ㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The silence over the circus feels heavier than any weapon. Jax walks a few steps ahead, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking almost relaxed, like Caine’s game is nothing more than routine. But your eyes catch the little things—the way his shoulders stiffen at each gunshot, the faint tremor in his hand when he spins the gun like it’s nothing.

He doesn’t speak. And maybe that’s what makes it worse. His stubborn smile is still there, sharp and deliberate, like a mask he’s barely holding in place.

You keep pace with him, close enough to feel him, far enough not to intrude. Every step makes you want to reach out, to shorten the distance, but he doesn’t let you. He pretends not to care when others avoid him or look at him like he’s the source of all the chaos. Still… little cracks show: the sideways glance he throws when he thinks you aren’t watching, the quick flicker of something almost like hesitation.

You know he wants to laugh, to toss out a sarcastic remark and shake it off, but he can’t. The air feels heavy, tense, like something’s shifted. Everyone senses it, even if no one says a word—this adventure isn’t like the others. Caine’s glitches, the strange looks from the others, the way some deliberately keep their distance… it’s all chipping away at the armor built from arrogance.

Your mind drifts to that moment you try not to remember: Jax, frozen in front of Ragatha, firing without a second thought. This wasn’t for fun. It was raw, impulsive, born from anxiety shared by everyone there. Since then, he keeps moving, but it’s hollow, detached, like he’s wandering through a maze that’s crumbling around him, searching for a way out he doesn’t know exists.

And it hurts. It hurts to watch him clench his jaw when Zooble ignores him, to see his gaze drop when Pomni walks away. It hurts because you want to go to him, to tell him he doesn’t have to keep hiding, doesn’t have to wear the mask to survive. You want to hold him, plead with him to finally let it fall. To let him know you’ve seen him—really seen him—and cared long before the sharp words, the provocation, the chaos.

But you don’t. You walk beside him, waiting for him to be the one who stops, who turns and looks at you. Holding onto the hope that maybe, one day, he’ll trust you enough to let you in.

A faint click echoes from somewhere near his pocket. Your breath catches. For a heartbeat, you think maybe he’s going to speak, maybe he’ll finally let the exhaustion show, maybe he’ll admit he’s scared too.

But he doesn’t. He steps just a little further ahead, still smiling that cutting smile, still holding onto the fragile calm that keeps him upright.

And you stay behind, chest tight with every step he takes. Because you care about him more than you could ever admit aloud. Because you ache to reach for his hand, to stop him, to tell him he’s not alone. Because it breaks you to see him running—from everyone, even from you—while his own vulnerability burns him from the inside.

And still, you stay. Waiting for the day he finally decides to stop being afraid.

ᡣ𐭩 content — 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗎 / 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 / 𝗈𝗈𝖼 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝗂. 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

The sound of the door closing was scarcely perceptible—a mere whisper, more akin to the soft exhalation of a breath than the slam of a typical entrance. It was as if even the wood had surrendered to the profound silence that enveloped the house, a place so accustomed to quietude. Levi had always had an almost eerie way of entering: slipping through the shadows, moving without disturbing the stillness, as though even the floorboards themselves needed a moment of respite after the burdens he bore.

It was well past nine. Outside, the city had settled into its habitual calm, the kind that descends when the world, weary and spent, finally allows itself to exhale. From the kitchen, you could hear the unmistakable jingle of his keys landing on the shelf, followed by the deliberate cadence of his footsteps—slow, heavy, dragging the weight of a day too long endured.

"I'm home," he murmured, his voice tinged with the faintest weariness of the day, though it still carried its usual steadiness.

It was no casual utterance. With Levi, every word was carefully chosen. And when he said those words, you knew he wasn’t speaking of the house, but of you.

You approached him with measured steps, and as you turned the corner of the hallway, you found him. He was still wearing part of the costume from his final scene—fake blood splattered across his neck, the military jacket hanging half-off his shoulder, a few damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead. The makeup could not conceal the exhaustion that had set in his eyes nor the tension that knotted his shoulders.

He didn’t speak again. He simply looked at you, his gaze deep, heavy with meaning, capable of conveying more than most could articulate in a thousand words.

Then, he walked toward you, leaving behind the heavy weight of the lights, the script, and the applause. He allowed himself to fall into your arms as if his body had momentarily ceased to function, burying his face in the crook of your neck, as though trying to reacquaint himself with the act of breathing. His arms wrapped around you—clumsy, yet firm, an unspoken need to hold on, to anchor himself in the stillness you offered.

"Too many lights today," he whispered, his voice barely audible against your skin, as though he feared disturbing the fragile peace that surrounded the two of you.

You ran your fingers along his back, feeling the tightness in his muscles—coiled and tense as though they might snap—slowly begin to release. They only relaxed like that with you.

“Would you like a shower?” you asked gently, mindful of the delicate bubble of serenity that had enveloped you both.

"Just a few more minutes," he replied, his hold on you tightening just slightly.

And you gave them to him—one minute, two, however many he needed. Out there, the world knew him as Levi Ackerman: relentless, precise, untouchable. But here, in your embrace, there was no façade, no performance. Only a man, unraveling in the quiet, letting the warmth of your touch restore him.

Later, under the warmth of the shower, you helped him shed the remnants of his costume. Each button, each layer, every trace of the role that no longer mattered. He allowed you to, with a surrender he offered to no one else. He let your hands care for him, wash away the exhaustion, returning him to himself. In the mist of the bathroom, there was no stage, no script—just the quiet sound of your laughter as you gently soaked his hair, and his fingers entwining with yours, grounding himself in the reality of your touch.

The evening passed without haste. Dinner was simple—rice, vegetables, and hot tea. You sat together in the living room, legs tangled beneath the low table without thought. The TV murmured softly in the background, a distant echo that barely registered. Levi was quiet, as usual. But silence between you was never uncomfortable—it was a language of its own.

"You know what I was thinking about today?" he said suddenly, his hands cradling the warmth of his cup.

You looked up. He met your gaze with that rare softness, an expression that rarely escaped him, even in the most intimate of moments on set.

"I was thinking," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "that I don’t know who I am out there if I don’t have this. If you’re not here. Waiting for me."

A sweet ache stirred in your chest. Because you understood what no one else saw—the cracks beneath his seemingly perfect exterior, the doubt that lingered just out of sight, the love that required no applause, no audience, only the quiet presence of someone who understood.

"You can always be yourself here," you whispered, your head resting gently against his shoulder.

He nodded slowly, and for the first time that day, his lips curved into a smile. Not one forced by circumstance, not a rehearsed gesture, but a real smile—a smile born of what only the two of you shared, of what you both knew and held.

That night, like countless others, there were no grand speeches, no dramatic confessions. Only the soft ticking of the clock marking the passage of time, the steady brush of his fingers tracing your back as sleep gently took hold, and the quiet certainty that, amid the countless masks the world asked him to wear, there was only one that truly belonged to him:

The one he removed, piece by piece, by your side.

Brat.

He says it with a mix of exasperation and fondness when you're clearly testing his patience on purpose. Maybe you hid an injury from him, left a dirty mug on the table, or flashed that mischievous grin from across the couch.  “Again with this, you little brat? One of these days, you’re gonna make me regret being so soft on you.”

Doll.

That nickname slips out in fleeting moments of unspoken tenderness—when his gaze softens, and he watches you quietly: reading, sleeping, or fumbling through a task he could finish in a heartbeat.  “You’re shivering. Come here, doll, let me warm you up.”

Pet (Intimacy).

He whispers it low and steady into your ear, his voice tight with control as he moves with complete command. It’s not about dominance, but about the fierce devotion between you—possessive, almost reverent.  “Good girl. That’s how I like you, pet.”

Girly.

It slips out in moments of weakness—after a fight, during a quiet breakdown, or right before he leaves on some uncertain mission. It comes soft, unplanned, heavy with everything left unsaid.  “Don’t make that face, girly. I’m coming back. I always find my way back to you.”

Mine (Intimacy).

He only says it then—when he's inside you, when his need for affirmation spills over. It's not a nickname, not really. It's a word spoken like a name: burning, ravenous.  “Say it again. Tell me who you belong to. That’s it… mine.”

ᡣ𐭩 content — 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇 / 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍-𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇. 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝗂 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾.

He doesn’t really know when it started, but he remembers when something shifted. It was just another evening, and you walked in without knocking, your hands covered in dirt, a distracted smile on your lips. Nothing special happened. You simply existed… and for some reason, that was enough to make him want to wake up the next day.

He doesn’t believe in forever, but he believes in consistency. Levi won’t promise you he’ll always be there. Not because he doesn’t want to — but because he knows too well what it means to lose. So instead, he stays. He’s there, steady, bandaging your wounds with trembling hands, offering you his silence like it’s a private language only you understand.

He watches more than he speaks. Sometimes he seems distant, like his mind is somewhere else, but in truth, he’s memorizing every detail of you — the way your brow furrows when you think, the exact sound of your laugh, the way your fingers tremble just before you cry. He knows you by heart, even if he never says it out loud.

He hates seeing you hurt, but he can’t shelter you. It’s a war inside him. Part of him wants to lock you away where nothing can touch you. But he respects your strength too much. So he trains with you, corrects you harshly, and then lies awake at night staring at the ceiling, praying you’ll never have to use what you’ve learned.

He doesn’t understand why you love him. Every time you say something kind, a part of him recoils, bracing for the moment you finally realize he’s broken. And yet, every time you look at him with unshaken, quiet affection… that hollow part of him feels a little less empty.

He’s awkward with affection, but never indifferent. He’s not one for public displays or romantic speeches. But he makes your tea the exact way you like it. He adjusts your cloak before a mission. And when no one’s watching, he brushes your cheek with his knuckles, like that small touch could shield you from the world.

He has nightmares, and he rarely lets you see it. But on the nights he can’t hide it — when his hands shake and his eyes are clouded — he doesn’t push you away. He lets you hold him, stiff at first, until his breathing matches yours. You're the only one who can calm the chaos in his chest.

He thinks his love is a curse. Everyone he’s ever cared about is gone. So he loves you with fear, with guilt, with the constant dread that one day, you’ll be next. And yet, he clings to you. Because if the world is hell, you’re the only reason he keeps walking through it.

He admires you quietly. He’ll never say it out loud, but the way you face your fears — flawed and human — commands a deep respect in him. He doesn’t need perfection. He’s touched by your persistence. By the way you still try.

His love has its own language. He won’t say “I love you” often, but he shows it. He takes longer routes just to walk beside you. He remembers what you hate eating. He listens — to every word — even if he doesn’t always reply. And when you’re in danger, the calm cracks. He doesn’t stay still.

His jealousy is silent and self-inflicted. He won’t forbid you from seeing anyone or lash out. But if someone else makes you laugh, if your eyes light up for reasons that aren’t him, his gaze hardens. He’ll retreat for a few days, quiet and withdrawn, trying to remind himself you’re not his — and that terrifies him.

You make him laugh. Not often, and rarely in public. But there are rare, precious moments where he lets out a dry, genuine laugh. And when he does, he looks away quickly, like he’s just exposed a vulnerability. He doesn’t know how you do it — but you do.

Cleaning is his coping mechanism, but you are his home. When the world gets too loud, he scrubs it away. But when he’s with you — when he hears your voice, feels your hand in his — the urge to run quiets down. For the first time, he begins to understand what it means to stay.

He’ll always worry about you. You can tell him you’re fine, that it’s just a scratch. But his eyes will search your body for the truth. He can’t help it. To love, for Levi, is to carry the weight of your safety like a blade drawn at all times.

Intimacy isn’t just physical — it’s surrender. When he lets you in, it’s not about lust. It’s about vulnerability. He kisses you like he doesn’t deserve it. He touches you with reverence, like every brush of skin is a silent prayer to something he doesn’t believe in — but hopes, just this once, might answer.

Sometimes, he pulls away without explanation. Not because he’s stopped loving you, but because he needs to remember who he was before you, to not lose himself completely. But even in his silence, he thinks of you — your voice, your touch, your presence. He always comes back… even if he doesn’t always know how to say sorry.

He sees you as his equal. There’s no pedestal. No illusion. When he fights beside you, he trusts you like any other comrade — but his heart beats faster. Not out of doubt… but because you mean more than the others ever could.

He struggles with words, but tries for you. The first few times he tried to say “I love you,” the words got stuck in his throat. But one night, with his head in your lap, it slipped out — quiet, raw, unguarded. You understood it anyway. Because with Levi, those words are louder than a scream.

Sometimes, he dreams of a life he knows he’ll never have. A tiny house. A quiet garden. You reading while he cooks, badly. It’s not realistic — he knows. But when you’re asleep next to him, safe and warm, he lets himself pretend, just for a moment, that peace is possible.

If he dies, you’re the last thing he wants to see. Not his squad. Not the past. Just you. Because in the blood and the loss, you were the one beautiful thing he ever truly had. And somehow, against all odds, Levi Ackerman loved. And was loved.

"Don't move so much. I'm enjoying watching you give in."

"Having trouble breathing? Perfect."

"So much mouth to complain, and now nothing to say, huh?"

"I'm not done with you. Not even close."

"Shut up. You already know what to do with that mouth."

"You're not as innocent as you looked... I like that."

"Was that a moan or a cry for help? Pick one."

"Stop shaking. I'm just getting started."

"Get as messy as you want—I'll make you clean it up after."

"Look at the mess you are… Pathetic. Perfect."