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The sword-like feather traveled over your body. You shuddered when you felt the tip grazing your right nipple.
"Please, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll be good, I promise."
"Shhh", he coos, caressing your cheek while your chest rose with your uncontrollable cries. "We talked about this, my dove. Actions have consequences."
You sob audibly. "No, Keigo, please. I'm so sorry."
The winged pro hero only smiled at you. Sweetly, others would say, but his eyes tell no lies.
Hard, sharp, hawk eyes.
"I know you are, little bird. But we need to fix this behavior. It's becoming a pattern at this point." He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head slightly.
You couldn't deny it if you were to be honest. Ever since Takami Keigo, the charming hero you once gushed over, took you in — as in literally kidnapping you — five months ago, you repeated the never-ending cycle: Him trying to flood you with his over-sick love; you fighting against it; he punishing you for it; you seeking some kind of comfort; him trying to flood you with his over-sick love... And all over again.
Right now, you find yourself kneeling in front of him, naked as the day you were born, hands tied behind your back using one of his feathers. Your chest is thrust out towards him and your legs spread apart as part of his first punishment, designed to make you feel as vulnerable as possible. This is always how it begins, he would bare you to him, making you expose yourself as he lectured you on all the things you did wrong. Then, he proceeds to tell you exactly what your punishment would be, raising your anxiety even before he starts to act.
All this because you refused to sit still as his pretty little wife should do and eat dinner from the fork he was offering you, choosing to spit it on him as a rebel act. Not your best move, you now see. Looking back, you would give everything to just return to the beginning of the night and let him hand-feed you as he wishes, pretending to be a romantic, sugary-sweet couple.
His wings rose behind him, making him look even bigger. "So, little bird, what should we do, uh?"
"Please, Keigo, my love." You force the sickening words out, just how he likes. "Can we please go back to dinner? I promise I'll be good, you can feed me, just pl-"
"Oh? Am I your love now?" His expression didn't change. Sweet, charming face with eyes as sharp as the feather-blade he holds in his grip. "How did you call me just a moment ago again?"
"I... I'm so-"
"That's not what I asked you."
Your lips quivered. “I c-called you sick.”
“Hm? Is that so?” The feather goes up until the tip is playing with your throat. “Are you sure, dove?”
“S-sick-fuck.”
“Now that’s what I remember.” He patted your cheek with the flat part of the feather, as if praising you. You close your eyes in reflex. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Your eyelids open in a second, body recognizing his harsh tone and obeying like second nature. You know you can’t move if you don’t want to make him furious, because in five months you find out that, as bad as this is, he can be much, much worse. So you just brace yourself internally and endure.
“So,” he walks closer to your frame, shadowing you. “Would a sick-fuck take care of you like I do? Feed you? Love you?”
You shook your head, trying your best not to cry, move, close your legs, or do anything that would make this really, really bad for you.
“What else did you do?”
“I spat food on you.”
“Do you think you deserve to eat dinner at the table with me right now?”
“No.” You croaked, voice barely audible.
“We could have been cuddling on the couch right now, angel. You know I hate to punish you, don’t you?”
“Yes, my love.” The words are poisonous in your tongue. Just a glance at his bulging pants would tell you exactly how much of a lie that was. Keigo Takami enjoyed everything that had to do with you, especially your punishments.
The long feather went down slowly, passing through the valley between your breasts, touching your navel, and finally, to your dread, you felt the crimson material touch your more sensitive part. Keigo smiled sweetly at you as you tried your best to keep from closing your legs shut, softening the feather just enough not to cut you. Suddenly, he flexed his arm, bringing it down and up in a flash.
You shriek loudly, breaking position and landing on your side with your legs pressed closed. Keigo just hit your folds with the feather like a whip, his pro hero strength making it worse than it should be. You felt the sting with only one strike.
“Get back.” He pointed at the place you were mere seconds ago, as an owner would to a pet.
You look up at him with blurry eyes. “No, Keigo, please.”
“Get back to your position or I’ll make you.” You sobbed, scrambling to do as he told with your arms still tied behind your back. “Spread wide.”
“I’ll be good, Keigo, please. I’m so..”
“Hold your pose. If you close your legs or try to get away, I’ll make it worse.”
If his words weren’t convincing enough, you knew his tone very well at this point to believe he would. You pressed your knees on the cold floor, pushing your chest out and legs open like you knew he enjoyed. You were shaking.
“Deep breaths, angel.” He softened his tone, the bastard. “We need to correct your behaviour. Let’s work together, yeah?”
Your nails dig crescent moons in your palms as you tried to nod, in a weak attempt to please him.
“Good girl, that’s my good angel.” He praised, caressing your face before pushing his arm back, feather working like a whip in his hand. You braced yourself for the impact.
SWISH
You cry out when it made contact with your sensitive pussy, falling back again despite his warnings.
“Angel, we talked about this.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You sobbed, trying to get back as soon as possible, while he looked at you as a misbehaving child.
SWISH
Your voice rose again, but this time you took extra effort not to fall, only closing your legs slightly before correcting yourself. Keigo didn’t soothe you, waiting.
SWISH
SWISH
SWISH
The strikes in your sensitive folds didn’t falter in strength and precision, and as he kept going, you felt like your lower parts were on fire, knowing you would feel the effects of that punishment for days. The worst part was trying to maintain the position he wanted you to, knowing that it wouldn’t end soon until you could keep from flinching too hard.
SWISH
SWISH
SWISH
SWISH
You were straight up crying right now, losing count of how many hits you received. Your tights shook with the effort, and your mind fought against all your instincts of hiding away from the pain. Keigo didn’t only want you to get hurt; he wanted you to willingly surrender your will to him, participating actively in your own punishment, as if you had any other choice.
“Last one, now.”
You watched through blurry eyes as he prepared himself for the next blow, having two seconds to steel yourself before it came back, full strength. You were getting better at keeping your pose, but you definitely weren’t ready for this one. Now, you were sure that he was holding himself back before, because nothing could stop you from falling and curling into a ball on the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you cried, sobbing, terrified that he would start all over again for your breach of position. You barely noticed Keigo’s hands cradling you as his feathers released your wrists from their grip.
“Shh, shh, that’s my good angel. We’re almost done, dove.”
“N-no, no Keigo, please, no more.” You were hyperventilating at this point, anxiety hitting you hard.
“Hey, hey, no more whipping, baby bird. Calm down. How did we practice? Deep breaths, come on, breathe with me, baby.”
You follow his lead, without the mental strength to hate yourself for needing him at this moment. “Please, Keigo.” You begged, gripping his shirt to ground yourself.
“It’s almost over, love. But we need to do one more thing for your behavior adjustment. Can you do that for me, angel? It’ll be good again when we get over this.”
He gave you a minute to steady your breath, praising you and stroking your hair. When you finally calmed down, he kissed you on your cheekbone and pushed himself up to his feet again. To your horror, you immediately missed his warmth.
“On your knees again, sweet thing. Almost over.”
You didn’t even try to resist as you obeyed this time. Looking up at his tall frame with red, puffy eyes.
“You’re so damn pretty, my angel. But you did hurt my feelings, you know that, right?” He sighed. “All you need to do is accept your place in this house, and everything will be perfect again.”
Keigo pulled his hair back before a wicked glint appeared in his golden eyes, wings flapping with a sick excitement. “Well, I guess since you had such a smart mouth to call me that bad name and to spit on my face…” You wanted to shrink into yourself at his words, almost opening your mouth to apologize again, but his gaze told you not to interrupt him. “I think it needs a little lesson as well. Maybe tonight, what you really need is a different diet. You know, another thing to swallow.”
Dread pooled in your belly, along with utter disgust. You could see it tightening his pants. He was hard, rock hard. Hawks could be a Greek god for the media, but to you, he was nothing but your kidnapper. The man who took away your life, your job, your family, your friends. The man who keeps you locked in his big, stupid, empty house, cleaning and cooking like a good little housewife. The one who gets turned on as you cry in pain.
He must have seen that rebellious thought written all over your face, because in a second his discarded long feather were flying to his hand again. He clicked his tongue.
“Guess your pretty pussy isn’t sore enough, uh? Let’s try that again before we come back for this second part.”
Your eyes opened like saucers when he rolled his right shoulder, as if preparing his arm to start another whipping round.
“What, no! No, Keigo, please, it’s enough.” Your legs pressed against each other in reflex, and you whimpered when your pained flesh made contact with it.
“No?” He sounded amused, tilting his head in false confusion. “I’m not sure you learned your lesson, baby bird. We need to make this really clear, don’t you think?”
“I learned,” you were quick to answer, soreness very vivid on your lower half. “I promise.”
“Did you? Let me see, uh?” He crouched in front of you and you almost flinched back before you stopped yourself. “C’mon, show me how sore it is.”
Be good. Be good and it’ll be over. Just be good. You repeated internally. He would get what he wanted one way or another.
Swallowing all your pride and drawn in humiliation at his little mischievous grin, you slowly spread your legs to him, face and chest hot in shame.
“Oh, look at that.” He snickered and you almost cry again. “Isn’t that a pretty color, hm?” His hand reached out, two fingers finding your swollen abused clit. You whimpered, closing your legs on his arm. He breaths a laugh, rolling his fingers slowly. “You want this, angel? Want to feel good?”
“Please, Keigo.” You beg, closing your eyes, forcing yourself to be steady for him.
“Tell me, is it sore enough? Be honest.”
You nod your head quickly.
“Use your words.”
“It’s sore, Keigo, please, I learned, please.”
“Aw, poor baby. Want me to make it better?” His skilled fingers travelled up and down, and you bucked your hips, whimpering again. “Say it.”
“Yes, please.”
“Please, what?”
Your mind was carrying you away, starting to get lost in the feeling of his digits on you. “Please, Keigo, make it better.”
“Aw, that’s too bad, uh?” You blinked, surprised. “Should have thought about that before misbehaving.”
SMACK.
“Ah!” You screamed, falling back, hot pain flashing again when he slapped your clit. Hard.
“On your knees.” His tone was changed, cold, dark. He got up again, the shadow of his giant wings covering you. “Show me how sorry you are, and we can forget about this. You’re not cumming tonight. I am. And you’re gonna swallow it all. Open it, tongue out.”
Your lips quivered as you watched him unbutton his pants, soon revealing his girth. Long and veiny.
You hated him. You hated him. You hated him.
And yet again, here you were, opening your mouth like a trained pet. He positioned himself in front of you, tip touching your tongue. You almost recoil at the taste of his pre-cum dripping on it.
You knew better.
“C’mon, I’m waiting.”
Working your courage, you licked a path from his base to his tip, and for a moment, delighted yourself when Keigo moaned, throwing his head back. Yes, you could pretend that this was you in control, your doing. So you repeated, slower.
“Fuck, angel!” He groaned, hand flying to the top of your head. “Put it in.”
You almost snickered. Yes, you were doing that. Big, strong Hawks could beg if he so wishes. You did it again.
His eyes snapped at you, wild. “Playing games? I’ll show you a game.”
Before you could react, he grabbed a handful of your hair and pushed your head back, hurting your neck. You gasped, and in a second, your mouth was filled.
“Keiugh.” You try to say his name, eyes bulging as you feel his hard member going all the way in without further preparation. A sudden cough rose in your chest, gag reflex working its way faster than it should. He held you there for a moment, and you pushed at his legs, tears forming in your eyes as you felt your breath faltering.
One. Two. Three.
You gasped, sucking in the air audibly when he finally pulled out. Your chest rose and fell.
“I gave you a chance, dove. I’ll lead from now on. Open.”
“Wait, pleas-hmmm!”
He didn’t gave you any other warning before starting to face-fuck you. Hard and fast.
You gripped his tights, trying your best to breathe through it.
“Fuck, angel. Just like that. Gonna sleep with a cum-filled belly and a burning pussy, yeah?”
The grip on your hair didn’t loosen as he kept face-fucking you for his own pleasure. It wasn’t about you. It was never about you. Tears wetted your cheeks, your throat burned.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
It was like an eternity. Your eyes rolled back when he pushed your head all the way in, nose touching his pelvic bone. Keigo let out the sinful of moans when he finally, finally, exploded in your mouth, hot ropes of cum filling your throat.
You gagged again, but he held you steady. When you thought you wouldn’t handle anymore, he stepped back, hand still holding your head up. You felt like breathing again.
“Fuck, angel.” He cursed under his breath, taking a good look at you.
Messy, crying, glistened face. Fucked up. All his.
“Open your mouth, show me.”
You did as you were told, like a robot. Throat sore, pussy sore, jaw slack.
Keigo smiled, panting, seeing the way you swallowed it all. He bent over to your face, caressing it with both hands, as a caring lover would do.
“So, baby bird.” He laughed to himself, as if telling an inside joke. “Enjoyed your dinner?”
Ok, this was supposed to be a drabble... I get carried away. Oopsie.
Warnings: Mention of past dub-con, kidnapped reader, abuse of power, mention of past abuse (not reader's past).
Author's Notes: This is a queue, I'm not here.
If someone had told you the Number Two Hero of Japan could be taken down by a common microbe, you would have laughed.
But Keigo caught a cold today, and it’s driving you out of your mind.
Twelve hours. For twelve straight hours, the penthouse has been filled with the wet, hacking rattle of his lungs and the rustling of those massive wings. It is a grating symphony of misery, and your temples have been throbbing since noon.
You found yourself standing by the couch, studying him with a dead expression.
His skin was flushed a feverish pink, his gold-rimmed eyes glassy and unfocused as he tracked your movement. He couldn’t fly right now; his reflexes were shot. Maybe this was finally the opening you'd been waiting for.
For a second, a spike of adrenaline hit your chest.
Strike him. Strike him. Strike him—
… But you know better. This was the same man who'd once crossed three city blocks before a falling pedestrian hit the pavement; half-conscious didn't mean helpless when it came to him.
The country's Number Two Hero didn't survive this long by leaving gaps in his ledger. Because the heavy steel doors remained locked tight, bound to an encrypted Commission frequency you couldn't hope to crack—the same agency intercepted your police reports. And even if you did manage to scream bloody murder down to the street, who would the police believe? Because the they would just call him to come pick up his "unstable, paranoid spouse" again.
God, his fans ate that narrative up. On every hero forum and social media thread, they swooned over how deeply he cared for you, how tragic and romantic it was that Japan’s busiest savior still found the time to his troubled partner. Half the officers downtown had grown up idolizing him; the other half had worked security beside him during disasters. His autograph was framed in their break rooms.
Looking back, a sick wave of nostalgia hits your throat. You find yourself missing the days when you were just a fan. You miss when he seemed so untouchable and magnificent on a billboard, miles away from your actual life.
The realization didn't make you sad anymore. It just made you really irritated.
He let out another cough that shook his entire frame, burying his face into a pillow with a groan.
You clench your hands into fists. You couldn't take another hour of the coughing, and God, the smell of damp feathers is making you nauseous. You need him well, and you need him well now. More importantly, the sooner he recovered, the sooner he would go back to work. If you played your cards right, the Commission would slap him with an away-mission to make up for lost time, and he’d be gone for days.
So here you are.
You don’t break his nose with the washcloth, but you certainly don’t treat his face like a delicate porcelain doll, either.
"Jesus—" Keigo hissed as the freezing washcloth landed squarely over his face. "Little warning would've been nice."
Water streamed into his eyes. He blinked through it with an exaggerated grimace before peeking up at you through damp blond bangs.
"I swear if you don’t shut up—" you say.
Instead of being intimidated, his face melts into an expression of gooey adoration. "You're so cute when you're bossy."
You genuinely consider the logistics of felony assault. If you hit him hard enough to knock him out, does a concussion stop a cough? Probably not.
You march back into the kitchen; the medicine cabinet was locked as always, and hanging there is an upside-down picture of you both from a while back. You're free to roam around this penthouse; Hawks doesn't use chains or dark basement cells to keep you—partly because he finds them "distasteful," his word, but mostly because his lifestyle doesn't allow for it.
Since you are a hostage and not a Michelin-star chef, his options are limited. You rifle through the pantry—stocked with premium ingredients he had delivered to make you feel "at home", with the pantry looking more expensive than your entire first apartment—and settle on a can of chicken noodle soup.
You dump it into a pot, crank the stove up to high.
While the soup heats, you hear a loud thud from the living room.
You walk back to the doorway, ladle in hand, to find him flat on his face on the hardwood floor. He had apparently tried to stand up, wrapped entirely in a cream-colored duvet and tangled his own wings.
Back then, you wouldn't have thought of seeing him like this.
"I tried to come help," his muffled voice rings out from the floorboards.
"Help with what? Testing the flooring?" You stand over him, unimpressed. "Get up."
"I'd love to… but my body disagrees."
"Well, that's tragic." You fold your arms.
"It really is." He tips his head back enough to look up at you through half-lidded eyes, a wing twitching helplessly beneath the blanket. "Pretty sure if I try standing again, I'm just gonna end up kissing the floor."
He offers a weak smile. "So… unless someone's feeling unexpectedly charitable?"
You sigh through your nose in annoyance before hooking your hands beneath his arms—avoiding his sensitive wings because you do not want a reflexive feather to accidentally slit your throat—and heave.
For a guy who flies for a living, he is remarkably heavy. Television always made heroes look effortless. In reality, the Number Two Hero weighed as much as a grown man with another person's worth of muscle and feathers attached.
It's sick, really, remembering how it started. If you could go back in time and punch your past self, you would. You had been so flattered when he first singled you out from the crowd, so blindingly naive when a few casual encounters from a man who seemed entirely too magnificent to care about someone like you—it had been so easy to fall for the act. From time to time, you still remember the hookup that started it all, the late-night visits where he’d drop through your window just to pull you close and take your clothes off. He’d been a fantasy come true back then, a beautiful, dangerous thrill you couldn't get enough of.
You actually thought you were special.
As you drag him back onto the couch like a sack of laundry, slapping another freshly iced towel over his eyes to block out his face. The damp cloth quickly slips askew as he shifts.
With a click of your tongue, you lean over, reaching out your hand to adjust the washcloth back over his eyes. Your face is only inches from his as you pull the cloth upward.
Before either of you can even process the movement, his eyes snap open.
In a fraction of a second, his hand shoots out from the duvet and clamps around your wrist.
The grip hurts. His fingers dig into your flesh with the bone-crushing force of a raptor’s talons. A cold jolt of pure terror strikes your chest, leaving you breathless. It sends a reminder straight down your spine: if he wanted to, he could snap your arm like a dry twig.
Then, the fog in his brain clears. He wakes up fully.
He immediately lets go, tearing his hand away as if your skin had burned him. He scrambles backward into the cushions, his flushed face draining of color as he looks down at your bruising wrist, thoroughly horrified.
"...Shit," he curses. "Baby... baby, I'm sorry. I didn't—I thought—"
You take a sharp step back, cradling your arm against your chest, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The last time he'd grabbed your wrist that suddenly, it had been to pull you laughing across a crosswalk before the light changed.
The soup on the stove chooses that exact moment to start aggressively boiling over, hissed warnings of burnt sodium filling the tense, quiet apartment.
You force your shoulders back, swallowing down the bile and the panic rising in your throat. You shove the terror down into a locked corner of your mind and slap your unbothered mask back on.
"The soup is boiling," you say. Your voice is too tight, but it’s the best you can manage.
Without waiting to look at his horrified expression—because if you look at him right now, you might actually lose your mind—you turn your back and bolt into the kitchen. Your knees feel like water, but you lunge for the stove just as a thick wave of starchy broth cascades down the pristine stainless steel. You slap the burner off, the screeching hiss dying down into a pathetic little simmer that mimics the ringing in your ears.
Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely hold the paper towel as you aggressively wipe down the burnt stovetop, then ladle the surviving broth and exactly four soggy noodles into a bowl. Without a tray or a napkin, you turn around, ready to march back into the living room holding the burning hot ceramic bowl by the rim, letting the heat sting your fingertips just to stoke the fires of your own rage.
But your hands are slick with a stray smear of broth from the counter.
The ceramic slips. You fumble, your fingers scrambling against the smooth edge, but the heavy bowl tilts entirely out of your grip.
It shatters.
Before your brain can even fully register the sharp crack of the breaking ceramic—before a single shard can even bite into your skin—there is a sudden, blinding flash of crimson.
A feather hooks around your waist, yanking you backward so fast and with such tremendous force that your feet completely leave the floorboards.
Below you, the broken ceramic explodes, jagged shards and boiling soup splattering across the exact spot where you had been standing a millisecond prior. The hot liquid hits the baseboards, but not a single drop touches you.
Then, dead silence.
The feather lowers you back down to the ground gently, another catches a falling spoon before it hits the floor and hands it back to you.
Hawks is sitting up now, his massive wings half-flared and trembling, though his eyes are still heavily bloodshot, blinking blearily through his messy blonde hair. He looks thoroughly exhausted, his chest heaving as he tries to process what just happened through his fever-addled brain.
"...You okay?" he rasps. It terrifies you how deep his training goes for a second.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Good. That's... good," Keigo murmurs, his energy visibly draining by the second now that the perceived danger has passed. His shoulders slump, his wings folding back down into a heap around him. "Scared me for a second, baby..."
He sinks heavily back into the couch cushions, letting out a weak whine as his face hits the throw pillow. "The floor is still sticky though. Can you... can you try again? With a plastic bowl this time?"
You stand frozen in the kitchen for a beat, staring at the shattered ceramic and the steaming broth pooling on the tile. Feeling stupid for how clumsy you were compared to him.
Even sick, he is still the Number Two Hero, after all.
It occurred to you with a bitter laugh that he'd never once failed to save you—from everything except himself. Until now, the conflict really twists in your gut. You hate him for the months he’d kept you locked up in this rotating carousel of high-rise safe houses, but the gap in power between you never failed to force you into this loop of fear, rage, and forced docility. The only weapon you have left is your resentfulness, because if you show him how truly terrified you are, you lose the tiny shred of agency you have left.
So you turn right back to the pantry to grab another can, your eyes drilling holes into the label as you actively root for the sodium content to do what the fever couldn't.
Once the second batch is finished, you ladle it into a plastic bowl as he said. You march back into the living room, holding it by the rim, the plastic safely insulating the heat.
"Get up and eat," you say, making your voice remain level.
He stirs, the cold towel has slid off his face, his eyelids fluttering open like a pair of broken blinds. The golden hue of his eyes is completely bloodshot. He looks at the bowl, then up at you, his throat clicking as he tries to swallow.
"Smells... good," he rasps.
"It's canned, Keigo."
"So?" He tries to push himself up on one elbow, but his arm buckles immediately, sending him face-first back into the cushions. "...That was embarrassing."
You stare at him. He stares back, offering a shameless smile.
"Think you'd be willing to humor a dying man?" he wheezes, scrambling awkwardly to hoist his torso against the armrest, his wings flaring out to balance him.
You sit heavily on the edge of the couch, plunge the spoon into the scalding broth, and shove it directly between his lips. You don't blow on it. It’s fresh off the burner, practically boiling.
Hawks flinches as the liquid hits his mouth, and he swallows it down in one fluid motion. You cast a skeptical glance at the bowl, which is still sending up clouds of steam. His lips are already turning red, but he doesn't complain.
Deliberately, you scoop up a few more spoonfuls from the very bottom—the hottest part of the bowl—and shove them into his mouth.
Yet, he obediently drinks it all down. His eyes are watering from the heat, but he just keeps taking every searing bite you give him.
"Does that not burn?" you ask in disbelief.
He lets out a huff that might be a laugh, leaning his head back against the sofa. "Oh, it's hot."
"...Then why aren't you saying anything?"
"Hurts a bit," he murmurs. "But I've had much worse."
You stare at him, your hand freezing mid-air with the spoon, waiting for his explanation.
"I grew up eating food like that," he says, his eyes drifting away for a moment, tracking the steam rising from the bowl. "Before the Commission bought my life, we lived in this broken-down shack. My old man was always hiding from the cops, and food only showed up when he felt like throwing us a bone."
He leans his head back against the sofa, a stray blonde lock falls into his eyes, but he doesn't have the energy to brush it away.
"When he did bring something back, you ate it instantly," he continues. "You didn't wait for it to cool, didn't spit it out just because it hurts a little, and you definitely didn't leave a single scrap behind. If you sat there whining about the temperature, he'd hit you for being loud."
He looks back at you, the golden hue of his eyes completely unbothered by the harsh reality of his own words. "I mean, I'm a top hero now. I can buy whatever I want. But the old way of living... it's still stuck with me, I guess."
He exhales, a fever-hot breath that brushes against your knuckles holding the spoon, making you suddenly lose the desire to say anything more.
Speaking up now, throwing another sarcastic jibe would only make you look shallow and foolish.
Slowly, you dip the spoon back into the bowl. Only this time, you lift it to your lips and blow on it. You bring it back to his mouth, waiting until the steam dissipates before pressing it to his lips.
Hawks blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his glassy eyes, followed by a look of gooey adoration that makes your stomach turn.
"Don't look at me like that," you say, keeping your eyes strictly on the soup. "I'm only doing it because I don't want to play the bad guy here."
"Whatever you say, baby," he wheezes, entirely compliant, as he takes the cooled spoonful from your hand. "I'm just a helpless patient, entirely at your mercy."
He parts his lips obediently, taking the cooled spoonful from your hand with a sigh of contentment. He swallows, leaning his head back against the cushion, resting his cheek against the throw pillow so he can keep looking up at you.
"You really hate me right now, don't you?" he asks.
"I hate you every day, Keigo," you reply instantly, your voice flat and cold. "Today just happens to be louder."
Keigo lets out a congested little chuckle. "That's fair."
You close your eyes and pray that the fever will break by tomorrow morning.
Back to staring at the ceiling. The smart-clock on the wall glows, ticking away the hours. His phone on the kitchen counter from across the room, is still buzzing occasionally with emails from his sidekicks and scheduling alerts from the Commission:
Save this neighborhood, rescue that family, respond to another disaster. Heroes need him. Japan needs him.
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Rindou, who starts every morning by asking if you slept well before he even checks his phone.
Rindou, who still rolls his eyes when you fuss over him, but quietly starts doing the same things for you.
Rindou, who has long since stopped pretending your side of the closet is "temporary."
Rindou, who texts Ran that he'll be late because he's making breakfast. Ran responds with, "Didn't know being domestic was contagious."
Rindou, who still leans against doorframes with that familiar smirk, except now it's because he likes watching you exist for a minute before saying good morning.
Rindou, who doesn't say "I love you" every day. He doesn't have to. He remembers how you take your coffee, keeps your favorite snacks in the pantry, and reaches for your hand without looking.
Rindou, who keeps a spare phone charger on your side of the bed because you always forget yours.
Rindou, who automatically slows his pace to match yours when you're walking together.
Rindou, who still teases you mercilessly, then quietly wraps an arm around your shoulders when he notices you've had a rough day.
Rindou, who doesn't think twice before introducing you as his partner. Years ago he would've made some smartass comment and avoided the label entirely. Now it just feels like the truth.
Rindou, who still catches himself looking at you sometimes. He's just grateful you never stopped choosing him.
I talked about this on my twitter too but I am so unimaginably glad to have levi as a character. growing up malnourished is terrible and can take such a tole on your body. you grow up wrong in all the places you should be growing up right. people make fun of you for looking like a child, for your knees being bigger than your legs. It’s horrible, because i can survive on tea across multiple days even when my body knows it’s wrong - but it’s so used to the trauma. I am so glad people are beginning to understand why levi looks the way he does, why he is so small compared to everybody else who grew up well enough, with enough food, with enough drink. It’s so so so important to acknowledge that his anatomy is a certain way for a reason.
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☆ Day 3+5 of Levi Month 26 | Captain/Civilian + Strength Kink | Event by @levievent
☆ Summary: Trost knows Levi Ackerman as humanity’s strongest soldier. You know him as the difficult customer who repairs your cabinets, drinks your tea, and keeps finding reasons to return after closing.
☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader
☆ Genre/Tags: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Civilian Reader, Shopkeeper Reader, Mutual Pining, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Sexual Tension, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Fluff, Smut
☆ Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, first time, virgin reader, fingering, strength kink, captain kink, standing sex, unprotected piv, creampie
☆ Word Count: 11.5k
☆ Check out the other days!
☆ AO3 Link
☆ a/n: thank you to my beta reader @slaytherinthoughts! please don’t ask for a part two or I will delete the letter L from my keyboard. If you ask for a part two, even jokingly, I will block you.
[ I could not find the original artist. If anyone knows who the OC is, please tell me so I can credit them properly! ]
The afternoon crowd flows into your shop. Somewhere beyond the open windows, wagon wheels clatter over Trost’s cobblestones while merchants shout over one another in the market square. Unfortunately for you, all you hear inside is a woman demanding to know why lamp oil costs more than it did last month and a child ratting a tin of nails despite his mother’s repeated warnings.
“You’re welcome to argue with the merchant who supplies it,” you tell the woman, sliding her purchase across the counter. “Though I should warn you, he’s louder than you are.”
She leaves muttering beneath her breath. You barely have time to breathe before the bell above the door rings again. Every conversation falters, then sinks into small murmurs as multiple customers glance toward the entrance and quickly pretend they haven’t. A man near the shelves steps aside, clutching his basket to his chest.
Captain Levi Ackerman stands just inside the doorway. You recognize him immediately. Everyone in Trost would. His height is less imposing than the stories suggest, but nothing else about him is small. He surveys the crowded shop with a flick of his eyes before they land on you. You straighten your spine without realizing it.
Don’t stare. He’s a customer. A very famous customer, perhaps, but still a customer.
Levi approaches the counter and places a folded sheet of paper in front of you. “Need these.”
His handwriting is immaculate, each item listed with perfect alignment and the quantities written beside it: cleaning cloths, hard soap, lamp oil, leather wax, replacement buckles, stitching needles, and two tins of black tea. You’re not surprised humanity’s strongest soldier has perfect handwriting.
“I’ll get it,” you say.
Levi doesn’t just wait while you work—he inspects everything. He holds one cloth up toward the light, rubbing the fabric between his fingers before setting it down. He tests the buckles and opens one of the lamp-oil bottles to smell it.
“That batch burns clean,” you tell him. “Less smoke than the cheaper kind.”
“How long?”
“Forty hours, assuming the wick is trimmed properly.” Apparently satisfied, he adds the bottle to the growing order. You half-smile. Most people find your explanations irritating. Levi listens to every one. “You’re particular,” you observe as you place the tea tins beside the soap.
“I don’t like buying useless shit,” he says.
“Most customers simply grab whatever is cheapest and complain later when it falls apart.”
“Most people are idiots.”
The answer comes so flatly it pulls a surprised laugh out of you. A few nearby customers peek at you from the corner of their eyes. Levi narrows his eyes slightly, unable to tell if you’re laughing with him or at him.
“Can’t argue with that,” you say.
The final box of replacement straps is trapped on a lower shelf behind a wooden shipping crate delivered that morning. You step around the counter and crouch, planting both hands against its side. The crate doesn’t budge. You push harder, shoes sliding across the floor slightly. Your cheeks burn as you adjust your grip and try again, horrifically aware of the fact that Levi is watching this entire thing.
“Move,” he says.
You turn your head, irritation flaring. “I’m trying to.”
“Not the crate. You.”
You lift yourself with a scowl and step aside, prepared to tell him that the crate is packed with metal tools and will take two people to lift. After all, it took two people when the supply company brought it in the morning. Levi crouches before you can speak. He slides his fingers under the edge of the crate, and then he lifts it. There’s no grunt or even visible tremor of effort. The muscles in his forearms flex beneath his pale skin as he carries the crate a few feet away and lowers it beside the wall without struggle.
You forget entirely about the straps. You’re too busy looking at his hands, then the line of his forearms before common sense finally returns to you and you look away. When Levi straightens, his eyes are already on you. He says nothing. One eyebrow raises before he steps aside, leaving you to retrieve the straps with your face burning.
.
Levi returns fourteen days later. This time, he arrives with two Survey Corps soldiers and a wagon waiting outside. Levi checks the contents on his list while you direct the soldiers toward the stacked crates at the back of the shop.
“Those bottles stay upright,” Levi tells one soldier without looking up. “Unless you want to spend the trip back smelling like lamp oil.”
The soldier immediately rights the crate. You hide your smile behind the ledger.
It becomes a pattern after that. Sometimes Levi arrives with a wagon and several exhausted-looking subordinates. Other times he comes alone, slipping into the shop quietly between the larger groups of customers, waiting near the counter with an order folded neatly inside his jacket pocket.
At first, his visits remain strictly practical. He asks for supplies. You collect them. He inspects them. You exchange money and brief, dry remarks before he leaves. Then, without either of you consciously agreeing to it, the space between those steps starts to fill.
You learn that he dislikes tea blended with dried fruit, considers floral varieties “perfumed water,” and will tolerate nothing weaker than a black tea brewed long enough to become almost bitter. When a merchant from the interior sends you a small shipment of unusually fine leaves, you place two tins beneath the counter before displaying the rest. It makes sense to save them for him—he buys consistently, pays promptly, and never wastes your time haggling over prices.
Still, when he enters a few days later and you give him the hidden tins, the subtle surprise in his eyes feels far more rewarding than it should.
“You kept these aside?” he asks.
“They would’ve sold otherwise,” you say vaguely. He squints his eyes at you, but you busy yourself wrapping the tins in brown paper. “Don’t look too happy. You’re paying full price.”
.
The next month, Levi notices the lower door of the cabinet behind your counter hanging crookedly from one hinge. You’ve already kicked it shut three times that afternoon and intend to repair it eventually, which is what you tell him when he crouches to inspect it.
“You’ve been saying ‘eventually’ since I walked in,” he remarks.
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been kicking it.”
“It closes, doesn’t it?”
“Barely.”
Before you can object, Levi removes a small screwdriver from one of the maintenance kits he’s just purchased, tightens the hinge, adjusts the pin, and opens and closes the door twice to test it. The repair takes less than a minute. You lean against the counter, watching him put the screwdriver back in its case.
“Do you charge for unsolicited maintenance?” you tease.
“You couldn’t afford me,” Levi says dryly.
“Oh ho, arrogant, aren’t we?”
The cabinet never breaks again.
.
Many months and many visits later, you notice the torn edge of one of his canvas supply bags. The seam has split near the strap, likely from carrying too much weight, though when you mention it, Levi looks down at it with a blank expression.
“Leave it,” you say, holding out your hand.
“I need it.”
“You’ll have it back before the order is ready.”
He narrows his eyes. “You sew?”
“I run a supply shop. Things tear.”
He reluctantly passes it over. You mend the seam with a thick thread while he inspects a shipment of buckles, reinforcing the corner so it’ll withstand more abuse than the original stitching. When you return the bag, Levi tests the repair with a pull.
“You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you tell him. “I didn’t lace it with poison."
“Wouldn’t be surprised.”
He brings the bag back on his next visit so clean that it looks newly purchased.
.
By the beginning of summer, you’ve started offering him tea whenever his orders require more than a few minutes to prepare.
The first time, he remains standing at the counter, one hand holding the cup by the rim while he reads through an invoice. The second time, he accepts the narrow stool you drag out from beneath the back table. By the fourth or fifth, he sits without being offered, watching you work silently.
Customers still recognize him, of course, and some continue staring from a distance, but Levi becomes part of the place. He’s as constant as the bell above the door. You would never admit it aloud, but you’re starting to enjoy his presence. Some days, you peer out the window, hoping to catch a glance of his undercut or short stature headed toward your shop.
“How’s business?” he asks one afternoon while you wrap bars of soap. Based on your interactions with other soldiers, you’re convinced only Levi uses it.
You look up, a little taken aback by the question. “Are you worried I’ll close and force you to buy inferior tea elsewhere?”
“No, so answer the question.”
“Busy. But merchants raised their prices again.”
Levi frowns, not at you but at the numbers written in your ledger. “You making enough?”
You can sense the small hint of concern in his voice, hidden beneath the bluntness. You lower your gaze before you can give yourself away—the joy you feel from being asked. “Enough,” you assure him.
After that, you begin asking questions too. You never ask for expedition details; civilians quickly learn that there are answers they truly don’t want to hear. Instead, you ask whether the day went well, whether the recruits listened, whether the commander has finally stopped drowning him in paperwork. His replies are usually brief, yet he answers every time.
Occasionally, he arrives with a hand wrapped in bandages, bruises disappearing under his collar, or exhaustion painted in dark shadows beneath his eyes. At first, you ask what happened.
“Training.”
“An idiot with bad aim.”
“Nothing worth discussing.”
Eventually, you stop asking. You simply add a small tin of salve to his order when his knuckles are split, or tuck fresh bandages beneath the cleaning cloths. The first time he notices, he sets the bandages back onto the counter.
“These aren’t on the list," he says.
“I know that.”
“I didn’t pay for them.”
“I know that too.”
Levi studies you for an uncomfortable moment. You prepare yourself for an argument, but he places them back inside of the bag and says, “Don’t make a habit of it.”
Unfortunately for him, you already have.
.
As autumn thins into winter, his schedule changes. The afternoon visits become early-evening visits, arriving when the crowds have faded and sunset pours orange light through the front windows. Soon, he begins appearing as you sweep the floor or count the coins in the till.
“You know, the hours are painted on the door for a reason,” you tell him one evening.
Levi looks toward the sign. “Paint them to open later.”
“I can’t change my business hours like that.”
“Seems inefficient.”
“So does waiting until the last possible moment to buy supplies.”
“Military emergencies don’t arrange themselves around your schedule.”
“Neither do I.”
Yet you always serve him. Worse, you begin to expect him.
On evenings when the Survey Corps is due back from training or when you know an expedition is approaching, you leave the lamp in the front window burning after sunset. There’s inventory to finish and shelves to dust, but despite telling yourself all that, you find yourself looking toward the door whenever footsteps sound outside.
Most nights, he doesn’t come. On those nights, the shop feels hollow, and you resent it enough to extinguish the lamp earlier than you wanted to.
One night, Levi arrives after you have already locked the door. You’re standing behind the counter with the day’s ledger open when his silhouette appears beyond the glass, briefly illuminated by the streetlamp outside. He sees the sign turned to Closed, then notices you through the window. You look up and lock eyes with him. Neither of you moves. Then Levi lifts his hand in a small acknowledgement and turns away.
You abandon the ledger, hurry around the counter, and fumble with the lock. “Levi!” His name leaves your mouth, and only a few seconds later do you realize you used it without his title.
He stops. The street is nearly empty, the market long since abandoned, and cold air spills into the shop as you pull the door open. Levi turns slowly, his eyes dropping from your face to the hand still gripping the door handle.
“Aren't you forgetting something?” you ask, slightly breathless.
“You’re closed.”
“I noticed.”
“I can come back.”
“You’re already here, though.”
He hesitates before stepping inside, and you shut the door behind him, sliding the lock back into place. Levi looks toward the darkened street outside, then at the single lamp glowing in your window.
“You shouldn’t stay here alone this late.”
“I’m not wandering home through an alley,” you say, nodding toward the narrow staircase behind the counter. “I live upstairs.”
“That doesn’t stop someone from coming through the door.”
Despite yourself, you smile. There’s something about his irritation that warms your heart. It’s mere concern disguised as disapproval. “Then it’s fortunate humanity’s strongest soldier is with me, isn’t it?”
Levi gives you the flat look you expect from him, but he doesn’t answer at first. He looks at you smiling before turning toward the counter, and although his expression remains composed, the tips of his ears seem slightly darker than they were outside.
“Make the damn tea before you say anything else stupid,” he says.
You turn away to hide your widening smile, reaching for the tin you’ve kept beneath the counter specifically for him.
.
The Survey Corps’ order arrives three days before their next expedition, written across two sheets of parchment instead of Levi’s usual one. By midday, nearly every clear surface in the shop has disappeared beneath stacks of cloth, leather, tools, medical supplies, herbs, and enough tea to sustain an entire regiment—or Levi alone through one particularly irritating week.
By the time he arrives, the afternoon sky has paled to a wintery grey. A wagon waits outside the shop with its rear gate lowered. Cold air slips through the open doorway. Levi enters without the soldier who ordinarily accompanies him. Moblit, you think his name was.
“Your help abandon you?” you ask, looking past him toward the empty wagon.
“Delayed at headquarters,” Levi answers.
“Convenient.”
“For him, maybe.”
You suppress a smile and lead Levi toward the back of the shop, where the largest portion of the order has been packed into a broad wooden crate reinforced with iron at each corner. It contains bottles, tools, hardware, and several heavy bundles of treated leather, all arranged tightly enough that nothing shifts when the box is pushed. It had required both you and the deliveryman to move it away from the wall that morning.
You place one hand on its lid. “This one will need two people.”
Levi looks at the crate, then at you. “No, it won’t.” Before you can explain how heavy it is, he steps forward and crouches, slipping his hands beneath the edges. The wood creaks faintly beneath his grip, then he lifts. The crate rises from the floor in one smooth motion and for a startled second, all you can do is watch.
His forearms clench beneath the rolled cuffs of his shirt, muscle shifting visibly as he adjusts the weight against his body. The fabric pulls across his shoulders and upper arms, revealing the strength hidden beneath his uniform. It’s easy to overlook just how much power he carries.
He doesn’t grunt or stagger. There’s only a subtle deepening of his breath and the steady placement of each boot as he crosses the shop. You know exactly how heavy that crate is. That knowledge makes the sight infinitely worse.
Heat gathers low in your stomach with humiliating speed, enough to make your thighs press together beneath your long skirt. This is stupid. You’ve seen men carry stock before. You’ve hired laborers with broader shoulders and arms twice the width of Levi’s, and none of them have ever aroused you by simply picking up a box.
But none of them are Levi.
Levi carries the crate through the doorway and lowers it into the wagon without dropping or dragging it. When he returns, flexing his fingers once, he finds you still standing beside the empty space where the crate was. Staring. He narrows his eyes slightly.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
You shake your head lightly. “Nothing.”
“You look… strange.”
“The shop is warm,” you say quickly.
Levi turns his head toward the open door. A cold gust sweeps inside at that exact moment, raising goosebumps on your arms. You curse yourself in your mind as Levi returns his gaze to you.
“Right,” he says.
You retreat toward the remaining supplies before he can say anything else. “There are two smaller boxes left.”
“I can see that.”
“They can be taken separately.”
Levi looks at you, then at the boxes. For the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth twitches. He stacks one on top of the other and lifts. You stare as he adjusts them against his chest, his arms wrapping securely around both. He doesn’t need to carry them together. You know it, and judging by the way he shifts his grip before looking directly at you, he knows it too.
“Show off,” you mutter.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
This time, the faintest smirk appears before he turns toward the wagon.
.
Afterward, his behavior becomes suspicious. On his next visit, Levi rolls his sleeves past his elbows before moving a stack of supply boxes, despite the shop being cold enough that you keep your own sleeves buttoned at the wrists. He carries four shovels when two would have been sensible, the muscle in his arms tightening beneath the weight while you lose your place twice in the ledger.
The following week, he steps behind you to examine a tin stored on the upper shelf, bracing one hand against the wood beside your head instead of simply asking you to move. His chest nearly touches your back, his body surrounding you.
“How old is this batch?” he asks close to your ear.
Your thoughts are completely empty. “Recent.”
“How specific.”
“It arrived…” You swallow. “Tuesday.”
Levi hums, reaching over you for the tin. Your voice has gone embarrassingly thin, and from the slight tilt of his head, he notices.
The final confirmation comes several weeks later when you climb onto a stool to retrieve a box from the top shelf. The moment you pull it forward, another box shifts beside it, sliding toward the edge before you can catch it. Levi moves faster. One hand catches the falling box. His other arm circles your waist and draws you backward against him, steadying both you and the stool before either can topple.
For one suspended second, you’re pressed firmly to his chest, his forearm tight across your middle and his fingers spread against your side. “You trying to kill yourself?” he asks.
“No,” you breathe.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He sets the box aside but doesn’t immediately release you. Your hand has landed over his arm. Beneath your palm, the muscle remains taut from holding your weight, and your fingers clench before you can stop them. Levi’s gaze drops to the contact.
Then he looks at your face. There’s no mistaking the satisfaction in his eyes now. He’s been doing it deliberately.
Levi knows he should find your staring irritating. He has spent years enduring people gawking at him, but your attention feels different. You watch his hands and arms with open hunger, yes, but you’re also the person who notices when those hands are bandaged, who slips salve into his orders without demanding explanations and leaves the window lamp burning when his duties keep him late.
He likes the little hitch in your breath when he stands too close. He likes watching your confident words tangle whenever he rolls his sleeves higher. And, perhaps most dangerously, he likes knowing that he can make you look at him that way.
Levi steadies the stool beneath you and finally steps back. “You should be more careful,” he says.
You turn, narrowing your eyes at the calm expression he has arranged over his face. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He reaches for the heaviest box on the floor. This time, he rolls his sleeves up first.
.
Cold falls over Trost early in the evening. The cobblestone glitters faintly beneath a thin layer of frost. Most of the market has gone dark hours ago, yet the lamp in your front window continues to burn.
You’ve already looked over the ledger twice. The shelves are dusted. The floor is swept. The till is counted. There’s no practical reason for you to remain in the shop. Still, you sit behind the counter with a book open before you, rereading the same paragraph while listening for footsteps beyond the glass.
When they finally come, your heart jumps. Levi appears with his cloak wrapped around him. He slows when he sees the illuminated window, then glances at the hours painted on the door sign. You’re out of your chair before he can turn away. You swing open the door.
“You’re late,” you say.
Levi looks past you into the empty shop. “You’re still open.”
“For the moment.”
He steps inside, bringing a rush of bitter air with him. You close the door quickly before locking it again. Levi watches your hand leave the handle.
“Why are you still down here?” he asks.
You move toward the counter, pretending to straighten the book you abandoned. “I had work.”
“The work you finished hours ago?”
Your head snaps toward him. “How would you know?”
“The floor’s dry, the ledger’s closed, and you’ve been staring at that same page since I reached the window.”
Damn him for noticing. You fold your arms. “You’ve been coming later.”
His expression shifts, only slightly. “You stayed open for me?”
“Well, I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Heat rises in your cheeks despite the cold in the room. You turn away under the excuse of examining the small list he places on the counter. Two tins of tea. One spool of heavy black thread.
“That’s it?” you ask.
“That’s what the list says.”
“This could’ve waited until morning.” You look up, but Levi meets your eyes without looking away. The certainty in them makes something warm unspool in your gut. You clear your throat. “You want tea?” He nods. You retreat into the small room behind the shop.
A narrow table stands beside the stove, surrounded by crates, jars, and half-cartons waiting to be sorted. While the water heats, Levi removes his cloak and drapes it neatly over the back of a chair, then shrugs out of his uniform jacket. The pale shirt beneath fits tight against his muscles. The sleeves are already rolled to his forearms.
You turn toward the upper shelf for the tea tin, stretching onto your toes. Your fingers brush its edge, but as you pull it forward, the heavy ceramic container beside it tips. Levi moves before you can recoil. One hand catches the container inches from your head. His other arm grabs you, pulling you back and against his chest as the shelf rattles above.
The tin is secure in your hand, but your other one is flat against him, pressed over his chest. Beneath the thin fabric, you feel hard muscle clenching. Levi’s breath warms your temple. His arm remains locked around your waist, his fingers spread along your side. He could easily lift you if he chose. You shake the thought out of your head before it can take root.
Then, because you’re incapable of feeling humiliated right now, you press your fingers slightly into his chest. Levi lowers the container to the table, his gaze dropping to your palm.
“Finished inspecting me?” he asks.
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “Not particularly.”
Silence expands between you. Levi’s eyes lift slowly to yours, and the amusement there is unmistakable now. Something hotter lingers underneath that makes your pulse trip. “That so?”
“You’ve been distracting me for months.”
“By buying supplies?”
“By carrying them.” His mouth twitches. You squint. “You smug asshole. Stop it.”
“I’m not smug.”
“Yes, you are.”
Levi loosens his hold enough for you to turn within the circle of his arm, though he doesn’t step away. The closeness forces you to tilt your face upward. His voice drops. “Is that why you keep finding heavier things for me to move?”
You stare at him. “What? I don’t—”
“The crate of tools.”
“That was part of the order.”
“The bookshelf.”
“It needed moving.”
“The box you put back on the highest shelf after I carried it down.” You open your mouth, then shut it, embarrassed. Levi’s faint smirk deepens. “You’re not subtle.” Your name drops from his lips.
“You knew?”
“I suspected after the first crate.”
“You leaned over me to reach a shelf you could’ve asked me to move from too.”
“You were blocking it.”
You search his face, catching the satisfaction he no longer bothers to hide. “You’ve been doing it on purpose.”
Levi’s thumb shifts once against your waist. “Mm, you kept staring.”
For months, every late visit, every cup of tea, every unnecessarily heavy box has been leading here. The realization fills you with a sudden, reckless courage. You may not have any experience in this department, but the feeling inside you is too full to keep hidden.
“So you like it,” you say.
“Like what?”
“When I stare.”
His eyes darken. “Depends where you’re looking.”
Your breath hitches and Levi sees it, the smugness in his expression becoming nearly unbearable. You decide you’ve had enough and grip the front of his shirt before kissing him. For a second, Levi freezes. The stillness sends panic flashing through you—I misread him, I pushed too far—but before you can pull away, his hand closes firmly around your waist and drags you flush against him. He kisses you back.
All the restraint he’s carried through a year of visits seems to break at once. His mouth moves against yours hungrily, his other hand sliding to the back of your neck. He has no intention of allowing distance between you now that it’s fully disappeared. You clutch at his shoulders, feeling his muscles shift beneath your hands as he turns you and presses you against the edge of the table. A quiet sound escapes you. Levi swallows it, tightening his grip.
When he finally draws back, both of you are breathing harder than the kiss should justify, your foreheads nearly touching. Levi looks toward the tea kettle on the stove, then he looks back at your mouth.
“Tea’s waiting,” he says.
You smile. “I don’t really care.”
“Neither do I.”
His mouth comes down on yours again, and this time, there’s no hesitation left in it. He resents every wasted day. He could’ve had this all along. His hand slides from your waist to the curve of your hip, fingers pressing in through the fabric of your dress. The other hand remains at the nape of your neck, angling your face so he can take his time stealing the breath from you. When you make a soft sound into his mouth, Levi pulls back to look at you.
“A little lifting, a little showing off, and you’re half out of your mind,” he teases.
Heat floods your face, but there’s no use pretending now. Not after the way you kissed him. Not with his arm still caging you in and his mouth swollen from yours. “I hate you.”
“Something tells me you’re lying.”
Before you can answer, he slips both hands to your waist and lifts you. The gasp rips out of you before you can stop it. One moment your feet are on the floor, and the next, you’re perched on the edge of the table as though you weigh nothing at all. Levi stands between your knees, an unmistakable satisfaction in his gaze. The motion is so easy and effortless that your stomach flips hard with arousal.
“Pathetic,” he says softly, and there’s a cruel little curve to his mouth that tells you he intends the word to land like a caress instead of an insult. “You like that this much?”
You swallow and fail to hide how your legs instinctively spread a little wider for him, inviting him closer. “You know I do.”
“I do now.”
He fits himself between your thighs, moving in until the warmth of him is everywhere. Your hands go to his shoulders for balance, then slide upward, fingers brushing the undercut at the back of his head. Levi exhales through his nose, the sound almost like a warning, and then kisses you again with more force than before. His hands travel over you, one splaying against your back, the other smoothing down your side and over your thigh before gripping beneath your knee and hiking your leg higher around his hip.
Your mind dissolves into sensation. The heat of his body. His shirt brushing against the fabric of your dress. The roll of his hips that lets you feel exactly how hard he is already. The realization sends a jolt through you, strong enough that you clutch at him. Levi breaks the kiss just long enough to catch your expression.
“Oh, that got your attention,” he says.
You glare at him, breathless and flushed. “If you’re going to keep talking, at least do something useful with your mouth.”
One eyebrow lifts. “Bossy.”
He obeys, though. His mouth drags along your jaw and to the side of your throat, where he kisses twice before biting lightly enough to make you shiver. You tip your head back without permission. Levi’s hands tighten on you when he feels the surrender in it. The small approving sound he makes against your skin sends another pulse of heat low through your belly.
The kettle begins to rattle on the stove. Neither of you pays any attention to it—until it begins to whistle a moment later, stupidly domestic against the way Levi is kissing down your throat like he means to ruin you before the tea ever reaches the cups. He lifts his head, annoyance flashing over his face.
“Damn thing,” he mutters.
You laugh shakily, and that undoes the last thread of his patience. Levi reaches for the kettle, yanks it off the heat without taking his eyes off you, and sets it aside. Then he turns back, hooks his arms under you, and lifts you again. You gasp and instinct makes your arms loop around his neck while your legs wrap around his waist. He doesn’t even brace. He simply picks you up and presses your weight against him. It’s so easy, and it leaves you utterly pulsing. Levi feels your thighs tighten around his hips. He knows exactly what this is doing to you. The faint smirk at the corner of his mouth confirms it.
Levi starts up the stairs and doesn’t strain in the slightest. His shoulder nearly brushes one side on the turn, yet he climbs with ease. One step, then the next, utterly untroubled by the fact that he’s carrying your full weight in his arms while you cling to him. He isn’t breathing hard. His pulse doesn’t stumble beneath your palm where it rests against his pulse point. He simply carries you like this is the easiest thing in the world. You press closer without meaning to.
He reaches the landing and nudges your bedroom door open with his foot, carrying you inside. Your room is simple. The bed is neatly made—at least from what Levi can see in the dark. He makes out the shape of a folded shawl resting over the chair by the window. A brush lies on the dresser. Ordinary things. He lays you back on the bed with more care than you expect before he reaches to light a lamp. Then he returns to you, his hands braced beside your shoulders as he leans over you and kisses you again, savoring the fact that he finally can. You grip his shirt and hold him there.
When you break apart, you both remain close. Then, you ask, “How far are we…” You pause, clearing your throat. “How far are we going tonight?”
Levi stills. His expression shifts, some of the heat fading into a more serious tone. “As far as you want. No further.”
You look at his collar instead of his eyes when you speak. “I haven’t done this before.”
For the first time all evening, Levi looks caught off guard. Enough for you to see the brief flicker of surprise, followed by something rarer: nerves. It’s subtle, almost hidden under his natural stoicism, but it’s there. His gaze drops for a moment, then returns to yours with more caution than before.
“You mean at all?” he asks. You nod. He exhales slowly through his nose. One of his hands leaves the bed to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. His thumb lingers at your temple.
He’s been with women before. He knows how to make a body respond, how to use his mouth and hands, how to be careful when it’s required and rough when it’s wanted. But this is you. You, who saved the expensive tea for him. You, you waited with the lamp lit at night. The idea of your first time being with him should make him unbelievably happy, and it does, but layered beneath that is an unwelcome thread of concern.
What if you regret this? What if afterward you look at him and realize you wanted the idea more than reality? What if he’s not what you deserve for this?
“You should think about that,” he says, lower now. “About whether this is really what you want.”
“It is.”
“You’re saying that while I’m on top of you.”
You almost smile despite your nerves. “Would you prefer I write a strongly worded letter first?”
A breath of dry amusement leaves him. “No.”
You reach up and touch his face, brushing your thumb near the corner of his mouth. “I want this,” you say softly. “I want it with you.” You hesitate only a second before forcing yourself to add the rest. “As long as you’re not planning to disappear tomorrow and pretend this never happened.”
Levi’s eyes sharpen at the thought of it. His hand closes over yours where it rests against his cheek, holding it there. “Do I seem like that kind of bastard?”
“You seem like many kinds of bastard.”
The draws the faintest huff from him. Then his expression turns serious again, stripped bare. He leans down and presses his mouth to yours once. “I’m not walking away from you after this,” he says against your lips. “Couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”
The words are simple, but the meaning inside them lands so hard your throat tightens. Levi doesn’t say the softer thing plainly. He probably never will. Yet you hear it anyway, those three words, there in the certainty of his voice and in the way his hand cradles your face.
“I want you to stay,” you whisper.
“I’m here.”
You nod, gather your courage, and say the words that matter. “I want this.”
Levi searches your face one last time. Whatever he sees there satisfies him. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, replaced by concentration. “Then let me take care of you.”
He sits back enough to begin undoing your clothes. He doesn’t rush and is careful with each fastening. When he loosens your dress and slides it from your shoulders, his gaze follows. You help where you can, lifting, shifting, letting the dress fall away until you’re left in your underwear beneath his stare. A shiver runs through you.
He removes the rest, pausing each time your breathing changes, giving you space to stop him if you so choose. You never do. By the time you lie bare beneath him, your skin feels oversensitive everywhere his eyes touch. Being looked at by him nearly makes you hide, but his hand slides up your calf, over your knee, and across your thigh, and you can’t seem to think of covering yourself when his touch feels like that.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
Your face burns. “Levi—”
“Don’t start arguing.”
You laugh softly, then gasp when his hand reaches the inside of your thigh and parts you. His gaze drops. The expression that crosses his face at the sight of how wet you already are sends a shameless jolt of warmth through you.
“All this from me carrying a few boxes?” he teases.
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” you sigh.
“Not a chance.”
He bends and kisses you again while his fingers stroke through the slickness between your thighs, teasing at first. You jolt when he brushes over the sensitive little bud and he makes a low sound of approval into your mouth. You reach for him, for anything, one hand catching in his shirt. He draws circles over your clit while kissing along your jaw and throat, and the pleasure rises quickly, making your hips twitch against his hand.
“Easy, I’ve got you,” he murmurs. Then one finger slides lower and presses at your entrance. You tense instantly. Levi lifts his head to look at you. “Look at me.” You do. His eyes hold yours. “You can tell me if something doesn’t feel right. Understand?”
“Yes.”
He nods and eases his finger inside you slowly, giving your body time to adjust around the intrusion. The sensation makes you suck in a breath. It’s not unpleasant. His free hand smooths up your side. You try to relax. It helps that he keeps kissing you between instructions. His finger moves carefully, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. The tightness begins to fade, and you part your thighs wider.
Levi notices and rewards it by adding another finger only when you’re ready, stretching you gently, patient despite the fact that his own breathing has grown heavier and the front of his pants strains visibly now. He doesn’t rush, even when you clench around him, even when you make a tiny sound that nearly drives him to the edge. He’s intent on preparing you properly.
You’re a mess by the time he’s finished. Flushed, damp, squirming against the sheets, thighs trembling around his hand while he works you open and keeps your pleasure just shy of too much. When he finally withdraws his fingers, your body protests with an empty ache. Levi brings his slick fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean without looking away from you. The sight nearly makes your soul leave your body. He sees that too, bastard that he is.
“Thought you might like that,” he smirks.
“You’re horrible,” you whine.
“And you’re soaked.” You cover your face with one hand, mortified and too aroused to care properly. Levi grabs your wrist and draws it away. “Don’t hide.”
Then he stands to undress. There’s no vanity in the way he removes his clothes. You stare at him greedily while he strips with no hint of self-consciousness at all. Shirt first, revealing his muscled chest, then the rest. When he pushes his pants and briefs down and steps free of them, your breath catches hard enough that his mouth curves.
He’s large. Larger than what you felt pressed against you downstairs. Large enough that you feel your stomach turn with anxiety despite everything else. Levi sees it immediately and some of the smugness drains from his expression. He climbs back onto the bed and settles over you, one hand stroking your thigh.
“We’ll go slow,” he says.
You nod, forcing air back into your lungs. “I trust you.”
He bends, kisses you deep, and when he positions himself at your entrance, his forehead presses briefly to yours. The first push inside makes both of you stop. You tense around him with a soft whimper, the stretch intense, bordering on pain exactly as you feared. Levi stops at once, one arm braces beside your head while the other grips your hip.
“Breathe,” he says, his voice strained now. “Slowly.”
You try. He kisses your cheek, your mouth, your temple, anywhere he can reach while waiting for your body to ease. The tenderness of it steals some of the discomfort away. He murmurs low reassurances you barely even register as words, only tone. Inch by inch, he sinks farther in, stopping whenever your face pinches, giving you time, letting your body accept him at its own pace.
When he’s fully inside you, the feeling is overwhelming. Full, stretching, intimate in a way that knocks the breath from you all over again. Tears prick faintly at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity.
“We can stop if you want,” Levi says.
You shark your head, fingers gripping his shoulders. “No. Just… stay for a second.”
He does. His chest rises and falls against yours. You can feel the effort it takes him not to move yet, not to chase his own relief when your body is wrapped so tightly around him. There’s tension all through him, each muscle held on a leash. The knowledge of that, of how much strength he’s containing for your sake, sends a throbbing ache through you even now.
The discomfort ebbs slowly. “I think…” You swallow. “You can move.”
Levi searches your face one more time before he obeys. He draws out only a little before easing back in, the first slow stroke unbearably careful. The friction is different now, no longer a stretch or an ache. It’s a full feeling that makes your lips part on a shaky breath. Levi watches your face the entire time, gaze flicking over every minute change in your expression. Your hands grip his shoulders when he shifts his hips and finds a deeper angle.
“That better?” he asks, the low rasp of it sending a tremor through you.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Gods… yes.”
He moves again, still slow, his control so complete it almost makes you dizzy. Each thrust is a little deeper once your body gives him permission. The bed creaks softly beneath you. The lamp on your nightstand throws gold over the planes of his face and shoulders, over the darkness of his hair falling slightly loose at the front.
This is Levi. In your bed. Inside you. The thought lands so hard in you that your thighs tremble where they surround his hips. He notices that, and his hand slides down your side and over your thigh in response, thumb stroking once at the sensitive skin there while he keeps moving patiently.
“Still with me?” he asks.
You manage a breathless huff that might have been a laugh. “You ask that while doing this?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Your fingers climb into his hair, tugging lightly. “Don’t stop.”
“Bossy again.” His mouth returns to yours before you can answer, swallowing the small sound that escapes you when he rolls his hips and sinks in more fully. The kiss is slower than the ones downstairs.
Levi had expected nerves and expected the need he’s been suppressing for months to make him clumsy with it. But he hadn’t expected this feeling each time you look at him. He wants to make this good for you. Wants it so fiercely that it unsettles him, because he’s wanted bodies before, wanted release, wanted the fleeting distraction of skin and sweat, but this is different. This is you looking up at him from his bed—no, your bed, damn it—with flushed cheeks and parted lips and your hand in his hair. He realizes he could very easily hurt you by being careless.
So he keeps it slow. He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth while he finds a rhythm gentle enough for your first time and deep enough to keep his own control from snapping in half. Your body adjusts around him, the remaining sting fading beneath the building pleasure. You no longer feel the ache. Soon you’re arching into him slightly when he thrusts, seeking more.
The fullness that felt almost too much at first has become delicious, each stroke dragging against something inside you that leaves your breath catching higher every time. He presses a kiss below your ear and you wrap your legs around him further. That earns a low sound from him, a mix between a breath and a growl.
“Easy,” he mutters.
“You’re the one telling me to relax.”
“You’re the one squeezing me like that.”
Your face goes scarlet. “Levi—”
“Mm.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded now, his restraint beginning to crack around the edges. “Keep doing it.”
The answer that slips from you is embarrassingly needy. Levi’s mouth curves again. He braces more of his weight on one arm and brings the other hand down between your bodies, fingers seeking the place he made you squirm under his touch before. When his thumb strokes your clit, you jerk with a broken gasp.
“There,” he says.
The added pleasure is immediate and enough to numb your mind, if only for a moment. Your heels dig into the mattress. Levi keeps thrusting slowly while circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, giving you too much and not enough at the same time. Every pass of his thumb sends sparks racing through you.
You’ve never felt anything like this. Nothing in your imagination, nothing in those half-embarrassed late-night thoughts about his hands, his forearms, the ease with which he could move supplies and you along with them, comes close to the reality of him using his body on yours.
“Levi,” you breathe, clutching at him.
He hums against your throat. “Tell me.”
“I—” The words snag on another wave of pleasure. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
His hand gentles for a beat, thumb stroking slower as his forehead touches yours. “You don’t need to know. Just feel it.”
You do. You feel all of it. Him sliding in and out of you. The strain in his body as he holds back for you. The roughness of his palm against your thigh. The pressure building between your legs. Your body answering him more greedily than you knew it could.
He shifts, reaching for your hands. At first, you think he means only to lace his fingers with yours, but instead he draws both of your wrists up above your head and presses them into the mattress with one hand. A tiny noise escapes you. Levi freezes for a second, then looks down at your face, feeling your pulse jumping beneath his grip. He sees the sudden dilation of your pupils and your thighs spreading more willingly beneath him. A slow, wicked recognition dawns.
“Oh,” he says, and this time the smugness in him is pure sin. “I almost forgot.”
“F-forgot what?”
His next thrust is a little firmer, enough to make you squirm beneath him while his hand keeps your wrists pinned in place with ease. “You like this, don’t you?” You turn your face away instantly, mortified. Levi shakes his head. “No. Look at me.”
When you hesitate, he gives your wrists the slightest reminder press and drags his thumb over your clit again. The helpless sound you make forces your eyes back to his.
“Answer me,” he says.
You can’t even pretend. Not when your whole body is betraying you like this, gut coiling tighter every time he holds you down and moves inside you. “Yes,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes what?”
You glare at him as best you can while half-melting under him. “Yes, I like it.”
“Like what, exactly?” You make a muffled sound of frustration, but he only tilts his head down at you as the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re stalling.”
Your face burns so badly it feels feverish. He waits, mercilessly patient, still rolling into you that makes thinking impossible. “It’s your strength,” you finally confess in a rush. “Alright? I—I think it’s insanely hot. You move me like I weigh nothing, you—” Your voice breaks when he ruts into you suddenly. “The way you can do this.”
“Insanely hot,” he repeats, testing the words.
You regret talking. But he doesn’t laugh or mock you. The hand around your wrists loosens just enough for him to slide his fingers down and intertwine them with yours instead. Then he lets go entirely and sits back on his heels, withdrawing from you, making you whimper at the loss.
“Levi—”
“Up.”
You barely have time to prop yourself on your elbows before he slides his hands under you and lifts you off the mattress. A startled gasp leaves you as you rise into his arms once more. Instinct makes your legs wrap around his waist, arms clutching around his shoulders. With you hanging onto him, he slides his cock back into you. Your head falls back with a broken cry.
The angle is different like this—deeper, somehow. Levi’s hands settle beneath your thighs and around your back, supporting your weight effortlessly while he stands planted on the floor. Not a shake. Not a stumble. His breathing deepens, yes, and a line appears between his brows from the strain of restraint, but his hold on you is secure. You cling harder.
“Oh my gods—”
Levi’s mouth brushes your jaw, the words almost a kiss. “This what you wanted?”
You can’t answer properly. He gives you one shallow thrust, then another, each movement lifting you slightly on his cock. You dig your nails into his shoulders. The sheer indecency of being held up like this while he fucks into you sends a white-hot rush through your body. He feels the way you squeeze around him and huffs a dark laugh against your skin.
“Thought so.”
You bury your face against his neck. His skin is warm, smelling of soap and the cold air he brought in from outside. Every thrust jolts through you. Every time his arms flex under you to keep you lifted, your mind goes blank.
Levi had known your fixation of his strength aroused him. He hadn’t anticipated how much. Holding you like this, feeling you cling and gasp and grow wetter every time he proves exactly what he can do, is doing ugly, wonderful things to his self-control. There’s a possessive pride in it, a hot satisfaction each time your body answers to him. You like that he can carry you. That he can pin you down. That he can lift and hold and fuck you all at the same time. The knowledge goes straight to his cock, straight to that selfish place in him that wants every pretty reaction wrung from you by his hands alone.
He thrusts harder. The sound that comes out of you is wrecked, and Levi closes his eyes for one second as it shudders through him. “That’s it. Hold on,” he mutters.
You do. Dear gods, you do. Your legs lock tighter around his waist and you cling to his shoulders while he sets a steadier pace, more confident in what your body can take. Your own little cries fill the room, thin and breathless at first, then louder when Levi’s mouth finds your throat and he bites lightly there before soothing the spot with his tongue.
“Levi—
“Mm?”
“You’re—” A thrust cuts the sentence in half. “You’re really doing this.”
He actually scoffs, the arrogant bastard. “You sound surprised.”
“You’re just—” You can’t think. His hips snap up again and your whole body jolts in his arms. “Strong.”
The praise lands visibly. His grip tightens. His next thrust is deeper. “Keep talking like that and I’ll forget to be nice.” The warning should be alarming. Instead it sends a thrill through you, and you moan outright. Levi lifts his head, eyes narrowing. “You’d like that too, wouldn’t you?” Your expression must answer for you, because his mouth curves in disbelief and hunger. “You’re filthier than I thought.”
“Says the man holding me up and—ah—fucking me.”
The pleasure is building so high now you feel almost lightheaded from it, every thrust feeding it, every subtle flex of his arms reminding you that he is truly just holding you there, using strength and balance and pure controlled force to keep you suspended on him. Your cunt clenches around his cock. Levi’s hand leaves the back of your thigh for a moment to slip between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again. You nearly sob.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says, and the endearment is so unexpected, so warm in the middle of all his rough control, that it makes your whole body flutter around him. “Doing so well.”
Sweetheart. The word goes through you like lightning. Levi feels it instantly, the way you tighten, the way your nails dig in, the way your breath turns ragged. He groans under his breath and rubs firmer circles against your clit, pushing you closer to the edge you only half understand.
“Come on. Let me see it.”
Your head tips back. The room blurs in amber and shadow. All you can feel is him—inside you, around you, beneath your hands, holding you up. Your lips find his ear. You barely know what you’re saying until it spills out.
“Captain—”
He stills just enough to suck in a sharp breath. Then his entire body goes tighter. The title out of your mouth, here, now, in that tone, hits him somewhere primitive. His eyes flash. The hand at your back slides higher, gripping harder, and the next thrust lands with enough force to rip a cry from you. His restraint splinters a little more with each movement after that. Not reckless, never that, but harder. Hungrier. He fucks you with a rougher rhythm that leaves your body jolting in his arms.
“Say that again,” he says, voice ragged.
Your brain is melting, but you obey. “Captain.”
“Again.”
“Captain—”
“Fuck.”
His head drops to your shoulder. You feel the hot burst of his breath against your skin, the strain in his body as he drives up into you with a tempo that makes your eyes roll back. His hand works your clit between thrusts, and the pressure inside you turns unbearable in the best possible way, coiling tighter and tighter.
He’s close. You can feel it in the way his control roughens and his breathing finally falters. Every muscle in his arms and stomach hardens when you clench around him. He lifts his head enough to look at you, pupils blown wide. “Tell me where.”
You blink, dazed. “What?”
“Where do you want it?” His voice is all gravel now, barely held together. “I’m not pulling out unless you tell me to.”
The question goes through you with another violent rush of arousal. You think of the tea tucked in your cupboard, the bitter contraceptive brew you bought once from a woman in the market after too many whispered warnings from older shopkeepers.
“I have the tea,” you gasp. “The contraceptive one.” He watches your face, making sure. You nod frantically. “Inside. Please.”
That does it.
Levi’s eyes close for one shuddering moment, as if the permission hits him almost too hard to process. When he opens them again, they are dark and wrecked. Then he kisses you, hard and deep, and thrusts up into you three more times, each one stronger than the last.
The final one has your whole body shaking in his arms. Levi comes with a strangled groan against your mouth, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you. The sensation is so intimate, so overwhelming, that you moan into the kiss and cling to him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t. He stays buried in you while the force of it takes him, forehead pressed to yours now, breaths finally breaking rough from his chest. His arms never loosen. Even at the peak of his own release, he holds you securely, never letting your weight slip for a second.
When the shuddering in him begins to ease, Levi kisses your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye, all those tiny places with a gentleness that feels almost dazed. Then he carries you the two steps back to the bed and lowers you onto the mattress carefully. He doesn’t pull out. He braces over you, still inside you, one hand slipping between your legs again while the other strokes your hair back from your damp face. You’re still drifting, still trying to understand what just happened to your body, when his fingers find your clit and begin rubbing slow, slick circles.
You jolt. “Levi—”
“You haven’t finished.”
“I think I might die.”
“Not tonight.”
There’s the faintest thread of dry humor in it, but his expression is intent. Focused. He watches your face the way he did when he first touched you, reading every shift in your breath, every twist of your hips. His cock softens only slightly inside you, still warm and filling, and the combination of that lingering fullness with the precise pressure of his fingers drives the pleasure back up almost immediately, harder to escape.
You grab at his wrist. “It’s too much.”
His free hand catches yours and pins it gently to the mattress beside your head. He knows you’re close to shying away from what you want. “No,” he says quietly, firm as iron. “You can take it.”
The certainty in his voice goes straight through you. Your body arches under him. The sensations pile too high, too fast, each circle of his fingers pushing you toward something that feels impossible, unbearable, then suddenly inevitable.
“Levi, I—”
“I know.” His mouth brushes yours. “Let it happen.”
It breaks over you all at once. Your body locks and then shakes as rapture crashes through you in bewildering waves. A broken cry leaves your mouth. Your thighs try to close, your spine arches off the mattress, and Levi is suddenly everywhere—his hand holding yours down, his mouth at your cheek and jaw and lips, his fingers still working you through the violence of your release.
He’d meant to guide you through it gently, meant to be patient all the way through the end and let the moment belong entirely to you. Instead, the tight way you pulse around his cock sends a jolt up his spine, and his hips rock before he can stop them. The movement is small, but your body answers. Levi hisses under his breath.
“You’re trying to kill me now,” he says.
You barely hear him. You’re floating, your limbs feeling loose and heavy, your skin sensitive, your chest still heaving as the aftershocks ripple through you. Levi eases his touch at your clit only when your whole body twitches from oversensitivity, and even then he doesn’t pull away completely. He strokes once, gentler now, until the pleasure fades.
Then he kisses you, trying to collect himself after watching you come apart underneath him. You taste your own breath on his tongue, still shaky. His hand leaves yours only to cradle the side of your face. When he lifts his head, all severity has left his features. He looks tired.
“Well,” he says, “that answered that.”
You blink up at him, dazed. “Answered what?”
“Whether you’d be satisfied.”
The memory of his earlier hesitation comes back through the haze. Of all the things you might have expected from Levi, concern that you would regret giving him your first time was not among them. But it was there. You’d seen it.
You lift a weak hand and touch his face. “You were worried.”
He looks as if he wants to deny, just off reflex. Then he looks down at you spread beneath him, flushed and thoroughly ruined in your bed, and he decides the effort is pointless. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he says, and pauses for a moment. “You matter.” Levi looks away as your throat goes tight, but when he looks back, his gaze drops to your mouth again. “And because I know exactly what I’m like.”
You almost laugh. “Terrible?”
“Difficult.”
“That too.”
The corner of his mouth moves. He leans down and presses his lips to yours once, then closes his eyes, as if the contact eases his mind. “I didn’t want this to be something you regretted later.”
You slide your hand behind his neck and hold him there. “I won’t.” His eyes search yours because some part of him still seems to need proof. You give it by lifting yourself enough to kiss him first, despite your exhaustion. “I won’t,” you repeat against his lips. “Not even a little.”
That, at least, seems to reach him. He relaxes his shoulders slightly and sighs through his nose, almost laughing at himself. “Good.”
Only then does he carefully pull out. The empty feeling after such intense fullness makes you wince. Levi sees you and mutters an expression of sympathy under his breath. He reaches for a folded cloth lying on your bedside table. You know it’s clean, at least. He parts your thighs with one hand and swipes the cloth between your legs. He then wipes himself and tosses the cloth into a basin.
Your limbs feel like they’re made of sand. You watch him through half-lowered eyelids as he straightens the blankets one-handed, then lifts them over both of you and lays beside you on the bed. He reaches for you and pulls you against his side. For a second, you’re too surprised to move.
“What?” he says.
You turn your face against his shoulder. “Nothing.” You smile faintly into his skin. “I just didn’t expect you to be the sort of man who cuddles.”
Levi makes a sound of profound displeasure at the word. “Don’t—don’t call it that.”
“What should I call it, then?”
He pulls you closer with an arm around your waist. Your thigh slides over his and your head rests against his chest. When your fingers drift over his sternum, you find a scar and trace it.
“Sleeping,” he says.
“In my bed.”
“Yes.”
“With me in your arms.”
His chin brushes the top of your head. “You’re pushing it.”
You laugh softly. A sleepy thought nudges at you, and you tilt your face up enough to look at him. “So you’re staying.”
Levi looks down, unable to believe you’d ask that after everything. But he doesn’t ridicule you, and instead slides his hand up your back and down again. “I told you I would.”
You hum, then after a few moments, speak again in a quieter voice. “That thing you said downstairs,” you murmur.
“You’ll have to be more specific, sweetheart.”
Your stomach flips at the name. “When you said you couldn’t walk away from me even if you wanted to.”
He’s silent. You can feel, more than see, the moment he realizes where this is going. He resents having to say any truth that leaves him feeling exposed. You flatten your hand over his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat is slow.
“I heard what you meant,” you say.
Levi stares at the far wall for a few seconds. “Then I don’t need to say it badly.”
You lift yourself just enough to kiss his jaw. “You really are difficult.”
“I warned you.”
“And I still let you into my shop.”
“That was your first mistake.”
“My second was apparently letting you into my bed.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers combing through your hair. “You don’t sound sorry.”
“I’m not.”
A faint huff leaves him. He tips your face up and kisses you properly, his lips tasting of the last remnants of intimacy. It eases you when he settles you back against him. For a while, neither of you says anything. You listen to his breathing and feel the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. He’s spent so long appearing in your doorway with lists and lingering over tea before vanishing back into duty that being held by him feels stranger than being taken apart by him. It’s somehow more intimate.
Levi’s fingers continue to drift along your spine. You wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it. It’s so unlike the precise man who inspects all of the supplies you give him and criticizes the way you lift things. But that fact only makes you feel more tender.
Sleep starts to tug at you. Then it hits you, and you mumble into his chest, “The tea downstairs.”
“The tea can wait.”
“No, the other tea.”
His hand pauses. “You’re thinking about the contraceptive tea now?”
“If I fall asleep without taking it—well, are you ready to be a dad right now?”
Levi closes his eyes. “Unbelievable.”
“You asked.”
“I asked where to finish, not whether you intended to become irritating immediately afterward.”
“You like me irritating.”
“Sometimes.”
“Most of the time.”
“Arrogant,” he mutters.
“You’re one to talk.”
For all his complaints, he shifts and eases out from under you. He reaches for his pants. The sight of him dressing just enough to go downstairs in the middle of the night, hair messy and expression blank despite the bite mark appearing on his throat, nearly makes you laugh. He catches your smile as he buttons his pants and narrows his eyes.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing, Captain.”
His gaze darkens. “Don’t even start.”
“Who’s starting? I’m exhausted.”
“You don’t sound exhausted.”
“Just… inspired.”
That earns you one of his annoyed looks, but it’s ineffective against you now that you’ve seen him when he orgasms. He disappears downstairs before you can tease him further. You hear him moving through the back room of the shop below. Another intimacy. Levi in your kitchen. Levi pouring hot water. Levi handling your cups with those same hands that held you through your first climax.
When he returns with the cup in hand, you push yourself upright. The blankets slide down your chest. Levi’s gaze flicks over you, taking in your skin and messy hair and the marks he left behind.
“Drink,” he says.
You accept the cup with both hands. “You didn’t poison it?”
“Wouldn’t waste the effort.”
You sip and gag immediately. “That’s foul.”
“It's medicine, not tea.”
You drink the rest anyway, then hand him the empty cup. He sets it aside before sliding back into bed with you, pulling the blankets up around you both. You settle into his shoulder this time, one leg slipping between his. He allows you to tangle with him without comment.
Sleep drifts closer. Through the drowsiness, you ask, “Were you ever going to tell me?”
Levi freezes. “Tell you what?”
“That you were in love with me.”
He makes an irritated sound. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You lift your head enough to look at him. He looks almost younger in this soft glow of the lamplight. Less like the captain everyone in Trost recognizes at a glance, more like simply Levi—sharp-tongued, meticulous, and currently in your bed with no way out of the question except honesty or cowardice. He clearly dislikes both options.
“I started looking for the light,” he says.
“What, like you’re dying?” you joke.
He rolls his eyes. “No, you idiot. The one in your window.” His gaze shifts past you, fixed somewhere else in the room. “You always left the lamp on. Later than you needed to.”
It takes you a second to understand that this, from him, is a confession. He’s answering in the only way he can bear: by naming evidence, by admitting he saw your care and returned it, by refusing to wrap his emotions in pretty words.
You slide your arm across his middle and move closer. “Then I’ll keep leaving it on.”
A long silence follows. Then his mouth brushes your hair. “You’d better.”
The lamp eventually burns all the way through, throwing the room into shadow. The sheets have cooled where you’re not touching. Levi’s breathing evens out, though his arm never leaves your waist, even in the drift toward sleep. You lie awake a little longer, just enough to feel the occasional brush of his thumb against your side.
At some point, you murmur half into sleep, “You know everyone in Trost would lose their minds if they knew Captain Levi Ackerman was asleep in my bed.”
His chest shifts under your cheek with what might be a laugh, but it’s too small to be certain. “Then don’t tell them,” he says.
You smile, eyes closing fully at last. “How selfish of me.”
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