lelet

You know you’re close to Harrenhal before you see it.

The air begins to change when you come to the small forest that sits on one side of the Gods Eye, just before the ruined fortress. It grows heavier the further along you ride, thick with the scent of damp earth and smoke that clings stubbornly to the wind. Even the horses seem to feel it, their pace slowing, ears flicking back at distant sounds you can’t quite make out. There’s no birdsong here, nor an easy rustle of wind through leaves, only the steady rhythm of hooves against old cobblestones and the low murmur of the men escorting you. 

You sit straight-backed on the saddle despite the long journey, gloved hands clutched tightly around your horse’s reins, gaze fixed ahead. 

You had expected something different. Not peace, of course, you’re not so naive as to believe war leaves anything untouched, but you had thought he’d be waiting. 

The summons had been clear enough—Come to Harrenhal scrawled over a slip of parchment in his usual sharp writing, delivered only days before by a squawking raven. There’d been no fanfare, no hesitation, like it was all already decided.

As though, by the time you arrived, the castle would be his in full—secured and quiet—and you would be kept neatly at arm’s length from anything unseemly. 

Your lips press together at the thought. It would’ve been easier to remain behind, wherever it was deemed safest for you to be while men bled and burned. 

But he had sent for you, doubtless convinced that he could keep you far safer than any random knight. 

It has been weeks since you last saw him, since you felt the weight of his hand on your waist or heard the low murmur of his voice in your ear, and you never really have learned how to deny him. 

“Princess,” one of the men escorting you calls, pulling his mount alongside yours. His voice is respectful, though there’s a tightness tugging at the edges of it, as though he’s choosing his words carefully. “We’ll make the gates within the hour.”

You nod once, inclining your head. “And Prince Aemond?”

“In the castle,” he answers, “seeing to matters.”

Harrenhal rises in the distance, blackened and jagged and uneven—a wound made of stretching walls and long-cooled dragonfire carved into the landscape. Even from a distance, you can see the movement of men marching along battlements and banners shifting in the wind—the right banners. 

Victory, then, or close to it. 

The gates open as your party draws nearer, the guards at the gate still bearing the marks of battle: bloodied armor and drawn swords. The scent of smoke lingers stronger behind them, curling through the stone corridors like a phantom. There’s movement everywhere—soldiers crossing the yard, voices calling out orders, the distant scrape of something heavy being dragged across stone. 

Your fingers tighten around the reins once more, and before you can ask, one of the men riding beside you leans closer, his voice pitched low as he informs you of Aemond’s whereabouts. 

You dismount before anyone can move to assist you, boots hitting the ground with a quiet thud. One of your guards steps forward instinctively, as though to guide you elsewhere—to some chambers, perhaps, or any other quieter, safer place. 

Your brows furrow as you gaze up at him, lips in a tight line. 

“Show me,” you say instead. There’s a brief hesitation, a shift in the air as they glance between one another before finally nodding and leading you toward the battlements. 

The courtyard reeks of iron, not in the clean, biting scent of a blade newly drawn, but something heavier—thicker—that has already done its work. Blood darkens the ancient stones of Harrenhal in uneven smears, dragged beneath boots and pooled into the shallow grooves worn there by centuries of war and ruin. Smoke still lingers in the air, faint but persistent, curling through the open space as though the castle itself exhales it.

You make no move to announce yourself, seemingly frozen into place as your hands grasp at old stones. For a second, something tightens in your chest, so quickly that you almost don’t register it. It’s not fear, not really, but something sharper—headier—that doesn’t quite settle as you watch him.

He stands at the center of it all, looking less like a prince and more like what the war has made of him.

His hair hangs loose about his shoulders, pale strands clinging in damp disarray to his face and throat, some stained where they’ve caught in drying blood. The sapphire set in his eye socket glints coldly in the light—uncovered, unhidden—its sharp gleam fixed upon the men forced to their knees before him, their hands bound, their fate already written long before they were dragged into this courtyard.

You’ve seen him in armor before, after he’s finished training and he’s still flushed and sharp-eyed and alive with it. But this is… something entirely different. 

He stays quiet, taking a long moment to merely observe them. It is that silence—more than any shouted command, more than any threat—that begins to unravel them.

“P-Please—” one of them manages at last, voice breaking as his bound hands strain uselessly against the rope. “We—we were only following orders, my prince, we—”

Aemond’s head tilts, just slightly. The movement is almost idle, almost curious, like he is studying something small and insignificant rather than a man begging for his life. His gaze lingers, sharp and unblinking, and when he finally moves, it is with a slow, deliberate ease that makes no effort to hide what comes next.

Your fingers curl slowly against the stone before you, heart racing in your chest. 

A faint smile touches his mouth, although there is no hint of warmth or kindness in it. 

“Of course you were,” he says, his voice low and even, carrying effortlessly across the courtyard, quieting what little movement remains among the soldiers gathered at its edges. “Men such as you always are.”

You feel something low in your belly tighten. 

He steps closer, unhurried, each footfall measured—as though time itself bends to him, and there is no urgency in death when it is already certain.

“With such unwavering loyalty,” he continues, almost musing, his gaze drifting between them, “I cannot imagine why your bitch queen thought it wise to leave you behind.”

A soft breath that might almost be amusement leaves him. 

“If you would only—” the man tries again, more desperate now, words tumbling over themselves. 

Steel flashes—quick, precise, and unceremonious. The sound that follows is wet and fleeting, swallowed almost as soon as it is made. 

You don’t flinch, though you think distantly that, perhaps, you should. 

By the time the body strikes the stone, Aemond is already turning away, disinterested, as though the act required no more thought than the drawing of breath.

“Pity,” the word falls softly—and lands like a blow.

Around him, the courtyard holds its breath. Knights stand at attention, careful in their stillness, and those who serve him wait without speaking, without daring to interrupt whatever dark rhythm has taken hold. There is something coiled beneath the surface of it all—dangerous and patient, like a storm that has not yet decided whether it is finished.

Aemond lifts his hand, flexing his fingers once, idly, the blade of his sword glinting in the sun. Blood streaks his skin in thin, drying lines, dark against the pale flesh. 

For a moment, he simply stands there amidst it all—amidst the ruin, the silence, the bodies—still as a figure carved from stone, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Your breath comes slower now, your mind clouded. You should feel something, shouldn’t you? Horror, revulsion, fear. Instead, your gaze drags over him, slow and helpless as you feel blood rushing to your cheeks. 

Then, with a faint tilt of his head, he gestures once more to the remaining men before him. 

“Gut them,” he commands a nearby knight. “We’ve no use for traitors.”

His orders are carried out quickly and cleanly—steel is drawn, another man falls, and through it all your gaze stays fixed on him. 

Everything seems to bend around him, to him. The men in his command move as if pulled by unseen strings, not daring to defy him, and the heat within you curls into something sharper, almost dizzying in its clarity.

This is not the man you are given behind closed doors, when it’s just the two of you. Not the one who leans into your touch, murmurs low, pretty things, and softens in the quiet of your shared spaces. 

This is something else—someone else entirely, a side of him that’s remained foreign to you until now. 

Your pulse stutters as you look over him again, gaze sweeping over the line of his shoulders, the set of his stance, the easy certainty in every movement he makes. There’s no doubt in him, no hesitation or second guessing. 

Gods, some part of you answers to that, unwelcome and irresistible all at once, like you’ve stumbled upon something never meant for you. 

Below, there’s another flash of metal and the remaining man collapses to the ground, though you barely register it as Aemond stills. There’s a shift in him, slight but there—a pause in his rhythm, the faintest straightening of his spine beneath the plate armor he wears. It’s as if something unseen has brushed him, just past the edges of his awareness. 

And then he turns his head. 

His eyes find yours quickly—lilac and sapphire both catching in the evening sun. You know him well enough to make out the faint glimmer of shame in his expression, something questioning, assessing. 

What did you see? The unspoken question hangs in the air between you. What do you think of me now?

His gaze holds, as though he would read the truth of you from this distance alone, like the answers he seeks might yet be found in the set of your mouth or the steadiness of your stance, the way you haven’t so much as tried to turn away from what he’s shown you. 

One of the men around him steps forward and leans in close, attempting to draw his attention back to the matter at hand—something about the remaining men, about what’s to be done next or where he wants them taken—but Aemond doesn’t so much as glance his way. 

His focus remains solely on you. 

Another man approaches, more insistent than the first, seeming to press for instruction or confirmation. 

“See to it,” he says finally, the words clipped. “Do as we discussed the night before last, our plans haven’t changed.” 

Again, no one questions him or asks for more. They merely… move, falling into motion without further prompting. 

It’s only then that he begins moving toward you, striding purposefully but not quickly, perhaps in a bid to buy himself a few more precious seconds to figure out what to say, to plan how to explain this—to explain himself. Still, the space seems to open for him. Men step aside without being told and the noise of the courtyard seems to dull at the edges, like it no longer holds the same weight now that he isn’t in it. 

Along the way, he stops to rid himself of his chestplate—fingers working in practiced efficiency at the fastenings. Only a moment later, the heavy weight of it is finally lifted free and handed off without ceremony to some gangly-looking squire. 

By the time he reaches the stairs that wind their way up toward the battlements, the worst of it is gone, leaving him in the dark leathers beneath, still marked with blood and carrying the remnants of what he’s done. The closer he gets, the more you can make out—the red streaked across his face and in his hair, the grey remnants of ash on his skin. 

He stops a pace or two away from you, close enough now that there’s nothing to dull the sight of him or the reality of what you’ve just witnessed. Up close, it’s more tangible, this part of himself that he’s kept so carefully sequestered. 

For a long moment, he says nothing, just lets his gaze flick over your face as if he’s waiting for you to faint or run for the hills. 

Finally, he sighs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“You should not have seen that,” he murmurs, his voice much quieter now than it had been before, stripped of the easy projection he’d used in the courtyard. It’s not really an apology, nor an explanation, just something lingering in between—measured and careful, like everything else he does for you. 

Your lips part and, for a second, no sound comes. The lines of his face look sharper here, something in him less forgiving than the man you know in private. There’s still a tension to him, coiled tight just beneath the surface like a hound waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting fox. 

You take a slow step toward him, the distance between you closing with a weighty finality as your hand lifts and comes to rest lightly against his wrist, feeling the pulse there beating fast and strong beneath your fingers. 

“I know,” you say, nearly smiling when his lilac eye widens ever so slightly. “It was… interesting,” you continue, thumb brushing over his skin and catching on the drying remnants of a smear of blood there, “seeing you—all of you.”

“You didn’t turn away,” he mutters, a thousand unsaid questions in it. 

“Of course not,” you say, stepping closer still until there’s scarcely any space between you, until the soft wool of your riding clothes brushes against his dirtied leathers. “I understand, you know,” you add, “what it requires of you.”

Your gaze drifts down over him—over the dark leather at his chest, the streaks of blood still marking him, the evidence of it all so plainly visible—before lifting to meet his again. 

“And I…” you pause, letting the truth settle warm in your belly, “I liked it.”

You watch as your words take hold, coiling somewhere deep within him as whatever he’d been preparing to say unravels. There’s none of the fear or revulsion he’d been expecting, no attempt to turn away from what he’s become.

Only something that mirrors him far more than he could’ve anticipated. 

It stills him for an instant, freezing him on the spot, while the words linger between you, his pulse jumping beneath your fingers. 

Something in him shifts, snapping sharply like wood splintering, the careful control he’s worn up until now falling away. 

His hand closes around your wrist before you can so much as draw another breath, the movement swift and certain, not rough enough to hurt but firm enough to leave no room for refusal. You feel the heat of him, the barely-leashed tension that had been coiled beneath his skin now drawn tight and alive in a way that makes your breath catch in your lungs. 

“Come,” he says, voice low and rough and so unlike the gentle man he usually is. 

Before you can answer—before you can even think to—he’s already moving, pulling you with him. Your steps falter before you fall into pace beside him, your hand still caught fast in his, his grip unyielding as he all but drags you away from the open battlement and toward a narrow passage that cuts along the inner wall, crowded with crates, barrels, and goods shoved hastily out of the way.

The world around you quickly fades. The courtyard, the bodies, the men still carrying out orders—all of it falls away behind you, swallowed by the stone and shadows as he leads you down a dim corridor where the air grows cooler and the sounds beyond it are reduced to distant echoes. 

He doesn’t slow or look back, the only thing that seems to exist for him now is the path ahead and the feel of you in his grasp. His breaths come sharper now, less controlled than before, the rhythm of them betraying something far closer to urgency than he would ever willingly show. 

At the first turn that offers any measure of privacy, he stops. The momentum of it nearly pulls you into him as your free hand catches against the rough stone wall at your side as he turns on you, crowding you back into the narrow space with something akin to a growl. 

His gaze drops, flickering over your face as though committing it to memory. The scent of smoke and iron still clings to him, wrapped around something unmistakably his. 

“You should not—” he starts, lower now, his voice fraying at the edges in a way you’ve never heard before. 

Your hand finds his again, fingers curling into the leather at his wrist as you shake your head—dismissing whatever he’d been about to say. 

“I meant it,” you murmur, soft and breathy, leaving no space for him to force you into something safer. Your chest heaves as he presses against you, towering over you in a way that would send shivers down the spine of anyone else. “All of it.”

His jaw tightens and his gaze darkens, a sharp exhale leaving him like something inside him has finally come loose. 

When he moves again, there’s nothing measured about it—nothing careful or sweet. He crowds against you again, pushing you back until the hard edge of a wooden crate digs into the curve of your back. 

His hand comes up fast, tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck and tugging just enough to tilt your head back as his mouth crashes against yours with a force that has you mewling. It’s all heat and want, his lips moving against yours with a desperate—almost punishing—intensity.

Another soft sound tears from your throat before you can stop it, swallowed immediately as he licks greedily into your mouth while his other hand settles at your waist, hauling you up onto the crate until he can bully his way between your thighs. 

“Gods, you liked it?” he mutters against your lips, the word half-lost to the press of his mouth as he drags it down along your jaw, teeth grazing against your skin and catching just enough to make you gasp, “My sweet girl, coming apart seeing me savage and bloodied and cutting through men?”

You nod, keening when his grip tightens in your hair once more, pulling just enough to make you shiver against him as he rests his forehead against yours. His gaze is blown sharp and hungry, breaths warm against your lips as he pants. 

“Naughty thing,” he finishes, an arrogant smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, disbelief still clinging to his words even as they stoke something dangerous within him. 

He wastes no time, then, knowing that sooner rather than later, someone will come looking for him. His hands work quickly, grabbing and tugging at the skirts of your gown with a fiery desperation as he shoves the wool and silk and lace up your legs, leaving it to bunch around your waist. 

Your breaths come in shaking lungfuls, the stone of the corridor cool against your back, though all you can feel is him. He leans in and kisses you again, crowding between your legs and chuckling against your lips when you feel the evidence of his arousal pressed against your thigh. 

For weeks you’d dreamt of how it would be when he finally returned to you—gentle and loving as he took his time, savoring what he’d missed. Never in your wildest imagination had you ever pictured this, so frantic and frenzied with the faint taste of iron on your tongue. 

“Seven Hells,” he breathes, rutting against you. The hand in your hair trails down to grab at your hip instead, anchoring you to him as he groans at the heat of you, “you undo me.”

Despite it all, a breathy huff of laughter tumbles from your lips at that, though it quickly sharpens into a whine when he bites at your neck in retaliation. Your hands scramble along any part of him you can reach, one settling at his shoulder as the other holds tight to his side. 

“Aem—”

“Smug little creature,” he says roughly against the side of your neck, relishing the way you shudder as he unceremoniously tugs your smallclothes to the side. “Tell me,” he murmurs, skimming his fingertips along the insides of your thighs, “will I find your pretty cunt dripping? Are you really so depraved?”

“Yes,” you breathe, head too clouded to act coy now. 

The answer goes straight to his head, you feel it in the way his hand tightens at your hip as a sharp—almost strangled—sound leaves him. His head tips, forehead pressing to your shoulder like he needs to steady himself. 

“Fuck,” he all but growls as if the word has been dragged from him. His fingers finally press where you need them, dragging through your folds as he groans lowly against your skin at the slick mess he finds there. He hadn’t doubted you before, but there was no question to it now—you’d liked it, you’re just as corrupt and degraded as he is. “Look at you,” he says, dark and rough, “already soaked for me.”

There’s a self-satisfied edge in it, almost cruel in the way he says it, though that only spurs you on further. 

“Please,” you mewl, aching as you move against him, grinding your hips as best you can with what little leverage he’s left you, “missed you.”

He shakes his head at that just before his mouth finds yours again, kissing you as though he means to drown himself in it. He pulls away panting, circling his fingertips around the sensitive bud at the apex of your thighs with a rough groan. 

“No, no,” he taunts, savoring the way your hips roll against him as he teases at your entrance. “You’ve missed me before,” he says smugly, stroking over your pearl once more—just light enough for your breath to catch, “but not like this.”

His fingers work against you more firmly, the practiced rhythm of it pulling soft, quieted noises from your lips. For a fleeting instant, he merely watches you, relishing the way your body answers him, the way your hips move against his hand without thought, without shame.

“You see me like that,” he breathes as you cling to him, nails biting into the leather at his shoulders as your head tips back against the stone, chest heaving as he works you into something pliant beneath him, “and this is what you become for me?”

“Please, m-my love, please,” you manage, the words barely there. 

That seems to be enough for him.

His touch leaves you though, before you can so much as whine in complaint, he lets out a groan as he quickly undoes the laces at the front of his breeches and tugs the fabric down just enough to free his length. 

“I should make you wait for it,” he grunts, fisting himself as he presses to you once more and glides the head of his cock through the seam of you. “Should leave you like this until I can properly tend to you tonight.” It’s an empty threat, one you hardly have time to wrap your mind around before he notches himself at your entrance. 

The air leaves your lungs in a high-pitched, keening rush as he pushes into you, thrusting himself to the hilt while you clutch at him somehow tighter, eyes squeezing shut. He pulls your thighs around his hips, planting one hand against the stone beside your head as he stills, giving you a blessed second to suck in a hurried breath as he stretches you open. 

“Aemond—” 

He doesn’t let you finish as his hand moves, trailing until his fingers can catch at the delicate column of your throat this time as he forces your gaze back to his. 

“Look at me,” he commands, forehead resting against yours as he moves, fucking into you with slow, filthy rolls of his hips. Each drag is deliberate as he savors the way you clench around him, the way your breath catches with every snap forward. 

Your eyes snap to his, nearly rolling back as he ruts against you. The feel of his hand on your neck—not squeezing, but commanding all the same—goes right to your head. He growls low, nearly unintelligible phrases in Valyrian when you clench around him again, chest heaving against his.

“That’s it, don’t hide from me now,” he rasps, one hand on your hip still as he thrusts into you, pace quickening, turning nearly punishing—each one hitting deep, pressing up against where you’re most sensitive, “you didn’t before.”

Little ah, ah, ah’s spill from your lips in time with the harsh rhythm of his hips. His hair falls around you in a pearlescent curtain as the hand he has wrapped around your neck tightens ever so slightly, keeping you anchored right where he wants you. 

“Aem—Aemond,” you pant, lashes fluttering as you fight to keep your gaze on his. 

The raw desperation in your voice—the way you all but sob his name, the way your body yields so easily to his—all of it sends a brutal surge of heat straight to his cock. He groans low, feral, his grip on your waist bruising as he drives into you harder, deeper, claiming you somehow further. 

“Mine,” he snarls, hips snapping against you with vicious precision. The hand on your hip hastily moves to your center, his fingers blindly pressing where you need them most with just enough pressure to make you jolt against him as he circles your pearl in rough, relentless strokes. “Mine,” he says again, leaning forward until he can sink his teeth into your shoulder. 

His thrusts turn reckless, pace fracturing as he chases his own release, breath ragged against your skin—more beast than man. 

“Close,” he warns, rubbing his fingers over you in time with the thrusts of his hips. He releases your throat, holding you to him instead, and groans at the feel of your frantic breaths against him. 

The word barely has time to settle before it overtakes you, building too quickly to fight. Your breaths stutter and break apart, desperate and uneven, as you grab at him tighter, wound around him like thread over a spool. 

“Gods—Aemond—” His name fractures on your lips, the sound of it barely more than a plea before everything in you snaps tight all at once, tension coiling and coiling until it finally unravels. 

Your body arches into his with a sharp, breathless cry, the world narrowing to nothing but him—the feel of him, the heat of it, the relentless way he drives into you as pleasure crashes over you in waves that leave you trembling. 

“Yes, yes, fuck,” he groans lowly into your ear as he feels you pulsing around him, pulling a harsh, shaking breath from his chest. His grip tightens as he holds you exactly where he wants you as his thrusts turn erratic, losing any of the earlier precision they had as he chases his own climax. 

You feel him shatter, gasping when he tenses against you as he presses into you once more and stills, a sharp, broken sound tearing from him. Grunting, he noses at the curve of your shoulder as his cock twitches, flooding your insides with spend. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The narrow corridor is filled only with the sound of your panted breaths as he steadies himself against you, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades as the other moves back to your hip. Your hands remain where they had found him during the height of it—curled into his leathers, holding tight without thought. 

He exhales, long and low, his forehead coming to rest briefly against your shoulder as he seems to come back to himself. 

“Seven Hells,” he curses again, though the words have lost their previous edge and softened into something quieter, more grounded. His hand at your hip moves, smoothing once over the bundled fabric bunched at your waist before he pulls himself from you with a quiet groan, though he doesn’t make any move to do much more than that. 

His touch lingers on you as though he’s reacquainting himself with you before his gaze finally slips to your once more, softened now. 

“That… was not how I intended to greet you,” he says at last, the faintest trace of something in it that edges close to bashfulness. 

“I think I prefer it this way,” you murmur, still a touch breathless as your lips curve into an easy smile. 

Aemond exhales through his nose, what might almost be a quiet huff of amusement slipping free despite himself. 

“It was meant to be done,” he continues, gaze flicking to the corridor beyond. “Harrenhal. We thought—” his jaw tightens, just slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is clipped, “that it would fall quickly. It did not.”

With a sigh, he steps back just enough to give you space. 

“Here,” he says, reaching for the fabric of your skirts, his movements more careful now as he helps you smooth them back down into place once you stand. The gesture feels oddly intimate—more so, perhaps, than anything that came before it. 

You mirror him without thinking, your hands lifting to his shoulders and brushing at the leather, at the streaks of dried blood that mark him still, before trailing higher and into his hair. It falls loose and disordered around his face, pale strands clinging where sweat and ash have tangled them beyond any easy fixing, though you attempt it anyway. 

Your fingers comb through it, smoothing what you can, even as a breathless laugh slips from you as it refuses to fully cooperate. 

“It doesn’t seem to make much difference,” you jest, tilting your head as though to study your work. 

The corner of his mouth twitches, only barely, as he gently bats your hands away. 

“Leave it,” he says, the sharp edge that had been there before replaced with something softer, easier. 

A distant sound echoes faintly through the corridor, muffled by the old stone but unmistakable all the same, followed by the distant clatter of movement that reminds you both, all at once, of where you are. 

Of who he is. 

Aemond’s gaze sharpens again, not turning from you immediately but pulling back into himself piece by piece. 

“I have duties yet to see to,” he says, more composed now. He rests a hand at your waist once more, nodding toward the exit of the winding path he’d dragged you down earlier. “I ordered the men to have a chamber prepared for you earlier, as soon as we were able,” he continues, firmer now, “go see that it’s done. I’ll find you there once I’m finished.”

Your gaze lingers on him for a moment longer, taking in the remnants of him—the blood, the disarray—before you nod, slow and deliberate. 

“As you wish, my prince.”

Something flickers in his expression at that, gone almost as soon as it appears, before he shakes his head and leads you out of the passageway. You walk beside him in silence, the sounds of men and movement growing louder with every step. 

He slows only once, his hand finding your wrist again as he stills you. Sharpness has returned to his eye, though something remains beneath it still—something only for you. 

“Do not wander,” he says softly. “This place is not… settled, not yet.”

It’s the closest thing to concern he’ll offer out here in the open, but it settles warmly in your chest all the same. 

“I won’t,” you agree easily, “I’ll wait for you.”

His fingers tighten once before he lets you go and, just like that, any trace of your Aemond is gone again as he’s pulled back into the waiting war, into the ruin and death that’s shaped him into what you saw today. 

You watch him for a moment longer than you should, eyes trailing over the line of his shoulders as the world seems to bend around him once more. 

You know you’re close to Harrenhal before you see it.

The air begins to change when you come to the small forest that sits on one side of the Gods Eye, just before the ruined fortress. It grows heavier the further along you ride, thick with the scent of damp earth and smoke that clings stubbornly to the wind. Even the horses seem to feel it, their pace slowing, ears flicking back at distant sounds you can’t quite make out. There’s no birdsong here, nor an easy rustle of wind through leaves, only the steady rhythm of hooves against old cobblestones and the low murmur of the men escorting you. 

You sit straight-backed on the saddle despite the long journey, gloved hands clutched tightly around your horse’s reins, gaze fixed ahead. 

You had expected something different. Not peace, of course, you’re not so naive as to believe war leaves anything untouched, but you had thought he’d be waiting. 

The summons had been clear enough—Come to Harrenhal scrawled over a slip of parchment in his usual sharp writing, delivered only days before by a squawking raven. There’d been no fanfare, no hesitation, like it was all already decided.

As though, by the time you arrived, the castle would be his in full—secured and quiet—and you would be kept neatly at arm’s length from anything unseemly. 

Your lips press together at the thought. It would’ve been easier to remain behind, wherever it was deemed safest for you to be while men bled and burned. 

But he had sent for you, doubtless convinced that he could keep you far safer than any random knight. 

It has been weeks since you last saw him, since you felt the weight of his hand on your waist or heard the low murmur of his voice in your ear, and you never really have learned how to deny him. 

“Princess,” one of the men escorting you calls, pulling his mount alongside yours. His voice is respectful, though there’s a tightness tugging at the edges of it, as though he’s choosing his words carefully. “We’ll make the gates within the hour.”

You nod once, inclining your head. “And Prince Aemond?”

“In the castle,” he answers, “seeing to matters.”

Harrenhal rises in the distance, blackened and jagged and uneven—a wound made of stretching walls and long-cooled dragonfire carved into the landscape. Even from a distance, you can see the movement of men marching along battlements and banners shifting in the wind—the right banners. 

Victory, then, or close to it. 

The gates open as your party draws nearer, the guards at the gate still bearing the marks of battle: bloodied armor and drawn swords. The scent of smoke lingers stronger behind them, curling through the stone corridors like a phantom. There’s movement everywhere—soldiers crossing the yard, voices calling out orders, the distant scrape of something heavy being dragged across stone. 

Your fingers tighten around the reins once more, and before you can ask, one of the men riding beside you leans closer, his voice pitched low as he informs you of Aemond’s whereabouts. 

You dismount before anyone can move to assist you, boots hitting the ground with a quiet thud. One of your guards steps forward instinctively, as though to guide you elsewhere—to some chambers, perhaps, or any other quieter, safer place. 

Your brows furrow as you gaze up at him, lips in a tight line. 

“Show me,” you say instead. There’s a brief hesitation, a shift in the air as they glance between one another before finally nodding and leading you toward the battlements. 

The courtyard reeks of iron, not in the clean, biting scent of a blade newly drawn, but something heavier—thicker—that has already done its work. Blood darkens the ancient stones of Harrenhal in uneven smears, dragged beneath boots and pooled into the shallow grooves worn there by centuries of war and ruin. Smoke still lingers in the air, faint but persistent, curling through the open space as though the castle itself exhales it.

You make no move to announce yourself, seemingly frozen into place as your hands grasp at old stones. For a second, something tightens in your chest, so quickly that you almost don’t register it. It’s not fear, not really, but something sharper—headier—that doesn’t quite settle as you watch him.

He stands at the center of it all, looking less like a prince and more like what the war has made of him.

His hair hangs loose about his shoulders, pale strands clinging in damp disarray to his face and throat, some stained where they’ve caught in drying blood. The sapphire set in his eye socket glints coldly in the light—uncovered, unhidden—its sharp gleam fixed upon the men forced to their knees before him, their hands bound, their fate already written long before they were dragged into this courtyard.

You’ve seen him in armor before, after he’s finished training and he’s still flushed and sharp-eyed and alive with it. But this is… something entirely different. 

He stays quiet, taking a long moment to merely observe them. It is that silence—more than any shouted command, more than any threat—that begins to unravel them.

“P-Please—” one of them manages at last, voice breaking as his bound hands strain uselessly against the rope. “We—we were only following orders, my prince, we—”

Aemond’s head tilts, just slightly. The movement is almost idle, almost curious, like he is studying something small and insignificant rather than a man begging for his life. His gaze lingers, sharp and unblinking, and when he finally moves, it is with a slow, deliberate ease that makes no effort to hide what comes next.

Your fingers curl slowly against the stone before you, heart racing in your chest. 

A faint smile touches his mouth, although there is no hint of warmth or kindness in it. 

“Of course you were,” he says, his voice low and even, carrying effortlessly across the courtyard, quieting what little movement remains among the soldiers gathered at its edges. “Men such as you always are.”

You feel something low in your belly tighten. 

He steps closer, unhurried, each footfall measured—as though time itself bends to him, and there is no urgency in death when it is already certain.

“With such unwavering loyalty,” he continues, almost musing, his gaze drifting between them, “I cannot imagine why your bitch queen thought it wise to leave you behind.”

A soft breath that might almost be amusement leaves him. 

“If you would only—” the man tries again, more desperate now, words tumbling over themselves. 

Steel flashes—quick, precise, and unceremonious. The sound that follows is wet and fleeting, swallowed almost as soon as it is made. 

You don’t flinch, though you think distantly that, perhaps, you should. 

By the time the body strikes the stone, Aemond is already turning away, disinterested, as though the act required no more thought than the drawing of breath.

“Pity,” the word falls softly—and lands like a blow.

Around him, the courtyard holds its breath. Knights stand at attention, careful in their stillness, and those who serve him wait without speaking, without daring to interrupt whatever dark rhythm has taken hold. There is something coiled beneath the surface of it all—dangerous and patient, like a storm that has not yet decided whether it is finished.

Aemond lifts his hand, flexing his fingers once, idly, the blade of his sword glinting in the sun. Blood streaks his skin in thin, drying lines, dark against the pale flesh. 

For a moment, he simply stands there amidst it all—amidst the ruin, the silence, the bodies—still as a figure carved from stone, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Your breath comes slower now, your mind clouded. You should feel something, shouldn’t you? Horror, revulsion, fear. Instead, your gaze drags over him, slow and helpless as you feel blood rushing to your cheeks. 

Then, with a faint tilt of his head, he gestures once more to the remaining men before him. 

“Gut them,” he commands a nearby knight. “We’ve no use for traitors.”

His orders are carried out quickly and cleanly—steel is drawn, another man falls, and through it all your gaze stays fixed on him. 

Everything seems to bend around him, to him. The men in his command move as if pulled by unseen strings, not daring to defy him, and the heat within you curls into something sharper, almost dizzying in its clarity.

This is not the man you are given behind closed doors, when it’s just the two of you. Not the one who leans into your touch, murmurs low, pretty things, and softens in the quiet of your shared spaces. 

This is something else—someone else entirely, a side of him that’s remained foreign to you until now. 

Your pulse stutters as you look over him again, gaze sweeping over the line of his shoulders, the set of his stance, the easy certainty in every movement he makes. There’s no doubt in him, no hesitation or second guessing. 

Gods, some part of you answers to that, unwelcome and irresistible all at once, like you’ve stumbled upon something never meant for you. 

Below, there’s another flash of metal and the remaining man collapses to the ground, though you barely register it as Aemond stills. There’s a shift in him, slight but there—a pause in his rhythm, the faintest straightening of his spine beneath the plate armor he wears. It’s as if something unseen has brushed him, just past the edges of his awareness. 

And then he turns his head. 

His eyes find yours quickly—lilac and sapphire both catching in the evening sun. You know him well enough to make out the faint glimmer of shame in his expression, something questioning, assessing. 

What did you see? The unspoken question hangs in the air between you. What do you think of me now?

His gaze holds, as though he would read the truth of you from this distance alone, like the answers he seeks might yet be found in the set of your mouth or the steadiness of your stance, the way you haven’t so much as tried to turn away from what he’s shown you. 

One of the men around him steps forward and leans in close, attempting to draw his attention back to the matter at hand—something about the remaining men, about what’s to be done next or where he wants them taken—but Aemond doesn’t so much as glance his way. 

His focus remains solely on you. 

Another man approaches, more insistent than the first, seeming to press for instruction or confirmation. 

“See to it,” he says finally, the words clipped. “Do as we discussed the night before last, our plans haven’t changed.” 

Again, no one questions him or asks for more. They merely… move, falling into motion without further prompting. 

It’s only then that he begins moving toward you, striding purposefully but not quickly, perhaps in a bid to buy himself a few more precious seconds to figure out what to say, to plan how to explain this—to explain himself. Still, the space seems to open for him. Men step aside without being told and the noise of the courtyard seems to dull at the edges, like it no longer holds the same weight now that he isn’t in it. 

Along the way, he stops to rid himself of his chestplate—fingers working in practiced efficiency at the fastenings. Only a moment later, the heavy weight of it is finally lifted free and handed off without ceremony to some gangly-looking squire. 

By the time he reaches the stairs that wind their way up toward the battlements, the worst of it is gone, leaving him in the dark leathers beneath, still marked with blood and carrying the remnants of what he’s done. The closer he gets, the more you can make out—the red streaked across his face and in his hair, the grey remnants of ash on his skin. 

He stops a pace or two away from you, close enough now that there’s nothing to dull the sight of him or the reality of what you’ve just witnessed. Up close, it’s more tangible, this part of himself that he’s kept so carefully sequestered. 

For a long moment, he says nothing, just lets his gaze flick over your face as if he’s waiting for you to faint or run for the hills. 

Finally, he sighs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“You should not have seen that,” he murmurs, his voice much quieter now than it had been before, stripped of the easy projection he’d used in the courtyard. It’s not really an apology, nor an explanation, just something lingering in between—measured and careful, like everything else he does for you. 

Your lips part and, for a second, no sound comes. The lines of his face look sharper here, something in him less forgiving than the man you know in private. There’s still a tension to him, coiled tight just beneath the surface like a hound waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting fox. 

You take a slow step toward him, the distance between you closing with a weighty finality as your hand lifts and comes to rest lightly against his wrist, feeling the pulse there beating fast and strong beneath your fingers. 

“I know,” you say, nearly smiling when his lilac eye widens ever so slightly. “It was… interesting,” you continue, thumb brushing over his skin and catching on the drying remnants of a smear of blood there, “seeing you—all of you.”

“You didn’t turn away,” he mutters, a thousand unsaid questions in it. 

“Of course not,” you say, stepping closer still until there’s scarcely any space between you, until the soft wool of your riding clothes brushes against his dirtied leathers. “I understand, you know,” you add, “what it requires of you.”

Your gaze drifts down over him—over the dark leather at his chest, the streaks of blood still marking him, the evidence of it all so plainly visible—before lifting to meet his again. 

“And I…” you pause, letting the truth settle warm in your belly, “I liked it.”

You watch as your words take hold, coiling somewhere deep within him as whatever he’d been preparing to say unravels. There’s none of the fear or revulsion he’d been expecting, no attempt to turn away from what he’s become.

Only something that mirrors him far more than he could’ve anticipated. 

It stills him for an instant, freezing him on the spot, while the words linger between you, his pulse jumping beneath your fingers. 

Something in him shifts, snapping sharply like wood splintering, the careful control he’s worn up until now falling away. 

His hand closes around your wrist before you can so much as draw another breath, the movement swift and certain, not rough enough to hurt but firm enough to leave no room for refusal. You feel the heat of him, the barely-leashed tension that had been coiled beneath his skin now drawn tight and alive in a way that makes your breath catch in your lungs. 

“Come,” he says, voice low and rough and so unlike the gentle man he usually is. 

Before you can answer—before you can even think to—he’s already moving, pulling you with him. Your steps falter before you fall into pace beside him, your hand still caught fast in his, his grip unyielding as he all but drags you away from the open battlement and toward a narrow passage that cuts along the inner wall, crowded with crates, barrels, and goods shoved hastily out of the way.

The world around you quickly fades. The courtyard, the bodies, the men still carrying out orders—all of it falls away behind you, swallowed by the stone and shadows as he leads you down a dim corridor where the air grows cooler and the sounds beyond it are reduced to distant echoes. 

He doesn’t slow or look back, the only thing that seems to exist for him now is the path ahead and the feel of you in his grasp. His breaths come sharper now, less controlled than before, the rhythm of them betraying something far closer to urgency than he would ever willingly show. 

At the first turn that offers any measure of privacy, he stops. The momentum of it nearly pulls you into him as your free hand catches against the rough stone wall at your side as he turns on you, crowding you back into the narrow space with something akin to a growl. 

His gaze drops, flickering over your face as though committing it to memory. The scent of smoke and iron still clings to him, wrapped around something unmistakably his. 

“You should not—” he starts, lower now, his voice fraying at the edges in a way you’ve never heard before. 

Your hand finds his again, fingers curling into the leather at his wrist as you shake your head—dismissing whatever he’d been about to say. 

“I meant it,” you murmur, soft and breathy, leaving no space for him to force you into something safer. Your chest heaves as he presses against you, towering over you in a way that would send shivers down the spine of anyone else. “All of it.”

His jaw tightens and his gaze darkens, a sharp exhale leaving him like something inside him has finally come loose. 

When he moves again, there’s nothing measured about it—nothing careful or sweet. He crowds against you again, pushing you back until the hard edge of a wooden crate digs into the curve of your back. 

His hand comes up fast, tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck and tugging just enough to tilt your head back as his mouth crashes against yours with a force that has you mewling. It’s all heat and want, his lips moving against yours with a desperate—almost punishing—intensity.

Another soft sound tears from your throat before you can stop it, swallowed immediately as he licks greedily into your mouth while his other hand settles at your waist, hauling you up onto the crate until he can bully his way between your thighs. 

“Gods, you liked it?” he mutters against your lips, the word half-lost to the press of his mouth as he drags it down along your jaw, teeth grazing against your skin and catching just enough to make you gasp, “My sweet girl, coming apart seeing me savage and bloodied and cutting through men?”

You nod, keening when his grip tightens in your hair once more, pulling just enough to make you shiver against him as he rests his forehead against yours. His gaze is blown sharp and hungry, breaths warm against your lips as he pants. 

“Naughty thing,” he finishes, an arrogant smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, disbelief still clinging to his words even as they stoke something dangerous within him. 

He wastes no time, then, knowing that sooner rather than later, someone will come looking for him. His hands work quickly, grabbing and tugging at the skirts of your gown with a fiery desperation as he shoves the wool and silk and lace up your legs, leaving it to bunch around your waist. 

Your breaths come in shaking lungfuls, the stone of the corridor cool against your back, though all you can feel is him. He leans in and kisses you again, crowding between your legs and chuckling against your lips when you feel the evidence of his arousal pressed against your thigh. 

For weeks you’d dreamt of how it would be when he finally returned to you—gentle and loving as he took his time, savoring what he’d missed. Never in your wildest imagination had you ever pictured this, so frantic and frenzied with the faint taste of iron on your tongue. 

“Seven Hells,” he breathes, rutting against you. The hand in your hair trails down to grab at your hip instead, anchoring you to him as he groans at the heat of you, “you undo me.”

Despite it all, a breathy huff of laughter tumbles from your lips at that, though it quickly sharpens into a whine when he bites at your neck in retaliation. Your hands scramble along any part of him you can reach, one settling at his shoulder as the other holds tight to his side. 

“Aem—”

“Smug little creature,” he says roughly against the side of your neck, relishing the way you shudder as he unceremoniously tugs your smallclothes to the side. “Tell me,” he murmurs, skimming his fingertips along the insides of your thighs, “will I find your pretty cunt dripping? Are you really so depraved?”

“Yes,” you breathe, head too clouded to act coy now. 

The answer goes straight to his head, you feel it in the way his hand tightens at your hip as a sharp—almost strangled—sound leaves him. His head tips, forehead pressing to your shoulder like he needs to steady himself. 

“Fuck,” he all but growls as if the word has been dragged from him. His fingers finally press where you need them, dragging through your folds as he groans lowly against your skin at the slick mess he finds there. He hadn’t doubted you before, but there was no question to it now—you’d liked it, you’re just as corrupt and degraded as he is. “Look at you,” he says, dark and rough, “already soaked for me.”

There’s a self-satisfied edge in it, almost cruel in the way he says it, though that only spurs you on further. 

“Please,” you mewl, aching as you move against him, grinding your hips as best you can with what little leverage he’s left you, “missed you.”

He shakes his head at that just before his mouth finds yours again, kissing you as though he means to drown himself in it. He pulls away panting, circling his fingertips around the sensitive bud at the apex of your thighs with a rough groan. 

“No, no,” he taunts, savoring the way your hips roll against him as he teases at your entrance. “You’ve missed me before,” he says smugly, stroking over your pearl once more—just light enough for your breath to catch, “but not like this.”

His fingers work against you more firmly, the practiced rhythm of it pulling soft, quieted noises from your lips. For a fleeting instant, he merely watches you, relishing the way your body answers him, the way your hips move against his hand without thought, without shame.

“You see me like that,” he breathes as you cling to him, nails biting into the leather at his shoulders as your head tips back against the stone, chest heaving as he works you into something pliant beneath him, “and this is what you become for me?”

“Please, m-my love, please,” you manage, the words barely there. 

That seems to be enough for him.

His touch leaves you though, before you can so much as whine in complaint, he lets out a groan as he quickly undoes the laces at the front of his breeches and tugs the fabric down just enough to free his length. 

“I should make you wait for it,” he grunts, fisting himself as he presses to you once more and glides the head of his cock through the seam of you. “Should leave you like this until I can properly tend to you tonight.” It’s an empty threat, one you hardly have time to wrap your mind around before he notches himself at your entrance. 

The air leaves your lungs in a high-pitched, keening rush as he pushes into you, thrusting himself to the hilt while you clutch at him somehow tighter, eyes squeezing shut. He pulls your thighs around his hips, planting one hand against the stone beside your head as he stills, giving you a blessed second to suck in a hurried breath as he stretches you open. 

“Aemond—” 

He doesn’t let you finish as his hand moves, trailing until his fingers can catch at the delicate column of your throat this time as he forces your gaze back to his. 

“Look at me,” he commands, forehead resting against yours as he moves, fucking into you with slow, filthy rolls of his hips. Each drag is deliberate as he savors the way you clench around him, the way your breath catches with every snap forward. 

Your eyes snap to his, nearly rolling back as he ruts against you. The feel of his hand on your neck—not squeezing, but commanding all the same—goes right to your head. He growls low, nearly unintelligible phrases in Valyrian when you clench around him again, chest heaving against his.

“That’s it, don’t hide from me now,” he rasps, one hand on your hip still as he thrusts into you, pace quickening, turning nearly punishing—each one hitting deep, pressing up against where you’re most sensitive, “you didn’t before.”

Little ah, ah, ah’s spill from your lips in time with the harsh rhythm of his hips. His hair falls around you in a pearlescent curtain as the hand he has wrapped around your neck tightens ever so slightly, keeping you anchored right where he wants you. 

“Aem—Aemond,” you pant, lashes fluttering as you fight to keep your gaze on his. 

The raw desperation in your voice—the way you all but sob his name, the way your body yields so easily to his—all of it sends a brutal surge of heat straight to his cock. He groans low, feral, his grip on your waist bruising as he drives into you harder, deeper, claiming you somehow further. 

“Mine,” he snarls, hips snapping against you with vicious precision. The hand on your hip hastily moves to your center, his fingers blindly pressing where you need them most with just enough pressure to make you jolt against him as he circles your pearl in rough, relentless strokes. “Mine,” he says again, leaning forward until he can sink his teeth into your shoulder. 

His thrusts turn reckless, pace fracturing as he chases his own release, breath ragged against your skin—more beast than man. 

“Close,” he warns, rubbing his fingers over you in time with the thrusts of his hips. He releases your throat, holding you to him instead, and groans at the feel of your frantic breaths against him. 

The word barely has time to settle before it overtakes you, building too quickly to fight. Your breaths stutter and break apart, desperate and uneven, as you grab at him tighter, wound around him like thread over a spool. 

“Gods—Aemond—” His name fractures on your lips, the sound of it barely more than a plea before everything in you snaps tight all at once, tension coiling and coiling until it finally unravels. 

Your body arches into his with a sharp, breathless cry, the world narrowing to nothing but him—the feel of him, the heat of it, the relentless way he drives into you as pleasure crashes over you in waves that leave you trembling. 

“Yes, yes, fuck,” he groans lowly into your ear as he feels you pulsing around him, pulling a harsh, shaking breath from his chest. His grip tightens as he holds you exactly where he wants you as his thrusts turn erratic, losing any of the earlier precision they had as he chases his own climax. 

You feel him shatter, gasping when he tenses against you as he presses into you once more and stills, a sharp, broken sound tearing from him. Grunting, he noses at the curve of your shoulder as his cock twitches, flooding your insides with spend. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The narrow corridor is filled only with the sound of your panted breaths as he steadies himself against you, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades as the other moves back to your hip. Your hands remain where they had found him during the height of it—curled into his leathers, holding tight without thought. 

He exhales, long and low, his forehead coming to rest briefly against your shoulder as he seems to come back to himself. 

“Seven Hells,” he curses again, though the words have lost their previous edge and softened into something quieter, more grounded. His hand at your hip moves, smoothing once over the bundled fabric bunched at your waist before he pulls himself from you with a quiet groan, though he doesn’t make any move to do much more than that. 

His touch lingers on you as though he’s reacquainting himself with you before his gaze finally slips to your once more, softened now. 

“That… was not how I intended to greet you,” he says at last, the faintest trace of something in it that edges close to bashfulness. 

“I think I prefer it this way,” you murmur, still a touch breathless as your lips curve into an easy smile. 

Aemond exhales through his nose, what might almost be a quiet huff of amusement slipping free despite himself. 

“It was meant to be done,” he continues, gaze flicking to the corridor beyond. “Harrenhal. We thought—” his jaw tightens, just slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is clipped, “that it would fall quickly. It did not.”

With a sigh, he steps back just enough to give you space. 

“Here,” he says, reaching for the fabric of your skirts, his movements more careful now as he helps you smooth them back down into place once you stand. The gesture feels oddly intimate—more so, perhaps, than anything that came before it. 

You mirror him without thinking, your hands lifting to his shoulders and brushing at the leather, at the streaks of dried blood that mark him still, before trailing higher and into his hair. It falls loose and disordered around his face, pale strands clinging where sweat and ash have tangled them beyond any easy fixing, though you attempt it anyway. 

Your fingers comb through it, smoothing what you can, even as a breathless laugh slips from you as it refuses to fully cooperate. 

“It doesn’t seem to make much difference,” you jest, tilting your head as though to study your work. 

The corner of his mouth twitches, only barely, as he gently bats your hands away. 

“Leave it,” he says, the sharp edge that had been there before replaced with something softer, easier. 

A distant sound echoes faintly through the corridor, muffled by the old stone but unmistakable all the same, followed by the distant clatter of movement that reminds you both, all at once, of where you are. 

Of who he is. 

Aemond’s gaze sharpens again, not turning from you immediately but pulling back into himself piece by piece. 

“I have duties yet to see to,” he says, more composed now. He rests a hand at your waist once more, nodding toward the exit of the winding path he’d dragged you down earlier. “I ordered the men to have a chamber prepared for you earlier, as soon as we were able,” he continues, firmer now, “go see that it’s done. I’ll find you there once I’m finished.”

Your gaze lingers on him for a moment longer, taking in the remnants of him—the blood, the disarray—before you nod, slow and deliberate. 

“As you wish, my prince.”

Something flickers in his expression at that, gone almost as soon as it appears, before he shakes his head and leads you out of the passageway. You walk beside him in silence, the sounds of men and movement growing louder with every step. 

He slows only once, his hand finding your wrist again as he stills you. Sharpness has returned to his eye, though something remains beneath it still—something only for you. 

“Do not wander,” he says softly. “This place is not… settled, not yet.”

It’s the closest thing to concern he’ll offer out here in the open, but it settles warmly in your chest all the same. 

“I won’t,” you agree easily, “I’ll wait for you.”

His fingers tighten once before he lets you go and, just like that, any trace of your Aemond is gone again as he’s pulled back into the waiting war, into the ruin and death that’s shaped him into what you saw today. 

You watch him for a moment longer than you should, eyes trailing over the line of his shoulders as the world seems to bend around him once more. 

Levi doesn’t take walks for leisure.

He tells himself that as he steps outside the Survey Corps Headquarters and into the forest clearing anyway, twigs and leaves crunching underneath his boots. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants as he tries to ignore the pounding headache forming behind his eyes from three straight hours of paperwork and two separate arguments with soldiers who apparently couldn’t follow the simplest instructions. If he has to read one more report written like a drunk wrote it with his feet, he’s going to start throwing people off the wall himself.

The forest air is cool and damp, carrying the smell of moss and earth and leaves, and despite himself, he feels some of the tension in his shoulders loosen slightly as he walks further from the castle, further from the noise and the mess and the endless responsibility that seems to sit permanently on his shoulders.

He walks without really thinking about where he’s going, just following the familiar perimeter paths, scanning automatically for anything out of place because even when he’s trying to relax, he never really stops being a soldier.

His gaze snags on something anomalous amid the greens and browns—a flower unlike any he has encountered in these woods, its petals a striking violet swirled with inky black veins that pulse faintly in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. The center glows with an otherworldly iridescence that draws him closer despite his instincts screaming caution. He frowns slightly and crouches down to get a better look. 

“That’s new,” he mutters under his breath.

He leans closer, studying the shape of the petals, the strange dust clinging to the center, and after a moment he reaches out and lightly touches one of the petals with his finger.

The flower reacts with an explosion, a fine cloud of shimmering pollen erupting directly into his face like a burst of glittering dust. He coughs harshly, waving his hand to dispel the particles, the taste acrid on his tongue as he straightens up. He wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve while muttering a curse under his breath.

“Stupid plant,” he mutters. “Tch.”

He starts walking back toward headquarters, annoyed more than anything, already planning to tell Hange so they can come catalog the stupid thing and probably get excited about it like the lunatic they are.

But after about a minute, he slows down.

Something feels wrong.

At first it’s just a strange warmth in his chest, like he walked too fast or the air suddenly got hotter, but the warmth spreads quickly, rolling through his body in waves that make his skin feel tight and overly sensitive.

He stops walking. “What the hell?”

The heat keeps building, crawling up his neck, settling low in his stomach. The arousal hits him like a thunderclap—his cock twitching to life in his pants, swelling rapidly into a rigid, throbbing erection that strains painfully against the confines of his uniform pants, the ache so intense it borders on agony. 

Every pulse of blood sends jolts of desperate need radiating through his groin and up his spine. Levi grits his teeth, breath hitching as he presses a palm against the bulge, not to soothe but to confirm the betrayal of his own body. His mind reels with confusion and a rising tide of humiliated fury. 

This isn't normal. No way. That damn flower—has to be. He forces himself to move, legs unsteady as he retraces his path back to headquarters. Each step rubs fabric against his oversensitive shaft and amplifies the torment. His face is a mask of stoic control even as sweat soaks his shirt collar.

“That stupid fucking flower,” he says through clenched teeth.

This is ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous. He is not being taken out by a plant. 

By the time he reaches the headquarters building, the heat has gotten worse. His skin feels too tight, his uniform feels too heavy, and every movement is suddenly very noticeable in a way he absolutely does not appreciate.

He finds Hange in one of the side rooms surrounded by books and papers and what looks like three different jars of something that is probably toxic.

“Four Eyes,” he says flatly.

They look up immediately, glasses sliding slightly down their nose. “Levi! Perfect timing, I was just reading about—”

“I need you to look something up,” he interrupts.

They blink at him, immediately noticing something is off. “You look… sweaty.”

“I am sweaty,” he says. “Focus.”

He quickly describes the flower—dark petals, glowing center, releases dust when touched—and Hange’s eyes immediately light up with interest.

“Oh! That sounds like—wait, hold on.” They start flipping through a thick book on the desk, pages turning rapidly while Levi stands there very still, arms crossed, trying very hard to ignore the heat crawling through his body and the increasingly distracting erection that is not going away.

Hange stops on a page and leans closer, scanning the text. “Oh no,” they say.

Levi narrows his eyes. “What?”

They turn the book slightly so he can see the illustration. The flower looks exactly like the one he touched. “It’s a defensive plant,” Hange explains. “When touched, it releases a concentrated aphrodisiac pollen to deter animals and humans from messing with it.”

Levi stares at them. Very slowly, very flatly, he says, “Great. Now tell me how to make it fucking stop.”

Hange grimaces slightly and looks back at the book, scanning further down the page. “…There’s no way to make it stop,” they say carefully. “You have to wait it out.”

Levi’s eye twitches. “How long?”

Hange winces. “It says effects can last anywhere from several hours to… up to twenty-four hours depending on exposure.”

Levi closes his eyes for a long moment.

Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours of this.

Levi's vision blurs at the edges as another surge of heat coils low in his belly, his cock leaking pre-cum into his underwear, the wet spot growing embarrassingly as he clenches his fists to maintain composure. Of all the stupid, bullshit ways to go down—humped into submission by a fucking plant?

“I’m going to my office,” he says flatly.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Hange says quickly.

Levi spins on his heel to stalk back to his office, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the walls. He collapses into his chair only to spring up again as the chair's pressure against his ass sends a fresh spike of need through his trapped erection. 

Alone in the sparse room, surrounded by stacks of reports that now mock him with their banality, he paces like a caged animal, boots thudding against the floorboards as sweat drips steadily down his back, soaking his uniform while his breaths come in ragged gasps. His chest heaves with the effort to suppress the primal urge clawing at his sanity.

This is the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to him. He’s Humanity’s Strongest. He's survived the Underground and its savage nature. He’s taken down Titans that the veterans struggled with. He’s survived battles most people would not walk away from. And now he’s being taken down by a flower. A fucking flower.

The internal battle rages fiercer with each passing minute, his thoughts devolving into a haze of filthy imagery—imagined hands stroking him, mouths sucking him down, tight heat clenching around him—his hips twitching involuntarily as he grips the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. His nails dig into the wood while he fights the compulsion to shove his hand down his pants right there. 

He has to do something.

The decision crystallizes in his fevered mind. His free hand is already fumbling at his belt buckle, the promise of release the only anchor in the storm threatening to drown him.

Levi leans back against the desk, the edge digging into his lower back as he unzips his pants and frees his painfully rigid cock, the thick shaft jutting upward, veins bulging and tips glistening with fresh pre-cum. His hand wraps around it with a desperate grip that has his hips bucking. He strokes himself with rough, urgent pulls, thumb swiping over the sensitive head on each upstroke. Sweat drips from his brow onto the floorboards, his breaths escaping in harsh pants that echo off the walls.

The first orgasm builds swiftly, coiling tight in his gut before exploding outward. Ropes of cum splatter across his shirtfront and the floor as he grunts low, body shuddering violently. Even as the aftermath fades, his erection remains defiantly hard, twitching insistently in his slackening grip.

What the hell? Not enough?

Well, Hange did say it would last for several hours.

Undeterred and growing frantic, he resumes the rhythm, hand slick with his own release, chasing a second peak that crashes over him even harder, spilling more seed onto the growing mess. His knees nearly buckle as stars burst behind his eyelids—yet, still, the unrelenting hardness persists, throbbing with renewed ferocity, leaving him slumped and cursing under his breath. His mind is a fog of humiliated rage and insatiable hunger.

A knock at the door shatters the fragile illusion of privacy. Levi’s head snaps up, voice cracking through the haze as he bellows, “Don’t come in!”

But the words twist in the air—or perhaps his own ragged shout misfires—and you push the door open, arms laden with a stack of inventory sheets for his approval. You step inside, eyes downcast at first, but when you raise them, your eyes widen in shock at the sight before you: Captain Levi, hand frozen mid-stroke on his massive, slick erection, face flushed red and glistening with sweat. 

The papers tumble from your grasp in a fluttering cascade across the floor. You slap a hand over your eyes, spinning around so fast your boots squeak. Heat floods your cheeks. What have you done? Captain Levi, of all people—you had to catch him like this? You need to get out and pretend this never happened.

You stammer apologies as you back toward the door. “I’m so sorry, Captain! I—I thought you said to come in. I’ll leave right now. I’m so sorry—”

Before you can retreat fully, Levi lunges forward, his hand clamping around your wrist in a vice-like grip. He pulls you to a halt as his other hand hastily tucks himself away, though the bulge remains prominent. Desperation etches into his usually impassive face, steel eyes pleading in a way that twists something deep inside you.

“Wait—please don’t go,” he quite literally begs. “Something happened out in the woods. A flower sprayed some shit in my face and now I’m stuck like a dog in heat for the next twenty-four hours. Hange confirmed it. There’s no cure. I just have to ride it out. I can’t… I need help. Please.”

Fuck my pride, fuck everything. If she walks out, I’ll lose my mind, he thinks. Vulnerability cracks his ironclad control as he holds your gaze. The mighty captain reduced to raw entreaty.

You hesitate, pulse thundering in your ears, torn between duty and the electric pull of his touch. He’s your captain; this could end your career. But he looks so wrecked begging like this. Part of you wants to say yes to ease the pain in his eyes.

“Captain, I… you’re my superior. This isn’t right,” you say. 

He steps closer, thumb brushing your pulse point soothingly. His breath ghosts over your skin. “It’s okay. No one has to know. Just help me through this. I trust you.” The sincerity in his words, mingled with the musky scent of his arousal hanging heavy in the air, erodes your resistance until you nod. You give in with a shaky exhale.

Levi surges forward, crashing his lips against yours in a messy, devouring kiss, all teeth and tongue and pent-up frenzy. His hands frame your face as he pours his desperation into the contact. He tastes of need while you melt against him, your own arousal flickering to life.

He breaks away just long enough to guide your hand downward, wrapping your fingers around his still-throbbing cock through the half-open zipper. The heat of him sears your palm as you tentatively stroke the velvety length, skin slick from his earlier releases.

A whimper escapes him at the first touch of your softer grip—high and needy, utterly unlike the stoic captain you know—and it ignites something primal in you, your core clenching with heat you hadn’t anticipated. You almost want to hear him make that sound again. Your thighs press together as slickness gathers between them. Your breath hitches while your hand moves slowly now, from base to tip, thumb circling the weeping slit to draw out more of those delicious, broken noises.

Levi’s hips stutter into your rhythm, head falling back as pleasure eclipses the torment for fleeting moments. Your hand feels like heaven. It’s so much better than his own. The need escalates swiftly, pulling tighter until he begs again, voice wrecked and eyes locked on your lips.

“Your mouth—please, use your mouth on me. I need it so bad.”

You sink to your knees before Levi as he leans back against the desk’s edge, the wood creaking under his weight while your hands steady on his muscular thighs. Your lips part to take the flushed head of his cock into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the salty tip as you suck gently at first, savoring the way he throbs against your palate. 

Your own arousal throbs insistently between your own legs as you bob your head deeper, taking more of him inch by inch, saliva coating his length while your fingers dig into the tense cords of muscle under his skin. 

Levi’s control fractures almost immediately. A string of whimpers spill from his lips—high, needy keenings that grow into unrestrained moans louder than he intends. They echo off the office walls. His fingers thread into your hair, gripping firmly, guiding your pace with desperate bucks of his hips that push him further down your throat.

Fuck, her mouth is too good, Levi’s mind reels, pleasure spiking through the haze like lightning. His body is tense as your tongue presses flat along the underside, humming vibrations around him while you hollow deeper. Your nose brushes his pubic bone on a particularly eager thrust. 

The orgasm rips through him in under a minute, his grip tightening in your hair as he cries out. It’s a raw guttural moan that borders on a shout. Hot spurts of cum flood your mouth, thick and copious, forcing you to swallow around him to keep up. His thighs quiver under your hands as waves of pleasure crash over him, leaving him gasping and slumped. His cock barely softens, twitching back to full hardness almost instantly.

Without a word, still panting, Levi hauls you up by the arms with superhuman strength. He drags you through the narrow adjoining door into his bedroom—a minimalist space with a simple bed, neatly made sheets, and little else reflecting the clean-freak captain’s discipline—before throwing you onto the mattress with enough force to bounce you once. You land sprawled on your back, heart hammering with a mix of exhilaration and trepidation.

You watch wide-eyed as he strips himself completely, peeling off his sweat-damp shirt and uniform pants in frantic motions, revealing his compact, chiseled physique. Abs ripple, his cock juts proudly upward again, glistening from your saliva. He turns his predatory gaze toward you.

Frustration boils over as Levi attacks your uniform, fingers fumbling angrily with the endless straps and buckles that seem to multiply under his touch. His jaw clenches in irritation while curses fly under his breath. The pollen fuels a near-feral impatience that has him nearly ripping the clothes from your body. Too many damn layers—fucking military bullshit, keeping him from what’s his right now.

He yanks at a stubborn belt until it snaps, but when the next one fails to yield, he reaches into his bedside table drawer and pulls out a switchblade. He flicks it open, the thin blade glinting as he slices through the leather straps and fabric, shearing away the shirt and pants in tatters that pool on the floor. Your bare skin is exposed to the air while you gasp at his  movements.

“I’ll order you a new uniform,” he says hoarsely, eyes devouring your newly revealed body. Your nipples harden under his stare. He tosses the blade aside and climbs onto the bed, caging you with his body, voice dropping to a ragged plea laced with command. “But right now, I just need you.”

Levi wastes no time in claiming you fully, his body covering yours as he notches the thick head of his cock at your dripping entrance. He thrusts in with a single, brutal rut of his hips that buries him to the hilt inside your clenching heat. The stretch burns deliciously as your walls yield to his girth amid a shared gasp that fills the spare bedroom.

His movements immediately devolve into a messy, frantic rhythm, hips pistoning erratically as sweaty skin slaps against skin, the bed frame groaning under the onslaught while he captures your mouth in a sloppy kiss, tongue plunging deep to mimic his cock’s desperate invasions, all needy swipes and bitten lips that leave you both breathless and marked.

You arch beneath him, nails raking down his back as pleasure sparks through your core with every uneven thrust. His messy pace grinds his pubic bone against your clit in erratic bursts that have you moaning into his mouth. 

Levi breaks the kiss to pant against your neck, words tumbling out in a needy torrent between grunts, his voice raw and cracking as he drives deeper. “Fuck you feel so good. Better than I imagined. Your pussy’s sucking me in. Gods, I need you. I need this tight little hole wrapped around me.”

He hooks your legs over his shoulders then, folding you nearly in half with surprising strength. His hands grip your thighs as leverage to plunge even deeper, the new angle slamming his cock against that sweet spot inside you with every frantic withdrawal and snap back in, balls slapping wetly against your ass while the room fills with the obscene symphony of his needy whimpers and your rising cries.

His first orgasm builds blindingly fast amid the chaos, body tensing as he buries himself impossibly deep, crying out a broken “Shit—cumming—” before flooding your pussy with his ropes of pleasure. Your inner walls flutter around the pulsing heat of him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow. He hovers over you on trembling arms while whimpers and animalistic grunts spill from his throat, hips maintaining their rough, relentless grind as if possessed, chasing even more through the oversensitivity.

He’s still so hard, still burning. He has to keep fucking you to make it better. His emotions are a tangle of selfish hunger and an unexpected urge to give back. His fingers slide down between your joined bodies to find your swollen clit, rubbing firm circles over the nub. 

It catches you off guard amid the haze. You thought he would just use you and be done with you, but he’s taking care of you in this shitty situation. You have to stop yourself from fully letting yourself feel the flutter in your stomach.

Pleasure coils tighter until his skilled fingers, syncing with the drag of his cock stretching you anew, slick with his first load. The dual assault shatters you both simultaneously—your orgasm tearing through you like wildfire, pussy convulsing wildly around him as you scream his name. Tears prick your lashes. Levi follows with a guttural whine, his second release pumping even more cum deep into your spasming depths, overflowing to trickle down your thighs as he collapses half atop you. His forehead presses to yours, both of you shuddering in the afterglow.

But he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

Levi shows no signs of relenting even after his second climax. His body is a machine fueled by the otherworldly essence of the flower. He rolls you onto your side and hitches your top leg over his hip, sliding back into your cum-slick pussy with a wet squelch that draws twin moans from you. His thrusts regain their frantic rhythm, almost immediately while your skin slides together in the humid confines of his bedroom. 

The hours blur into an endless cycle of raw, needy coupling that leaves the sheets twisted and soaked beneath you. He can’t get enough. Your body is his salvation. Every clench pulls him deeper, and he has to keep going until he breaks. You cling to him, your mind a whirl of exhausted bliss.

Time loses meaning as he maneuvers you through position after position, the night deepening outside. At one fevered peak, amidst a slower grind where he spoons behind you, his teeth sink into the fleshy curve of your shoulder in a possessive bite that marks your skin red. The sharp pain spikes your arousal higher as you cry out, nails scoring his skin in retaliation while he growls against the bite—Mine—taste her, feel her shudder—fuck, perfect. Later, while he’s pounding deep on top of you with circling hips, he captures your hands in his, linking your fingers with his before stretching your arms above your head and pinning them to the mattress. He whispers hotly into your ear, “You’re so perfect,” the words laced with needy reverence that pierces your heart. Your body responds with a fresh gush of wetness that eases his relentless slides.

Hours stretch on without pause, Levi’s stamina inhuman under the pollen’s curse. He flips you atop him for you to ride while he bucks upward, then he bends you over the bed’s edge for brutal from-behind thrusts that shake the frame. 

Your orgasms stack upon one another until you’re a trembling, hoarse mess of please and whimpers. Every nerve is alight while his dirty litany evolves into softer avowals of need—“Need you like this forever, so good for me, taking everything”—his internal world fracturing under gratitude. 

You’re a gift for saving him from his madness. He doesn’t deserve you—but fuck if he’ll let go of you.

Finally, as the first hints of pre-dawn grey filter through the window after hours of non-stop fucking, Levi’s body betrays him mid-thrust, muscles seizing in total exhaustion despite his cock remaining stubbornly hard and twitching inside you; he collapses forward onto the mattress beside you, chest heaving, utterly spent physically even as the fire simmers unquenched. He pulls you close in a rare moment of limp vulnerability.

After a merciful hour-long break where you both lie entangled in sated stupor, breaths syncing in the quiet, Levi stirs with renewed vigor for round two. The aphrodisiac grants him one final surge as he claims you missionary-style once more, slower now but no less intense, drawing out mutual climaxes that leave you limp before he slumps again. The pair of you have fucked well into the night until the total span from the flower’s betrayal clocks nearly eight grueling hours.

Levi lies next to you in the rumpled bed, body finally cooling as the unnatural heat ebbs away like a receding tide. His erection softens at long last while clarity returns to his steel-grey eyes. He turns to you with a soft exhale, murmuring, “It’s finally gone. The aphrodisiac wore off,” but you offer no response. 

Levi looks over to see you dead asleep beside him, face slack with utter depletion, lashes fanned over flushed cheeks and lips parted in peaceful exhaustion. A deep sigh escapes him, his emotions cresting in a quiet wave of affection and regret-tinged protectiveness.

He looks at you. You wrecked him and wrecked yourself for him. He didn’t expect this… connection. At first, he was speaking needy nonsense. But somewhere, between the hours, he found himself desiring you in a way deeper than some flower’s curse willed him to. You cared enough to help. Most people would have walked away. You care, and it affects him more than it should. But that’s something he’ll worry about later. For now, he wants you to rest. You’ve earned it.

He draws the thin blanket over your entwined forms, leaning in to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead before he settles back, eyes drifting shut to claim sleep at last.

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divider by: strangergraphics

Levi is almost out the door when he realizes you’re staring.

You sit on the couch, watching him without meaning to stare, your eyes tracing him and his suit. You notice how clean his clothing is. You aren’t surprised considering how he is. He smooths down a creased spotthat no one else but him would even notice.

It’s not forever. It’s not even that long. Just a work dinner. It’s necessary. Still. Your fingers grip the edge of the couch just slightly. You tell yourself to not be dramatic, and that it’s only—probably—until midnight. You were hoping you would get to spend the night with him, staying in watching movies, since it had been a while, but of course, the universe had to intervene.

Levi reaches for his jacket and slips it on, and that’s when your gaze lingers a second too long. Just enough for him to sense it. He pauses, eyes flicking toward you, catching the change in your face before you can whisk it away.

“...Don’t give me that look,” he says.

“What look?” you ask, feigning innocence.

He narrows his eyes slightly. “You know what look.”

You don’t answer, because you do, and that only makes it worse. Instead, you just keep looking at him. Silently. Softly. Stay, the thought whispers.

Levi exhales through his nose, annoyance flickering across his face. You know he’s probably feeling more guilt than anything. “You’ll be fine,” he says, trying to convince himself more than you.

You nod. You’ll be fine. You know that. You’re not asking him to stay, though. You’re not saying anything at all. That’s the problem.

Another pause stretches between you before he lets out a hushed “Tch.” He shrugs off his jacket, and you watch, startled as he tosses it over the back of a chair.

“Levi?”

“Five minutes,” he says, already approaching you. “That’s it.”

Your body practically shuts down for a second. You didn’t even have to say anything. He sits close beside you, and before you can overthink it or protest, his hand is at your waist, pulling you toward him. You go easily, your arms slipping around him as your face presses lightly into his shoulder, enjoying his scent.

He breathes out, the tension in his muscles easing just a little. His chin rests on the top of your head. Neither of you speak for a moment. You just sit there, wrapped around each other, the world outside paused, held at bay for five stolen minutes.

“You’ll be late,” you say eventually, though your grip doesn’t loosen.

“I’ll tell them I had something important to do,” he says.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t have to lie to them.”

Levi’s gaze steadies on you, unwavering. “I wouldn’t be lying.” He reaches up, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek. “You are important.”

Your breath catches, warmth rushing to your face before you can stop it. You don’t trust yourself to say anything, not without giving yourself away completely, so instead you just lean back into him, arms tightening around him a little longer, holding on like you can make these five minutes last just a little longer.

Levi lets you. And when he finally does pull away, he presses a brief kiss to your temple before standing again. It feels softer than the kiss he gave you before he tried to leave for the first time—like leaving is just a little harder now.

But not as hard as it would’ve been if he hadn’t stayed at all.

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divider by: sweetmelodygraphics

The way he looked at you—like you were something beneath his boot.

Levi was harsh with everyone; that much was true. But you weren’t blind—you saw it. He did care to a certain degree. Like the way his eyes tracked his squad during missions, always counting.

He did care.

Just not about you.

With you, there was no restraint. No quiet understanding. Just cold scrutiny—sharp and unrelenting.

And that made your blood burn. Because you knew what you were worth. You were strong—strong enough to stand beside the best of them. Mikasa included.

You didn’t ever break formation out of panic.

You did it because you refused to stand there and watch someone die when you could do something about it.

And every time—

he made you pay for it.

He would call you reckless. Airheaded. Or a dipshit.

Once, he’d even snatched you by the front of your cloak, yanking you close, his voice lethal as he tore into you for breaking ranks—publicly.

For “endangering the squad.”

For being selfish.

Selfish.

The word still made your head hurt.

You’d snapped back sometimes—chin high, refusing to be spoken to like you were dirt when you were only doing your job. It was your life to throw away. Not his. And still, he looked you dead in the eye and told you that you weren’t saving people for them.

You were doing it for yourself, he said.

So here you stood during morning muster, shoulder to shoulder between Connie and Jean, boots planted firm despite the tension coiling tight in your chest. Levi stood at the front, going over assignments.

It would be a dull day with no missions lined up.

Levi moved down the line, inspecting.

Then—he stopped.

Right in front of you.

Of course.

You felt it before you looked—his scrutiny, heavy and suffocating. Your stomach jumped, but you forced yourself to stay still. His eyes dragged from your head to your boots.

“Next time,” he said flatly, “try starching your uniform.”

He paused, eyeballing you from head to toe.

“It looks like shit.”

It shouldn’t have bothered you, but of course it did. Because as much as you hated to admit it, you wanted his approval.

“Yes, sir.”

You kept your gaze forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Still, you felt his gaze linger a second too long before he moved on. When he was out of earshot, you exhaled, glancing at Jean.

“I swear,” you muttered, “he catches one whiff of my ass and comes crawling out of nowhere.”

Jean snorted. Connie barely held it together.

“I’m serious,” you pressed. “He’s always looking for something...”

“Maybe he likes you,” Connie said.

You shot him a look. “Yeah. I can just feel the affection.”

When they broke formation, Jean fell into step beside you, close as usual. You didn’t mind. He was easy to talk to, and you didn’t have to brace yourself around him.

“So,” Jean started casually, “we’ve got liberty tonight.”

You glanced at him with a half smile. "Yeah?"

“Thought maybe I could take you out again. For another drink, play some cards, take a walk...whatever you like.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

Then there came that feeling. Like something pressing into your back, and creeping up your neck. You didn’t have to guess.

Levi was standing still, across the way. Watching, but not casually or passively. His burning gaze was fixed on you and Jean, smoldering.

And then he moved—straight toward you.

“Oh, great,” you muttered. “Don’t react,” you warned Jean, who was visibly confused. Levi was on top of the two of you before you could elaborate.

“Jean.” he shot, his tone flat and controlled. “I have you going out on a supply run.”

Jean straightened immediately. “Yes, sir.” His eyes met yours, saying a silent goodbye.

"Then go." Levi spat.

And just like that, Jean turned and was gone. Leaving you alone with him. You turned your attention to the ledger, pretending to read. But he was still there, standing far too close.

You glanced up—

What a mistake.

He was just looking at you, as if he didn't know what to make of you. You began to squirm under his gaze, heat rushed through you—sharp, and unwarranted, but not unwanted. At least not to your body.

What the fuck…

You began to internally panic, not knowing the right thing to say, the right thing to do. Why did he have this affect on you?

“It’s… cold out here,” you muttered.

“Then you should dress like it.” he lowered his gaze to your chest, where you noticed a button had fallen loose, and your chest was slightly exposed

His eyes moved slowly over you.

Your throat tightened.

Don’t react.

Don’t—

His gaze lifted and met yours, making your chest tighten in all the wrong ways. He stepped back, just like it never happened.

“Get your assignment and move.” He said, deadpan.

“Yes, sir.”

The armory smelled like oil, metal, and worn leather. You sat cross-legged on the bench, ODM gear spread in pieces in front of you. Your fingers worked methodically, tightening bolts—only for them to slip out of place again.

You sighed.

“I’ve always hated putting these things back together,” you muttered.

Across from you, Mikasa adjusted her gear.

“Mm.”

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“…Levi cornered me earlier.”

“Mmm. Shocker.”

You frowned slightly. “He was… weird.”

That got her attention.

“Weird how?” She puzzled.

“He wasn’t griping. Not even really bitching.” You hesitated. “Just… looking at me...like in my eyes, and lingering around.”

Click.

“…He obviously likes you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“He watches you. Like all the time.”

“That’s because he thinks I’m a liability.”

“He doesn’t watch liabilities like that.” A pause. “He lets them die of their own stupidity.”

You opened your mouth then closed it.

“…Well,” you muttered, wiping your blade harder than necessary, “even if he did—hypothetically—that doesn’t mean anything.”

Mikasa tilted her head.

“…You like him too.”

You froze.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I don’t—he’s just—” you gestured vaguely, “objectively attractive. And stoic. And strong—”

Mikasa raised an eyebrow.

“…and brave,” you finished weaker.

Silence ensued.

“And those are all qualities you’re attracted to.”

You groaned. “Oh my God.”

“But Jean is different,” you said quickly.

Mikasa waited.

“He’s… soft. Kind. He actually talks to me like I’m a person.”

Mikasa nodded once.

“That’s nice.”

A pause.

“But that’s not what you want.”

You stared at her blankly before going back to your work, but internally you cursed yourself, because you feared she could be right.

You were alone while getting ready in the barracks that night. Most people had someone to go home to—family, partners. Those who didn’t, like Mikasa, Eren, and Armin, had already gone ahead to the tavern.

You hesitated.

You wanted to be excited. Jean was using one of his few liberty nights to spend it with you—even though he had family he could’ve seen.

But Levi kept creeping into your thoughts...those stormy gray eyes...

You tossed your shirt onto the bed, arms crossing tightly.

“I’m not going,” you muttered.

It wasn’t fair.

One look from him—and suddenly everything you’d been building with Jean felt… shaky. It wasn’t fair to Jean either. You didn’t want to let him down.

But the heart wants what it wants.

He’d understand that.

“…Like hell,” you muttered, grabbing your blouse again. You undid the top two buttons, adjusted it slightly, and headed for the door.

The tavern was loud.

Laughter spilled over itself, glasses clinked, chairs scraped—heat and noise wrapped themselves around you like a blanket, dulling everything else.

And for once—

you let yourself relax.

Jean sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he laughed with Connie and Armin. His sleeves were rolled, hair slightly messier than usual, drink loose in his hand.

He looked… good.

After a while, he led you to a quieter corner. A small round table sat tucked near the wall. Instead of sitting across from you, he pulled out the chair beside his—and you took it. Now you were angled toward each other, knees interlocked underneath the table. Close enough to feel his warmth.

It made it harder to think.

You held your cards low in your lap. Jean mirrored you, leaning back, one arm draped over his chair, the other holding his cards near his thigh.

“Trying to peek?” he murmured.

You scoffed, tilting your cards closer. “Please. Your hand can't be that interesting.”

“Mm,” he hummed, glancing sideways.

Heat crept up your neck—but you only shifted slightly, making your knee rub the inside of his thigh as if it were unintentional.

“Funny,” he replied, leaning in just a little closer, voice lower, “I was thinking the same thing.”

You shuffled your cards.

“You’re losing.”

“I’m winning.”

“You keep saying that.”

“And I’ve been right.”

You reached across him to steal a card—his hand caught your wrist mid-motion.

You froze, then looked up. He was already watching you.

“…You always cheat?” he asked.

“Only when I’m losing.”

“That’s most of the time.”

“Wow,” you breathed, mock offended. “You’re bold tonight.”

“Maybe I’ve had enough to drink that I just don't care."

Your pulse picked up. You pulled your hand back slowly, but his fingers lingered a second too long before letting go.

The noise around you faded.

“…Hey,” he said softly.

You turned toward him.

“Yeah?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then lifted again.

“You know I—” He stopped, exhaling. “I’ve been meaning to—”

“You don’t have to say it,” you murmured.

He studied you.

“Yeah?”

You nodded. That was all it took.

He leaned in—slow enough to stop him if you wanted. You didn’t. His lips met yours, soft at first—testing. Then you kissed him back. Your head spun as you sank into it.

Maybe it was the alcohol—

but he was a good kisser.

The kiss broke slightly as you both shifted, turning heads to kiss one another more deeply—And your heart jumped into your throat.

Because over Jean’s shoulder...you saw him.

Levi.

He was watching, unmoving. His gaze locked on yours. Not angry--no something worse.

Searing.

Why the hell is he even here…?

He should’ve been with the officers—not here with enlisted soldiers. He lifted his drink slowly, eyes never leaving you, then set it down harder than necessary. His jaw tightened.

He almost looked amused. Like he wanted to laugh.

Your stomach twisted.

Jean pulled back, noticing the shift.

“Something wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “I just… maybe we should go outside. I’d rather be alone with you.”

Jean lit up instantly.

“Yeah—of course.”

He stood, taking your hand, leaving the cards behind. You walked wide around the tables—avoiding Levi entirely. Jean didn’t notice anything wrong, eager to lead you outside.

But you couldn't shake Levi's stare as you let Jean lead you out the door. His gaze was set on your back the whole way out.

As Jean walked you back to the barracks that night you felt defeated. He left you at the steps, giving you a small smile before turning and disappearing into the night. You stepped inside letting out a frustrated breath, then—

“FUCK!” you hissed, dragging a hand down your face.

You stood leaning against the door still, unwillingly remembering what had just taken place: The night air. The tree at your back. Jean’s mouth on yours—warm, and insistent—his hands had been needy, touching all over your body. The way you’d melted into it, let yourself get pulled under.

And still—

You hadn’t been there. Perhaps physically, yes, but in your mind...

Levi had lived inside of your thoughts. You imagined that Jean was him.

His voice. His presence. The way he groped you.

Levi's gaze had followed you both outside, clinging to you, threading through every touch until you couldn’t tell who you were feeling anymore.

You remembered pulling away, your breath uneven, and your thoughts all tangled up. And the look on Jean’s face when you told him you couldn’t do it. That you didn’t trust what you were feeling. That it wasn’t fair to him.

He’d taken it better than he should have.

That almost made it worse for you.

"Ugh! WHAT the FUCK am I doing?!" You shouted, believing you were alone.

“Making it harder than it needs to be.”

Mikasa’s voice cut cleanly through the room. You jumped slightly, turning toward her. She was sitting on her bunk, book resting in her lap, eyes already on you like she’d been watching the whole time.

“When did you get here? Care to announce yourself, I mean GOD?” you groaned.

“I've been here a while,” she said, turning a page in her novel. "Technically, you're the intruder here."

Of course she had.

You dropped onto your bunk with a frustrated exhale, staring at the ceiling.

“Well...I messed that up. Like...bad.”

Mikasa turned a page.

“Mhm.”

Silence.

Then—

“…So,” she added casually, not even looking at you, “you stopped because of Levi.”

You turned your head sharply. “I did not—”

She finally glanced up, completely unimpressed.

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were thinking about him while kissing Jean, weren't you?”

Your mouth opened—

Closed.

“…I hate you. Stay out of my head.”

“Mm...Right. I'll do that.”

A beat passed between you.

Then, with the faintest hint of dry humor:

“I told you so...”

You groaned, dragging your blanket over your face.

“Oh my GOD do you ever shut up?.”

Mikasa laughed, her eyes lingering on you.

"Sometimes I wonder the same thing about you." She snarked playfully. "In all seriousness, just take some time for yourself. You're obviously all tied up."

"Right." you shot back.

But she was right. You needed space. No Jean, no Levi, just room to breathe.

The next week—after you started taking a little space from Jean—was made worse by the fact that Levi had somehow grown even more impossible. He assigned Jean every unwanted job. And wherever Jean ended up, you were placed on the complete opposite side of the world.

You couldn’t even be upset about the distance—you needed it.

But you knew exactly why Levi was doing it--you were convinced:

It was because he wanted to punish you for being happy.

And yet—

Everywhere you were, he was near. Close enough to feel his presence, which made your heart race. Watching him train, his muscles rippling, leaning over maps and plans with Erwin, those sexy arms with his sleeves rolled up... But he was never close enough to acknowledge you.

It drove you insane.

Did I just ruin something good with Jean for a man who won’t even acknowledge my existence?

You refused to say it out loud—to admit it—even to yourself. But it was impossible to ignore the attraction to him. To stop the thoughts of you, paired with him. To imagine him fucking you in the captain's quarters with his tongue deep in your mouth, catching every single moan.

Ugh...What's wrong with me?!

Besides… how were you even supposed to know if he was interested when he acted like he couldn’t stand you?

The tension between you grew thicker by the day. He became more critical. More overbearing. He’d approach without warning, pointing out flaws that didn’t exist—adjusting your gear like you were a cadet fresh out of training. His fingers were quick and efficient… lingering just long enough to make you tingle, dragging over the skin above your neckline as he walked around you, tightening straps, his breath brushing softly over your shoulder...

Followed by some sharp, unnecessary correction. You always considered yourself a reasonable person, but by the time the squad's weekly sparring session had arrived, you were ready to snap.

You were paired with Sasha.

One by one, you had put down every opponent before her, but Sasha made you work for it. The two of you tangled, struggled—limbs locking, slipping, and striking—until finally, with a desperate burst of effort, you slammed her into the dirt.

Silence.

You stood over her, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and blood running from your busted nose, dripping down onto her uniform. Your hands braced against your knees. You’d been out there since early afternoon. Now the sun was beginning to set. You were exhausted. You offered her a hand, which she took, and you pulled her to her feet.

“Again.”

Levi’s voice cut through the field. A collective groan rippled through the group.

“Or you can all run,” he added flatly. The groan died instantly, and everyone began to fall back into formation, ready to pair with a new partner.

Heat prickled across your scalp, but not from exertion.

From sheer anger.

Fuck that.

“Then I guess that’s what we’re doing,” you shot back, straightening despite the way your body screamed in protest. Your hands planted firmly on your hips. “Because I’m not sparring again. Enough is enough.”

Silence pierced through the air like an arrow. Levi stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly, his head tilted slightly, as if he couldn't believe it.

“Excuse you?” His voice was low and deadly.

You stepped forward, unrelenting.

“Excuse yourself. But before you do, how many miles do you want from me, Captain?” You gestured sharply toward the field. "We’ve been out here for hours—with no rest, and no food. I am beyond done with this shit.”

Connie choked on his water.

Armin shifted uncomfortably.

Reiner muttered something under his breath.

No one else moved. Levi’s eyes narrowed.

Then he moved. Fast—closing the distance. One second, he was across the field, and the next, he was right in front of you. Close enough that his breath stirred the loose strands of hair clinging to your face. You straightened instinctively, chest puffing—unwilling to back down.

Even as your pulse spiked.

He smelled clean.

Like tea and expensive soap.

It was distracting.

“I don’t care who you take down,” he said quietly. “If you don’t know the technique, then you’re dead weight to me.”

You scoffed.

“You're so right. I’m sure the titans are going to be real impressed by my vertical suplex.”

Your voice was sharp, your glare unwavering. You were dangerously close to putting him on his back just to prove a point. Your palms sweated as you prepared to make your move. Your heel shifted upward. A hand landed on your shoulder just as you were about to lunge, holding you firmly.

Jean stepped in.

“That’s enough, y/n. Captain, please. She's just dysregulated...tired.”

His other hand settled around your upper arm, grounding, steady. Ensuring he could pull you back if need be. You didn’t move.

Levi’s gaze flicked to him.

Then back to you.

A quiet, humorless scoff left him.

“Tch.”

His eyes dragged over you—slow, deliberate.

Judging you.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Running to her rescue.”

Jean’s jaw tightened, and he lowered his gaze.

Levi leaned in just slightly—Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you felt it in your chest.

“He can't save you from me,” he said under his breath.

Your stomach dropped. Your blood was boiling hot again.

“Look at you,” he added, straightening. “Covered in sweat, acting like you’ve done something impressive.” His lip curled faintly.

“You’re filthy.”

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Heat.

Sharp and sudden, it traveled directly to your core. It was an electric feeling.

You hated it. But your body loved it.

Really? He calls you filthy, and it does this to you?

You clenched your jaw at him, trying to hide the arousal in your eyes.

“Get cleaned up,” he said, voice dropping just for you. “Then come to my office.”

A moment passed. You wanted to hit him.

Kiss him.

Fuck his stupid brains out.

“I’ll deal with you there.”

He turned away like it was nothing.

“The rest of you are dismissed. Bunk inspection. 0500,” he yelled.

The formation broke quickly, murmurs spreading like wildfire.

You caught pieces—

“…she really said that to him…” “…we’re all screwed…” “…he’s gonna kill her…”

Eren stepped into your space almost immediately. “What were you thinking?” he snapped. “You can’t talk to him like that! You really think that's gonna fly?”

You shot him a look.

“That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He opened his mouth— then closed it, giving you an annoyed look before turning towards the barracks. You didn’t care. You were coming undone.

You were tired of the constant pressure. And with how infuriatingly he affected you. You hated how much you wanted him—and he hated you. That much was obvious. So why couldn’t you stop thinking about him? Why did every glance feel like something more? Why did you want him to fuck you through the wall?

You cut the thought off.

Hard.

No, no, no.

You weren’t doing that. Not here. Tensions were too high, you needed a cold shower to gather your composure and thoughts.

You’d cleaned up as best you could. The cold shower hadn't helped cool your irritated skin—or your troubled mind. The busted nose was still giving you issues, so you kept a handkerchief tucked in your pocket just in case it gushed again. Your mind raced about what to say to Levi.

He’s going to rip me apart for this.

The walk to his office felt longer than it should have. Your half-laced boots echoed against the stone, each step a reminder of just how sore you were. Your muscles were aching, shin splints throbbing, and your body was worn down to the bone.

Good.

You thought.

Let him see exactly what he’s done.

The halls were quiet at this hour; most had already turned in. Lantern light flickered along the walls, shadows stretching ahead of you.

You tried—once—to gather your thoughts. An apology or an explanation, but nothing stuck. Every time your mind circled back, it landed on the same thing—

his voice his proximity the way he looked at you

And the anger came rushing back.

Good.

You’d rather feel that than the other feelings that kept coming to the surface.

You stopped in front of his door.

For a second, you hesitated, your hand hovered.

knock. knock.

You straightened slightly, jaw crunched into a firm line, already bracing yourself for impact.

Levi

The knock came right on time.

Of course it did.

He hadn’t been looking at the clock—but he didn’t need to. Levi sat behind his desk, one hand resting loosely against the surface, the other wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

He hadn't noticed or cared. His eyes flicked once toward the door, then back down.

"Tch..."

He should’ve handled it out there. Shut you down in front of everyone, and ended it. But no, you just had to push. He’d let it go too far. It needed to be addressed one-on-one.

An image flashed uninvited—

You, earlier. sweat-soaked, and breathing hard, defiant looking up at him like that…

He cut the thought off immediately.

Irrelevant.

He set the cup down with a quiet click, shaking his head. He walked around the desk, propping himself up on the corner, and grabbed a sheet of paper, pretending to be observing the writing scrawled there.

“Enter.”

He kept his voice flat and controlled, not allowing any emotion underneath it. The door creaked open and you slipped in.,

For half a second, he didn’t look up, deliberately. He let you stand there, and let the silence set in steadily. He was in control here.

Not you.

Then, his gaze lifted and froze involuntarily. Because you didn’t look like you usually did. You weren't carefully composed, sharp, or even halfway prepared to defend yourself against him.

You looked—

tired.

But...disarming.

Your hair was still slightly damp and loosely combed, your shirt was thrown on without much care, and your collar was open more than enough to be noticeable. The fabric was thin and hung more softly on your frame than your uniform ever did; it looked loose and unstructured.

And underneath—

You wore nothing.

No support, and no effort to hide it. Just you.

Your posture was held together by will alone. You smelled clean. It was a faint, subtle scent—he recognized it now, a light hint of lavender. It wasn't too heavy; he could just hardly smell it as your presence filled the room, making him curious. He wished he hadn’t, because it immediately went to his groin. He wanted more of it.

He quickly composed himself.

"You’re late.”

You weren’t. But he didn’t care.

“No, I’m not.”

God he wanted to fix that mouth of yours.

“Shut the door” he demanded coolly.

You did as he said. He didn’t offer you anything. He just looked at you with a cold expression while assessing you.

“You’ve been getting careless,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk, with his hands crossed.

Your brows pulled. “Careless?”

“You're defiant,” he corrected. “You think because you can hold your own, you get to ignore orders.”

“I didn’t ignore anything,” you shot back at him. “I defended myself, I pushed back for once because you are constantly on me, no matter how hard I try, or how well I do," you shot back, throwing your hands up at your sides.

He couldn't miss the way your breasts moved under that loose-fitted, thin shirt...He sharpened his resolve.

“You don’t push back.” He said plainly, leaning off of the edge of the desk and stepping a bit closer. “You follow orders. That’s it.”

Your jaw tensed until you felt like your teeth would crack. “Not when they don’t make a lick of sense.”

Tch.

“There it is.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Have you even stopped to consider that titans are not our only enemies?”

That hit you; he could see it in the way that your eyebrows knitted together. There was hesitation as you swallowed hard.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, steadier than you felt. “Not if I’m too beat down to train properly.”

Excuses, excuses.

He knew how strong you were--he needed you to be stronger. On his level. He needed you to be able to protect yourself when he couldn't be there.

And he knew for a fact 'Jean boy' couldn't keep you safe.

“Or maybe,” he said, quieter now, “you've just been too distracted lately.”

Your eyes sharpened. “By what?" You laughed at him. "If there's something you want to say, don't be coy. Just spit it out, Captain."

He didn’t answer right away, because he didn't know how to go about it. He didn't know how to pry without seeming as if he cared too much.

“You and Kirstein putting on your little show in front of everyone.”

Your expression shifted, just barely.

“You made a spectacle,” he continued. “Both of you did.”

“That’s not what that was—He was just trying to stop me from escalating the situation because you—"

“It looked like it,” he interrupted flatly. “And it’s enough to make the rest of the squad think they can fall out of line whenever they feel like it.” Silence hung in the air as he eyed you, studying your expression. You swallowed hard, and your breathing was faster.

“And whatever you think it is that you have with him… It’s going to cost you in the end. I've seen it many times. He can't keep you safe out there—he's just a distraction.”

Your eyes flashed with anger.

“You don’t have the faintest clue what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No,” you snapped, not even caring to explain that you had distanced yourself from Jean romantically. “I get it. You fucking hate me, Levi. You think me obnoxious and reckless, and now you're insinuating I'm a careless whore, so you know what? Just—kick me from the squad and get it over with.”

Silence fell between you.

He didn’t even know what to say.

You looked as if you would burst into tears; your watery eyes were swimming with defeat and shame.

His heart dropped at the sight of it.

He could admit he hadn’t been the warmest—hell, he never was with anyone—but he couldn’t figure out where he’d gone so wrong that you thought he felt all of that toward you…

When, in reality, he’d only ever wanted to be closer to you.

All the times he placed you near him on missions. The way he adjusted your gear without asking. He wouldn’t admit it—he had too much pride for that—but he hadn’t done any of it without reason. And he sure as hell didn’t want you walking around with the wrong idea about where you stood with him.

“Exactly." You quipped. "Nothing to say."

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you said, your voice choking; he could tell you were on the verge of tears. “Give you something to brag about—how you finally put me in my place, kicked me back to the cadets, or had me disbarred.”

You scoffed softly, already turning away.

“I’ll save you the trouble. I’m done.” You took a breath, hoping it would stifle the tears. “I’ll transfer. Find another section—or go to the MPs. I’ll talk to Erwin in the morning.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out.

“I won’t be a burden to you anymore.”

Your voice cracked anyway. You turned before he could see the pain in your expression, moving for the door.

He let you take one step.

Two...

Then his hand shot out, gripping your arm firmly. Stopping you cold in your tracks.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice lowered. “Stop talking like that.”

You turned sharply, trying to pull free—but he didn't let you. Instead, he pulled you in closely. So close that your forearms rested on his chest, you were gazing up at him with those big, y/e/c eyes. They were swimming with tears, as if you were going to burst at the seams at any moment. Your breath hitched in your throat as you fought to hold back the raw emotion, the sadness, and the desire that were mixing and bubbling up all at once.

He had never wanted you more than right now—right in this moment.

He wanted to fuck you until you cried for completely different reasons.

His grip tightened just enough to hold you there against him; his voice was low and measured, but no longer clean. He was cracking, but he didn't even care anymore. Stubbornness be damned. And the opinions of the other people on his squad. And certainly Jean.

“He’s not the man for you—he can't protect you like..."

The words fell just short. His pride was still trying to stand in the way of his feelings for you.

Fuck, she's killing me...

His jaw tightened up, and he breathed heavily out of his nose, his grip still tight around your wrist. He brought up his other hand now, holding the opposite wrist gently. There was so much tension that he was afraid he would explode. Your eyebrows furrowed, as if you were thrown off, but you weren't pulling away. A sign that you wanted him to keep going.

“Like what?” you breathed, barely above a whisper.

His eyes locked onto yours; something in them had shifted now. They were calm and doleful, as if you were anticipating him. Hanging on his every word like a prayer.

He just had to say it.

To let go.

“He can't protect you like I will.”

The room went still. That was it. That was the line. Now there was no taking it back. Your lips parted— and that was enough of a sign for him. He closed what little distance was left between you, and kissed you.

Y/n

He kissed you.

What in the fuck...

Your mind raced. This couldn't actually be happening. His lips were soft. He smelled like Jasmine tea. Like clean linen. Just like you had imagined he would.

You were curious. How could you possibly help yourself? You moved your mouth against his, in rhythm with him. He brushed his tongue against your lips, begging to deepen the kiss.

Finally.

You were getting to taste him—to taste his tongue as it coiled with yours, exploring you deeper. He tasted so sweet, like honey. You were aching for more. His hands moved from your wrists to your waist, holding you there for a moment before turning you towards the desk. He lifted you up effortlessly as if you weighed nothing, momentarily breaking the kiss while he sat you down on the desktop.

"He can't make you feel the way I will..."

"Yeah?" you sighed, lips crashing back into his as his hands felt up the hem of your shirt, reaching underneath and caressing firmly, making sure to stop over your soft nipples and pinch slightly--teasing you.

You exhaled sharply through your teeth, the intense sensation shot straight to your womanhood, wetness began quickly pooling there. He lifted the shirt over your head entirely, taking in your bare breasts. His tongue traveled down your neck, sending shivers all over your spine and goosebumps rising over your whole body. He smirked at how easily your body reacted to him.

He moved his mouth over one of your nipples while his hand moved to the other—massaging and toying lightly with his slender, expert fingers. At the same time, his lips worked softly, pulling you into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the soft bud, which was already tightening under his touch. Soft whimpers left your lips shamelessly. Levi's pants were stretching tightly around his waist as your moans brought him closer to his full length.

"He can't make you moan like this either..."

He continued the assault with his tongue, sliding his hand lower, tracing down your defined stomach all the way to your center, where you wanted him to caress most of all. His hand slid shamelessly into your loose-fitted pants; you hadn't bothered to completely button them. His fingers hooked into your panties, sliding them gently from out of his way.

He softly fingered your pussy, his digits sliding in and out slowly with ease. You couldn't help it now—you moaned loudly, helpless against his brutal assault as he quickened his pace, using his middle and ring fingers, curling them upwards inside of you, hooking into that most sensitive spot, drawing loud noises from deep inside of your throat.

"He definitely can't make you this wet...can he?” He paused slightly, his voice dropping low, dripping with malice, only for a split second—

“Has he…?”

You didn't answer—partially because you couldn't find a break in the pleasure long enough to breathe—your eyes were screwed shut, and your head thrown back, fighting not to get too turned on too quickly.

Too late…

You also didn’t answer partly because you didn't know what Jean was capable of. You hadn't had the chance to tell Levi that Jean had never done anything more than kiss or grope you.

"Answer me," he demanded, pushing his fingers deeper and circling them inside of you, bringing you back to reality—here with him, his fingers stuffed deep inside of your pussy, causing you to shudder.

You moaned helplessly.

"N--no.." you offered. “He never touched me…”

You were shocked at his forwardness, it was amusing to you. “Why, are you jealous?” You teased.

He pulled away from you slightly to look at your face—his eyes were dark.

“Jealous…” he repeated, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Do I need to be jealous…?”

His hand slipped away from between your thighs, slowly—only to bring his fingers up to your mouth.

You barely had time to breathe before he pressed them past your lips. You didn’t hesitate. Your tongue curled around them instinctively, tasting yourself, your eyes fluttering as you sucked them clean—soft, and needy. His gaze darkened at the sight. He exhaled quietly through his nose, something almost amused flickering beneath the surface of his gaze.

“…when I can do that to you?”

He didn’t give you the chance to answer—his hand coming up to tilt your chin as he took your mouth again, slowly consuming you. Your arousal still lingered on your lips as he swirled his tongue, mixing with his own unique, sweet taste…It was dizzying and intoxicating. He suddenly pulled back, leaving you yearning, and looked at you.

And just…looked at you

Really looked.

His gaze dragged over your body slowly, deliberately, like he was saving the moment in his memory for later use. It made your stomach tighten. You watched him in return, your pulse hammering as he pushed his pants down his hips, never breaking eye contact. The outline beneath the fabric alone made your heart beat faster.

You weren’t inexperienced—but it had been years.

Then he finished stripping. Your eyes widened before you could stop them.

…Fuck.

He was bigger than you expected. A lot bigger.

Your breath shook, chest rising a little too fast as you stared. Of course he noticed, he seemed to notice everything about you.

Levi’s mouth tilted—just slightly into a small smile.

“Tch,” he muttered, acting unimpressed by your reaction on the surface… but his eyes gave him away, they were brimming with satisfaction and pride. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Scared of it?”

His voice dropped, quieter now as he closed the distance between you.

“…Relax.” He paused for a moment, nestling between your thighs as your knuckles gripped the desk, you shifted your weight, knocking a pen that rolled onto the floor as you made room for him between your thighs.

“I won’t break you.” He brushed your lip carefully, ever so gently—as if he wanted to comfort you.

His length brushed along the inside of your thighs as he kissed you one last time. When he pulled back, his gaze dipped, his hand wrapping around himself, giving a few slow strokes before guiding himself into place.

Then his eyes lifted to yours, locked in.

He dragged the tip along your labia—slowly teasing—up and down your slick heat, watching the way your breath caught sharply, the way your body reacted to every movement. He was testing you. He was enjoying how easily he could unravel you. He didn’t look away, not for a second.

“Levi…” you gasped, grabbing his strong arm, and looking in his eyes. “It’s been a long time…”

His eyes didn’t waver.

“I can tell.”

He brushed your bottom lip softly with his thumb.

“Breathe.” He whispered.

You took a sharp breath inward...

Then—slowly—he pushed into you.

You gasped, your hand flying up to grip his shoulder, fingers tightening as your head tipped back. A shudder ran through you at the almost unbearable stretch, your breath shifted hard, and your head lulled back as he filled that space inch by inch.

His lips found your neck, hot and sloppy—unlike the Levi you knew previously who was precise and neat—a low groan rumbled against your skin as he pressed closer—until there was nowhere left to go.

The feeling hit all at once—so intense and raw.

“…fuck,” you whimpered, barely holding onto the word as you screwed your eyes shut.

“That’s excessive…” you laughed breathily, like it personally offended you.

Levi pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand sliding firm around your lower back, dragging you flush against him again—holding you there, making sure you felt every inch of him, every second of it.

“Your body says otherwise… you’re not exactly pushing me away…quite the opposite."

Heat rushed to your face—he was right. Your body betrayed you, your pussy was tightening around him without mercy. That sharp, pulsing ache settled deep as he touched your cervix.

You moaned deeply.

“I guess that means you like it?” he murmured, voice low—too calm for what he was doing to you.

“You have no idea…” you breathed.

He didn’t say anything further, just started moving.

Slow at first, allowing you to adjust to his impossible size. Each motion was calculated, like he was testing how much you could take before you broke. You felt every shift, and every pull, your grip tightened on him as your body reacted without permission.

A soft sound slipped from your lips when he pulled back.

Another when he pressed forward again.

Then he found a rhythm.

Which was relentless.

The desk trembled beneath you with the force of it, his breathing growing heavier. His gaze locked onto yours, sharply, holding you there so you didn’t have the option to look away.

And when his hands shifted—spreading your legs wider, and pulling you closer, you thought you would fall completely back onto the desk.

He was most intentional, as if he had already decided exactly how this would go down. You chuckled as he fucked you senseless. His hand quickly shot up in response, gripping your chin.

“Something amusing here?” He grunted, his voice a deep warning. He wouldn’t be taken lightly.

“Already had this figured out, didn’t you?” you murmured, eyes flicking up to his. “Been planning it? Exactly how and where you were going to fuck me?"

His next movement was swift as he hauled you across the room and dropped you onto the love seat tucked in the corner. You fell back, instinctively drawing your knees together, arms crossing over your chest—but that smirk was still there as you looked up at him. He towered over you, one hand braced on either side, caging you in—his presence was consuming and overwhelming in the best way.

“You’re exactly right,” he said quietly.

His voice was calm.

“And the next thing I had planned…” he continued, leaning in slightly, eyes dark, “is to make you cum right here on this love seat.”

Your breath hitched

"Uncover yourself.” he commanded, low and controlled, planting a small kiss on your bent knee. “Don’t hide from me.”

A pause.

His hands slid to your knees.

“Open your legs..." He said sharply, pushing them apart with steady, unhurried pressure, "And don’t close them again until I’m finished.”

His gaze locked onto yours.

“Understood?”

There was no room to argue, so you simply swallowed hard and nodded.

"Good...Just like that."

He settled between your legs, weight pressing you back into the cushions, his presence heavy. He entered you again and immediately started fucking you wildly. You moaned—long and languid as he hit the right spot with every single thrust.

He slid one hand between you, finding your clit as he drove you into the cushions. Your legs hung helplessly at his hips as his fingers moved in slow circles. You could feel yourself getting close—a sensation no one had pulled from you in years. Something you had only ever given yourself for so long.

And now here you were.

Letting him force it out of you.

“Levi… I—I think I’m about to—” your words came out broken, your voice pitching higher with each violent thrust. You could barely keep up with the feeling building inside you as he kept that same relentless pace.

“I know…” he breathed, voice rougher now, his control slipping away from him. “Do it now… fuck…” he muttered under his breath. His grip tightened slightly, holding you there while he pounded mercilessly into you.

And you did just that, as if he controlled your body— commanding it to do exactly as he willed it to. You quivered around him, nails digging into the small of his back as you rode out waves of pleasure. Each stroke started back up the orgasm all over again. The only thing you wanted him to do was fuck you as hard as he possibly could—

You must have said so out loud because his thrusts became intolerable, he rutted inside of you violently as he cussed and groaned under his breath.

Then the heat faded, leaving you with a raw, satisfied feeling. You zoned out as your high faded—you floated away in your mind, eyes clamped shut tightly.

He said something you didn’t catch, until he grabbed you by the hips and flipped you over onto your belly—jolting you back to reality again. He dragged your hips up towards his pelvis, bringing you to your knees, and pushing your head downward into the cushion.

“Do what I say when I say it…” he warned. “We’re not finished just because you are.” He bit, gathering your hair into one hand before driving back inside of you.

You yelped.

Your aching core was so sensitive you didn’t know how much more you could possibly stand to take. You babbled and whimpered as he used you—taking every single wave. His name left your lips over and over, as if it were the only thing left that you could possibly remember how to say.

“That’s right…not Jean, not anyone else. Just me…Now keep saying it…”

His hips began to stutter, his breathing was turning uneven. He was losing that perfect control he always carried.

He was so close.

“Levi… It’s all yours…” your voice broke, tears threatening to spill as everything overwhelmed you at once. He gripped your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you up—firm but not rough this time—guiding you onto your palms, and pressing you firmly into that position. Your body trembled, and your back arched deeply, completely spent. Any rational thought left was slipping through your fingers. Emotion was taking over. And maybe that was why it came out so easily.

“I’ve thought about you every day… for months…” you panted.

You felt him shift closer, his breath hot against your ear.

“That right…?” he murmured—low and dangerous, but quieter than before.

“Yes!” you cried, tears spilling freely now. “I’ve always felt this way about you… There’s no one else for me… It’s only you.”

Your words broke apart as you spoke them, emotion finally spilling over as your body followed right behind, once again letting go around him. The tears fell freely, soaking into the couch beneath you as he drove into you unforgiving, like he was trying to force something out of himself just as much as he was forcing it out of you.

“…Don’t say things like that unless you mean them,” he muttered, voice rougher than before, control slipping. “… I’m not letting you take it back.”

“I never want to take it back…I only want you…fuck—please!”

Your voice—spent and needy— sent him over the edge. You could feel him pulsing inside of you as he filled you completely with cum in hot bursts. He wrapped his arm around your chest, holding you to him as he came inside, planting soft kisses on your shoulders and panting softly into your neck.

He slowly eased out, watching his seed drop from your swollen pussy—something that belonged only to him now. Your legs were shaking, and your hair was falling along your back and shoulders.

You slumped onto your side, body still trembling, as he pulled away and stood. He moved quickly, scanning the room before grabbing something to clean you with.

“Uhh… this’ll have to do for now.” He handed you a small towelette. “Clean up. Then get dressed.”

You frowned immediately, your brows knitting together.

“Oh… alright then…” you trailed off, your heart sinking as you instinctively covered yourself, suddenly aware of how exposed you were.

Maybe that was all this had been.

A plan,

Then a moment.

And now, he would be done with you.

“Tch… don’t look so upset.” His voice cut directly through your thoughts. “You don’t plan on walking to my bedroom like that, do you?”

You blinked, the tension in your chest eased up just slightly.

“Oh… okay…” You let out a small breath, something like a quiet, relieved laugh slipping out. He clicked his tongue softly, like your reaction annoyed him more than anything else. "For a second I thought—"

"I’m not that kind of man,” he said flatly, cutting you off before you could finish. “Don’t start making assumptions.”

His gaze flicked over you briefly, taking in your naked body, as if he was satisfied with his hard work.

“I’m not going anywhere…so get used to it." He said, pulling on his clothes. "You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

You caught traces of a faint smile on his lips as he finished dressing, and though you knew he’d never admit it, you could tell he was smugly happy that he got his way.

❥ levi ackerman

❥ porco galliard

❥ connie springer

❥ eren jaeger

❥ jean kirstein

divider creds : @cursed-carmine

Levi breathes out above you, the sound low and uneven. For a moment, the only thing that exists is the warmth of his body over yours and the sound of both your breathing slowly trying to steady itself after the intensity that just passed between you.

He shifts, and carefully rolls off you and onto his back beside you on the bed, one arm flung loosely across the mattress as his chest rises and falls with controlled breaths that are still just a little heavier than usual. You stare up at the wooden ceiling of Levi’s private quarters, your heart still thudding. Your entire body feels warm. Your mind drifts somewhere hazy, the afterglow of the moment lingering in the space between you. 

Beside you, Levi drags a hand over his face, pushing dark hair back from his forehead before he turns his head slightly toward you. “You alright?” he murmurs in a rough voice.

“Yeah,” you say softly. You pause, then ask, “Are you?”

Levi huffs faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching like the question amuses him. “I’m fine.”

He shifts closer after a moment, rolling onto his side so he’s facing you now, the blanket tangled loosely around both of your legs. Your stomach gives a small, warm flutter when his hand slides slowly across the mattress until his fingers brush against your arm. Then his hand settles there—just resting. You glance down at the contact. It’s nice.

Levi watches your face for a moment, his expression softer than the one he shows the rest of the world. “You’re staring,” he mutters.

You blink. “Oh.” Your lips curve slightly. “Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

You shrug faintly. “I like looking at you.”

Levi raises an eyebrow. “You’re bold tonight.”

You feel warmth creep across your face, though you don’t look away. Your thoughts wander quietly for a moment. This is strange, you think. The peace. The quiet. The world outside the walls is brutal, relentless, filled with dangers that rarely allow moments like this to exist. But here, in this quiet room, Levi’s hand still resting against your arm, everything feels calm.

Levi shifts again, moving closer until the space between you disappears entirely, and suddenly his arm slips around your waist as he pulls you against him, like he knows you belong there. Your cheek presses lightly against his chest. You can hear his heart beating. Levi’s hand slides slowly along your back in a gentle, absent-minded motion, like he’s soothing both of you at the same time.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.

You hum softly. “Just thinking.”

“About me, I hope.”

You smile against him. Your fingers trace lightly along his collarbone. Levi tilts his head down slightly, brushing a soft kiss against your temple. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that it makes your heart flutter just a little. Then another kiss follows. This one against your cheek. And then one more against your lips. When he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against yours.

“You’re smiling,” he says.

“I know.”

“Why?”

You hesitate. Then you answer honestly. “Because you’re like this.”

Levi’s brow furrows faintly. “Like what?”

You lift one hand to brush your fingers through his hair. “Soft.”

Levi snorts quietly. “Don’t go spreading that around.”

You laugh softly. His arm tightens around you slightly in response, pulling you closer, intending to keep you exactly where you are.

“Stay here,” he murmurs after a moment.

You nod against his chest. You weren’t planning on going anywhere.

MASTERLIST • TAGLIST • WATTPAD • AO3 • KO-FI

tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp

The training yard smells like dust, blood, and sweat—three scents Levi has long since accepted as the permanent smell of the Survey Corps headquarters. The morning sun hangs over the rooftops, casting over the dirt where soldiers are already moving through drills with the familiar clatter of ODM gear and shouted commands. 

Levi stands near the edge of the yard with his arms crossed, his boots planted firmly in the dirt as he watches the soldiers below him move through the maneuver course. His expression is unreadable, as it usually is during training inspections, but his attention is anything but idle.

Most of the recruits are predictable. Sloppy turns, hesitations before launch—the usual mess. But you—you move differently. Levi notices the moment you fire your first hook, the cable singing through the air before pulling you upward between two wooden towers. Your form is good. Your landing is smooth, knees bending slightly to absorb the force before you push off again into another maneuver.

Not perfect. But close.

Levi’s eyes track you automatically as you swing across the yard. Your left angle is off again. He watches you adjust midair, correcting the mistake before it becomes a problem. Good. You’re learning. 

Wait. He shouldn’t be focusing on one soldier this closely. A captain’s job is to watch the entire field. 

But somehow his attention always drifts back to you.

Levi sighs. You’ve been under his command long enough now that he knows your habits—how you overcompensate on right turns, how your shoulders tense slightly when you’re about to make a risky maneuver, how you always pause half a second longer than necessary when landing because you’re already thinking about the next move. 

He knows these things because he’s paying attention. More attention than he should. And the worst part is he doesn’t quite remember when that started happening. Maybe the first time you argued with him during a meeting instead of blindly agreeing with his orders. Maybe the day you stayed behind after training to help clean the equipment room without being asked. Or maybe—

His train of thought cuts off when your hook fires again and you launch upward into a tight spin that would make most soldiers lose control. You land cleanly. Levi’s eyebrow lifts. Not bad.

“Levi.”

The voice appears beside him without warning. Levi doesn’t even look over. “I told you not to sneak up on me,” he mutters flatly.

Hange leans casually against the wooden fence beside him, goggles pushed up onto their forehead and a hint of unmistakable curiosity lighting up their face. “I didn’t sneak. You’re just distracted.”

Levi finally glances sideways. “I’m watching training.”

“Uh huh.” Hange braces their arms on the fence and looks out across the field for approximately three seconds. Then their gaze slides directly toward you. Then back to Levi. Then back to you again. Levi feels the exact moment the realization clicks inside Hange’s brain. It’s visible in the slow widening of their grin. “Oh.”

Levi immediately regrets allowing them to stand next to him.

“Oh,” Hange continues with growing delight. “Is that what’s happening?”

Levi’s eyes narrow. “What’s happening?”

Hange gestures vaguely toward the training course where you’re currently launching yourself between two towers again, your cloak snapping behind you in the wind.

“That,” Hange says. 

Levi stares at them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Hange snorts. “You’ve been staring at the same soldier for ten minutes.”

Levi turns his gaze back to the training yard immediately, refusing to engage with the ridiculousness of that statement. “I’m evaluating performance.”

“Oh really?” Hange says sweetly. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re evaluating her specifically.”

Levi’s jaw tightens slightly. He doesn’t answer. Unfortunately, silence is apparently confirmation. Hange’s grin grows wider.

“You like her.”

Levi turns his head slowly. “I will feed you to Sawney.”

Hange raises their hands in mock surrender but continues smiling in the most irritating way possible. “I’m just saying, it’s interesting.”

“There’s nothing interesting about a captain observing a soldier’s training.”

“Except,” Hange continues thoughtfully, “you’re not observing the rest of them.”

Levi refuses to look back at the training field now because he knows exactly where his gaze would land. You. Again. Instead, he stares straight ahead at the far wall of the yard.

“This conversation is over.”

Hange hums thoughtfully. “No, it’s not.”

Levi closes his eyes briefly. Why did he let them come over here?

Hange leans closer. “So how long?”

Levi’s eye twitches. “How long what.”

“How long have you been in love with one of your soldiers?”

Levi opens his eyes slowly, holding back the urge to sock Hange square in the jaw. “I’m not in love with anyone.”

Hange studies him carefully for a moment. Then they look back toward the training field. Levi follows their gaze automatically. You’re standing near one of the towers now, adjusting the straps of your ODM gear while talking to another soldier. The sunlight catches in your hair as you laugh quietly at something they say. Levi immediately looks away.

Too late. Hange saw that.

“Oh wow,” they say. “You’re doomed.”

Levi glares at them. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Hange taps the wooden fence thoughtfully. “Because every time she moves, your eyes follow her.”

Levi opens his mouth to argue, then he stops, because Hange is unfortunately correct. His gaze drifts back toward the course without conscious permission, searching the field until it finds you again. You’re preparing for another run. Your expression is focused, serious, the same look you always wear when you’re determined to improve. Levi watches you launch into the air again. You’re getting better. The thought comes automatically. Not as a captain evaluating a soldier, but as Levi. Watching you. 

Hange sighs dramatically beside him. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”

Levi pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shut up.”

“Does she know?”

Levi drops his hand. “No.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

Levi stares at Hange like they’ve suggested something insane. They practically did. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Levi gestures toward the training yard. “She’s a soldier under my command.”

Hange tilts their head. “And?”

“And that’s the end of the conversation.”

But even as he says it, Levi knows he’s plagued by a frustration that comes from pretending that this doesn’t exist. Because the truth is he has thought about it. More than once. The possibility of crossing that line. And every time the same conclusion follows. It’s too dangerous. For you. For him. For the chain of command. So he ignores it. He focuses on training, missions, and survival. He tells himself that’s enough.

Hange watches him carefully for a moment. Then they sigh. “You’re an idiot.”

Levi scowls. “And you’re about to leave.”

“Fine,” Hange says, pushing away from the fence. “But I’m just saying—” They nod toward the training field. “—she’s looking at you too.”

Levi’s head whips around. You’ve just landed near the edge of the yard, breathing hard from the exertion of the course. For a moment you look toward the fence where Levi and Hange are standing. Your eyes meet his. The connection lasts just less than a second, but it’s enough. Your expression shifts slightly—surprise, maybe. Then you smile. It’s almost shy. Then you look away and return to adjusting your gear.

Levi snickers beside him. Levi doesn’t move for several seconds. His gaze drifts back to where you’re standing among the other soldiers, talking quietly while you prepare for another run. Hange claps him on the shoulder.

“You’re walking straight into disaster, Captain,” they say.

Levi shrugs their hand off. “Get back to work.”

Hange laughs as they walk away. Levi watches you launch into the air again, cloak snapping behind you as the cables pull you across the training yard.

For a moment, he considers looking somewhere else. He doesn’t.

Damn it, Hange.

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tags: @saccharinefool