Just some thoughts on the reader being Aerions wife while heavily pregnant at Ashford Tourney…
He would be all over you. Princes don’t ride in carriages, they rode on their horses alongside them. But when Aerion saw you step into the carriage, with no one but his drunk older brother who had already fallen off his horse, he broke the standards and slid in beside you without a word. If Daeron were to snore to loudly, or scare you with his nightly visions on the way there, he would kick his brothers shin, shutting him up instantly.
When you’d finally arrive there, Aerion would be the only one to help you out, he didn’t trust anyone near you anymore, after all you were carrying his hatchling now, as he liked to call it. To his logic, the male dragon always protects the nest, despite the child being born yet or not.
He would watch you with every step you took, and if anyone were to dare get too close, attempt a conversation, or merely disturb your peace? It’s safe to say they would not be seen anywhere again that day.
You would have been the one to convince him to go to the puppet show, it was about dragons after all, and you knew his strict obsession with them. It had started off pleasant, you, in his arms. But it seemed he had snapped that poor girls fingers in the blink of an eye.
You had tried to get the nearby guards to stop the taller man from coming at Aerion. You knew your husband was in the wrong, but to see him being brutally attacked meant more.
When you had returned back to the small castle of Ashford, where you were all staying, Lord ashford was waiting with Maekar and Baelor. You were sat near Lord ashford. Aerion often liked to put you far from him, only so he could stare at you fully for the night. As he ignored the hedgeknights words, he instead snapped some nuts open.
The final one had flown across the room, going past Lord Ashford and landing on your boots. When you had begun to bend down to retrieve it Aerion let out a noise of displeasure. Instead he gestured to Lord Ashford, pointing at your shoes. He watched as the Lord scrambled to remove it while you blushed in embarrassment.
“My wife is carrying a prince, my Lord, it is only right you go to your knees before her” is what he had said with a shrug before Maekar had snatched him by the collar and dragged him out while Baelor spared you a smile.
Aerion had made you clean his cuts that night, just so he could entice you to a bath with him. You knew how that always ended….
Watching the trial was horrible for you, seeing your husband lose, was not something either of you were used to. For the next week, Aerion let you baby him. Though he did moan and complain when you cleaned his wounds, he would stay quiet when you’d brush your fingers through his silver hair.
You being pregnant was the only reason in the end that Maekar didn’t send Aerion to Lys. So that night Aerion made sure he fucked you to your hearts content.
“It brings on the birth” he’d whispered in your ear as he finished inside of you for the third time
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the costuming detail in narnia makes me go bonkers sometimes tho likeeee. they're wearing clothes from their golden age selves in the second film, and lucy who was famously the warrior queen? her dress is actually pants under an overskirt. the white witch's icicle crown slowly melts away to nothing as spring breaks and aslan's power overcomes her own. she wears his shorn mane as a symbolic part of her battle garb. caspian wears the same shirt under his armor for almost the entirety of the movie. it's his fucking pajama shirt. because that's the only thing he was wearing when he escaped.
secret!perv Dunk & a not-secret-at-all perv!fem reader
Seperate, but could be read as part of this —> universe.
a/n: This was supposed to be short and smutty bc that’s just where I am right now. It’s fucking 4k words. I have a problem, her name is plot.
mdni! this is 18+ for the following: fem! receiving oral, extremely lustful thoughts over dunk the hunk, semi-exhibitionism for half a sec, and p in v
(absolutely ZERO physical descriptions of the reader. That’s one of my gripes with GoT fics: a house name always comes with house features. NOT HERE, baby!)
wc: 4k
It’s entirely possible that he’s catching on to you. But that might be giving Dunk too much credit.
It doesn’t matter how many times you remind him you’re bastard born. You're not a proper lady. You’re not some virtuous maid.
He still treats you as such.
You suppose it’s sweet. A gentlemanly behavior you’re nought like to get from any other knight you might travel with. But it is driving you wild.
Dunk is a big man, large and thick with muscles you want to sink your teeth into. But he’ll only kiss you, tug your hair a bit and then be on his way. He doesn’t push you against a tree, ruck up your skirts and take you right there. He never accepts your invitations to bed you at the inns you stay at.
He’s just good.
Too good.
You’re a well-traveled woman. You’ve grown to have hungry tastes. And maybe you’re spoiled, but you’re used to having that hunger sated when you want.
Dunk isn’t like to simply hand you what you want. No, this torture of his is slow and tiring. You’ve never begged a man for anything. But you’re this close to mounting his thigh and pleading he just allow you one night with him.
Gods, perhaps your father's perversions do run in your veins.
“Gods above, I can no longer handle the stench of us,” you bemoan. You bring your horse up beside Dunk’s. “Ser, you must find me a stream. Something to clean myself in.”
Dunk purses his lips. He ought to say no. It’d be better to travel another day before stopping for something so frivolous. But then you’re tugging at the collar of your dress, letting out a groan of discomfort as your breasts become dangerously more exposed.
He clears his throat, ripping his eyes away, missing the disappointed scowl you wear. “Alright,” he croaks, not at all because he knows you’ll ask him to guard you while you bathe. And not at all because he knows there’ll be a split second where he might actually be able to see something.
Because he is a knight. A hedge knight, but an honorable one nonetheless. And an honorable man does not sneak glances at women he’s sworn to protect while they’re vulnerable.
And naked.
And dripping-
No.
It’s not too much time later that you all come upon a stream deep within the woods. Egg runs off first, off to hunt something for dinner. He knows to avoid the water until you’ve finished, but Dunk doesn’t have much of a choice.
Because of course, you need your big, strong knight to aid you. Nevermind the fact that your father had you trained by a Braavosi Water Dancer. You need Dunk.
For reasons.
“Come along,” you call and Dunk clears his throat, tugging on his pants as he follows. He feels no better than a hound, trained to salivate at the sound of rushing water.
You cast a look over your shoulder, spinning your finger and he nods, turning away. But he misses how you watch him, slipping off your dress and hoping to catch him steal a look.
When he doesn’t, you try not to let your disappointment show, reaching down to tug your dress off the rest of the way. Dunk glances over his shoulder, nearly choking as his eyes drag along the curve of your skin, the slight arch in your lower back as you walk into the stream.
He shakes his head, forcing himself to turn away, hand on the hilt of his sword. He's a horrible man. All he can think of is how he wished you had turned around.
“Here, m’lady,” he takes your hand and helps you onto your horse. One large palm cups the curve of your rear as you swing your leg over the saddle. You’ve learned to ignore that touch as nothing more than a helping hand. Dunk has no such luck, the feel of you burned into his skin.
He gets up behind you. Your own horse had to be sold to afford some more rations for the road. Until you can scrounge enough coppers, you’re stuck with Dunk.
Honestly, he probably should have let you ride with Egg. He’s already big enough for his own mount; Thunder don’t need another weight to carry. But, selfishly, he enjoys the feel of you pressed up against his chest, your soft curves rubbing against his arms as he holds the reins.
And you, you certainly wouldn’t complain at whatever rare form of contact he’ll allow you. Especially not when he bucks his hips, urging Thunder on. But you know you’ve reached a fresh hell in your life when he whispers praise to the creature and you’re jealous of the damnable thing.
The group of you stops off at a local village market. The place seems familiar to you, somehow, but you can’t place it. Dunk goes off to ask after some work around the area, to see if he can make some spare change.
Egg doesn’t wish to join him and listen to the boring pleasantries. Dunk permits his leave only if he swears that he won’t leave your side. Egg promises, of course, none of you realize that Dunk’s just damned you all.
You probably would have been able to get out of this if it weren’t for Egg’s big mouth.
You stand before a fruit vendor, eyeing the apples and checking for any wormholes. The man behind the stall is casting you an odd look that is beginning to make your skin crawl.
“I know you?” He suddenly snaps and you jump at the volume of his voice.
“Er, no, I don’t think you do.” You cast him a wary glare as you debate abandoning your search for a half-decent taste besides salt beef.
Before you can leave, his hand snaps out, clammy hold wrenching up your wrist. “Sir!”
“I do know you. You stole my favorite mount!”
Your eyes widen as you suddenly realize who this man is. A year past, when you first began traveling with Egg. You’d passed through this village on the way from Storm’s End. Daeron, drunk and testing the true boldness of a Baratheon bastard, had promised one hundred gold stags if you stole this man’s horse.
There was nothing against this man in particular. But it was quite possibly one of the most gorgeous mounts you’d ever seen. A Dornish steed, you were sure, with a coat like fire and sand. Of course, you’d done it. You just hadn’t thought that anyone had seen you.
“I’m afraid you’re confused-“
A shocked gasp cuts you off. “It’s him!”
You whip around and see Egg staring up at the man. You rip your wrist from the vendor’s hold and slap your hand around Egg’s mouth.
“What was that, boy?” He barks out, leaning over the table.
“Nothing, sir, please. My boy- he was knocked in the head by a mule, that's why he’s bald as he is, truly.” Egg rips from your hold and stomps down on your foot.
You jump back with a gasp, hands swiping out at him. “Unhand me,” he snaps. “I was not kicked in the head!”
Your eyes clench shut as the vendor growls,” Guards!” He shouts. “Guards!”
“Oh,” Egg’s face drops as he realizes his blunder. You let out a groan and snatch up his wrist, racing through the stalls. The fruit merchant calls after you but you keep going, ignoring the clash of armor as the guards follow close behind.
“Next time I silence you, stay quiet.” You growl down at Egg. He’s too busy looking over his shoulder to nod. Eyes wide with panic as he follows alongside you.
Through some blessed mercy, you manage to find Dunk. You grab his arm, turning him away from the barkeep he’d been speaking to. “Oi,” he trails off as he takes in your face. “What’d ya do?”
“Problem,” you pant out. A loud shout catches your attention and you all turn to see the guards just behind you. “Big problem!”
You’re cut off by your own yelp as Dunk squats down. He presses his shoulder to your stomach, lifting you as easy as he would a sack of potatoes. You let out a little squeal as he straightens, hauling Egg up in his other arm.
Your hands scramble for grip along his back as he hightails out of the market. You can’t believe his stamina as he runs with you all.
It’s actually all you can think about now. Wondering how this translates to other aspects of his life as he gets back to the horses.
He sets you down with a huff and eases Egg onto his horse before returning to you. You don’t get to enjoy the feel of his hand around you for long before the guards catch up.
“Hiyah,” his hips buck against yours and you let out a low, frustrated groan as he urges the horses on.
Dunk lays a heavy hand around your waist as he helps you down from your horse. You rest your weight against him, pretending not to notice how he stares down your dress as you push your chest up.
“Are you coming?” Egg shouts and then Dunk’s releasing you. Your fists clench at your sides as you let out a belligerent curse. You love the prince, but you’ll have to find a way to get rid of the boy for a night.
With a low grumble, you follow behind the pair, plotting to yourself all the while. You’re fine enough admitting that you’re perverted as you watch Dunk’s nicely shaped rear as he walks. But you wish you could say the same about him.
You’ve seen glimpses of his true hunger. Moments where he’s shoved a knee between your legs and hauled you up his body. Or squeezed a little harshly at your backside while his tongue explored your mouth.
But he always drifts away just before you really get to taste it. There must be a way to tempt a virtuous man. You’ve broken monks before, Gods above. A simple hedge knight should not be proving such a challenge.
“Are you gonna be alright here?” Dunk asks you, standing amid a camp of other traveling knights. You’re somewhere in the Reach, growing ever closer to Egg’s destination of the Red Lake.
It’s happenstance that you found yourself in the company of so many rugged men just as your patience snapped. Not to say you would lie with any of them. No, your lusts are solely for the knight beside you. But they could prove incredibly helpful to your plan.
“I have you, don’t I?” You ask, glancing up at Dunk with wide eyes and a coy smile. He flushes slightly before backing off with a stiff nod.
“Of course, m’lady.”
“I’m not a lady, Dunk,” you remind him. “Far from it,” you mutter, dragging your hand along his waist as you pass by. Dunk jolts under your touch, posture going stiff straight. It’s almost laughable if you weren’t so frustrated.
You wander off to help Egg set up the tents and smile when you see him chatting eagerly with the other squires. You don’t feel the stare burning into your back. Or catch how Dunk’s head tilts, catching the curve of your hips as you walk.
He shakes his head, cursing himself, and wanders off toward the other knights. He’s damned straight to the hells, he’s sure of it. Being tempted by a kind woman such as yourself. You cannot help that you’re beautiful. It ain’t your fault he’s so easily tempted by you.
Except it is.
Later, sitting around the fire, you realize the knights really don’t have any proper accommodations for a lady. No seat to rest on, only the hard earth or flaking logs. Well, that simply won’t do.
You trail your hand across Dunk’s shoulders, grinning at the way he shudders. You come to a stop by his side and he glances up at you with eager-to-please eyes. “Do you mind, Ser?” You whisper.
He frowns but then you’re uncrossing his arms and making room for yourself as you drop on his lap. Dunk immediately goes stiff, mind racing as his hands hover at your sides.
You simply hum, taking his hands in yours and wrapping them around your waist. Warmth emanates from you, the soft curve of your breasts rests atop his arm and it’s the only thing he can feel.
He knows he’d been speaking to another knight before this. Gods only know what he’d been saying. You laugh as you continue the conversation for him, conversing as if your mind isn’t as disturbed as his. Must not be.
Dunk lets out a low grunt, shifting his thighs so you can’t feel the steadily growing bulge in his pants. Your nails dig into his thighs as he readjusts, shooting him an odd look. Dunk can only offer a tense smile, trying to tilt his hips so you don’t brush against him.
He lets his hand rest along your thigh, thumb moving restlessly against you. You shift at that, thighs clenching as you push back against him. His breath hitches as you finally catch what he’s been trying to hide. He waits for you to storm off, to curse him for being so perverted. But you don’t, if anything, you seem to move closer, a low sigh slipping from your lips as you shift further against him.
All Dunk can think about is lifting your skirts and taking you there. Pushing you into the grass and leaves and mounting you like an animal.
You let out a sharp gasp, and he glances down, having pushed you from his lap without realizing it. “Oh, m’lady,” he reaches for you but you slap his hands away. “‘M sorry.”
“Enough,” you shake your head and let out a tired sigh. “Enough,” you mutter, stepping away from the fire. Dunk watches you go, something tight twisting his chest.
“Oi,” one of the knights slaps him. “How much does she cost?”
Dunk’s brow furrows and he shakes his head. “My lady isn’t a whore.”
The man backs off with his hands raised. “Sorry, lad, didn’t realize she was your woman.”
“No,” Dunk shakes his head, ready to correct the other man. But he doesn’t want any of them thinking that you’re up for grabs. That any part of you might be open to them. It’s not his place to make that decision. And he’s sure he’s doing you a disservice, but Dunk can’t care about that right now.
He gets to his feet, checks that Egg is still with the other squires, and goes traipsing after you. He follows your trail all the way to a stream. You’re kneeling by it, hand lazily dipping through the water.
His boot snaps against a branch and you leap to your feet. “It’s just me,” he assuages. You turn with a small smile. “I’m sorry-“
“No,” you cut him off and he huffs. “I’m sorry, Ser. I’m afraid I’ve been unfair.”
“Unfair?”
“I am not a lady, Dunk. I have needs. Needs as bad as any man. But I’m afraid I’ve been blinded by lust. Forcing my affections on you when you haven’t wanted them. I’ve shamed myself, I’m sorry.”
Dunk’s jaw drops as he stares at you. “Affections- Needs?” He rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “You haven’t forced anything, woman, what the hell are you talking about?”
You’re frowning now. “By the fire when you… well you were-“
“Hard,” Dunk finishes and your eyes blow wide.
“Gods, I hadn’t thought you capable of such crass language.”
“I’m a knight, not a lady,” he chides you and that drags a laugh from you. “Are you saying, all this time, you’ve known what you’re doing?” Dunk stalks closer and he catches a gleam in your eye that he can’t believe he hadn’t noticed before.
“Well,” you take a step closer to him. “Yes,” you laugh under your breath. It cuts off as he reaches out, snagging your waist in his hands and pulling you closer.
“All this-“
“Enough talking,” you groan, pushing onto your toes and grabbing his cheeks. You pull him down, lips crashing against his as you back him up. He lets out a low groan as his back hits a tree, hands roaming greedily along your body.
You can’t believe how stupid you’ve both been. Well, you can believe him. But Gods, how blinded by lust have you been that you haven’t seen such obvious signs from him?
Perhaps he’s far more discreet than you’d given him credit for. Or, you’re losing your touch.
Dunk’s hand cups your jaw, finger squeezing lightly at your cheeks as your lips part. His tongue wastes no time, dipping between your parted lips as you let out a low moan. He flips you both around, pushing you up against the tree as he lowers himself.
You catch your breath as he breaks away from you. Hands greedy as they sweep along the hem of your dress, hiking it up above your hips. You almost question him, but the sight of his broad shoulders parting your thighs shuts you up.
“May I?” He asks, fingers coasting the edge of your undergarments. Your hand smooths along his cheek, up to his hair as you nod. He wastes little time in ripping the flimsy fabric apart, nose dipping low and brushing against you.
“Oh,” you let out a shaky moan, head falling back against the rough bark as his tongue darts out, a tentative taste of you. It’s alarming how quick he is to flatten his tongue and drag it along the length of you. How quick he is to grow greedy. Large hands pinching at your thighs as he hikes one over his shoulder, practically drowning in you as he buries his face deep.
“Gods above,” you hiss, biting down on your palm so you don’t alert the entire forest to your perversions. You feel Dunk’s smug smirk as he lifts you, tilting his head to allow his tongue a deeper angle inside you.
You’ve lain with plenty of men before. But you don’t think you’ve ever met one so eager, so hungry for your release on his tongue. A sharp cry leaves you as your hands tighten in his hair, hips bucking against his large nose as he sucks on your small bundle of nerves.
“Dunk,” you gasp out, core pulsing near painfully as your pleasure mounts. He doesn’t stop, if anything you seem to be encouraging him. Rapid, bucking hips grow desperate as you chase your release.
“Come on,” he urges, eyes eager as he spares you a brief glance. That look in his eyes seems to be enough as you cry out his name, chasing your release. He reaches up, large hand smothering the bottom half of your face as your pleasure crashes over you. Your moans go muffled against his palm, eyes burning with unshed tears as he slowly lifts himself.
He waits for you to calm down, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips as he presses soft kisses along the curve of your neck.
When you finally catch your breath, you only have one question. “Where the bloody hell did a hedge knight learn that?”
Dunk snorts and leans back. “I’m not a blushing maid,” he admonishes.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you tease.
Dunk shakes his head, dipping down for another hungry kiss. You can taste your release on his tongue and it only stokes the fires of your lust. “Please,” you beg, reaching for his breeches.
His hand stills yours and he leans back, looking shamefully at the ground. “I’m quite… big,” he warns you.
You pull back with a huff. “You say that like it’s a problem. Not a maiden, need I remind you?” You scold him.
“Yes, well-“
“Dunk, do you wish to lay with me?”
His eyes go wide as he nods eagerly. “Then relax, love.” It doesn’t seem to sate him much, but it’s enough for you. You work on the laces of his breeches while his own hand clumsily undoes the ties of your dress.
He pulls it down just enough for your breasts to spill out, palms greedily cupping them as he dips his head to kiss you once more. You don’t get a chance to see what’s between his legs. But you feel the weight of it in your palm. The length, the girth.
Lords above, he might be right.
But you’re a Stormborn. You don’t back away from danger. You run to it. Or, in this case, allow it to split you in two.
“Are you sure?”
“Please, Dunk,” you encourage, wrapping one leg around his hip while he pushes your skirts back up. He spares you one last look before nodding. His hands cup your thighs and you let out a small moan as he lifts you easily, pressing you higher against the tree.
It’s been a while since you’ve lain with a man. But not so long that it feels like losing your maidenhead again. Dunk’s slow as he guides himself inside you, and you’ve been wanting him so long, you hardly feel the sting of his size.
The only thing your lustful body can think of is how deeply you want him to bury himself. Your nails drag through his hair, scratching at his scalp as you press hungry kisses along his jaw, his neck, before sinking your teeth into his shoulder.
He lets out a low hiss, grip turning bruising around your legs as he buries himself completely. The moan you let out is sinful, the pressure inside you feels close to exploding as he rests there for a moment.
“Gods,” he lets out a low noise that has pleasurable shivers running up your spine.
You pull back from him, tilting his chin down. “Please, move.” He gives you a shaky nod, one arm bracing against the tree as he uses the other to adjust you. Even that small movement is enough to have you keening.
The first roll of his hips is slow, tentative. Like he still worries he might hurt you. But then, you’re tugging in his hair, begging for more, and he’s snapping his hips against yours eagerly. Each movement jolts you further up the tree, the bark snagging at the lace off your dress.
You hardly care, legs clenching around him as you bite your tongue. Each thrust knocks the breath from you, feels so good it hurts as you try not to make a noise.
Dunk hardly even needs the tree; he’s so tall, so strong, he keeps you upright all on his own. That only serves to further your desire, your nails dragging along his back as he nearly kisses your cervix.
His thrusts begin to fasten as you clench around him. Your pleasure begins mounting once more. Either from your previous release or simply having what you’ve coveted for so long. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take much more for you to be squeezing tight around him while his warmth spills in you.
“Gods,” you mutter, arms limp along his shoulders as he shifts to hold all of your weight. You’re not eager for him to set you down. You doubt your legs will be working right now. The tips of your toes still tingled with the numb pleasure of your release.
“Are you alright?” He asks, slowly helping you down. Your legs tremble as you stand straight and you can only nod, tongue too loose to attempt conversation right now.
He pulls up his breeches while you work on fixing the laces of your dress. After a minute, when the fog has begun to clear from your mind, you admire his form. The thick arms that held you so easily, bigger legs that you still had yet to ride. Not to mention what rests between his legs. The gods surely had favorites. And you had to be one of them for them to have sent you such a man.
“Next time you wish to do that, do not hide behind the guise of honor,” you scold him but he can only grin at you. A boyish, incredibly self-satisfied look about him. “You only punish us both.”
Dunk nods, kneeling to pick up his sword. You’re not even sure when he dropped that. “Yes, m’lady.”
You take his chin between your fingers, pinching it and tilting his face toward your own. “I’m no lady.”
“No,” he laughs. “You’re not.” You scoff, reaching to swat at him. But he snatches your hand in his and hauls you easily over his shoulder.
“You brute,” you accuse, grinning at his chuckle. And more than grateful. There was no way in the seven hells you were walking back to camp.
Now, you only had to find a way to excuse those noises the others had heard. Perhaps you could lie, say it’s mating season for elk.
It’s certainly just become mating season for one beast, and you’re currently tossed over his shoulder. The poor thing has no idea what he’s just done.
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☆ Summary: Levi Ackerman has never been good at flirting, which is unfortunate, because insulting you is no longer enough to hide the fact that he’s hopelessly, embarrassingly in love with you.
☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader
☆ Genre/Tags: Canon Compliant, Female Reader, Mutual Pining, Levi Ackerman is Bad At Feelings, Soft Levi Ackerman, Flirting, First Kiss, Love Confession, Humor, Fluff, Smut
☆ Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected piv, creampie
☆ Word Count: 9.0k
☆ AO3 Link
☆ Check out the other fics in this collection!
☆ a/n: this is day 2 out of 7 for my birthday week celebration! thank you to my beta reader @slaytherinthoughts <3 also please don't ask for a part two i will take a sledgehammer to my laptop if you ask for a part two
Levi first sees you in the morning in the hallway outside of Erwin’s office. You’re holding a stack of reports tucked under one arm, your cloak clasped crookedly, and a half-finished piece of bread pinched between your teeth because you realized eating breakfast and walking to your briefing is an efficient way to multitask.
Levi sees you from the end of the hall and stops walking. His entire body locks up for the stupidest reason—because it’s you. He immediately thinks There she is. Then, because his mind is determined to ruin him, it adds, Her hair looks nice. He almost turns around and walks directly back to his office just to avoid facing you, but because he’s Captain Levi Ackerman, a man who has faced Titans without blinking and therefore shouldn’t be taken down by a woman holding paperwork and chewing bread, he keeps walking forward.
“You look like hell,” he says as soon as he’s close enough.
You stop and look at him, taking the bread out of your mouth as you lift your brows. “Good morning to you too, Captain.”
Levi stares at the bread, then your mouth. He tries to find something else to focus on. Maybe he can tell you your cloak clasp is twisted and Erwin will absolutely notice. Maybe he could ask whether you slept, because the shadows beneath your eyes look darker than yesterday, and yesterday they had already irritated him enough that he left a cup of tea outside your office and convinced himself he only did it because your exhausted handwriting was difficult to read.
“You look better than yesterday, though,” he adds, because he doesn’t know how to shut up around you.
You half-smile. “That might be the closest you’ve ever come to saying something nice to me.”
He feels his stomach drop. Was it? Was that nice? Had he been too obvious? No. No, that’s impossible. No one could hear “you look like hell” and think it was sweet unless they were deranged. But you’re not deranged. In fact, you’re too competent and too observant for his peace of mind.
“You’re insane,” he says, reaching forward before he can stop himself to fix your cloak clasp. The moment he brushes his fingers against your throat, he wishes the floor would swallow him whole.
You freeze out of surprise, then lift your chin slightly as his knuckles graze the skin beneath your jaw. Levi’s mind goes blank in the most humiliating way possible. He hears the scratch of your breath, feels your pulse at your neck, smells the soap you use—because of course you would be the only other person with proper hygiene standards—and everything he’s learned in life to survive abandons him. He steps back as if you’d burned him.
“There,” he says, voice flat. “Try dressing yourself like an officer next time.”
You glance down at the straightened clasp, then back at him, amusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Are you always this charming before breakfast?”
“No.”
“Only with me, then?”
He turns and walks away. Behind him, you laugh, and Levi immediately knows by the burning of his cheeks and the repeating Stupid, stupid, stupid in his mind that this is going to be a very long day.
He insults you again five minutes later inside Erwin’s office, where Erwin stands at the head of the table. Hange lounges over a chair, looking as if they’ve only slept for either four hours or not at all. Miche stands near the window quietly, as always. You take the seat across from Levi, who keeps his eyes on the meeting notes. He refuses to look at you. If he does, he won’t be able to stay composed.
“You’re quiet,” Hange says to him after Erwin begins explaining the revised training schedule for the week. “You’re either listening or plotting something.”
“Unlike you, I can do both quietly,” Levi says.
Hange grins. “That’s what I admire about you, shorty!”
You snort under your breath. Levi looks at you without meaning to. You’re clearly trying not to smile, one hand pressed over the bottom half of your face, eyes lowered to the table. He sees it all, because he always sees too much where you’re concerned. That’s the problem. It means he notices the loose strand of hair against your cheek, and the warmth in your eyes when you catch him looking at you. Levi looks away immediately, thinking to himself Idiot.
“Something wrong, Levi?” Erwin asks, quirking up an eyebrow.
“No,” Levi says.
“You were staring into nothing.”
“I was just assessing whether her paperwork is as sloppy as her uniform.”
You mock an offended gasp. “My paperwork is pristine.”
“It’s tolerable.”
“From you,” you say, pointing your quill at him, “that is basically a marriage proposal.”
Everyone in the room goes quiet. Hange inhales like they’re about to burst. Levi goes completely and utterly still. Marriage proposal. You said it as a joke. Obviously, right? It’s just a harmless, casual joke, banter shared between squad leaders when too much paperwork has turned everyone’s brains into horse feed. There’s no reason for his mind to take the phrase, drag it and him into an alley, and start beating him with it.
Marriage proposal. His mind races before he can stop himself, supplying a series of images: you standing at an altar, you and him in his office alone, your laughter at breakfast, your hand in his, your mouth on his—
No. He’s not going there again. Not now.
Hange’s grin grows wider. Miche looks out the window, but his shoulders shake with silent laughter. Erwin, who is the worst kind of friend to you both, simply looks between the both of you, silently filing this moment away for later to use against either of you when the time comes.
Levi picks up his teacup. “You’d make a terrible wife,” he says.
You grin and rest your chin on the top of your linked hands, elbows on the table. “Why’s that?”
“You’re loud, annoying, and you don’t even know how to chop a carrot.”
“You notice the strangest things about me.”
Levi drinks his tea to avoid having to answer, and even though the tea is too hot, he refuses to cough. Unfortunately for him, you notice his eyes squinting slightly, and your smile softens so much it nearly kills him on the spot. No, he thinks. I can’t let her do this to me.
He spends the rest of the meeting saying as little as possible, which would work better if Hange didn’t keep sneaking glances at him with barely contained excitement.
Levi expects the week to improve after that. It doesn’t. The problem is that you’re everywhere. You’re in the training yard in the afternoon, walking between your squad members to correct their positions. You’re at the stables in the evening, arguing with someone about your saddle in disrepair. You’re at the mess hall the next morning, laughing with Nanaba over something silly, your head tipped back in a way that fully exposes your throat and immediately makes Levi think of how nice it would be to kiss it.
It’s nothing. It’s not attraction, it’s not a crush, because he’s a full-grown man and he has no use for romantic attraction. It’s just… a normal appreciation of competence. It’s nothing.
Then you bend to pick up a dropped training knife, showing off your ass perfectly, and Levi walks straight into a wall.
So, not nothing, then.
.
By the fifth day, he’s found numerous excuses to pass through the training yard—at least three times.
The first time, he claims he’s merely checking formations and whether the recruits are holding it correctly. The second time, he claims the training dummies aren’t being raised correctly. The third time, he says nothing at all because even he knows another excuse won’t fool anyone.
You catch him near the fence line with his arms crossed, watching as you demonstrate a disarming technique to your squad. “Captain Ackerman,” you call, breathless from your exertion. “Are you here to criticize my form again?”
His mind immediately says Yes, then No. Tell her she moves well. Tell her that her squad trusts her. Tell her she can command a room without having to do anything. Tell her—
“Your stance is less terrible than usual,” Levi says. He slaps himself in his mind. Stupid.
You turn slowly. “Less terrible? Are you praising me?”
“It wasn’t praise.”
“Definitely sounded like praise,” you sing.
“Get your hearing checked.”
You grin. Levi looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. Your squad disperses after another hour, groaning with exhaustion, and you remain behind to gather the practice blades, humming under your breath while the wind blows through your hair.
Levi knows he should leave. He has reports, he has inspections, he has an office to clean and tea waiting for him that’ll oversteep if he continues standing here like some lovesick idiot. He finds himself walking toward you anyway.
“You’re wearing that wrong,” he says.
You look down at yourself, squinting your eyes. “Wearing what wrong?”
“Your harness.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’ve worn ODM gear for years.”
“Then it’s embarrassing that you managed to fuck it up this badly.”
You put both hands on your hips, cocking your head at him. “Alright, then. Fix it if it bothers you that much.”
His soul practically leaves his body, but because he has absolutely no self-preservation, he mutters, “Fine.”
He steps behind you and reaches for the strap crossing your back. It’s only slightly twisted, barely enough to matter, but he focuses on it as if the fate of the Walls depends on that strip of leather lying flat. Focusing on the strap is easier than focusing on how warm you are, how close you are, how you freeze when his hands settle at your waist to adjust the lower buckles.
This is normal, he thinks. You’ve adjusted soldiers’ gear before. He pulls and tightens. Then, he finally realizes this is not normal at all. He’s too busy thinking about your waist. How nice it feels under his hands. How nice it would be to hold it while he presses up against you from behind. Goddamnit, get it together. He tightens one strap, loosens another, checks the angle, then checks it again because he can’t bring himself to pull away.
“You’re awfully thorough,” you say.
Levi freezes. He hears the smile in your voice. A small one. Possibly innocent. Probably innocent. He can’t lean forward and investigate, because if he sees your expression, he may just blurt something stupid out like I like standing this close to you, and then he’ll have to desert the Scouts and live alone in a cave for the rest of his life.
“If you fall out of your gear, I’ll have to hear about it,” he says.
“Ah, so this is precaution.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re very thoughtful.”
“More like annoyed.” You laugh softly, and he finishes the adjustment too quickly, stepping away in an attempt to restore whatever part of his dignity just died. “There,” he says. “Try not to embarrass your rank.”
You turn to face him, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s just survived an internal war. “Thank you, Levi.”
He blinks at the use of his name. You usually don’t say his first name. It’s always Captain, Captain Ackerman, or Captain Levi. Never just Levi. He looks away before his expression can give him away.
All he says is a simple, “Tch.”
.
You still don’t realize that Levi thinks of you differently, even weeks later.
Levi is rude to almost everyone, blunt with everyone, sparse with praise and allergic to any kind of emotional displays, so it doesn’t occur to you immediately that the insults he gives you are not the same as the ones he gives everyone else. You just assume Levi tolerates you, perhaps even respects you. You don’t assume Levi watches for whether you’ve eaten, or that he’s memorized how you take your tea, or that he once spent ten minutes deciding whether he should knock on your door with medicine in his hand when you were out sick one day.
Hange assumes all of it, and unfortunately for you, Hange assumes very loudly.
In the mess hall, you sit alone at the end of one table with a bowl of stew, a cup of tea, and a stack of formation notes you’re trying to read without dripping broth on them. Even now, you don’t know how to stop working. Hange slides into the seat across from you so quickly that the table shifts. You look up, raising your brows.
“Hello to you too,” you say.
“You and Levi,” Hange says.
You pause with your spoon halfway to your mouth. “Me and Levi what?”
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you haven’t noticed.”
You stare at them, and Hange stares back, eyes bright behind their glasses, their expression so gleeful it’s almost terrifying.
“Hange,” you say slowly. “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Their smile falters, then returns even wider. “Oh, that’s even better.”
“Why am I scared?”
“You should be. I know something.”
“You say that a lot.”
Hange waves that away, then leans closer. “Levi has a crush on you.”
You almost drop your spoon into your lap. Surely they must be joking, right? The words don’t even make sense at first. They enter your brain, bounce around for a few seconds, then immediately get rejected by every sensible part of you.
“Levi,” you repeat.
“Yes.”
“Captain Levi Ackerman.”
“Yes.”
“Humanity’s strongest soldier. That Levi.”
“Do we have another emotionally stunted short man named Levi wandering around?”
You look across the mess hall at Levi, standing near the far wall, speaking with Erwin. His arms are folded across his chest, face blank as always. Nothing about him suggests he has a crush on you. The man looks like he was born to disapprove of everyone and everything. To be fair, he already does.
“He insulted my uniform,” you say.
Hange leans even further in. “I saw him fix your cloak.”
“He told me my paperwork was tolerable.”
“Levi considers tolerable high praise.”
“He said I would make a terrible wife.”
“He was totally thinking about you being his wife.” You open your mouth, then close it, because you have absolutely nothing to say in response to that. Hange presses on with a devilish smile. “He brings you tea, too,” they say.
“So?”
“Good tea.” That makes you pause. “He corrects your supply forms before Erwin sees them.”
“So? He corrects everyone’s forms.”
“No, he writes ‘redo this garbage’ on everyone else’s. Yours come back fixed.” You can only blink in response. “He always says something when your squad gets stable duty, and somehow those assignments always mysteriously change.”
“That could be Erwin.”
“It’s not Erwin, trust me.”
“Okay, well… he criticized my gear.”
“That was only an excuse to touch you.”
“Hange.”
“What? I’m observant.”
You sneak a glance at Levi again, and as though sensing your gaze, he looks over. His eyes meet yours across the mess hall, and you see the smallest shift in his expression. A fondness you hadn’t seen before. He then notices Hange sitting across from you, sees the wide grin on their face, and he narrows his eyes with immediate suspicion. Hange waves. Levi looks like he’s considering whether he could get away with murder. Then you notice—and you’re entirely convinced you’re just seeing things—the redness blooming across his cheekbones when he looks at you again.
Oh.
Oh?
That is, unfortunately, very cute.
Then you realize. It all hits you at once. The tea outside your office, the fixing of your cloak, the bread that mysteriously showed up on your desk, the fact that he somehow always manages to appear when you’re carrying something heavy, the way his insults land just a little softer when they’re directed at you.
“You’re enjoying this, you naughty thing,” you accuse Hange.
“Immensely.”
“If you’re wrong, I’m going to look very stupid.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“You’ve been wrong before.”
“I’m rarely wrong in matters this entertaining.”
Across the room, Levi pushes away from the wall and starts walking toward you. You feel your stomach drop as Hange stands up.
“Good luck,” they whisper.
You look to them in panic. “Hange, don’t leave—”
“Be gentle. He’s not emotionally housebroken.”
They vanish before Levi arrives, leaving you sitting with your lukewarm stew, your scattered notes, and the sudden realization that Levi Ackerman has been crushing on you for who knows how long now?
Levi stops beside the table. “What did they say?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “Nothing usually means something.”
“It means nothing, actually.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
You look up at him and, for the first time, allow yourself to study him with the possibility of affection returned. He looks the same as always: tight mouth, sharp eyes, neat cravat, straight posture. But now you see the tiny tells beneath it. He doesn’t look at you directly for too long. His attention flicks to your tea, your food, your notes. His fingers twitch once at his side before he forces them to be still.
He’s nervous. Levi Ackerman is nervous.
You nearly break into a way-too-obvious smile, but thankfully, you manage to just tilt your head. “Captain,” you say, “are you worried about me?”
“No.”
“Well, that was a quick answer.”
“Because it was an easy question.”
“So you’re not worried about me.”
“No.”
“And if I skipped dinner?”
His eyes flick to your bowl. “You’re eating dinner.”
“But if I did.”
“Then you’d be an idiot.”
“You’d notice, though.”
Levi looks at you pointedly, and you smile. You see the visible tightening around his mouth and the subtle shift in his breathing.
“Hard not to notice when someone is being an idiot in public,” he says.
You lean your chin into your hand. “You know, if you wanted my attention so badly, you could’ve just asked for it.”
You swear Levi stops breathing. You see the hitch in his breath. His face doesn’t change as much, but you see the subtle shift in his eyes, the catastrophic collapse happening behind them that he’s so desperately trying to hide.
She knows, Levi thinks, then with rising horror, She knows, and Hange told her. I’m going to kill them. “I have better things to do than ask for your attention,” he says, swallowing through the tightness in his throat.
“And yet, here you are,” you say, smiling widely.
Because he doesn’t know where else to look, he peers at your notes. “Your handwriting is messy again.”
“Deflection.”
“Mere observation.”
“You make a lot of those about me.”
“Someone has to.”
You laugh. Levi wishes he didn’t love that sound as much as he does.
You become an absolute menace after that.
.
You don’t do it immediately—you’re too clever for that, and Levi is too slippery to corner. So, you start with small things, such as sitting beside him instead of across from him at the next briefing, which he notices immediately. He stiffens in response.
“Morning,” you say cheerfully.
He looks at the empty chairs around the table. “There are other seats.”
“I like this one.”
“It’s too close.”
“To what?”
“To me, idiot.”
You look at him innocently, batting your eyelashes. “Am I bothering you, Captain?”
Yes, Levi thinks, because you’re too close that he can clearly smell your divine scent, and because your sleeve brushes his when you reach for a report, and because he can see the little crumb that you must not have fully swept away on your mouth and wants to stupidly wipe it off.
“No,” he says.
“Good.”
Hange bites their knuckles across the table.
Later in the mess hall, you ask Levi to pass you a fork. The utensils are closer to you than to him. It doesn’t go over his head, but he reaches for it anyway, because he’s embarrassingly obedient to you. When he hands it over, you deliberately brush your fingers over his. Levi nearly drops the fork. He doesn’t, thankfully, but he manages to keep his hand steady, even though internally, he wants to run face-first into a wall.
You lower your voice. “Careful, Captain. You seem distracted.”
He glares at you. “You’re imagining things.”
“Oh, am I?”
“Yes.”
“That was also a very fast answer.”
“You ask stupid questions.”
“And you still answer them anyway.”
You catch his eyes flicking down to your mouth only once, only for the smallest amount of time, but you see it, and all traces of wanting to tease him escape your body.
For all your amusement, for all the fun of watching him unravel, you’re not immune to him. Levi’s awkwardness is adorable, yes, and his insults are ridiculous as they are normal, but you know how to decipher the way he shows you attention. He’s always fiercely contained. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to crack that composure just a little.
After dinner, he follows you in the always-empty corridor outside the mess hall, the one just around the corner. He positions himself in front of you, standing near a window where the moonlight cuts across his face.
“You’re doing this on purpose now,” he says.
You stop walking. “Doing what?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not. I want to hear you say it.”
He clenches his jaw. There’s no one else in the corridor, so surely, he can say it with little repercussions, right? Levi looks at you, then shifts his gaze away.
“You’ve been acting strange,” he says.
“I’ve been acting strange?”
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting.”
“No, it’s just annoying.”
You step a little closer, but Levi doesn’t move. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” you ask softly.
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re not making me uncomfortable.”
“Then what am I making you?”
His eyes meet yours, and for once, he doesn’t seem to have an insult resting on the tip of his tongue, ready to strike. The silence stretches for a moment longer than necessary.
“Annoyed,” he says finally, crossing his arms.
“Ooh, that’s the answer you’re going with?”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
“Levi.”
His name again. You use it gently, and the effect it has on him is visible in the slight flare of his nostrils and his fingers flexing once against his sleeve.
“You can tell me to stop,” you say.
“I know.”
“And?”
“And I won’t.” Levi looks irritated by his own honesty, but he doesn’t retract. His gaze drops to your mouth, snaps back to your eyes, drops again before he can stop it, and this time both of you know. Both of you feel it. Both of you stop denying it. “I can’t think straight around you,” he says very quietly. The words seem to surprise him as much as they surprise you.
Your smile melds into a softer one. “Do you want me to back off?”
“No.”
You take another step closer. “Do you want me to keep teasing you?”
Levi looks genuinely pained when he says, “You’re enjoying this too much.”
You shrug. “A little.”
“Brat.”
You raise your hand slowly, giving him enough time to move away if he so wishes, and you touch the edge of his cravat, feeling the fold beneath your fingers. He tracks the movement with his eyes as if your hand is a blade.
“Do you want to kiss me, Levi?” you ask.
Levi’s heart drops straight through the floor. There are many things he can do under pressure. He can make impossible decisions with blood on his hands. He can move faster than fear. He can face death with a blank expression. But this—a direct question, so clear in its intent, asked in your soft voice while you stand close enough for him to count your eyelashes—destroys him completely.
But he’s tired of losing to himself.
“Yes,” he says.
“Then what’s stopping you?” you whisper.
He waits a second longer, just enough to make sure you don’t step back or retreat fully, just enough to give you the chance to change your mind. You don’t, so Levi kisses you.
At first, he’s too careful, his mouth pressed against yours with restraint. It feels like he’s holding back an army, one hand hovering near your waist before he places it there. You feel the tension coiled in him, the uncertainty buried inside him. Levi doesn’t kiss you with any sort of confidence. He’s scared. You can tell. So you help him. You step into him, sliding one hand to his shoulder and the other to the side of his face, and kiss him back hard enough that his breath leaves him in a startled exhale.
Then he changes. Some guarded place inside him finally lets down its walls as his hand grips your waist and his mouth moves against yours with deeper intention, having thought about this moment for longer than he’ll ever admit. Every insult and cup of tea has been leading him here, to this corridor, to this moment, to the relief of wanting you and discovering that you want him too.
And goddamit, do you want him.
When you part, you stay close, your noses brushing, his hand still at your waist, having forgotten to let go—and when he remembers, he still doesn’t pull away. He notices your smile first.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re totally blushing.”
“What? No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Stop it.”
“Levi Ackerman is blushing from one kiss?”
“You and your fucking ego.”
You laugh, and he can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his lips. Then he’s pulled back to exactly how you even got to this point, and his almost-smile curdles into a scowl.
“Don’t flirt with me in front of Hange again,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because they’ll never shut up about it.”
You tilt your head. “And?”
Levi looks down the corridor once, then turns back to you. “And because I’ll probably embarrass myself,” he almost mumbles.
“You didn’t embarrass yourself,” you say. He looks slightly skeptical. “Levi. I asked you if you wanted to kiss me and you said yes. That was actually very impressive.”
“Tch.”
“For you, I mean.”
He narrows his eyes. You just laugh and kiss his cheek once before walking away with glee in your steps, leaving behind a very miserable, blushing Levi.
.
The days after your kiss are strange, for lack of a better word. You and him don’t announce anything to anyone else, which Levi appreciates, because if Hange finds out, he’ll never know peace again. But privacy doesn’t mean mercy—you’re too evil for that. You’re gentle with him still, but you’re also you, and you’ve realized very quickly that Levi’s composure is a door with a faulty hinge.
You touch his hand in meetings. You call him Levi and sometimes Vi in passing and watch him stop as his face flushes red. You smile at him over your drinks and soup and bread in the mess hall. You tell him, after one long afternoon of reports, “You know, you’re almost sweet when you’re pretending not to be.”
He looks up from his paperwork and accidentally leaves a line of ink across the page. You stifle a laugh. He’s not going to be happy when he looks back down.
“I’m not sweet,” he says.
“Almost sweet.”
“Still wrong.”
“You brought me tea yesterday unprompted.”
“I always do. And you looked dead.”
“Aw, you noticed?”
“Hard to miss.”
“Because I looked pretty?”
“Because you looked dead.”
“Pretty dead?”
He stares at you. You stare back. His mouth twitches first.
Another thing that fits into your long, exhausting days are the stolen kisses. A brief one in the narrow hall outside the records room. A longer, messier one in his office after you bring him corrected notes. One in the shadowed stairwell that ends with him muttering, “You’re going to get us caught,” even though he’s the one who pulls you back by your wrist when you start to leave.
Every kiss teaches you something. Levi likes to pretend he isn’t affected by you, but he’s always betrayed by his hands. They start almost formal, then grow bolder when you respond, fingers spreading along your waist, your back, the side of your neck. He doesn’t make much sound unless you surprise him, and once you realize that, you become silently determined to surprise him every chance you can get.
He learns too. He learns that you like when he says your name softly, in the low, rough voice he uses when he’s too flustered to hide behind composure. He learns that you laugh into kisses when he deepens it out of nowhere. He learns that if he cups your jaw and tilts your face toward his, your breath catches so beautifully that it makes his heart flip.
One night, after a late strategy review, after Erwin dismisses the squad leaders and Hange leaves with an extremely pointed and suggestive look, Levi mutters, “Walk into a Titan’s mouth,” under his breath as soon as the door shuts and returns to his office. You join him because Levi still has your patrol notes. It’s just an excuse—both of you know it.
Rain taps gently against the windows. Levi stands behind his desk with your papers in one hand while he scans the revised schedule. Meanwhile, you lean against the edge of a cabinet and try not to watch his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“You changed the rotation,” he says.
“Mhm.”
“It’s better.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Was that praise I just heard?”
“Observation.”
“A positive one.”
“You’re making it weird.”
He looks up, but there’s a different look to his eyes, something worn down by days of wanting you and stopping and wanting you again. You feel your body answer, a warm pull in your lower stomach, the ache that’s been building every time he kisses you longer than you expect. Levi sees your expression shift, and he grips his papers tighter.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to start trouble.”
You push away from the cabinet slowly. “Would you like me to stop?”
He hates that question with a passion. Every time you ask it, it matters. You give him enough space to refuse, to breathe, to get himself together, and it makes him want you more than any stupid flirtatious remark ever could.
“No,” he says.
You approach him slowly. Levi sets the papers down, aligning them with the edge of the desk, as he always does. When you reach him, you don’t smash your lips against his—even though you desperately want to. Instead, you touch his sleeve first, then his wrist, then the back of his hand where his fingers rest against the desk.
“Stop thinking so hard,” you say.
“It’s what I’m used to.”
“I know.”
His gaze drops to your mouth. “You make it worse.”
“Good worse or bad worse?”
“Depends on what you do next.”
You kiss him, and there’s nothing quick about it this time. Levi’s hand rises to cup your face almost instantly, gripping your jaw firmly. The little sound he makes when you press yourself up against him is so involuntary, it makes your pulse jump and heat spread through your limbs. You back him into the desk by accident or maybe not, and he reaches up to grab your waist with his other hand. The desk creaks behind him.
Levi breaks away first, breathing unevenly, forehead nearly touching yours. “Wait,” he says.
You freeze immediately. “Sorry.”
“No, not—” He exhales sharply, frustrated with himself, then looks away. “Not stop. Just wait.”
You nod, sliding your hands down to rest against his chest. “We can wait.”
“That’s—no, that’s not what I—I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
There’s no insult waiting on his tongue this time. Levi looks down at your hands against his shirt, at the simple intimacy of being touched without being grabbed or wanted without being cornered. He swallows. You watch the anxiety move through him, which might not be visible to anyone else, but it’s obvious to you now.
“I’m not…” He stops, then sighs. “I’m not inexperienced, but I’ve only done this once before. A… a long time ago. It wasn’t—” His mouth twists. “It was fine. But it wasn’t this.” Levi looks angry with himself for even saying it. “And now you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“I—I don’t know. Like I’m—like you could break me.”
“I don’t think that. But you are nervous, aren’t you?” His silence answers for him. You lift one hand to his face, touching him with enough care that he nearly closes his eyes. “That’s okay.”
His laugh is barely a breath. “Doesn’t feel okay.”
“It is. I promise you.”
“I don’t want to be bad at this.”
You smile and brush your thumb along his cheek. “Levi, you’re not being graded.”
“That sounds like something you say before giving a bad grade.”
You laugh softly. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I want you,” you say, and your directness makes him freeze. “I don’t want a perfect version of you who knows exactly what to say or do. I want you. Nervous you, awkward you. A you who insults me because you don’t know how to flirt—”
“I know how to flirt,” he frowns. “I told you that you looked better than you did yesterday.”
“That is the worst excuse for flirting I’ve ever heard, baby,” you whisper. His ears turn red, and you grin.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
You kiss him again. His hand comes to rest on your waist, your fingers slide beneath his jacket, and his breath hitches when you move closer. Levi’s anxiety doesn’t just disappear, but his nerves settle under your touch. With your comfort, he’s able to move through them instead of having them stop him.
When you begin taking off his jacket, you pause, waiting. He nods once, so you continue, and the jacket falls from his shoulders. Levi catches it before it can hit the floor, and in a motion that stuns you, he turns, folds it once over the back of the chair, smooths the fabric out, then turns back to look at you.
You stare at him. He stares back. “What?” he says.
“Are you seriously folding your clothes right now?”
“I’m not leaving them on the floor like an animal.”
“Levi.”
“What?”
“We’re having a moment.”
“And I can have a moment and have basic standards too.”
You look at him for a second, then you start laughing, almost too loudly. It spills out of you before you can stop it. You don’t know what you expected, but you honestly shouldn’t be surprised that Levi Ackerman can be flushed, breathless, visibly aroused, and still be a clean freak.
“If you laugh at me right now, I’m leaving,” he mumbles.
“No, you’re not.”
“No… I’m not,” he says, irritated that he’s proven your point.
You catch his face in both hands and kiss him before he can recover, and that completely breaks his restraint. He grips your waist as he turns you and presses you back against the desk, enough to make you gasp and make his breath shudder in response. You feel him tremble once, or maybe it’s just you, or maybe it’s both of you. When you slide your fingers into his hair, ruining his neat parting, he makes a low, strained sound against your mouth.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You tell me if—”
“Yes.”
He searches your face for any hesitation. “Don’t just say it because—”
“Levi,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his. “I promise. I’ll tell you. You tell me too.”
He swallows, then he nods. He folds his cravat next, because that’s also non-negotiable, and you bite your lip so hard to keep yourself from laughing that he points at you and says, “Don’t.” You help him with your own clothes and he tries not to stare too obviously until you step closer and guide his hands to you.
“You can touch me,” you say.
He flexes his fingers. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m not trying to be an idiot.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“But I trust you.”
Levi pulls you into the adjoining room—his quarters, a space you’ve only seen in glimpses before. He leads you there with your hand in his, fingers laced tight. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you both stare at each other. You feel your heartbeat in your throat as you both begin shedding the rest of what you’re wearing.
Levi pauses, his shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes flicking over you with that same mix of hunger and hesitation that’s been building for weeks. “Can I… undress you?” He sounds like he’s asking for permission to breathe.
You nod. “Yes.”
He exhales, the sound shaky, and steps closer. His hands rise to your shoulders first, sliding your shirt off. He follows the path of the fabric with his mouth, soft kisses pressed to the curve of your shoulder, then the side of your neck. His breath is warm.
Then you feel the faint tremble in his fingers as they roam lower, tracing the line of your ribs, the dip of your waist, mapping you without looking. He tugs at the rest of your clothes, peeling them away until you’re bare before him. His eyes are dark and wide with want. He can’t believe that you’re real, that you’re here, that you want him. The anxiety spikes again, making his hands shake just enough that you notice.
You reach up, covering one of his trembling hands with yours. You whisper against his ear, “It’s okay, Levi. Breathe. I’m right here with you.”
You see his shoulders loosen by a fraction. He presses a longer kiss to your neck, sucking gently at the skin until a bruise blooms. He then pulls back to finish undressing himself. You don’t pay attention to where the rest of his clothes end up, because by the time they’re off, he’s guiding you back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as he climbs over you.
He doesn’t hesitate when he shifts lower and settles between your thighs. Without warning, he dives in, mouth hot against you as his tongue strokes in a long, slow lick. It sends a jolt straight through your core. You jump, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through his locks and gripping tight. The sensation is overwhelming despite its lightness.
Levi pulls up immediately, concern flashing across his face. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, then you see the panic overtake him. “I’m sorry, I should have asked first, I just—”
“Don’t stop,” you breathe out quickly, your grip on his hair easing but not releasing. “I was just surprised. It felt good—really good. Please, keep going.”
You see the relief wash over him. Something hungrier takes its place. He nods once, then lowers himself again. His tongue teases your clit in firm strokes, alternating pressure that makes your hips twitch upward. At the same time, one hand slides between your legs, fingers slicking through your folds before one presses inside, curling just right as he adds a second.
The combination is devastating—his mouth sucking and licking with growing confidence, fingers thrusting in a steady rhythm that gathers heat in your belly. Levi’s thoughts race. He wants you to feel good. He wants to make you fall apart—and it shows in the way he devours you. His tongue flicks faster over your sensitive bundle of nerves while his fingers work deeper, scissoring gently to stretch you.
Your moans threaten to spill out too loud, so you grab the corner of the pillow and bite down hard, the fabric muffling the sounds as your back arches. Levi notices, glancing up with a small, breathless laugh.
“Cute,” he says, the word soft and fond before he doubles his efforts. His tongue presses flat and broad, then flicks rapidly while his fingers pump in time. The wet sounds of it mix with your muffled gasps. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter, your thighs trembling around his head as he pushes you higher.
Your orgasm crashes over you in waves. Your body clenches around his fingers as you ride it out, hips rolling against his mouth. He doesn’t pull away, licking you through every pulse, drinking you in with appreciative sounds until the peak fades and you’re left panting. The pillow is still clutched in your teeth.
Only then does he ease back. He presses gentle kisses to your inner thighs before crawling up your body again. His lips find yours in a deep, lingering kiss. The taste of you is shared between you. He presses against you, hard and aching to feel you, but he’s content to just hold you close.
He trails kisses from your jaw down to the middle of your throat. You feel the rapid beating of his heart against your chest, matching your own. When he pulls back slightly, his eyes are dark and wide, but you can see the flicker of anxiety within them—the hesitation that he's been dragging with him the moment you stepped into his quarters.
“I want to,” he says. His fingers trace your hipbones. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t—” He stops, clenching his jaw, searching for the right words that won’t make him sound as vulnerable as he feels inside.
You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You won’t hurt me,” you whisper. “We go slow. We stop if anything feels wrong. I trust you, Levi.”
The sound of his name seems to unlock something in him. He exhales shakily, nodding once, and shifts his hips to align with you. His length presses against your entrance. You feel the tremor that runs through his arms as he braces himself above you. He’s trying so hard to be controlled, to be careful—but you can see the strain in his shoulders and his breath hitching.
He pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense. Your breath catches, back arching slightly as your body adjusts. He’s thicker than you anticipated, filling you almost overwhelmingly. Levi notices instantly and freezes, his eyes snapping to yours with panic.
“Are you—should I stop?” he gasps, already starting to pull out.
“No!” you manage to say, gripping his shoulders tight. You wait a moment, letting yourself relax around him. Then you let out a breathy laugh that’s half wonder and half sensation. “You’re just… you’re big. Really big.”
Levi scoffs, though the sound is strained and his face is flushed. “Stop exaggerating,” he mutters. He’s still holding himself perfectly still, afraid of causing you pain by moving.
“I’m not exaggerating,” you insist, squirming slightly beneath him, which makes him groan low in his throat. “I need a minute to adjust. You’re filling me up so much, Levi.”
The explicit confirmation completely breaks him. His face goes red—truly, deeply red, even coloring the tips of his ears—and he lets out a choked sound of embarrassment. He ducks his head down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, hiding from you. You feel the heat of his blush against your skin and his chest rising with mortified breaths.
You can’t help the small giggle that comes out. You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close. “Hey,” you whisper. “It’s a good thing. I promise. Just… give me a second.”
He mumbles something unintelligible against your neck. His hands slide down to grip your waist. You feel the slight shaking of them. Even now, while he’s joined with you, he can’t shake his nerves. It’s almost endearing.
Once the initial burn eases into a pleasant ache, you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him deeper. “Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, move. Please.”
Levi lifts his head slowly. His expression is still flushed, eyes glassy with arousal. He searches your face for any sign of discomfort. When he finds none, he begins to move. His first thrusts are almost torturous in their gentleness. He rocks into you with shallow rolls of his hips, testing the rhythm and depth, watching your face carefully for any adverse reactions.
“You feel,” he starts, then stops, letting out a sharp breath. “You feel too good. I can’t—”
“Then don’t hold back,” you tell him, dragging your nails down his back. “Let go, Levi. I can take it.”
The leash around his neck snaps. His pace quickens, thrusts deepening as he loses himself in the sensation of you wrapped around him. The bed shifts beneath you, the frame groaning as he moves faster and harder. The sound of your skin meeting grows louder in the quiet room. He’s still trying to maintain some control—you see it in the strain of his neck muscles. But it’s slipping, eroding with every clench of your body around him.
You look up at him, watching the first bead of sweat forming on his forehead. His hair has fallen into his eyes. He’s beautiful like this—undone and desperate.
“Captain,” you whisper.
Levi’s eyes flash. He responds with a single, brutal thrust that drives the air from your lungs and causes you to throw your head back against the pillow. You cry out, hands flying to grip his biceps. Your nails dig in hard enough to leave marks.
He doesn’t apologize. He leans down, kissing you as he continues to drive into you. His tongue sweeps through your mouth, devouring, and you meet him eagerly. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he increases his pace. The kiss becomes messy, teeth clicking, breaths mingling in gasps. He pistons his hips, each thrust rocking the bed against the wall.
You’re his. That’s the only thought in his mind now, primal, washing away the last of his nerves. You’re here and you’re his and you want this, want him. He can’t focus on the kiss anymore, can’t split his attention between the taste of your mouth and the heat gripping him so perfectly. He breaks away with a low sound, forehead dropping to rest against yours. His eyes squeeze shut. He surrenders completely to the need pounding through him.
His hips become relentless, a rhythm that has you gasping and clutching at him. You feel the tension coiling low in your belly again. The friction of him drags against your walls, building you toward another peak. The sounds coming from you are embarrassingly loud—moans and whines that seem to echo. You instinctively raise a hand to cover your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.
Levi’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist before you can hide your sounds. He pins your arm back against the pillow, then does the same with the other. He traps both wrists in one of his hands above your head. His eyes open, burning into yours.
“Don’t,” he growls, voice gravelly. “Don’t cover your mouth. I want to hear you. Need to hear you.” He ruts in particularly hard, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Louder,” he demands, practically begging. “Please, let me hear how good I’m making you feel. Let me—fuck—let me hear it.”
His words, the desperation in them, the way he’s holding you open and vulnerable while he pounds into you, has your toes curling and back arching off the bed. You let the sounds come freely, cries of his name breaking from your lips. He groans in response, a visceral sound of satisfaction. His free hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing in circling strokes.
“Levi—” you gasp, straining against his grip. “I’m close, I’m so close—”
“Cum for me,” he pants. His own rhythm falters slightly as his own peak barrels down on him. “Cum on my cock, let me feel you—”
The coil snaps. You cry out loudly as the pleasure crashes over you in waves. Your cunt clamps down on him so tightly he curses, a strained, filthy sound. He keeps thrusting through your climax, dragging out the bliss until his own control breaks.
With a final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his body locking into place above you. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the heat of his release flooding you as he cums with a ragged groan. He collapses forward, but catches himself on one arm. The other releases your wrists to cradle your face instead.
He kisses you messily as he empties himself into you, his hips giving small, involuntary jerks with each pulse of his orgasm. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down. He kisses you through the falling peak, his tongue languid against yours now. When he finally pulls back slightly, his eyes are half-lidded and dazed. The anxiety has been completely washed away and replaced by something sated.
“You okay?” he mutters, thumb stroking your cheekbone.
You laugh and press a kiss to his jaw. “Better than okay. You?”
He huffs out a sound that might be a laugh. He hides his face in your neck again. “Yeah,” he breathes against your skin. “Yeah. I’m good. We’re good.”
When he pulls back again, you see the color high on his cheeks again. He slowly withdraws and falls beside you. The room is dark except for the grey light from the window. Levi lies stiffly at first—as if sharing a bed with you is somehow more intimate than the sex. You almost laugh again, but then you see the uncertainty in his expression.
You touch his bare chest, fingers stroking his skin. He looks at you. “You can relax,” you whisper.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re all tense like you’re on trial.”
His mouth twitches, so you move closer, resting your head on his shoulder. After a moment, his arm wraps around you, tentative for half a second before it relaxes, drawing you against him.
“There,” you say. “Wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
“Tch. You’re annoying.”
“You like me.”
He’s quiet for long enough that you think he’s either asleep or just ignoring you, but then his arm tightens around you.
“Yeah,” he says.
.
Morning arrives. You don’t know where you are at first. There’s a strange warmth at your back, light pouring through at an angle that you usually don’t see in your room, the faint smell of black tea and clean linen, and an arm resting around your waist.
Then Levi shifts behind you, and everything comes rushing back to you so fast your only response is a small squeak. You remember the office, his confession, his stupid folded jacket, his mouth and hands, his body fitting against yours.
You turn carefully. Levi is awake, his hair slightly disheveled as his eyes fix on you, less guarded than usual. “Morning,” you whisper.
He stares at you for a few seconds, then, because he’s Levi and doesn’t know what else to say, he says, “You drool.”
You open your mouth in offense. “I do not.”
“You did.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“On my pillow.”
“You’re lying.”
“Badly, apparently, since you’re not convinced.”
You shove his shoulder lightly, but he grabs your wrist without the intent to stop you. He brushes his thumb over your inner wrist once. You look past him and notice his boots aligned near the wall, his pants half-folded on the chair beside it. Then, on the floor near the foot of the bed, you see his shirt. Wrinkled and abandoned and scandalously unfolded. Your eyes widen with joy. He follows your gaze, then freezes.
“Oh,” you say softly, “Captain.”
“No.”
“You left that on the floor.”
“Stop.”
“Like an animal.”
He groans and closes his eyes. You start laughing before you can help it, and he rolls onto his back with a long sigh. He knows it’s way too early in the morning for such nonsense. You know it too. Will you stop? Absolutely not.
“I—I was distracted,” he stammers.
“You? Distracted?”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m incredibly happy about it.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters.
Levi realizes what he said at the exact same moment you do. He opens his eyes, but he doesn’t turn to look at you yet. He stares at the ceiling, wondering if it’s possible to just disappear off the face of the earth forever. You turn toward him slowly, your grin widening and softening at the same time.
“You love me?” you tease.
His face changes in increments: irritation, realization, horror, resignation. “No.”
“Really? You just said it though.”
“I’m tired.”
“So am I, and I’m talking just fine.”
“Fine. Then I was… vulnerable.”
“That’s even worse for you.”
“Shut up.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him while your heart beats hard. “You love me.”
Levi stares at the ceiling, hoping it’ll fall on him and crush him at this very moment. Then, with a sigh that sounds like it was dragged from the very bottom of his soul, he reaches for you and pulls you down against him, hiding his face near your neck where you can’t see the color in his cheeks.
“You’re making this weird,” he says.
“It is weird.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“It definitely does. You insulted me for months because you had a crush.”
“I brought you tea.”
“You called me sloppy.”
“You were sloppy.”
“You also fixed my cloak. What was that about?”
“It was crooked.”
“And you told me my paperwork was tolerable.”
“It was.”
“Marriage proposal,” you whisper.
He groans into your shoulder. You laugh, smiling into his hair. Levi doesn’t tell you to stop, and instead just holds you there, letting the morning continue in all its noise and duty, while the two of you exist in the aftermath of your surrender to each other.
Levi still has no idea what to do with romantic feelings. They’ll remain inconvenient for now. Messy and, quite frankly, a nightmare. But when you trace circles over his shoulder and whisper that he’s the sweetest man you know, when you laugh softly against his mouth after he tells you not to push your luck, when your hand finds his beneath the blanket and he squeezes without thinking, he decides that maybe being terrible at feeling doesn’t mean he can’t learn how to feel.
After all, if you’re the one teaching him, he might just survive it.
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right now? yes. he would be because the emotional neglect of the last six months of your relationship with real bobby has diminished sex to functional. almost mechanical.
this would be passion from early in the relationship again, the giddy kisses, the eye contact, the raw need. and this isn’t accounting for his stamina and whatever other weapons better bobby has stashed away given the fact he’s, y’know, not human. if i said sex with him has the same effect as sex pollen because he’s an entity what then???
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