter.

There is nothing else he’s still embarrassed over more than that.

“Hm. C’mere,” you whisper, and squirm over to face him. He tangles your legs together and puts his arm around you, even clinging—but not without another choked grunt.

Now that you’re more awake, you delicately tuck a piece of hair behind his ear. You’re close enough to feel his warm breath on your face.

“Is it your hand again?” you ask.

He huffs through his nose. “Go back to sleep.”

Ever since he had quite literally fixed the cabin’s every conceivable flaw, he has been floundering for more projects to complete.

He’s definitely compensating, but you don’t point this out.

You kind of expected it, which is why you approved at the beginning, but only as long as the land’s beauty didn’t cost his health.

“Levi.” you chuckle a little, blinking in the dark. “Don’t make me ask you to take a break for your break. The roof won’t leak for another hundred years ‘cause of you.”

“Hm. You’re welcome.”

“I mean it.” You brush your noses together in an eskimo kiss. A lazy peck on the side of his mouth, however, has your brow wrinkling. His skin feels rougher than usual, even scraped.

With another kiss, this one to his sharp jaw, he huffs again. “Not now. Sleep.”

“I’m not trying to start anything,” you huff back in pretend-offense. “I never see you with facial hair. I think it’s cute.”

“…I don’t think so.”

“Have you ever tried growing more? Like… a curly mustache.”

He snorts loudly. “Go back to sleep.”

“So that’s a no.”

His scoff is muffled by the pillow he buries his face into. “I just, haven’t had the time to shave it.”

You scrub the sleepiness from your eyes and sit up a little to peek down at him. With what little side-eye you’re given, you can tell he’s giving you attitude.

You lay your hand over his jaw, and lo and behold, rough hairs scrape your palm.

“‘Haven’t had the time’ my ass,” you grumble quietly. “I’ll do you one better than that.”

He buries his face deeper into the pillow. The most you can do now is scratch gently at where his undercut lays, stuck up in places.

What must be the sheer agony he feels from your offer makes him groan a little. “You do enough.”

“Never,” you say.

“Always.”

“Never.”

You go back and forth more and more insistently. He, just on principle, quits the game first, but doesn’t compromise, either.

So neither do you. You climb belly-down on top of his back so you’re stacked on top of each other like pancakes.

“Ngh.”

“Levi,” you whisper in his ear, but no response. His eyes are closed.

You gape softly. “Are you actually pretending to be asleep right now?”

Nothing.

You’re at your wit’s end. “Let me,” you whine into the curve of his shoulder.

Huffing, you bully your hands under his lean sides. “Or else.”

“You’re a brat,” he mutters fondly.

Your lips quirk, but that isn’t the response you wanted, so you scrape your fingers all over an infamous tickle-spot of his: right below his ribs where his belly muscles properly begin, and a huffy laugh immediately bursts from him.

Even though he could easily throw you off, he bullies a hand under himself to bat you away as his chest wracks with contained snickering. His squirming is neverending.

Not on your watch. In a frenzy, you wiggle your fingers all over his ribs.

Levi makes lots of grabs, but it’s too sensitive, and his hand feels like a broken paperweight. He scrambles for the sheets instead, airy, earnest laughing sounding from the pillow. You burst into a fit of your own to hear it.

“You brat,” he gasps, and in one solid movement finally throws you off, like a bull. On your side of the bed, thighs land on either side of your waist, his bony knees digging into your hands to keep you still.

Your laughter quickly dies out. New tension eats at the air as you stare up at each other through the darkness, at a stalemate. The only sounds are your rough breathing.

“Never,” you pant, and you mean that. “You never let me do anything for you.”

His sigh has a touch of defeat in it, which is what makes you cry out so loud to feel his freezing palms snake up under your shirt. You didn’t expect that.

Reflexively, your back bows away from him, until a small gasp is pulled from you. The way his hands slot up underneath your breasts makes his thumbs dangerously close your nipples.

“Fine,” he relents, and casually begins to roll his hips down into yours. “But let me do one more thing for you first.”

You do.

—

Levi has never allowed (or needed, really) you to do something as personal as shave his face. The fact that this is happening in the first place is a testament to how much he loathes the “rat shit” on his face, and how hard he’s been working lately.

“You not going to return the favor,” you tried to explain to him. “We’re not bartering.”

“That depends on whether you cut me or not,” he said, not inspiring a wave of anxiety to wash over you.

To accommodate for his height, you decided on taking the cushioned chair from the sitting room whose color could be easily mistaken for rotten plums. Sitting on his lap was just an added benefit, which is the only reason he told you, “Good idea,” instead of rolling his eyes and retrieving the chair anyway.

The basin you’re using is clean, white porcelain, in sharp contrast to the sick-looking state of the water once you’ve gotten started.

For good luck, because you’ll be prettified just to knick him on accident, you tap the side of the basin (ting-ting-ting) with each pass of the small blade—which also helps in case of stray hairs.

He looks personally insulted every time you do this.

“Don’t ruin the blade by tapping it with the edge, and you’ll chip the—”

“Shh,” you soothe.

The straight edge falling down around his mouth abruptly quiets him, but he always has plenty enough attitude for all hours of the day, in all situations.

He glares at you.

Ignoring him, you cradle his chin and sweep it downwards in long, fragile motions. With a soaked cloth, you dab away all stray hairs and cream.

Just a little longer.

So another hour, he likes to retort, all because you’re taking this job seriously—a grave statement considering you perform any and all tasks with care already.

“You just like to complain,” you quip lightly, although his scowl dissolved about a half-hour ago. As some point, he just started to watch you, and hasn’t averted his eyes since.

It’s a titillating feeling, his eyes like soft silver, always in your vision. The air feels like a fuse, eternally waiting for sudden ignition.

He traces the knobs of your spin beneath your shirt. “If I praise you, you’ll lower your guard, and there’s a higher chance you’ll make a mistake.”

Ting-ting-ting.

“My Levi just gets sweeter by the day, hm?”

He glares, just barely.

“Don’t clench your jaw like that, honey.”

He obeys.

You know he has a point, however, which motivates you to imagine this as more of a battle. A real fight leaves no room for mistakes, let alone praise.

He is sweet, but he gets clingier and clingier these days, which never fails to make you a little smug, warmly so. If things were different, you would enjoy it even more, the way he holds onto you (right now, literally).

Another fifteen minutes pass after you reach a perfect rhythm: a continuous loop of slow swipes, tap-tap-tapping the basin, then sweeping the rag over the spot you just completed. Only sometimes, you lather on some extra shaving cream.

With your thumb and forefinger, you hold the nape of his neck, not unlike in those moments you want to comfort him.

You’re in your own little world, and so is he, for his gaze hasn’t left yours since you don’t know when anymore. One moment, he was glancing in the mirror, but before you knew it, you couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t looking at you.

Your hold the same, you raise the razor once more, and the dream is shattered.

Just before the edge could brush down below his chin, Levi’s eyes snap wide. He seizes your wrist at once, causing you to jerk back.

To your shock, he still doesn’t let go; his shoulders rise and fall with his breaths, his grip so tight that you feel your bones grind.

“Levi,” you wince, “Stop! Too tight.”

His hand pulls backwards as if stung, and he retreats back in the seat, eyes wide and blank.

Sitting very still, he swallows as he rubs the bridge of his nose. “…Sorry. I’m sorry. You surprised me.”

You lean back as well, your heart pounding in your throat. After how hurt his hands seemed the night before, you underestimated his real strength.

You should know by now. He’s just always so kind to you.

Despite rubbing your smarting wrist, you shake your head frantically. “It’s okay.”

He blinks back into reality, still looking somewhere past you. “What did you say?”

Once upon a time, he couldn’t even stand being kissed on his neck. You should’ve known putting the razor anywhere near there without a warning would upset him.

“It’s okay,” you repeat. “I’m sorry, you’re safe. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I wasn’t thinking.”

He’s watching you with as much space put between you as possible. “Did I hurt you?”

“It’s okay.”

His eyes dart down to your wrist, which seems to answer for him. With his knuckles a peachy white on the armrests, he takes a swift breath through his nose. “Get up.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

You shake your head, your hands slapping down over both his hands. “No, I’m not hurt! It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was an accident.”

Levi doesn’t doesn’t so much as twitch to shoo you off, but he looks devastated, as if he injured you within an inch of your life.

“Here,” you say, voice high with pleading, and set your wrist in front of him.

You shake it a little. “Levi, please, look. I’m okay.”

“Okay…” He drags the word out skeptically, but you don’t move, and with some more time, he eventually reaches out to touch your wrist.

You don’t stop swearing up and down that this isn’t the catastrophe like he thinks it is. Even though it feels like a bruise is waiting to rise to your skin’s surface (which you don’t voice), you know you startled him. It was as accidental as an accident can get. He didn’t break you.

“I don’t wanna stop before I’m finished,” you tell him gently. “And if it makes you feel better, I know you won’t let it happen again.”

His chest rises with a long, even breath. “Forgive me,” he speaks against your wrist. He’s been kissing it.

In response, you glide it over his soft cheek, shaking your head. “Why? There’s nothing to forgive.”

He swallows heavily, his adam’s apple rising and falling with it. He does feel fine for you to continue, but he feels like a sitting safety hazard, too. Handling a razor shouldn’t be as dangerous as it usually is.

“Is it okay?” you ask.

“Worry about yourself.”

“I’m okay,” you tell him again, real close.

He sighs.

“Honey.”

“…I believe you.”

A tiny thrill moves your stomach. Your brows raise. “You’ll let me?”

“Are you asking me to repeat myself?” he retorts, but sheepishly. Turning his head, he presses a chaste kiss to your palm.

This warms your heart. The blade was left on the counter at some point, but you lift its handle now, and settle back in.

You take your sweet time lathering on the perfect amount of shaving cream below his chin. For all the agonizing, he needs very little work done here.

“You’re stalling,” he comments quietly, and bears his throat a little. He doesn’t sound annoyed, which means he’s nervous

Over the act itself or hurting you again, you don’t know, but he’s no longer looking at you.

You begin.

Once again holding his nape, you tip his chin where you need it, and eye the dark hairs that trail below one of his sideburns. Easy.

“Good,” you will say every so often. You don’t care that Levi isn’t a child, whether he needs to be praised or not. At least he won’t make a mistake for lowering his guard, not here. “Good job staying still for me.”

He shifts. Now you guide the razorblade downwards, over where his pulse thuds beneath his skin.

You pause when he takes your forearm. If he changed his mind, it’s not clear; he simply clicks his tongue and looks the other way.

“Lev’?”

“Keeping you steady.”

You are steady. He on the other hand could could double for a wooden board.

His lips tug down. “It’s not you. You should know that.”

“I do,” you say, and you mean it.

Nothing but your breaths and the scrape of the blade’s thin edge breaks the air anymore. Other than the bump in his throat bobbing when he swallows, frightening you into pausing, you don’t hit any more obstacles.

His steady hold on your arm never completely leaves you. Eventually, he moves further to caress your bicep, the bare minimum of holding it, and near the end, it floats down to your waist.

“Done,” you murmur, scratching a little at his nape. You’re proud, and not only of him: your hand didn’t waver the whole time.

He glances towards the mirror, rubbing his face.

You hold your breath.

“You did well.”

Your heart leaps. Sighing evenly, you finally lean back and trace your thumb across his sharp jaw, ignoring the ache in your back for your efforts—even moreso, your wrist.

He looks perfect, skin soft and smooth again.

“So… Trust me now?” you quip lightly.

He shoots you a small, pinched look, and glances back at the mirror, now feeling his neck as well.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says quietly. “I told you, it was—”

“Joke, honey.” You scratch his undercut, then lean in to kiss his cheek. “Just a dumb joke.”

—

After you coerced him into letting you trim his hair too (to be fair, he had been complaining about it for a while; it had gotten to the point of him pinning up his bangs in the front as well as that fucking rat’s tail in the back), he coerced you into doing your hair.

“This is what you get,” he retorted, “if you’re gonna be such a saint.”

It wasn’t even his birthday yet. He expected, as usual, that you were concocting some secret plan in order to celebrate, so he wasn’t about to take all your pampering lying down.

So he used everything he knows about hair on you, and everything he knows about hair, he learned as a kid.

The tips of his ears burned when he saw your lips part, then your eyes sparkle in the mirror’s reflection.

“Wow, you made me look so beautiful.”

To which he flicked your ear. “Don’t insult yourself like that.”

Your beauty isn’t conditional.

Mercifully, the stakes didn’t rise any higher than that, no matter how you pounced on him twice later—first when he was coming upstairs after locking up the cabin, and then as he left the bathroom—to squeeze and rub all over his shoulders.

He won that one. A repeat of that night a few months ago—your magical hands lathering that fiery-cold lotion into every inch of his aching muscles—was cruelly appealing, but this amount of pampering was overwhelming all the same. You did enough without him asking.

So he didn’t need one, not today.

Now, the bedroom is full of darkness. He can’t see you; he can only listen to your slow breathing and feel you there, comfy and pliant in his arms.

Tonight is one of those nights when his mind refuses to slow down, let alone stop. Sleep is stubborn and far away, but at least relevant thoughts sit there for him to chew on to pass the time.

There is no other area in Levi’s life left where he doubts himself, besides here. It is crippling at the worst of times and a murmur at the back of his mind at the best. The worry of the hour tonight revolves around showing you how thankful he is, and how grateful.

He doesn’t doubt you: your resolve is strong, and it doesn’t falter, doesn’t drift, day by week by month by year. If you ever have a concern, he has utmost confidence that you will voice it, but this issue is firmly between Levi and himself.

He knows your feelings, but he doesn’t believe you understand the true gravity of his own. A wave washes over his chest when your soft, sleepy face crinkles into a smile when he’s the first thing you see upon waking up, and his throat tightens in moments of fleeting peace. Casual kisses at the most random of moments jolt him with electricity, and he knows now that he would risk too much if the worst of circumstances demanded it.

Earlier today, he meant what he told you: if what you did hadn’t especially caught him off guard—hurling his mind to a different time, place, and feeling—he wouldn’t have doubted pressing his throat against your blade, not for a moment.

But funnily enough, after all this time he still isn’t good at knowing when you’re joking.

There are words to convey his feelings when actions fail—of course there are. His word is his bond; they’re promises (even if not explicitly said), but he frowns deeply, because that isn’t the problem. Caring for you more than he has ever cared for another is a promise he can keep.

Sometimes, he feels real jealousy with the ease with which you annihilate him with your random compliments. Using words is important to you, but he struggles so deeply.

Could he? He gets the distinct feeling the world will end—that the sky will rain fire, or the ground will crack open the ground’s foundations—if he so much as parts his lips, but at the same time, he has never been more confident. Words stick to his tongue.

He whispers your name.

No reply. You don’t even stir. All you are is a warm, sleepy lump cradled back against his chest.

He presses his lips to your clean hair. You sleep as if you have hundreds of years at your disposal to do so, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Frowning under a sudden sense of nausea, he turns his head to cool his face with the deep navy pillow. His lips part, then shut, then part, like a fish moments away from suffocation.

Thunder is in his chest. Could he?

“I… love you,” he whispers.

But the world doesn’t end, it just feels like it does. Why?

It presses down on him so much he could shout, so, after holding his breath until his lungs burn, just in case, he shuffles away from you. The mountain of blankets are yours.

He turns over onto his other side, facing the curtained window.

Why does he have to catch his breath? Why is it so terrifying to let someone in?

Despite the thick veil of curtains, he knows what vast night exists beyond it. It is easier to believe that you both exist in a void where no one and nothing exists beyond it, than to take enough air into his lungs. He feels that same terrifying freedom as if he were just passing under the gate that divides the cage from the sky.

Words are binding, and as such, sometimes prisons. But you aren’t shackles, and this skip in his heartbeat isn't chains. It took him so long to come to terms with that.

Even when he shuts his eyes, the world spins. If he was ever in range of sleep before, he’s certainly wide awake now.

Now, all he can think about is whether he locked the window before you both laid down to sleep.

—

It’s nearing the turn of the winter season when nature is the most dull, discolored muck it’ll ever be, with a sky like wet cottonballs. The chill day by day is so ferocious it bites through layers of wool and cotton.

Fittingly, you and Levi share an unspoken conversation, and come to an unspoken fact: the two of you can’t stay here annually. You communicate in little looks—the way Levi visibly grows more antsy, or the pinch in your expression when looking out into the fog in the mornings. Neither of you comment on fixing up the house anymore, and his sleeping patterns have worsened again.

Whether you can or can’t becomes a moot point when the cabin is indeed heaven, but all the while, hell waits beyond the mouth of the forest.

Your duty (especially his) waits, freedom waits, and the turbulent future waits as well. Your responsibilities are a burden you could, and would not, give away.

The way things used to be, Levi’s duty was his sole cause for living. While he’s never stated it outright, you’re confident you’re important to him—but more severe matters take precedent without question.

Like a weed, even guilt has been growing in you, not just for Levi alone. You’ve spent more years as a soldier now than you’ve been alive (the consequence of entering the Cadet Corps as young as you did ).

Neither of you can live in good conscience in this bubble for long, where no fighting, blood, or death exists. You understand the way Levi has always felt now, if to a lighter extent—how it all feels too good.

You feel, you know that while you’re away, you will yearn for this the rest of the year just as much as your very first day without it.

Worst of all, neither of you—even you—can’t promise that you one day will return. There are many promises you wish you could speak into existence, but you must keep in mind that they’ll never come to pass.

For instance… you love him. So much as glancing over at him on the sun-speckled porch after supper, his knees folded up to his chest in what has come to be his chair (when you’re alone, he doesn’t feel the need to appear so prim and proper), makes you overcome with adoration. That’s all it takes.

Levi has taught you that you don’t need to speak a word to hear it loud and clear, but you want to.

The yearning to make sure he knows worms around in your chest madly, but you’re confident he’d never hear of it. Seeing how you’ve never heard it before, and the pressure he feels where normal people wouldn’t, you fear endlessly how he would react.

Your cuticles are swollen from picking at them in all your nervousness.

You came to this conclusion about staying at the cabin at the end of December, near his birthday (his supposed birthday, anyway).

The day itself turns out to be the perfect distraction. You couldn’t get away with stealthily keeping awake until the sun crawled above the horizon so you could surprise him with breakfast, nor could you sneak away before he woke. Impossible in any circumstance, really, so either way he was out of bed before you could even surprise him a different way.

Infamously, Levi loathes celebrating his birthday—”What’s so special about the day I was born?” he likes to retort. “It’s just another day.”—but that has never mattered to you.

Last night, you prepared in advance. As soon as you shoot awake in bed, you dash downstairs while still half-asleep to slam the apple fritter in the oven, and put away the tea he already brewed in favor of the more precious tea leaves you had saved for him.

You take great care in everything you do, especially the tea (down to counting down the seconds it needed to steep in your head), then a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, buttery toast, avocado from the closest market, and even sliced ham. Ham!

It’s going overboard for sure, even for you, but he deserves it.

Levi’s footfalls abruptly pause upon the sound of the back door shuttering closed.

You can’t help but grin. The sweet, greasy smell of cooking meat must have spread throughout the whole downstairs at this point.

Then, rapid clicks of his boots against the creaky wood erupt until he appears in the doorway.

“Good morning,” you chirp over your shoulder. “You know what day it is?”

Scoffing, he marches right over and crushes you in his embrace from behind.

You laugh despite the ache in your knees; you’ve been stooped over a hot stove for the better part of the morning.

His lips make a trail of kisses from your jaw to your shoulder, saying, “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I thought I had to?” You touch his hair. “That’s news to me.”

He blinks down at the counter, then abruptly lays down wetter kisses. “How broke did you go?”

You melt against him and make more room for his teeth, making you shiver. “Levi.”

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

“No.”

His hands slip beneath your top, humming softly in satisfaction to find you aren’t wearing a bra.

“Levi,” you say, softer.

He massages your soft breasts into his palms, pushing, then squeezing them together.

Your eyes flutter as heat pools down below your waist. “Honey, I’m not done.”

“I’m thankful,” he murmurs, ignoring you, and rolls your nipples under his rough thumbs.

You swallow a whine. “Don’t you want to eat?” you ask thinly.

No answer. He’s busy suckling a reddish mark into your neck.

He’s very convincing. Maybe letting breakfast cool isn’t such a terrible idea.

Delicately bracing the center of your chest, one of his hands slips down. Its rough callouses feel immensely satisfying against your belly.

Just when it (surprisingly) looks like he’s going to go along with eating after all, his palm follows a path down between your thighs.

You gasp softly. One fingertip sweeps continuously through your slit, beneath your panties.

“All this is for me, isn’t it?” he says conversationally into your ear. “Of course I want to eat.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, taking support from the counter to rock into the fingers just lightly circling your clit. “Fuck, Levi.”

With no hesitation, he cages you in against the counter so you feel a hint of hardness pressed against your backside from behind. Heavier, hot breaths puff against your neck.

Suddenly, you don’t care if everything is ice cold by the time he’s finished with you. He can take you anywhere, and the idea of it happening right here, makes your heartbeat throb in your clit.

“Let me—”

“Yes.”

With an amused huff, he rubs you with practiced fingers and pulls away, making you whine.

Now turned to face him, his middle finger lands on your bottom lip, tugging it down slightly. You feel it’s wet.

Maybe you should’ve worn lipstick.

Levi’s eyes gleam as your tongue darts out for a taste. “You’re so messy,” he comments, guiding you towards the dining table. “C’mere. Let me clean you up.”

Shocked by his forwardness, your stomach jumps as you’re bent over the wooden table—which you already set with placemats and silverware. Your bottom half is in flames.

“Thought you were eating,” you hear yourself say.

“That too.”

As your shirt comes off, “Real funny, Captain.”

He ignores you. The moment you sense him dropping to his knees, taking your sticky panties down along with him, your breath jumps.

“Exactly.”

A tiny whine is stolen from you as his hot breath hits your pussy, constructing sharply from the cool air.

He kisses the backs of your spread thighs. Lithe hands spread you open. “If you’re gonna make us celebrate, I wanna celebrate my way, and not hear you complain about it.”

He doesn’t bother teasing. His lips press to your fluttering hole, before he begins lapping at your cunt.

Levi, not teasing you.

“Ah!” you gasp from the bottom of your lungs. A hot, wet tongue pushes through your slit, which is now properly soaked.

You grope for something—anything to steady yourself. You manage his soft hair, and a groan of approval vibrates your clit.

Bright pleasure vibrates through you, and doesn’t stop. Hell if you know where his sudden confidence is coming from, because while sex with Levi never fails to blow you away, he’s making you go cross-eyed.

The sound of slurping sounds from below, made louder by the way he holds you completely open.

You jolt from the overstimulation, your hole twitching around nothing.

You shudder, begging, “Please, please,”—you feel so empty.

You want to ask what’s gotten into him, but the words evaporate as soon as his heavy tongue pushes into your tight cunt.

Instinctively, you tighten with a soft cry, which only encourages him to start fucking you with it.

He keeps your twitching thighs spread, and moans deep into you. Even more instinctively, you pull him by his hair, forcing his tongue. The sound that results has you gaping into the polished oak table. Something clatters to the floor.

Levi’s hips twitch forward into nothing but his zipper. He’s forced so close he’s halfway suffocated, but he loves it—he loves to be used for you to feel good.

It’s a mystery to him how you really believed he wouldn’t want to fuck you with his tongue, especially on his birthday.

His favorite part is your sweet, heavy taste—he simply can’t get enough—or how you cough out a cry in surprise when three fingers sweep your clit up and down in swift c’mere motions. Maybe it’s your warm, pillowy cunt squeezing his tongue, or the way two of his fingers easily bury inside next to it. He curls them up snug against your favorite spot.

“Right there,” you gasp. “Fuck, don’t stop!”

Breathing hard, he smacks a kiss to your swollen pink clit before giving you his mouth again. He loves you like this, and he loves you. His heart skips a beat.

“I’m already…” You moan, your tone a warning.

It sets him on fire, the way you need him.

“Ca-Captain, I’m not gonna last if you don’t stop.”

His cock gives a hard, heavy throb. He moans loudly and pulls his mouth off, but his fingers stay curled inside. They piston in and out slowly, but deep enough for your pussy to swallow in his second knuckles.

With his free hand he takes a handful of your ass, and spreads you open.

“You don’t wanna come, pretty girl?” he asks, thick with that teasing tone you know so well.

“No!” you cry, and realize what you just said. “Wait, yes, please please—”

His balls ache. He wets his swollen lips before leaving forward, swiping over your much tighter hole.

You wail, “Levi!”

“Oh, yeah. It’s not up to you, is it?”

His fingers slow, then stop, making you keen into the wood. Your pink cunt is drooling for him.

It’s—It’s your birthday,” you whimper, feeling betrayed by yourself. “You can do anything you want to me.”

Working your soft thighs and ass in his palms, he hums, “Uh-huh.”

Once again he rises to his feet, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

His hand lands on the center of your back to keep you steady while he makes quick work of his belt and trousers. As it clinks, then zips, he can feel your dazed eyes on him, watching.

“Fuck,” you sigh, dragging it out. “You’re so hard.”

“Turn around for me.”

You do. With his help, your backside lies on the table edge with you bent in such a way that your ankles rest on his shoulders.

Your wet cunt is completely exposed to him. The cool air on your clit makes you twitch.

You gaze up at his messed hair and red cheeks, stricken by how good he looks. Between his plump thighs his cock is bright red and swollen, beaded with cum.

He holds your hip, keeping you together. “Are you comfortable?’

You nod, feeling dopey, and reach to guide his round cockhead past your rim. The push is easy, filling you to the brim. Perfect.

Your head falls back. “L-Love your dick, fuck. You’re perfect.”

A bitten moan rumbles in his chest. Tight.

He pushes and pulls by shallow inches. “Is all this really that surprising to you?”

“This?” Your hand grabs his. You reach with the other, feeling where you’re connected. “No. Just, you’re not usually—” you search your dizzy mind for a word, “So much.”

It dawns on him what you mean, and his shallow thrusts pause. “D’you want me to stop?”

You manage to gape. “Don’t you dare.”

This position won’t let him kiss you, so he kisses low on your thigh instead. Even here he tastes sweat and sex, all traces of last night’s shower gone.

“Guess I’m in a good mood.”

He takes you right there, from short and shallow to soon pistoning his cock in and out of you in long, hard thrusts—so much so the table lurches several times (more metal clatters, and something swoops to the floor). In order to keep you close, he takes your hip like a vice and fucks you with abandon.

You encourage him louder and louder— “Yes! Yes, fuck—!”—until his jaw slackens. Your pussy, soft like silk, starts to squeeze him.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans.

He folds you completely in half, one leg now dangling high, and it changes the angle.

A flurry of hard, wet thrusts, and you come.

A shiver rocks his whole body. As your pussy gushes, pleasure like liquid heat overtakes him, and he fucks his cum into you soon after.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he wants to ask. “Do you realize yet how perfect you are?”

As usual, he can’t muster the words. In the come-down, the only sound throughout the sun-bathed kitchen is both of your heavy breathing.

From where your chest heaves upon the crooked table, like a model for some erotic artist, both your thighs tremble.

“Your breakfast,” you croak, grieving.

It’s hard not to smile. As he wipes down your inner thighs with a wet rag, he corrects you:“Brunch.”

“All my blood, sweat n’ tears… gone to waste.”

He tuts softly, and lugs you up. “It hasn’t been left out in the rain, has it?”

“No…” But you don’t sound convinced.

“It’s fine. Just don’t expect me to eat off this table.”

You have a smartass retort for that, he can feel it since he did, technically, eat off this table… but you’re too spent. Your chest only drops with a dramatic sigh.

After a much more thorough cleanup (including in a change of clothes), Levi takes good care to restore (what is now) lunch to its former glory.

He’s proud of himself. Granted, all he’s had this morning is some tea, but his mouth waters from the smell.

Out on the porch, its overhang protects you both from the surprising amount of sun breaking through the silvery cloudcover this far into Yule.

However, the sharp air remains stubbornly chilled. In case you shiver, he retrieves a blanket that you drape over your lap.

In your respective cushioned chairs, you eat with your plates tucked in your laps.

“You, in a good mood, on your birthday,” you’re musing, that stupidly warm smile on your face. “That’s a first.”

Levi grunts. You couldn’t be more right; anything resembling a good mood and his birthday mingle like oil and water. There’s a one in 365 chance that it’s even accurate, but he genuinely doesn’t see what needs celebrating anyway.

He blames his actions the night before. It weighs on him heavily still, in the lightest of ways.

Cautiously, he pushes his cut of seared ham around on his wooden plate. He prefers everything to be separated, but now that that’s done, and the toast and eggs leave the faintest trace of crumbs, he still doesn’t feel quite right about it.

When he tasted the apple fritter, he had to pause and reel. Admittedly, he had never had it before; no matter if he’s given the opportunity, he’s quite picky when given a choice.

But how could he act wary? And it was fantastic.

Has he ever tried ham?

In that chaotic space of time before Maria fell but after he left the Underground behind, meat was much more of a commodity, but he was, and still is, a soldier. You like to say being a Scout specifically is a thankless job by everyone but the dead, and you would be right.

Underground “meat” on the other hand was almost always crawling with something, despite the fact that it always cost a fortune in comparison to most people’s incomes.

He supposes he’s a vegetarian, albeit against his will. Hange has a tendency to randomly blurt out facts about anything, and he’s heard that if a stomach isn’t familiar with ingesting a certain type of food, it usually can’t learn.

He hopes that isn’t true, for your cooking’s sake.

“Is it good for you?” he asks, mostly so you don’t point out his reluctance.

You fork more eggs into your mouth, nodding happily. “I’m very confident in my cooking ability, thank you.”

“Good. You should be.”

Your gaze flickers down to his plate. “It won’t bite you, you know. If you try it and decide you don’t like it, that’s fine. More for me.”

He grunts and leans back, one leg now crossed over the other. How would you know it’s his first time?—You must have a damn good eye for him.

“You shouldn’t’ve said that,” he remarks, flipping his fork backwards absentmindedly.

You scowl. “Absolutely not. At least try it first.”

“Remind me. Whose birthday is it?”

“You asshole,” you laugh, biting your lip to make it stop. “I don’t need any more.”

“But do you want more?”

Silence.

“…Tell me,” you set your fork down, “in exact words what you mean by that.”

These back-and-forths between you two are his purest form of entertainment.

“Are words so important?” he replies.

He sees you—nibbling at your lip like that. You like what he’s implying.

“It may be up to you, it’s your birthday, but at least let me suck you.”

His chest rises.

Your voice turns into silk. “You caught me off guard earlier. I deserve much better than that, don’t you think?”

A challenge. Setting aside the way his lower half stirs, he leans over and practically drops his plate into your hands.

“We’ll see.”

—

You suck, lick, and fuck him so good that you actually put him to sleep.

Well, partly.

After making good on your word, you let him fuck you to tears under a hot shower spray, but getting clean turned out to be irrelevant in the end. Soon afterwards, as naked as the day you were born, you shyly asked him, “Do you maybe wanna drink, this one time?”

And, after some thought, he said yes. It takes more booze than it’s usually worth for it to do anything for him, and when he does drink enough, he can’t be on his guard like usual. The anxiety of that is usually enough to take away his buzz.

Besides, after growing up seeing boozehounds everywhere he went—the (sometimes) uncharacteristic fits of rage, the burning stink, and the zombie-like idiocy about them—he has some convictions about drinking. If anyone asks, Levi doesn’t get drunk.

Opportunities always present themselves of course, but he only makes it a goal to get drunk on special occasions. That included tonight.

He popped the cork off a bottle of scarlet merlot. The mood was comfortable, you drank slowly, and you enjoyed yourselves. Even him.

You grew slow and slurry not two glasses in, so he dutifully refilled them (until you’ve had enough). It took him longer to get to where you were, but when the world finally began to narrow in that comforting way, the inexplicable warmth creeped in, and his mind began to buzz, he was with you.

Time stretched as you sipped the syrupy alcohol in front of a crackling fireplace. Mostly you chatted, but you also climbed on top of him there, and when it got late, he draped a thick, downy blanket around your bare shoulders.

Later enough for your bedroom to be an abyss, Levi twitches to awareness from a bottomless sleep in a stinking bed between stuffy sheets. He kicks them off as soon as he gets some handle over his leaded limbs, and rubs his eyes.

Sleeping so deeply, and waking with no memory of how he got somewhere is unheard of for him. His head is even still buzzing a little, despite the nausea.

Shit, is his first intelligent thought. I sleep when I drink.

It would be terribly easy to sleep some more. Only, when lazily reaching across the bed, he finds your warm, lumpy pillow, but not you.

Suddenly he’s wide awake, stone-cold sober, and shooting up in bed. You’re not here.

He tosses a look over. The bathroom is dark.

You’re probably getting water.

Anxiety tears him up anyway. He pulls himself out of bed.

With fresh briefs, an open shirt, and a pair of pants on, he paws his empty pockets.

He fishes through a pair of his boots. He’s very aware that carrying a weapon in these circumstances is the furthest thing from necessary, but his judgment is garbled—another reason he dislikes drinking.

After the dim hallway comes the stairs. He lets the banister guide him going down.

You’re getting water. The kitchen is cast in gold by a lantern set on the island, joined by the slaps of your bare feet padding around inside.

His anxiety blows away. After the last step he heads in your direction like a man on a mission.

Sleepy-eyed, you jerk your head up from your glass of water and smile just in time for Levi to wrap you in his arms from behind.

He sighs softly. Better. As you sway together, he makes like a baby possum and refuses to let go.

“Hm,” you murmur, relaxing against him. “Hi.”

“You left,” he speaks into your neck. You stink deliciously of sex. “Don’t do that.”

You seem to find this adorable. As you pet his hair, his annoyance melts away.

“I was only gone a second,” you say. “I was thirsty. What if I died of dehydration?”

“No,” vibrates against your shoulder.

“No?” you laugh. “Did you miss me that much?”

The drink makes his tongue loose. “You have no clue, do you?” Squeeze. “Jus’ don’t go anywhere I can’t follow.”

Your heart leaps into the sky. A grin breaks onto your cheeks as an obnoxious Awww falls off your lips. “You’re so fucking adorable, ‘Vi.”

You try to twist around in his arms, but he mistakes this as you pulling away, and only tightens his hold.

If that’s how it’s going to be, you go completely lax a moment, sending you both nearly toppling over.

As you wanted, he huffs against your hairline and pins you to him by your shoulders and middle, clinging.

“You’re the biggest brat I know.”

“Did you hear me? Adorable?”

He sighs. “I never know what to say when you call me shit like that.”

“You don’t have to say anything. You’re just adorable.” You hug his strong forearm that’s pinned across your chest. “With a heart of pure gold, who anyone would be lucky to know. The most brave, most handsome, most pretty—”

He makes another unhappy sound and reaches to clamp your mouth shut, which you don’t allow to happen.

“My Levi,” you sing-song. “Whom I adore.”

“This is torture,” he speaks softly. “Torturing me, after I made all this effort.”

“Effort to keep me from getting a drink of water?” you cackle.

“You don’t need—”

“And not torture—”

“—water, I’d get you some—”

“Levi, you’re being—” you laugh—

“—if you were really dehydrated.”

—so hard your sides twist into cramps. You laugh until there’s no air left in your lungs, so your belly merely wracks. At the same time, tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You can feel him smiling softly against your hairline.

Oh, what you’d give to see.

“Levi,” you shake out the last giggles. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

He freezes, whatever face he was making slipping off his face. His stomach drops out of existence. “What?”

Did he not hear you right? He retreats backwards, causing you to spin back around.

“W-What did you say just now?” he asks again, no louder than a whisper.

That sober look on your face. He knows it was real, what you just said. The silence, so thick you couldn’t pierce it with a hacksaw, proves it and proves it.

Your mouth opens, shuts. “Levi.”

“What?” he asks again, now demanding. It’s hard to breathe suddenly. His face heats. He feels himself tense, as if for attack.

“I—I don’t know.” You blink, and that’s shock painted on even your own face. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know?” he snaps, motionless. Even his shoulders rise and fall with his breaths.

He doesn’t know why he’s growing so upset. Loathing festers inside, and the more upset he becomes, the more it grows.

“It just slipped out,” tumbles out of your mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” You stall, at a loss.

In the third person, he feels himself crashing through the floor outside his body, dropping out from underneath himself.

He takes another step, this time measured. A silent feeling screams for him to escape this situation, but another plants his feet to the floor.

His silence must be telling.

“No!” you exclaim, lips moving rapidly to explain. “I mean, I c-couldn’t help it. I wasn’t thinking, it just…” Your eyes glitter with tears. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, Levi doesn’t even trust his feet to hold him up. He is totally lost for words.

In the doorway that feeds into the sitting room, he discreetly holds onto it. His other hand lies limply by his side, nails digging into his palm.

“Wait,” you call from the same place, voice soft. “Are you going to leave?”

A beat passes before he shakes his head, disbelieving. What do you mean by that?—Do you have so little faith in him? His dry mouth stops him from asking.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

It’s hard to swallow. “…We should sober up.”

And so he retreats into the darkness, stopping briefly when the backdoor enters his sight. As much as he craves the fresh air, going that route would confirm every one of your fears.

He scours his memories. An empty bedroom sits on the ground floor, he remembers.

You insisted on remodeling that room, but inside, it still might as well be a sealed box besides the pathetic amount of moonlight pushing past the blinds, casting shadows.

He twists the knob all the way to shut it as quietly as possible, then staggers to the corner attached to the same wall as the door, and slides down into a sit.

He knows he’s being pathetic. As a kid, it was a good technique he used to hide. As a man, it lets him get an advantage over enemies. You’re not a threat.

He wrestles with his head silently and folds his knees to his chest while he waits for your steps. You’ve never invaded his space in the past, but tonight, he can’t be confident.

Tonight. He’s stuck on that all the sudden. Just a few hours ago was his birthday, but that feels so far away now.

Of course, you were drunk. That’s what troubles him. There’s a thin line, he’s found, between the truth slipping out of a drunk person, and saying things they don’t mean. It’s better he doesn’t trust a thing until you’re both sober enough to know for sure.

Partly, he wants to hear you say that it was a mistake, because you’ve realized that his suspicions were correct: he really did trick you by seeping so much good out of you and using enough to make himself believe that he is anything but a murderer, a thief, and a bastard. He needed your goodness because there is not a single bit of good inside himself, and he is so selfish that even without realizing, he deceived you.

How could he do that while you’re in the middle of this losing war against the Titans? you would ask him. You realize that he’s unlovable. He is so fucking unlovable in fact that he’s better off dying in battle tomorrow so at least he will be used for what he’s meant to be used for.

Partly, he wants you to slam the door open so hard it punctures the drywall, yank him up by his shoulders and scream in his face how foolish he’s being. Yes, he’s abnormal and far from perfect, and yes this world is a nightmare but the way you feel makes all that cease to matter.

You will pour your heart out to him and recite the specific moment you realized you love him, with tangible reasons he can replicate. You will promise to return to his side safely every day for the rest of your lives.

And partly, he doesn’t want to know.

His head pounds. He closes his eyes.

He used to hate, much more than he does these days, that he can’t remember a time his mother ever spoke the same. Granted, he doesn’t remember more than a few glimpses of his childhood—maybe because of the hunger and all the shit he survived—but either way, it’s more reassuring to imagine she never told him because she didn’t need to.

He isn’t naive, he knows that not all parents love their kids, but she did. He knew, without her having to say anything, that she felt that way.

His train of thought crashes against the sound of wood whining, signaling your ascent up the stairs.

Staring straight ahead, he breathes carefully and tames his hell of emotions.

Why does he feel this way? He said it too, just when you had no way of knowing he did. Emotion raged inside him then as well, but not as intensely as this.

He feels like a little kid staring up at that cold bed. Even though it crawled, and the stench hung thick in the air, he begged for her when she wasn’t conscious to hear, and never would be again.

He gnaws on his thumb. He doesn’t want to remember that.

It occurs to him, he didn’t think his feelings would be requited, deep down.

It’s a mystery to him how love can fit into this world at all, much less there be some reserved for someone like him—how you have room in your golden heart for someone like him. It takes a flick of the wrist to swing a knife, and it’s an automatic reaction to hit when you’re struck, but he’s an amateur with the rest.

Being born in violence, raised in it, trained at it to perfection—it just doesn’t add up. He thinks he will die in it as well.

But he knows his feelings for you by now. He knows most of all that it’s impossible to put them to bed, let alone destroy them.

He hugs himself, hissing softly. Because of everything else, he didn’t realize he was freezing.

He has scarcely felt so sober in his entire life. In fact, if a pin dropped in another room, he would hear it—he’s that alert—but he wants to give you more time.

To be sure, he thinks, knowing he’s putting the confrontation off. Partly, he doesn’t want to face you. But then, there’s another.

—

The floorboards whining under his steps on the second floor drone like alarms. He knows you know he’s coming now—there’s no way you’re asleep.

Terror thuds in his ears as he stares at the front of the bedroom door, willing himself. He is wrestling with thoughts he defeated a long time ago: whether he should knock, how to carry himself once inside, how you’re likely to react, and—

The turn of the knob is so sudden he locks up for an attack before the door whines open. Immediately, his eyes are on the floor.

“Are you…?”

Whether you’re about to say ‘mad’, ‘sober’ or ‘okay’—his next question is the same: “Are you?”

It rings in the air. You apologize before you sit down on the window sill.

His lips tug down. Whenever you apologize unprovoked, he thinks it’s for you simply existing, whether you know that or not.

“I’m so, so sorry. We can just act like it ever happened.”

He forces his lips to move. “Stop saying sorry.”

“Why…?“ You look stumped. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.”

He stares from the doorway, back straight. In some way you’re right, but is it also possible you didn’t think he’d feel the same?

The doorframe is his only support. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you just… don’t.” It’s a statement that sounds more like a question.

“That’s confusing.”

“Well sometimes,” you sigh, “you’re confusing, too. When I said it, you physically left the room to get away from me. Now here you are, making me feel stupid because I thought that meant you didn’t want to hear it.”

You’re extremely hurt.

His chest is cold. “It wasn’t you, it’s what you said. Without any warning. Then you said you didn’t mean it.”

“Oh.” The word sounds punched from you. “That’s not what I—”

His teeth grind. “How exactly did you expect me to react?”

You look down at your feet.

“I would be doing anything other than standing here if I didn’t—also feel that way.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. “Fuck, I’m crying.” You furiously wipe your eyes. “I meant it slipped out. I guess I just think about it a lot, s-so that’s what happened.”

“You think about it…?” he trails off, genuinely confused.

“I didn’t wanna put pressure on you. And you always—” you gesture vaguely, “—you always say stuff without saying it.”

He waits for you to go on, but you’re busy collecting yourself, wiping your eyes.

“You surprised me,” he offers, blandly.

“I know.”

But you weren’t the first to say it. It was a slip of the tongue on your part, even though your feelings are just as true as his.

For him, it was premeditated. He was sure.

For you two, this is a serious argument. He feels the need to get you both on the same page.

“You’re wrong,” he tells you.

“What do you mean?”

For as long as he’s stood watching you, he looks away. “I said you’re wrong.”

Your lips part, moving, but not understanding. “Which part?”

“The last part.”

“A-About saying stuff?”

“Second to last,” he snarls.

“Pressure,” you sound out. “You said it?”

His cheeks heat, he’s excruciatingly embarrassed. “…Yeah.”

You look at him like he’s just grown a second head. “…Well, then—when? If you did, I would’ve heard you.”

“No. You wouldn’t have.” He shifts his footing and frowns at the look on your face. “Don’t make me say it… it’s embarrassing.”

A long, arduous silence thickens the air again. Hopefully you gather what happened—which mortifies him much more than if he just told you outright, making it seem as if it was casual for him.

Then he hears a heavier sniff, and his feet lurch into step. An ache permeates his fingers—which he notices only now—from knuckling the doorframe.

He paces over and sits down next to you, leaving space. Mostly for his own peace of mind.

“Levi… Why in the world would you do a creepy thing like that?”

He’s shocked to hear you sound coy. You’re even making a face when he glances over.

As usual, he doesn’t get the joke. He doesn’t have a good answer, either.

“J-Just to see.”

“See?”

“What would happen.”

You nod a little, expression even again. “When?”

“…What is this, an interrogation?”

“Well, for all I know…” you smirk a little, “…you said it two years ago, before we started dating. Or four years, when you were—”

“I get it,” he cuts in, scowling. “Quit guessing. They’re bad guesses, anyway. You’d never figure it out.”

“I doubt that.”

“Of course you do.”

You scoff, in mock-hurt, picking at your cuticles in that nervous way you never quit doing.

You’re smiling a little. He sees its radiance out of the corner of his eye. “And unlike me… you were sober,” you guess.

He clutches his hands into soft fists. “So? You can say anything while sober.” His lips press together. “Can’t you?”

“Yeah.”

With no room for urgency, you lay your head on his shoulder, causing him to stiffen.

He doubts he makes a good pillow right now; he’s so tense that if a brick was thrown at him, it would break into pieces.

It’s not like you to sit in silence—it doesn’t even feel like the conversation is over—but each moment drags. It feels like a long feather is stroking his insides, not because of what you’ll say, but the very words themselves.

“I love you,” you whisper, and he sucks in a swift breath.

He is at a crossroad: breathing hard, forcing control, or not breathing at all.

What this feeling is, is magma boiling up inside him and burning him alive, and he squeezes his eyes shut so tight it aches because he doesn’t know why he can’t just get over himself and be normal—to react normally to those words.

But it’s not too much.

Obediently, you raise your head to give him space. The look on his face is unimaginably pained, even tortured.

“…Is it okay?” You whisper this, too.

He swallows, and looks away. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I don’t know either, but I don’t care.”

It takes him several long moments before he can trust his voice. “C-Could you say it again? I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, I can.” A smile is in your voice. “I love you. I love you, Levi.”

“Are—Are you sure?” he asks, voice raw.

Your breath shakes. “Yes.”

“Make sure.”

You humor him even though you can probably tell that he’s overwhelmed. It suddenly, just—sounds so good to hear it. So fulfilling.

You say it and say it, finally breathing life into what this is and giving it away fearlessly—or as fearlessly as one can speak despite their trembling breath.

While making knots out of his trousers, he shudders his own breath. If you touched him right now, he might explode.

You actually love him. Someone can, and it’s you.

“I love you,” you say, and gently, so gently, your hand lands atop his own.

“Levi.” You mouth at his hairline. “I love you. I love you with all my heart.”

He makes a face, teeth grinding so he doesn’t either snort, or give into shaking.

“You’re so fucking sappy, it makes me sick,” he rasps, pulling away.

You have a pretty laugh. As your hand moves to pull away, he abruptly takes it, and still not looking at you, pulls it to his lips.

That look on his face, you’re conflicted on. A deep frown tugs his lips down, and that wrinkle between his brow is more pronounced than ever, but he’s blushing all the way to the tips of his ears. Silvery blue eyes are open, shining softly.

“Levi.”

He pauses with your hand, as if contemplating something, before giving it the smallest of squeezes and letting it go.

You feel the need to preface, “You don’t need to say anything.”

So he doesn’t say anything. For a moment.

“It’s difficult for me.” His voice shakes, and he feels pathetic.

“I know.” You touch his shoulder. “But I know how you feel… you know?”

Nod.

Your expression reminds him of a tired dove. “I’ll be in bed, okay?”

Relief. He nods again. He’ll join you later, but he needs time to calm down, and to think.

He has never been happier in his whole life.

—

At the turn of the new year, your last days, you climb up on horseback behind Levi most mornings and spend afternoons going wherever the wind takes you, however long you want, doing anything.

Endlessly, forever, for both the first time and possibly your last.

That last evening midway through January, your cheeks still hurt from smiling so much. That day, you had stumbled upon the largest field of sunflowers either of you had ever seen and had a picnic, despite the sleet still layered on the ground.

Levi was quieter than usual, but if he wasn’t enjoying himself, even the slightest bit, he would’ve found some way to complain—which never happened.

The eternal struggle even momentarily drifted from your mind, which you had been wrestling: this war, its demands, its aftermath, and its end (if it will ever come). Slavery to the fight.

It was your idea to make your last evening last as long as possible by spending most of the night up talking and rating a ton of teas.

He didn’t have a single issue staying awake; you were the one who dozed off with your head propped up on your hand during the twilight hour.

Now he nudges open the stiff bedroom door with his back, taking care not to let your feet bump the doorway, nor for your neck nod off his shoulder.

After he lays you down in bed, you moan softly in your sleep and roll onto your side, away from him.

His lips quirk, just a little. You make it hard to help himself.

As soon as he’s curled up behind you, tangled in the sheets, you roll again and all but plant him on his back to lay your head down.

Nobody says anything. Maybe it just comes naturally to your sleeping self.

Levi’s lips quirk again.

He wants to sleep. Nights of solitude never truly bother him unless you’re sleeping peacefully; it’s an especially excruciating pit of loneliness that forms after an hour or two of finding patterns in the cracks in the ceiling. Only the guarantee that he will be ready for any possible emergency that concerns you (may it come or not) reassures him.

He can feel it. Sleep won’t come.

Until the mourning doves begin their crooning, his mind wanders around in pointless directions. Dawn’s grey light creeps in.

He sighs softly to himself to the tune of your soft snores. There’s still much to get done before you can properly go. He might as well get a headstart.

You’ll need the rest. Your mood is twice as antsy as his if you don’t get enough sleep compared to when he doesn’t sleep at all, which is saying something.

So he climbs out of bed.

By the time the sun has properly risen in the sky, Levi is laying out a small breakfast on the dining table; the lazy sound of wood creaking from upstairs was his signal.

The last of the butter melts on a crisp piece of toast next to a bunch of strawberries he sliced this morning. It’s the last of those, too.

You toddle down the wood stairs, which also whine under your steps, scrubbing sleep from your eyes.

“Good,” he greets you. “You’re dressed. Eat. You’ll need the energy.”

“Good morning to you too.”

He bites down on the inside of his cheek as you plop down in the chair. It’s not even a good mood that’s begging him to smile: you amuse him.

“Thanks,” you grunt, and take a real look at him. His insomnia is chronic enough for him to hide seamlessly, but you know him well (“Too damn well,” he likes to say.).

“Are you nervous?”

“There’s a lot to do,” he replies, sits, and crosses his legs with one arm slung over the chair back.

Truthfully, it’s hard to tell. This is more of a feeling of being sure something’s waiting around a coming corner, but he can’t tell if it’s a friend or a threat yet.

He resists the urge to rub his eyes. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” you sigh. “I can’t remember anything that happened after we tried that…” You blink hard. “Keemun.”

“Don’t look so guilty. I don’t sleep much.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

He’s pleased you never woke up while he carried you; the keemun was the best place to end things, anyway. It tasted as smooth as an expensive cigar, if rolled in baked plums and chocolate.

You’re leaving here with so many good memories, it hurts. The pain makes him wonder.

If the opportunity never presents itself for you both to return, or worse, he alone would be given it, then all that would ever remain in this place is ghosts.

He watches you nibble away at the last of your toast like a chipmunk, and knows for certain—he would always feel for you the same way, even if Yan didn’t “repay” him that “debt”.

Would he have told you he loves you?

No, he decides. His pessimistic side wants to write this while trip off as being lulled into a false sense of security.

To be fair, that’s what it is. False.

This bundle of peace is left standing bright at your retreating backs. One day, it could be a horrible memory, a reflection of broken dreams.

There are other dreams which wait to be fulfilled, but you will still be with him, as long as you don’t leave him behind.

He awkwardly clears his throat. “Do you think you’ll remember this in the future?”

You nearly spit out your toast. “Huh? Of course I will. Won’t you?”

“Yeah.” The bookshelf a few paces from the front door holds only a few lonely books now. He looks at that instead of you. “But that means missing it.”

“I know, but…” you wipe your mouth with a napkin, “…We’ll miss everything, you know?”

“Yeah, but this is… more than that.”

Your lips tug down, and he kind of wishes he didn’t say anything.

“More than everything?”

Yes.

“Forget it,” he says.

“…Would you rather we not have done it?”

No reply. You put what remains of your toast down. “You can be honest.”

“I’d rather not miss it.”

The good things are a blessing, and a curse. He knows too well what this world is majorly made up of—he needs to be ready for that. He can’t be sure of anything, including the good things.

But he forces himself not to regret. This winter, it was still good. He got to be with you. It isn’t what he learned to let himself do, or feel, or think—but not to do any of those things at all.

To simply be.

Comfort. False security. All these in passing turns a prick of pain that will inevitably come along into a thrashing whip. It makes one complacent and comfortable when they can’t afford to be. Tragedy waits, always.

He has never experienced such happiness, which is why he has never been so disappointed in himself for allowing himself to do so.

Quiet persists. You have your listening face on now, napkin crushed in one hand while you exchange soft blinks.

“I don’t mean to shit all over the mood, but I want your opinion,” he decides. “…D’you think this was for nothing?”

You reach across the table and lay your hand on his.

“Nothing’s for nothing,” you say.

He wants to believe you.

—

As you expected, Levi has double his weight in bags slung over his shoulders when he pokes his head in the bathroom.

“How long is it gonna be till you’re ready?—Another month?”

“Hm. More like two,” you reply, smiling.

A scoff, followed by the clacks of his boots retreating out the front door.

And you keep smiling. Really, all that’s left to do is take a cursory look around to make sure nothing got left behind.

Retreating from the bathroom, you stand at ease and examine the bookshelf in the hallway. It feels different than leaving the dining table, or even the bench off the side of the house.

You really read a horse’s weight in books while you were here. Most of the books themselves are still with you, but… it won’t be the same.

Only the rumpled spine of one and the faded covers of a few others are left stacked neatly in one desolate corner. Those ones were bad, and not in the fun way, you both agreed (these days you more often than not read together).

You took your all-time favorite stories with you, which you’ll treasure until they too are faded. The classics as well, the just-okays, and the bad ones that turned out somehow fun.

The few so contrived, goofy and terrible that you begged to keep, because it made Levi honestly, earnestly laugh—and sometimes a little louder, more than once.

You step off the front porch steps, feeling torn, yet oddly fulfilled.

Nothing’s for nothing. A moment within a lake of millions, but you want to remember them all, all the same.

This one especially.

—

It takes three hours under a cold, clean sky to reach Trost. By then, the afternoon sun is high and there is much unpacking to be done.

Levi slapped away your sticky fingers every time you insisted on helping carrying a lumpy bag or box inside from the front.

“I got it,” he bitched earlier. “You don’t need to do anything.”

“But I want a job!”

He scoffed. “Fine. I have one for you: sit down and look pretty. You think you can do that?”

You roll your eyes at the memory as he passes down the small set of stairs by you. You’re still brooding, planted on top of a flat stone column just outside the tall doors.

He knew you would, but then you make a game out of it, much to his chagrin.

For every one of his treks, you pat him somewhere—usually the top of his head—but he never knows where you’re going to aim next.

He dodges a flick to his elbow.

“Woah, you look unsteady,” you say, tone full of artificial concern. “You need help?”

He catches your wandering eyes with his cheek pressed against the cardboard box in his arms. “Don’t you have anything better to do besides distract me?”

You smile. “I can stare.”

He rolls his eyes.

Two trips later, you get dangerously close to his backside. He manages to pivot just in time and stares you down suspiciously, a box under one arm and a knapsack slung over one shoulder.

He doesn’t even look surprised anymore.

All you do is smirk.

In the end, you win that one.

It’s a blessing that HQ is still unpopulated. That’s the way it’ll be until next week, something Levi planned far in advance.

All for the better in his mind. A Scout, someone from your squad a long time ago (and who apparently almost beat him to asking you out for Mayfest a couple years ago) left the Corps early last spring. He had gotten married to a scullery maid out of Klorva District. Weird.

You put up the wagon while he stabs a familiar key into a familiar lock, and steps into his familiar quarters.

His nose scrunches as he surveys his office. He can physically see the dust particles floating in the air, especially in the glow of the windows, thanks to the afternoon sun above.

Scraping his fingertips underneath the desk confirms his suspicions.

This place is a wreck, he thinks, scowling at nothing in particular.

But after wiping his hands off with a handkerchief, he does find something to scowl at. A white wicker basket sits in his chair. It’s adorned with red and pink frills, a bunch of fresh fruit, and even… a teddy bear?

He snatches up the card on the bear’s lap, and as he reads, his glare darkens.

‘Hope your honeymoon was productive! (I know it wasn’t officially a honeymoon, but why else would you take a vacation? Levi? Vacation? Ha!)

Mike insisted I buy you this stuffed bear in preparation for the next nine months! I can’t wait to have another little Levi runn—’

Levi tears his eyes away from the card. Fucking four-eyes.

Using a stool, he gets the thing stuffed up high in a closet behind a carton of cigars. Those are for special occasions; he has no more fitting place for the basket (except for the fruit, which he stores in the kitchenette).

Just in time. Outside his office, the door opens, then thumps shut to the sound of your boots clicking as you cross the floor.

“Everything’s put away,” you tell him proudly.

“Good. I have work to do,” he replies without turning, setting the stool back in the corner of his office. “You have anything you need to do first?”

You get an early start on paperwork while he takes a much-deserved shower. After that, you work together in comfortable silence.

A sense of coming home crashes over him after he randomly blinks out of focus from his current sheet of paperwork. This one contains a list of grades and statistics of Cadets who seem likely to join up this coming spring.

He glances over at you without moving his head—you, bathed in gold thanks to the sunset moving across his desk.

Another random fact of Hange’s enters his mind: apparently, pregnant women’s skin tends to glow. Something about hormones.

Your pencil scratches paper.

He covers his warming cheeks with the back of his hand and averts his gaze. That stupid basket.

Work. Surprisingly, he spots one name on the page he remotely recognizes. Jaeger. A doctor with the same name was famous in Shiganshina for curing an epidemic several years back.

The next time he looks up, you’re planting a bowl of stew down on his desk, green tea and bread included.

He takes a breath, and his mouth instantly waters. He forgot to eat lunch earlier.

Then you place a hand in his hair. He glances up towards your fond smile.

“Do you wanna start the fireplace after you’re done eating?”

A wave of affection crashes over his chest. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m about to,” you reply. “So?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

By the time your bellies are warm and full, he has stoked the logs enough to get a real fire going. Past the sitting room’s windows, which stretch across the entire back wall, snow floats down in weightless drops.

He stores the poker away, stands, then turns. Your arms are open.

“C’mere.”

That same feeling flips his chest over again. He pins his tongue between his teeth before quickly approaching.

You tug him down until he lays sideways down the sofa, his head in your lap and facing the fireplace. Despite you being sat right in the middle, he’s still too short for his feet to knock against the armrest.

“I had to get that stew from the mess hall,” you’re murmuring, tucking dark bangs behind his ear. “It wasn’t that good.”

“Your standards are too high,” he replies, leaning into your palm. Everything is so warm.

“Oh? What’re my standards?”

“Your cooking. Of course everything else tastes bad in comparison.”

You laugh at this. “You’re too kind.”

Huffing, he closes his eyes and covers his face lips with a loose fist.

You’re so wrong it hurts.

He never wants you to stop.

A different realization hits him. This doesn’t feel too different from some nights you spent back on a whole other world, at the cabin.

He blinks off into space. It is just a house, a place. There would be nothing nearly as enticing about it if you weren’t there with him.

“You okay?” you ask. “You’re more quiet than usual.”

He rolls over to face you. As you slouch a little, getting comfortable, he moves with you.

“When I first got inside, this basket of fruit was sitting on my desk from four-eyes. I’m trying to figure out how they got in.”

Through giggles, “Was anything missing?”

“I don’t think so.” He was too stressed out at the time to check thoroughly. “But still.”

A thin, felt blanket is pulled off the back of the couch, then laid over him, up to his shoulders.

He turns his head.

“You looked cold,” you offer as an excuse, and he rolls his eyes, even though he was.

The fire was also dying down, but since you didn’t say anything, he didn’t stand to get it.

Typically, he would do it anyway, but…

You pet his hair down, scratching gently at his scalp.

It can wait.

He looks much more comfortable now that he’s covered up. A spontaneous memory unfurls in your mind, when losing Wall Maria. You think about forgetting those three days all the time, but the memory of that one night (or early morning? It’s hard to remember) you want to keep forever.

He was so shy then. And much more aloof. When you embraced him, that was the first time you had ever hugged a steel pole.

“We’re both still alive, but if you want to keep it that way, get some rest. Otherwise I’d have to tag along to make sure you don’t die. Doesn’t sound fun, does it?”

You bite down a bittersweet smile while what feels like big wings flutter in your chest. Was that really five years ago?

“What’s so funny?”

Your eyes meet Levi’s scrupulous ones. Most of his expression is hidden in your shirt.

“Nothin’.”

Yeah, right, he thinks, but his eyes fall shut to feel your hand carding his bangs all the way back over his forehead.

That’s something Mom used to do, if he remembers right, especially after cutting the rat’s nest that was usually his hair.

His childhood had more peaceful times than he gives it credit for. This time, though, he aims to keep these times from ever stopping.

He isn’t foolish. As long as Erwin’s dream hasn’t come to fruition, the fighting won’t cease. It may never stop, at least by the time he’s no longer there to fight for it, but he knows some things for sure.

You two will never be normal—he has long-since accepted that. As long as he has this, you, he can make peace with his more selfish dreams.

Within the coming months, the 104th batch of recruits will be up for the chopping block; a bunch of brats spit out into the three branches like marbles. Erwin will give his honeyed speech, and Levi will be near, and he won’t have to say much.

Some of those marbles will land in the Survey Corps, most won’t. But those few are more brave, or foolish, than any slack-jawed cow of a noble could ever fully grasp.

And finally, always, when you two return to HQ—bustling or sparse, the day heavy or light—you will be with him.

Home. He knows what that means now, and it doesn’t have to be a place. Maybe you will stretch his legs across his lap, or make a casserole. Maybe he will replace the flowers in your vase that you accidentally neglect often enough to worry him.

He will feel time wandering and expanding, daring him to believe your midnight conversations will stretch on forever.

They won’t, but he has made peace with that. This life is, in fact, more heavenly than he ever could have imagined wanting for himself, let alone making.

You and he will simply have to fight, within an inch of your lives at worst, in order to keep it.

The End.

Chapter End Notes

seriously, thank you for reading<33

especially everyone who has commented.. AND everyone who commented/rb'd/left a message on this fic on tumblr. whenever i was having trouble or becoming uninspired, i thought of you <3

i would end off with 'until next time' but i actually have 2 of levixreader longfics in progress rn lol. check em out if u want

End Notes

more fics like this on my tumblr - @levmada

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Table of Contents

let go (part 1/2)

let go (part 2/2)

notes