♥️ UPCOMING: #LEVIMONTH26 ♥️

+++

The papers are signed, and you are ushered into the hall where a newspaper photographer is waiting. He directs you and Levi through an array of stiff, staged poses, asking you to stand close, closer, closer still—until you can smell the bleach on Levi’s shirt. Flash bulbs pop, and afterward, the general claps Levi on the back and wishes the happy couple luck. You are dismissed.

Inside the vehicle, your husband sits with his hands folded and his gaze fixed out the window. You do not speak until the rumble of the engine settles and the driver—an Eldian from the internment zone—opens the door to the modest apartment assigned to you on short notice.

Inside, it’s boxy and pale, with furniture that reeks of varnish. Two glasses and a bottle of sparkling wine wait for you on the kitchen table—courtesy of Captain Yeager, according to the card. Levi roundly ignores the gesture and goes straight through to the living area, loosening his tie. You follow, trying not to retch at the idea of seeing your picture on the front page the following morning.

“You should go ahead and wash up,” Levi says without turning to look at you. The words are spoken with the same intrinsic authority as every order you’ve ever heard him give.

Bitterly, you drop your meager luggage by the door and walk to the bathroom, which is as sterile as the rest. You lock the door, not out of fear but sickening distrust, before sloughing off your ceremony dress. Your hands shake as you stand under the shower and wipe away traces of the makeup the officer’s wife assigned to “prepare” you had insisted upon. A shame, you think, even if the flesh-toned foundation is a shade off and the lipstick is too bright for your taste, as makeup is rarely available in the internment zone due to glycerin rations.

You linger in the bathroom, taking your time. It’s more merciful to hide here, at least for a while.

When you emerge, dressed in a robe, Levi has already moved your things into the bedroom. The walls are papered in an outdated floral pattern that makes you want to gouge your eyes out. You decide it will have to be one of the first things to go, along with the hideous drapes and the phonograph, which would have been more at home in the living room than in here. A set of freshly-embroidered red armbands sits upon the dresser. The sight of them turns your stomach.

“You can have your turn now,” you say, the words coming out frigid.

Levi glances over from where he’s hung his jacket and nods once.

+++

Alone, you change into your nightgown and wonder if the higher-ups bothered posting extra guards or if they decided you’d be a fool for trying to run. They wouldn’t be wrong; it’s one thing to risk your own life, but it’s not the only one at stake. You think of your cousins, all young and barely old enough to understand what has happened, shuffled off to distant relatives with little more than a promise that they would be cared for. You can’t bear to think of them facing the same fate as their parents. Does Marley have a protocol for sending children to Paradise?

The apartment is quiet. The plumbing rattles faintly from the bathroom where Levi is washing up, and somewhere below, a radio is playing music muffled by concrete walls. You move to the closet and find half of it occupied by Levi’s neatly hung uniforms and the other half carefully kept clean and empty, presumably for your use. You think back to the robe carefully left out for you in the bathroom and the modest non-military-issue soap you found in the shower. The idea that the brusque man you married had thought about everything ahead of time infuriates you.

But Levi, as you’re well aware, has an almost pathological regard for routine. He keeps a shoehorn at the threshold of his office and a dish for pocket change on his desk. And you’ve noticed him reach for a spare handkerchief to wipe at a spill or a stray spot on many occasions.

You work efficiently, jaw clenched, emptying your peeling suitcase onto the bed and stowing everything away into its new proper place. What would happen if you just decided to upend all of it? Leave your worn shoes in a heap, scatter your hairpins all over his military precision in defiance? The urge to do so is so sudden it stings behind your ribs, but you refrain.

You’ve folded your last chemise when Levi returns to the bedroom. His hair is damp, and he’s put on a fresh button down with the hem untucked and the sleeves unbuttoned. It is not the first time you’ve seen him a little dressed down, as he so often is late at night when he stops by the canteen for a cup of tea, but there’s an awkwardness to it now. An intimacy that makes your skin crawl.

“Hungry?” he asks.

It’s a simple question. Only one word, and there’s not much intonation behind it. But it brings your blood to boil.

“Don’t,” you hiss, nails biting into your palms. You can’t stand to stand here and pretend you’re anything other than a broodmare for Marley’s wretched furtherance of the Ackerman bloodline. Their perfect, loyal soldiers.

Levi’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a wince. “It was just a question.”

“Well, there’s no need to act like this is a real marriage,” you sneer.

“I don’t intend to make this worse than it is,” he says.

You want to ask what that means, but you’re not sure you want the answer. “Maybe you should have thought about that before you had my family arrested.”

He narrows his eyes. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“You’re a dog of the Marleyan military,” you snap. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re complicit.”

Something flares in his gaze, and before you can blink, he’s snatching your wrist. “Come,” he snarls, yanking you firmly toward the door. You fight him, but it’s no use. He marches you into the living room and takes both your shoulders in his hands.

“Let go of me!” you demand.

“Watch your mouth,” Levi barks, and the gravity in his tone makes you go still. “Don’t talk like that again. You don’t know who’s listening.”

You stare at him, searching for traces of malice or threat, but find only exhaustion. “Where?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

He sighs and releases you, flexing his hands. “In the bedroom. The phonograph.”

“I see,” you say flatly, and with a deliberate turn, you walk to the kitchen, more rattled than you want to admit.

+++

You sit at the little table with the sparkling wine between you, but neither of you opens it. Levi pulls a loaf of bread and a jar of preserves from the paper sack left by the kitchen sink and sets them out matter-of-factly.

“Eat or don’t eat,” he says. “But don’t cry to me if you choose to starve yourself.”

“Is that an order, sir?” you say acridly.

He shoots you a sharp look. “It’s a suggestion.”

You watch him as he takes the seat opposite you and rolls his sleeves one by one to the elbow. He’s always seemed compact under those military fatigues, but the lean, corded muscle of his forearms reveals the true strength of his frame, shaped by decades of training. You know Warrior training is brutal, designed to take the soldiers apart and put them back together into unquestioning weapons of the state. That’s exactly what Levi Ackerman is to you.

“Do you always make sure your prisoners are fed?” Your voice is tart, but you can’t quite meet his eyes. The jar trembles a little in your hand as you twist it open.

“I don’t see you as a prisoner,” Levi says.

“Just as well. I doubt the commanders will care about your opinion.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. He spreads preserves on his bread, then sets the knife down and considers you. “I’m sorry for the position you find yourself in, but it isn’t my doing. Treason has consequences.”

The words are cold, yet the fact that they don’t seem to hold any intentional malice makes it all the worse. Your heart hammers, and your stomach turns. You want to see him choke on the dry bread.

“Disproportionate consequences,” you spit out at him. “My whole family was sent to the island, even the ones that had nothing to do with it. The little ones lost their parents and older siblings. Did you torture them, too? Try to get them to give up our neighbors? Our friends?”

Levi’s face hardens, but he is so impassive, it is impossible to decipher whether your anger moves him. “It is harsh, but that’s how Marley roots our traitors.”

“Traitors?” You let out an incredulous scoff. “They were Eldians, same as you!”

“Exactly,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “And as Eldians, they should have known better.”

The chair beneath you scrapes the floor loudly and you stand. “What do you know?” you ask, voice rising without really meaning to. “You’ve been Marley’s mongrel since the day you were born! And it doesn’t make you any better than us in their eyes.”

“Sit down,” Levi says, eyes darting to the bedroom, where the phonograph sits like a voyeur in the dark.

You don’t sit. You’re too furious to sit. You glare at him, trembling, vision blurring, and consider how far you’d get if you tried to catch a man like Levi Ackerman unaware. When he is asleep, perhaps, or unsuspecting in the shower. It’s a fantasy through and through, because you’re certain you are no match for him in any scenario. But the possibility pulses through your veins, dark and malignant.

Levi calls your name, and you blink. The tears fall hot down your cheeks, and your vision clears enough for you to notice the look on your new husband’s face. He is watching you warily, steel eyes flickering between you and your hand, which you now realize is wrapped tightly around your knife. The blade is still sticky with preserves. You inhale shakily.

“Put it down,” Levi says, almost gently, as he slides out of his chair and inches closer with his hands carefully raised.

You let him approach, lips parted, and his hands close careful around yours. They are shockingly warm for a man that seems carved from unfeeling marble, large and somewhat gnarled from years of strenuous physical activity yet strangely beautiful.

He stands there as you breathe like you’ve just sprinted, and it is almost farcical—as if the bread knife could prove a genuine threat when Levi’s hands are certainly orders of magnitude more deadly. For a moment, you imagine plunging the blade into his chest or your own thigh but loosen your grip instead.

Levi’s shoulders drop. He slides the knife from your hand slowly. There is something unguarded in his face, a momentary slackening.

“Don’t make a scene,” he says, but his voice is low, and if you didn’t know better, you might have heard it as a plea.

The moment passes, and in its wake, exhaustion seeps into your body. You slump back into your chair, and Levi drops the knife to the table with a clatter.

“I didn’t ask for any of this, either,” he says.

He doesn’t scold you further; he just sits down again and resumes eating like nothing happened. You wipe your face with your sleeve, the humiliation mixing in with your anger. You can’t even muster the rage to stomp back to the bedroom. You sit, defeated, and chew mechanically on a hunk of bread

The instant Levi finishes, he stands, collects the dishes, and cleans them at the sink. “You know what's expected of us, don't you?” he says.

You stare at his back, wishing that in all the time you’ve known him in passing, you had learned to read the meanings in his tone. You want to pretend you don’t know, but there are rules, and the rules are as inescapable as walls.

“Yes,” you say quietly.

“They’ll be listening,” he says. “To make sure we comply.”

An image of the phonograph flies through your mind. You want to puke. You want to scream. You want to throw yourself on the floor and cry. But you want to save what’s left of your family, too.

“Fine.” You wipe your face with your palm, surprised not to find more tears.

The faucet runs for several minutes after the conversation has effectively ended as the sound of meticulous scrubbing fills the silence. You wonder if Levi is genuinely that particular or if he simply prefers scrubbing a plate to looking at his wife.

Levi dries the bread knife with a dish cloth, then sets it in the drawer. “I won’t force you,” he says at last. “It—it doesn’t have to be tonight, but—”

He trails off and doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t need to. You understand well enough what he means. It doesn’t have to be tonight, but it will have to be eventually. The government did not arrange this marriage out of charity. Public Security did not spare your cousins because they suddenly discovered a conscience. The officials who witnessed your vows this evening are not expecting companionship or domestic bliss. They are expecting Ackerman children.

“I know,” you say. Perhaps, it should surprise you that he isn’t forcing you. He could do what he wanted; you know this, and that knowledge is worse than fear. You can’t claim to know him very well beyond how he prefers to take his tea, but for some reason, you believe him.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says. “We can figure out what we’re going to do later.”

“You’d rather sleep on the floor?”

Levi’s expression shifts minutely. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

Military camps, your mind supplies. Years of field exercises and of doing whatever Marley demanded of him, even if it meant sleeping in the dirt like the dog he is. And for the first time, you think of what a sad life that must be.

+++

It’s sometime after midnight when the noise wakes you. Falling asleep had been no easy task after such a tense day, especially with the awareness of the phonograph and of the man lying on the floor somewhere behind you.

At first, you’re not even sure you heard it. You lie still beneath the blankets, listening with your eyes open in the dark. For a few seconds, you almost convince yourself it was nothing. Then, it comes again. A sharp intake of breath, followed by thrashing and the incoherent mumbling of someone deep in the throes of a nightmare.

You sit up, blinking against the gloom, and let your eyes adjust. The moonlight through the hideous drapes paints everything in cool silver. On the floor, Levi is still and silent, but only for a moment; the next gust of breath sounds close to a whimper, and his arms jerk taut around the thin blanket.

You’re paralyzed for a split second, then slide off the bed as quietly as you can. In the shadowy limbo between the window and the wardrobe, you make out the sweat glistening on his brow and his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. You could wake him. You think a wife with even a drop of affection in her marrow probably would. It would be easier to turn away and pretend you did not notice. But you don’t move away.

“Levi,” you say quietly, lowering yourself to your knees.

You reach out, and your fingers brush his shoulder. The reaction is instantaneous. One moment, you are kneeling beside him. The next, you are on your back against the floor beside your bed, the air knocked from your lungs, and Levi is above you with his hand around your throat.

There’s a wildness in his eyes that tells you he’s not fully awake when he lashes out, but the panic surging through your veins is real enough. You can see the moment he realizes what he’s done. His pupils dilate, and Levi recoils, his hand vanishing from your neck. He staggers backwards on his hands, and you touch your throat, searching for damage. Your fingers encounter only clammy skin and a fluttering pulse.

“You—” you choke out, then stop. What accusation is there to make? You had known what the Ackermans were.

“What the hell were you doing?” he asks.

You’re surprised by the tremor in his voice, and you sit up, kneading your fingers over the small ache along your windpipe. “You were…making sounds,” you manage. “I thought maybe—”

You cut off the sentence, not sure if you should admit tenderness after everything between you. Levi cards a hand through his dark hair. He looks like a shell of a man, skin sallow and eyes haunted. You wonder if he dreams of Titans or of men in white coats, or if the nightmares claw at him the same way they gnaw at you.

“It’s nothing,” he says roughly, pushing up to his feet. “This was a mistake. I’ll be outside. You stay and rest.”

Speechless, you watch as Levi turns away and crosses the room to the door, not even bothering to collect the blanket and pillow from the floor. Then, he disappears into the living room, clumsily closing the door behind him. A moment later, you hear the scrape of a chair being pulled away from the kitchen table.

You remain seated on the floor. The room feels strangely empty without him in it.

+++

Sleep does not come after that. For two hours, you lie awake, and no matter what you do, you can’t manage to drift again.

You stare at the ceiling and find yourself replaying the look on his face. Not the one from when he lunged at you, but after—that brief, terrible instant when he woke and understood what he had done. As though nearly hurting you had frightened him more than whatever dream had dragged him from sleep.

The realization is impossible to reconcile. As long as you have been old enough to understand what Marley touts as salvation is actually propaganda, you’ve believed Levi Ackerman to be exactly what they made him. An obedient, unquestioning, dangerous weapon. But tonight has complicated things.

You hate complications.

Eventually, frustration outweighs exhaustion. With a sigh, you throw back the blankets. The hallway is cool and quiet as you make your way toward the kitchen. Your throat still aches faintly when you swallow. You try not to think about that, either.

A dim light spills across the floor from the living room around the corner. You pause, hearing a strange sound. A low-throated noise that makes your heart stumble. You worry Levi has fallen into another nightmare and continue forward, creeping quickly on your toes.

Levi sits at the sofa with his back to you, too focused on whatever he’s doing to notice your approach. You take in the tableau and feel a sense of disorientation at what you’re witnessing. The soft intermittent clinking of his loose belt buckle; the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of flesh; the half-muffled groans falling from his mouth. He mumbles something as you approach that sounds suspiciously like your name.

It doesn’t come together in your head until you’re close enough to see—his member, thick and flushed, standing erect where the front of his trousers have been sloppily undone, shining with precum and furiously stroked in one hand. Heat floods your face as blood rushes south to your cunt in a wave of lust, quickly followed by mortification. But by then, it’s too late. The hand freezes, and Levi lifts his gaze to meet yours.

“Shit!” he hisses, scrambling to cover himself with a handful of the forgotten paperwork sitting beside him.

You stare at each other, the air suffocating but crackling with an undeniable electricity.

“You should go back to bed,” he says with a scowl.

Indignance crawls up your throat. It’s not like you were the one caught with your pants down. “Are you always this loud?” you shoot back, but your cheeks are burning, and your thighs press together unconsciously. “What are you doing up anyway?”

“I don’t—” He sighs, disgruntled. “I don’t like to sleep much.”

You stand very still, wondering if he’s even aware of his hand still tenting the stack of official papers, trembling ever so slightly atop his erection. A week ago, you would have had nothing to say to this man but “Would you like more tea, sir?” You would have scurried from the canteen at night to avoid the Warriors entirely. How perverse, then, that you’re the only person alive to catch Levi Ackerman like this.

“You know,” you say, crossing your arms, “I heard you say my name. I think you owe me an explanation.”

Maybe it’s payback or spite, or maybe you’ve lost your mind from the sleep deprivation and dread. He looks at you for a long beat. Then, to your utter shock, a flush rises under the sharp line of his cheekbones.

“Do I?” he says quietly.

“Yes,” you try to snap. “Jerking off to the thought of bedding Marley’s newest breeding sow? Does that help you relax, sir?”

A faint flush appears at the tips of his ears. “You’re one to talk,” he says. “Don’t think I didn’t see you gawking at my cock just now.” His voice is as icy and flat as ever, but despite that—or because of it—heat begins to spiral in your belly. “Were you getting aroused watching Marley’s loyal dog stroke his cock to you?”

“So, you admit it!” you cry, jabbing your index finger toward him. “You were getting off to me! Pervert!”

Levi’s lips tighten in the most infinitesimal quiver before he looks away, fuming. “Yeah, but not for the reasons you think. I’m not a monster.”

“What, is that supposed to be reassuring?” you scoff. “What reason, exactly, makes this better?”

“I’ve been watching you for a while,” Levi blurts out, looking stricken by his own confession. “Back at HQ. I…” He hesitates. “I always noticed when you were in the canteen. How you pour the tea. How neat you keep your apron even when it’s a hundred degrees and the kitchen smells like dog food. I know you hate this, and I don’t blame you, but—” He breaks off, unable to finish.

Your mind races with the implications. You’ve never, not once, thought of yourself as the object of anyone’s desire, least of all the Levi Ackerman. A tremor runs through you.

“You never spoke to me,” you say, narrowing your eyes. It comes out more petulant than you intend.

Levi tenses. “I couldn’t. It... wasn’t allowed. You were never supposed to see this side of me.”

“So, what. Did you make a deal with them? Did you choose me because you liked the look of me?” you ask quietly.

“No!” he shoots to his feet. “Fuck, no! I told you, I didn’t choose any of this!”

The papers scatter, rustling to the floor, leaving him exposed and still half-hard. You swallow thickly. Your tongue feels frozen in your mouth. You’re aware of your nightgown clinging to your thighs, the painful ache of your own arousal, and the immense exquisiteness of having some tiny inkling of control over the weapon before you. You’re conscious, too, of the phonograph on the other side of the wall. Watching, always watching. Your skin prickles.

You take a step toward him anyway. “You didn’t want to marry,” you guess. “But you wanted to fuck me.”

A strangled, incredulous sound escapes him. “It’s not like that—”

But you’re in front of him now, and the words cut away.

“Should I pretend I didn’t see?” you ask.

He glares at you, and for the first time, you don't see only coldness. You are still adrenaline-sick, pulse roaring from the aftermath of nearly being throttled, and yet, what you remember now is the heat of his hand when it had pried your fingers from the knife, how intimate it felt to be the thing he clung to in that moment instead of the weapon.

You tug at the drawstrings of your nightgown. It slumps to the floor, pooling around your ankles, and you stand there, goosebumps feathering up your arms in the chilly apartment. Levi blinks at your nudity as if you’d doused him with cold water. Between you, his cock jumps and starts to twitch back to life.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs.

Liar, you think. But you don't say it out loud. Your hands move of their own accord, reaching for the muscle of his forearm, tracing the lines of his beautiful hand until it shudders.

He doesn’t lunge like you expect. Instead, Levi stands stock still, the steel of his eyes thinned out by the black of his pupils, his sullen face aglow in the wash of city lights through the window. He’s stunning, you think, and you want to punish him for it, even as you yearn to be handled.

“You can touch me,” you say softly.

He does not hesitate now. The soldier learns his new orders instantly. His hand finds your waist, and he draws you closer, till the line of your naked body is flush with his. Your skin tingles wherever he touches you, and you feel the rigid length of him against your thigh, sweltering through his half-hanging pants.

When Levi leans in, as if about to kiss you, you turn away instinctively. But his lips land instead deliberately at the side of your neck, pressing hot against the already flushed skin. Your nerves alight with sensation never before experienced. Is it the act itself, the touch? Or the fact that it is Levi who touches you? You’re too stunned to work out an answer.

His palms skim up your sides, over your ribs to cup your breasts. He works slowly, gently, as if to offer penance rather than foreplay. His thumbs tease the pebbled nipples, and you shiver and gasp. The heat in your lower abdomen, which had already been stirred by the sight of his self-pleasure, now rises to a roaring flame. Contrarily, the flesh between your thighs grows slick with moisture at the same time. You can feel it sliding on your skin with every minute quiver of your frame.

It’s sick, you think. There’s something wrong with you that it feels this good.

“Do you want me to stop?” he murmurs into your neck.

You can only shake your head in response. It’s impossible to believe, in this moment, that this man is the same whose boots you’ve scrubbed clean of mud, the same whose name your family cursed behind closed doors. You can’t help speculating. Had he done this before? A Warrior like him, a god in the eyes of Eldians and a novelty in the eyes of all others, must be coveted by many, you assume.

You try to picture him with other women. The power wrapped up in that strong, lithe body. That stoic brow creased just so with effort. Those beautiful hands, capable of violence, yes, but also of throwing someone around with ease. The thought both galls and thrills you. You’re ruined, you realize, already addicted to the contradiction that is Levi. But the answer is obvious in the way he strokes you. No one has taught him to do this; he’s simply learned how to provide comfort in the only way left to him.

As his hands slide down to cup your ass and draw you tighter against him, there’s a hesitance in his grip that suggests he expects admonishment at any second. Perhaps, he expects you to hit him, to flinch, to run. Instead you press yourself to him bruisingly, letting his cock nudge up between your thighs.

Levi groans, and his hips jerk reflexively, seeking friction. “You’re going to drive me insane.”

Good, you think. It’s the least he deserves. He dips his head to your shoulder, teeth grazing, and your whole body shakes. The air is cool, but where he bites, you feel fire, and where he touches, you ache. You’re barely aware of your own hands until they’re unbuttoning his shirt, forcing themselves under the crisp fabric to move over the ridges of his chest and stomach.

Your breath hitches as the button-down slips off his shoulders and down his arms. Levi is unlike any Eldian you’ve seen before. Not even the dockworkers and trainyard men, toughened by labor but robbed of vigor by the hardships of internment, are built quite like Levi. His pale skin is stretched across hard muscle and littered with scars both old and new—not an ounce of him wasted, his ribs and abdomen cinched tight. You scan his form openly and wonder about the origin of each mark. If they hurt, or if anything hurts him at all.

Levi interrupts your ogling by placing a tender kiss to the center of your throat, right where you can still feel the ghost of his fingers pressing into your trachea. His mouth follows the column of your throat down to where he finds your standing pulse at the hollow between your collarbones. He sinks to his knees—your knees buckle accordingly—and his hands find the backs of your thighs. You lean your hands on his shoulders to keep from collapsing onto him.

He buries his face against your belly, breathing you in. “Stop me if I hurt you.”

The warmth of his breath penetrates your skin. You don’t answer, and anyway, he doesn’t wait for permission. When his mouth finds the soft place above your pubic bone, you gasp. He coaxes your legs apart, and you let him, shame be damned. The heat of his mouth moves lower, lower, and then the tip of his tongue is there, tracing over the wettest part of you.

You stifle a whimper; it feels wrong to make any noise, wrong but addictive. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the flicker of Levi’s tongue at your clit. He buries his face in you, and your hand finds its way into his hair. You nearly yank him away from the oversensitivity, but the pressure only makes him dig deeper. His tongue explores you thoroughly, sometimes darting, sometimes sucking, sometimes simply holding you in his mouth, letting you pulse there.

“Are you so desperate to prove you're not a brute?” you ask breathlessly.

“I’m not the one with something to prove here,” Levi says, his voice a rasp. “You’re the one accused of colluding with Restorationists.”

You nearly laugh, but it breaks into a moan as he presses two fingers into you. You think of the phonograph and the ears surely tuned to it; the impulse to keep quiet only makes you want to scream. So, you let him have it, let yourself gasp and keen and moan until you forget the point of it all.

The first crest of pleasure is so abrupt it robs you of thought. Your body and your thighs threaten to crush his head. There’s a brief moment where you imagine you could kill him like this, the great Levi Ackerman suffocated by your traitorous cunt, but as quickly as it comes, the image is gone, replaced by an explosion of sensation.

You come hard with a strangled cry, riding out the spasms as his hair grows damp with sweat against your skin. When you’ve gone quiet and trembling, Levi rises to his feet, face glistening and gaze hooded, guiding you to collapse against the sofa. You expect him to gloat—maybe even sneer—but when your vision clears, the reality of his state is not what you expected.

Levi stands hunched half over you, bracing one hand on the sofa back by your head. He’s panting hard, flushed chest glistening and heaving with every ragged breath. And his cock is straining, so hard it looks almost painful, leaking copiously from the tip. But somehow, he hesitates. There’s an almost childish anxiety that surprises you, stretching his face tight, and it stirs something akin to tenderness in you.

You reach for him. Groping with confidence you don't possess, you close your fingers around his twitching shaft. Levi’s jaw clenches before a faint, desperate groan escapes. In your hand, he is rigid and feverish, and you feel an astonishing surge of pride at his state. You bring your thumb to the head, lightly swirling the bead of moisture, and he shudders so hard the sinews leap in his neck. Some buried part of you purrs at the power of it.

“Get on the couch,” you whisper.

Levi obeys, lowering himself gingerly over you as you shift longways and part your legs to accommodate him. He hovers above you, looking ruined already, like it’s taking everything in him to hold himself back, and you wrap your thighs around his hips. Your nails dig into the muscled plain of his back, tugging him toward you until the smooth head of his cock is kisses the wet, aching opening of your cunt.

Teeth gritted, Levi glances at your face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he pushes inside. He moves slowly at first, his arms shaking. But once he finds himself surrounded by your slick, silky warmth, his restraint shatters.

The stretch is sharp; you aren’t prepared for the sheer fullness of it, but the thrill of it drives you mad. You writhe, struggling to take him as he pounds into you. His hands move to your hips for leverage, and his grip is tight enough to bruise, even as his brow knits like there’s an apology on his tongue. But he can’t help himself. He can only rut into you like a man too long denied.

He fucks you with a violence that’s nothing like the care with which he’d touched you before as he groans out his pleasure. He rasps into your ear that you feel better than he’d ever imagined, that you’re so tight he won’t be able to last. Every drive of his hips forces helpless gasps from your throat. At some point you realize you’re moaning his name, begging, but you’re not sure whether you’re begging for him to be gentler or for more.

Eventually, he gives up on trying to piston in and out of your cunt and just buries himself deep, rocking slow and hard like he’s trying to leave a mark inside you. Each time you think you’ve gotten used to his size, he shifts, grinds, spears even deeper, and a fresh pulse of sensation makes your vision go white. You lose sense of place and time. The city beyond the walls, the unseen eyes recording you. Warriors, Restorationists, even your cousins. For now, nothing exists outside this small apartment.

You reach up to seize the nape of his neck, hauling him down for a kiss that is all hunger. His tongue finds yours, earnest and clumsy and desperate. The heat is blinding. You clench around him as he thrusts and feel his whole body shudder around you. Levi tears his mouth away from yours to bury his face in your shoulder. Then, with a broken hiss, he comes.

Thick pulses of his release spill inside you. The feeling is foreign, strange yet oddly satisfying, even when that little voice in your head reminds you that this is exactly what the higher-ups want: you, full of Levi until something takes and you’re swollen with his child. You picture yourself bent over the kitchen counter while Levi stuffs you full from behind, fucked on your back in the bed with your legs folded up to your chest, and shudder around his softening cock.

The city is deathly quiet, and you wonder if the phonograph is silent now, too. Whether whoever’s monitoring them has decided their work is done for the night, and if the sound of your moans have made some Marleyan bureaucrat blush behind his typewriter.

Levi’s head is pressed to the side of your throat, so still you think he’s fallen asleep—men, you’ve heard, are supposed to do that, collapse into a doze the second they’ve finished. But then he sighs, and rolls away onto his side, while his hand stays splayed at your stomach. You feel his cum trickling out of you in a slow leak, and the instinct is to rise and clean presses at the edge of your consciousness, but your limbs are submerged in postcoital honey, and Levi’s hand is heavy and warm where it rests on you.

It doesn’t feel real; you’ve slept with a Warrior. Perhaps, Levi has had the opposite thought. But what would your family think if they could see you now?

“You okay?” Levi asks. “That… isn’t how I meant for this to happen.”

He sounds remorseful, watching you with a wariness you used to mistake for malice. You equivocate, looking down at the place where his hand presses into your skin. There’s no way to answer his question truthfully, not with so much still churning in your chest. You want to tell him you feel nothing, that it was merely your duty, a demand of the breeding program—except that would be a lie, and you’re too tired to lie.

“I’m fine,” you say, and you find that you mean it.

You push yourself to sit upright. Levi’s hand slips off your stomach, trailing down your hip, where it lingers for a moment as if reluctant to let you go.

“We’re being listened to, right?” you ask, staring at the empty air.

He nods, shamefaced as a schoolboy. “They’ll check the tapes. It’s a formality, mostly. But…” He shrugs. “Still.”

“And what if the phonograph couldn’t pick anything up from the bedroom?”

“I think you were probably loud enough that they’ll get the idea,” Levi says, a touch of smugness in his tone that sparks some irritation. You smack him, albeit lightly. “Point is, we performed for them. There’s no need to repeat this mistake.”

Your stomach feels like a pit, anger rising hot up your throat. A mistake. As if he weren’t the one touching himself to the thought of you. And now, he’s trying to play the gentleman? You can’t help but call him out on it, and not just because you refuse to resign yourself to an indifferent marriage with him, detached and devoid of passion. You won’t be denied the feeling of his cock inside you again.

“You don’t get to call it a mistake if you’re going to make it again,” you say, shifting upright to straddle Levi’s lap. You grasp his shoulders roughly. Your cunt is slick, and his chest is sticky with sweat. Levi blinks up at you, stunned, as if he can’t comprehend your intent.

You press the heel of your hand into his breastbone, pinning him. With your other hand, you take his spent cock and stroke him languidly and feel him begin to harden again. He murmurs your name dangerously, as if to warn you that you don't know what you’re getting yourself into. But you most certainly do.

“The performance isn’t enough,” you say, like you’re making a logical argument and not actively trying to goad him into another round of sloppy fucking. “The Ministry will be expecting a report within the next few months, won’t they?”

“Yes,” Levi replies, visibly straining to get ahold of himself.

“And I expect they’ll simply replace me if you have nothing to report.”

He takes a beat to answer, hands shakily hovering at your hips. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Conceiving within a few months is a daunting task. Most Eldian women, raised on poor rations, do not conceive in the first year of marriage. If you do not want to fail, you both will have to be thorough to ensure something takes. You press his length, still wet from you, against your folds, and he shudders violently.

“Then, we had better make sure we have something to report,” you say, trying to sound curt.

You don’t quite want to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how addicted to his cock you’ve become after just one fuck, how much you want to feel him breed you deep again, but Levi clearly senses your ulterior motive. He smirks wryly and bends to nuzzle your throat, drawing a little sigh from you that you don’t quite manage to hide.

If there is one night in your life you expect to remember forever, it is this one. Wed by a bureaucratic order, fucked to the brink of obliteration by a man you believed you could only loathe, and now, wanting it again. And again, and again.

Suddenly, he’s moving, standing, and scooping you effortlessly into his arms before you can protest. His strength is astonishing. You stifle a yelp and wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself. His cock valiantly rises to the occasion, hard once again against your ass.

“Efficient,” Levi says like he’s impressed. “I like that.”

And he carries you off to the bedroom.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hello~ One month ago, I, cocky author, thought this chapter was almost ready and I could focus on writing a WIP for a little while before finishing editing. The idea was to update at the beginning of June. Very evidently, I was mistaken. So, very commonplace apologies and gratitude: thank you for reading, even when the chapters take so long. I hope you enjoy it. I wept a couple of tears writing this chapter. I’m very proud of it. I hope you’d love it as well. Please feel free to tell me anything that crosses your mind while reading. Also, I’m too attached to this work now. Can’t believe we are one chapter away from finishing it.

Content warnings [Spoilers]: Angst. Domesticity. Codependent dynamic (sort of). Spiraling Levi and his various very concerning coping mechanisms. Cleaning. Stalking PTSD. Anxiety.  Depression. Much angst.

“Fuck off,” Levi snarls.

His violence is unfit for a supermarket. The fluorescent lights overhead keep their incessant droning. A chorus of beeps rushes from the cash register: five items. Eight furry, deformed animals printed on cereal boxes look at him with ominous eyes. Zeke is grinning, stained teeth bared.

“Levi?”

“Aw.” Zeke’s voice drowns your whisper. It drips with something rotten. “But didn’t you miss me?”

And Levi is grabbing your wrist with too much desperation. He should take you away from that man. He can force his leg; there’s no real wound, anyway.

Nailed in place, he doesn’t tug.

“Shut up.”

“It must have been awfully lonely,” Zeke goes on. He reaches for his wine bottle. It clanks as he lifts it. “I actually hoped to find you. I knew that you’d remember.”

Zeke steps forward.

Levi has the presence of mind to step in front of you. He thinks of the green smoke, the sulfur of titan blood in his nostrils, the entrails of recruits (barely teens most of them) spraying the fields of Shiganshina. You would have died, were you in the charge.

There’s a stain on Zeke’s shirt. Dark red. Nausea rises in Levi’s throat.

“I’m not mad, see,” Zeke says. He extends his arms, bottle grabbed by the neck. “Even if you killed me in the end.”

You say something in a hushed tone—some question, some kind of appeasement. But it sounds like whistles in his ears.

You are shaking. Levi should take you away, but he cannot expose his back. The lesson was ingrained: it cost him two fingers, an eye and his lungs.

“I’d say it was for the better.” The miasma of smoke thickens as Zeke approaches. He’s close enough to touch him. The bottle swings forward; it grazes Levi’s shoulder with its heel in a gesture of warped camaraderie. “You even managed to find your little friend again.”

And Levi thinks of the first night of the Rumbling. Pain exhaled out of his lungs. The quakes of an earth that would be trampled into nothing by giants. The break in your voice as you tried to soothe him into sipping Hange’s soup. He thinks of the Battle of Heaven and Earth: flying and falling amidst the charred remains of whatever poor wretches Eren had reached, gear lightening as the iceburst stone burned away, teeth digging into muscle with blunt force.

Levi steps forward. He doesn’t want that disgusting excuse of a man to speak of you.

“You fucking piece of shit!”

Zeke stumbles backward. But soon he has a smirk back on his face. If Levi just had his knife…

“You are being too rude.” Zeke touches his heart with a melodramatic flourish; he puts on a grotesque pout. “Shouldn’t I also have the right to meet with old acquaintances?”

“I don’t know you.” Your words almost falter under the whirring music of the speakers.  A glistening film covers your eyes. Wet and threatening. But you still shift enough so that you can painstakingly assess the bastard. There’s an incipient recognition in your voice; it asks more of a question than Levi can stand.

“Ah, yes. Of course.” And Zeke senses it. This new life hasn’t made him less cruel. He still revels in having the upper hand. “What did you tell her, Levi?”

He met you when he was five or six and his mother’s hair was still a beautiful black that gleamed like an oil spill when she brushed it at night. She brought men Levi never saw and spent all her money on smuggled tea and old flour. You were as young and as bereft as him. Playmate. Secret keeper. Companion during the long walks to the Underground’s main well where Levi filled buckets of dirt-water and waited for those men to disappear from his mother’s bed. He’d loved you since then.

“Not much, I assume?”

Levi doesn’t reply.

You are listening. Levi’s still grabbing your wrist with too much force, but you don’t flinch.

“Nothing?”  Zeke feigns surprise. He takes out a cigarette from the front pocket of his coat, taps it against his chin. “A bit selfish for a loyal dog. It must have been bad, then.”

After the Battle of Heaven and Earth, steam rose from the earth for days. Then, there were weeks of pyres and months of rains. Levi had stayed at the edges of death: the first refugee camp was erected right next to Eren’s last footprint. The southern countries were quick and generous with their help—at the beginning at least, when the sheer scope of the destruction wasn’t clear yet and humanity could still dream of a frail fraternity. And Levi lay in his pretty little straw cot.

“Let’s go,” he says. Yet, he finds himself unconvincing. He pulls your wrist, but it barely makes you move.

“No.” There’s an apology he doesn’t deserve mixed in with your reply.

You keep your eyes on Zeke. He absorbs the attention like a miserable clown. His lips warp in a gloating sneer. He strides forward, confident in the protection of your curiosity. Closer, his limbs seem to grow back to the lanky, simian length they had back then.

“You have nightmares, I suppose.” Zeke zeroes in on you. Levi can do little more than extend his arm and pretend that it is enough to shield you from the fucker. He makes you step back. “Gnarly things: giant monsters tearing bodies. Right?”

“I don’t know much about the lives of Paradisians. However, have you dreamed about the immeasurable heat that rises from the earth, the world shaking?” Zeke harps on.

Eyes wide, you fixate on Zeke. Tears are freely falling down your cheeks. You are shaking more violently than before.  Levi sees you open your mouth, lips trembling, and close it again, as if no words could form.

When Levi remembered, it was Kenny who managed to tear his hands away from his face. For years to come he joked that he already had the force of a thousand soldiers, that Levi was just about to rip his eyes out. His mother always admonished him with the most sorrowful of downturned lips.

The supermarket is unsafe. The angular shelving. The glass jars filled with marmalades and expensive coffee grounds; Zeke’s shitty wine bottle—Levi could just about see it: a myriad shards scattered on the poorly mopped linoleum floor. You would hurt yourself if you remembered here.

“Hey.” Levi’s soft as he tries once again to make you leave. But you keep looking at the fucker.

A waft of fermented breath scrapes Levi’s nostrils as Zeke laughs.

“Oh. That one rings a bell.” Zeke’s elated as he speaks. He seems childish; it’s the euphoria of talking about it, of finding someone else who witnessed it after years of loneliness. Levi gets it; it’s repulsive—dirt and blood under his nails. “We called it the Rumbling. At the beginning it was just a bogeyman; but Eren was obsessed with the idea. It was a terrible thing. Gruesome, even. I don’t think there was much to recover afterwards. But I didn’t live enough to see that.”

“Go to fucking hell!” Levi snarls again.

“I already went there, Levi.”

Zeke leans back. He scratches the back of his head and stares at the flickering lamps on the ceiling. 

It is then that Levi notices the smudges on his glasses: grease smeared on the bridge and the rim, too many to make out the fingerprints. When he pulls them away from his hair, Zeke’s fingers have a slight sheen.

Dirty hands. Rancid breath. A stain on his shirt. The bottle of wine dangles—nothing but reddish vinegar that smells like shit.  Zeke’s teeth are stained and he has them all on display.

And tears are dangling from your jaw in fat droplets. And his fucking leg hurts. And Levi sees that bastard leaning in, happily discussing the trampled corpses and corpses and corpses that he abetted Eren in strewing across the globe.

“You know, I’m not sure what happened to you back then, but Levi must know.”

The punch is swift. And weak. Still, it makes Zeke stumble. The bottle falls. Green glass smashes against the linoleum. Burgundy spills. It smells of acid.

“C’mon, Levi,” Zeke yells as he cradles his jaw. “Isn’t the past in the past? It doesn’t matter now.”  The smudged glasses slide down his nose.

“Fuck off with your fucking disgusting hands.”

Gaze pinned on the spreading puddle, you haven’t moved.

And Levi wants to take you home. A shower and tea and warm food. You’ll sleep it off. He’ll stay awake, watch you sleep from a chair—far away so that his dirty hands can’t touch you. And somehow, through the night he’ll find the courage to scrape together the words he needs to explain.

Zeke is standing up. With all the grace of a drunkard, he grabs the shelf. Jars of jam are pushed to the floor. Glass upon glass.

He grimaces, but he returns to his jeers: “He hasn’t changed one bit, has he?”

Zeke steps over the broken glass with indifference. It cracks under his dress shoes.

Then, the store clerk arrives. A kid; he’s shaking. He keeps his broom pressed to his chest.

“Excuse me. Good-” He stutters. “Good evening.” He takes a breath so deep his ribcage grows two sizes, clears his throat, and swallows the very apparent fear. “I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises.” His eyes shift between Zeke and Levi as if assessing the danger. “…please.”

The kid seems surprised when the three of you follow him to the entrance. Zeke walks ahead, and he throws back the most pathetic of secret glances. Levi’s grip on your hand is too firm. Your stride is too slow.

Outside, it is still raining.

Droplets hammer down on his head as he takes out his wallet.

“For the damages.” Levi hands the kid enough to cover the wine, the jams, and the fear.

The poor kid is so stupefied that he thanks him.

You apologize, but Levi doesn’t think the clerk heard you as he rushes back inside.

Zeke is still there, watching. His glasses have fogged up. Long blonde hair sticks to his face. Some sort of persistent beast.

“Should we go for a nightcap?” he asks.

“Please leave us alone,” you mutter. You are staring at your shoes, but the plea seems enough to persuade him.

Zeke extends his hand. Under the pink, fluorescent storefront sign, it looks like open flesh.

“Forgive and forget?” he asks. When it’s clear Levi will not shake his hand, he laughs. “Of course. There’s no forgetting.”

Levi doesn’t take his eyes off him until his form has disappeared behind a building.

Beside him, you are quiet. Rain has completely drenched your coat.

You still don’t remember: Levi sees the confusion on your brow.

He takes the umbrella out of his coat’s front pocket. Its plastic sheath crinkles.

“Here.” Levi makes sure it’s covering you fully. “You’ll get sick.”

You don’t reply. Water is pooling just two steps ahead; you keep your eyes trained on it.

“Let’s go home.” Levi tugs your arm and walks.

The streets are emptier. The drumming of raindrops stifles any little noise that might leak from the bars.

You keep pace with trudging steps.

“We’ll drink something else.” Levi finds himself talkative. “An infusion or water. I’ll buy tea in the morning.”

You’ll both take a shower to wash away the smell of cigarettes. And he’ll prepare dinner, something quick and filling. You’ll sleep.

“Or chocolate.” He rattles on. “I think I have chocolate.”

“Levi, I want to go home.”

It makes him stop. A car passes; your shadow elongates across the whole street. He can see his apartment five buildings away. It’s cold and dark and separation tastes like ashes in his mouth.

“No.”

“Levi, please.”

You are still not looking at him. Eyes on the hem of your coat, on your boots, on his hand over yours. There are fresh tears on your lashes. You don’t try to escape his grip.

 “Let me take you.” He chokes the plea out. There’s still your hand under his.

He thinks of the first time he stood in the rain. Furlan and Isabel returned to him in pieces; you were missing. He thinks of the Battle of Heaven and Earth, of that moment of forlorn clarity when the fog lifted and he ceased fighting.

“You shouldn’t.”

Pain catches up to him on the stairs. Torn muscle and bone bitten into smithereens; lungs burned raw, fingers blown away at the knuckle, and hot, hot metal dragging across his lips, his cheeks, his left eye; grief bloating against his ribs.

Levi has to sit down.

You’ll get to your apartment in half an hour. The subway is close enough for it to be safe. He imagines the rain etching away the yellow of your building’s porchlight as you get inside.  He left you the umbrella; you won’t get sick.

His cellphone is but a blurry arrangement of lines until he overfocusses his good eye. Water drips onto the screen. One, two, three droplets from his drenched hair.

“Got home?” he texts you.

You won’t answer.

It takes him too long to get back to his feet. His leg is completely useless now. He grasps the handrail until the carvings of the wood are imprinted on his palm and pulls himself up.

He drags himself back to his floor. His shoes are wet. Soles are slippery. Waxed parquet is too smooth when he compares it to the dirt of the refugee camp: he stumbles twice. He’s cold.

The key clatters against the doorknob as he tries to open the door.

As he takes them off, his boots squelch. He brings them and his dripping coat to the bathroom. A shallow pond forms on the tiles.

The shower does little to warm him up.

Scattered on the kitchen counter lie all the remains of your presence.  The water you had boiled, cooling. Three containers (sugar, flour, salt) you’d taken from the deepest belly of the top right cabinet on your search for tea.  An unused tray. Two cups. Levi doesn’t move them.

He cooks. He eats. Practical, bland, enough.

His phone rests on the table at arm’s reach. It doesn’t light up.

He washes up. He wipes the table clean.

Three tram stops and seven subway stations to your apartment building. You should have already arrived. The chatter of your noisy neighbors should echo through the first-floor hallway as you walk inside. The umbrella would faithfully drip its way into a puddle as you searched for your keys in your bag. You still keep the lilies-of-the-valley he brought you last week. They’ve started to wither; brownish tips. But the sweet, soapy smell would reach the front door.

He hopes you eat something. He hopes you don’t cry anymore. He hopes you sleep tonight.

Pain flares up when he moves his leg and he finds himself sitting on the armchair. He moves the phone to the coffee table.

Rain keeps flooding the streets. Scraps of neon from the laundromat sign float around the edges of his blinds. He stares at the orange glow until dawn gulps it away.

In the early morning, his phone needs to charge and his pains have settled into flailing, aimless muscles.

Levi texts you again.

“Please.”

Afterwards, he severs himself from the screen and leaves it charging on his bedside table.

He cleans the bathroom first.

The puddle beneath his boots and coat spreads its tendrils alongside the grout lines. Levi smells smoke (Zeke’s cigarettes or his mother’s body trapped in a vault of a sky or ashes upon ashes upon ashes of the Rumbling’s dead); the coat must be washed.  He does it by hand, leaning over the shower, left knee throbbing against the hard tile. Then, he relies on the flimsy sunspot in his living room to dry it.

And when the smell lingers, Levi brings out the bleach. He scrubs the bathroom one tile at a time, gloves off. Bleach gets under his nails and stings.

And he thinks of the pristine little house the Global Alliance sent him to when refugee camps were dismantled and the world put away old war relics. Two stories in a quiet neighborhood in Marley—one of the recovered zones, cities all newly built over fertile lands fed by countlesscorpses. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms. A kitchen outfitted with all the modern conveniences wars seemed to forge. The second story served him for shit most days; even with his cane, his leg faltered in the middle of the stairs. He used it for Falco and Gabi’s rooms until they got bored with playing house with him and moved down the street.

Once the chlorine-laced stink saturates the whole room, he checks his cellphone.

“I’m fine,” you write. “Don’t text me, please.”

There’s a five-minute difference between both messages. It’s a useless thing to know.

He strips the sheets from his bed; he lets his washing machine handle them and focuses on the bedframe. He removes the mattress.

His hands are raw from the bleach.

Most of your things are tucked away in his left bedside table. As the washing machine thumps its way to a neighbor’s complaint, Levi rubs the festering wood corners until his rag tears and assembles an exact mental inventory of your presence.

Clothes in the bottom drawer; shit you rummaged for during the nights you stayed over in the top.  Four pairs of socks. Two changes of clothes. Three of Levi’s T-shirts you’d borrowed. A spare phone-charger. A box of tissues. A book you read curled on his chest. A notebook. A pen.

He repeats the list again and again as he scrubs his way through his shitty apartment until the sky darkens one more time. He doesn’t touch the kitchen.

It’s Saturday and a rare spring day without pissing rain and there are teenagers giggling outside as they run towards the tram; there must be some crowded noisy event in downtown Mitras.

Levi is not tired. Cracked hands, buzzing muscles, galvanized nerves. The ache simmering in his leg and fingers. The blurry eye.

Still, he takes a scalding-hot shower. He cooks. He eats. He sits in the armchair and closes his eyes and pretends to fall asleep.

On Sunday, he stands watch in front of your apartment building. There’s comfort in the imagined proximity.

It’s quiet. The hours pass quickly at the café where he sat down—on the terrace, behind a naked hedge, because he has enough shame to hide. They offer him orange juice at breakfast, sparkling water at lunch, coffee between meals. He takes sips and orders food and stares at the leaves burrowing out of the bare branches.

People spill from the subway in mismatched waves. Thin lines of stray passengers, most of the time. At noon, the station disgorges thick crowds searching for restaurants.  A few of them pass by your front porch; no one gets in.

He sees your neighbors. A man leaves in the morning wearing jogging clothes. The noisy couple of the downstairs apartment appears a little after noon; they laugh all the way to a fucking wrecked black car.

Levi doesn’t see you. Then again, there’s the slight rustling of your curtains, moving shadows he seeks when he stares at your windows and that, when found, make him instantly avert his gaze—as if that sham of scruples could absolve him. 

And then he’s once again fourteen in the Underground, still, so still in the shitty straw pallet he used as a bed, counting the seconds between your breaths, saying to himself that as long as he watched, as long as he kept guard, you’d stay with him.

The waiter brings him another coffee. It tastes like shit, but Levi drinks in short sips.

And he tries to parse the words he’d use to explain himself to you, if you ever let him.

And he thinks of his house in Marley. The house he had after the world retired him from all wars. They’d furnished his soulless kitchen with an electric refrigerator and a dishwasher he never trusted enough to use and a motherfucking toaster. The whole world tasted like wet ashes.

Somewhere in the late evening, the waiter speaks to him.

“Sir, we’re closing soon.”

There’s an apology in the statement that Levi barely notices: you’ve turned on the lights in your bedroom.

As he leaves, Levi realizes the ache in his leg has tapered. On his way home, he buys a tin of black tea he doesn’t plan to open without you.

He shouldn’t have come.

You don’t text him on Monday.

It’s sunny. He takes the kids out to the playground after a gruesome counting lesson. They are building make-believe fortresses under the monkey bars. Levi, sitting under a leafless oak, is the old knight they are supposed to protect. Midgame, three kids ask Mr. Levi to tie their shoes (residual pain makes itself known in his left knee).  And it all reminds Levi of Falco, who kept calling him that even when his youngest child got children of her own.

He forces himself to stop checking his phone.

Then, he teaches the kids to make a cat using strings of yarn and recycled bottle caps. There’s a music lesson he doesn’t have to teach and nap time and story time  and pick-up time. The negligent mother throws Levi a dirty look, but she arrives on time.

Falco used to sit down next to Levi’s straw cot and talk about the stupidest of pleasures. Roasted beef and caramelized onions; the clear sky brimming with gold during sunset; clean clothes, those made with that fancy cotton from the south. All were fake: the world had been reduced to skies of smoke and a screen of steam hiding the wide stretches of singed earth. Levi didn’t need to see the world after that first pyre to know it. The wails of his fellow survivors— limbs busted by heat and pressure—were enough of a reminder.

It's easy for him to fall back into old routines: after work, Levi people-watches. He perches himself in the café in front of your house and imagines he sees you amidst the sea of people the subway entrance pukes every three minutes.

He stays for the duration of a shitty black tea blend—enough time to command himself into good behavior (Go home. Eat. Sleep. Don’t call. Don’t text. Wait.)

There, he tries to remember the first time he saw you in your first life. You must have been so small, like he was, and starved and dirty and scared. The child of another whore, maybe. But he has no memories of that.

Then, he pries himself away from the table, one shameful claw at a time.

He goes back to the supermarket on Wednesday. He doesn’t enter; Levi wants to spare the clerk any stuttering attempt to turn him away. Instead, he paces across the street. Without the shroud of grey clouds, the building’s red LED signs look more pitiful than menacing.

Levi sees the plumes of the cigarette before he sees Zeke.

One hand in his trench-coat pocket, he’s leaning against the building’s bricked wall. He glances, shit-eating grin growing, and turns his head back to the sky. He only walks towards Levi when he’s smeared the end of his cigarette on the sidewalk.

“Levi! I knew you’d come back,” he exclaims, arms open in a charade of a hug; the reek of smoke clots in the air—thick enough to make Levi wish for a knife. “It took you longer than I thought, though.”

“You fucking bastard,” Levi replies. He doesn’t like the familiarity that comes with the insult. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“For someone who declares hating me so deeply, you seem very keen on finding me.”

He tries to slap Levi’s shoulder, content. And, when Levi grabs his hand with a disgust-filled grip and shoves it away, Zeke chuckles.  It is almost possible to find sincerity in the gesture.

Clean dress shirt and a pair of new (and somehow ill-maintained) dress shoes. A fucking ugly tie. There’s a smudge on the glasses; a thumbprint starting at the bottom right corner of the left lens.

“You don’t look like shit today,” Levi says.

Commuters snake around them; they come from the tram. Some push.

“Why? Thank you!” When Zeke replies, Levi catches a glimpse of teeth and thinks of Vary’s stomach (and veins, and nerves and muscles) saturating with poisoned wine until he was nothing but monstrous ammunition. He can still hear Zeke’s yell.  “You also look better today. Not limping as much.”

There’s a mother pushing a stroller into the supermarket. She has another kid practically dangling from her arm.

“What provokes it? The rain?” Zeke scratches his left ear. The colorful signs of the shops behind him, stark in the cloudless dark sky, stretch the finger’s shadow into a claw. “It was raining back when you decided to chop my legs off. Makes you remember the explosion?”

Levi found it easy to blank out on the shrill of the Thunderspear. It was the quiet that followed: it sank into his ear, whistling about pain and pain and failure. And the blood from his eye sliding down his temples, and the fingers (knuckle and up blown off) still gripping the trigger and the scent of warm grass wet with the rain.

“Shut up.”

His tone startles the closest passersby: two men discussing EOQs and similar useless shit. They stare and keep their distance as they sidestep.

“Yes, you are right.” Zeke grins, oh so charmed by a hurt, old dog’s barking. He fishes for a metal box in his coat’s pocket, takes a cigarette out and rolls it between his fingers before putting it away. “I suppose this is hardly the place to speak about that.”

Zeke’s staying at a hotel. A slender pile of bricks and black boxes; a façade of hanging greenery and black-framed windows. It’s two streets away from Levi’s.

The presumptuous piece of shit talks all the way there: the canned herring from the Marleyan military rations from back then and the shitty immigration line in the Southern Mitras Airport. The ignorance of that woman over there, with her three children, since the planet is overpopulated and other bullshit, and the stiff collar of his uniform shirt from his warrior days (“Clothes are lighter now; cheaper too.”). The decline of architecture in the face of industrial efficiency and “the Marleyan empire, the one from this life, bequeathed us a striking beauty canon”, but “It’s such a pity foreign nations have infiltrated our great culture”. And he talks about the days he spent in the old Paradis, back when it was the land of Titans, the “disgustingly bland potatoes” and the “simpleton living of a rudimentary people” and of the straw roofs of the country and the abecedarian architecture.

He’s still a complete asshole. But there’s a putrid comfort in hearing someone else speak about the landscapes Levi spent a lifetime in.

There’s a café on the first floor of the hotel.

“Very mediocre blends but it’ll do.” The seats are all driftwood carved into different states of rustic. Bright lights reflect off the white ceramic floors and expose every single knothole in the furniture. “It’s not like your palate will even notice,” Zeke comments while approaching the counter.

The barista recognizes Zeke and rolls her eyes.

As Levi follows the complete pantomime (he watches Zeke order an overpriced, bitter dark roast and orders himself a common brew of tea), he wishes he could resort to the ease of his old blades.

The seats are hard; a branch pokes him in the ass. Zeke gloats in front of him, nasty beard touching the rim of his cup.

You should be home by now, probably making dinner.

“You wanted to talk?” Zeke asks. He’s resting his head in his hand, index finger scratching his ear.

 “What the fuck are you doing in Mitras?” The question is safe, conversational even: mere catching up.

“Consulting gig,” Zeke answers. “The company’s usual brand strategy is a bit too sophisticated for the Paradisian Market.”

“They sent you here for that? You sound like just a pretentious asshole. Those abound here.”

“I’m good at my job. Very good.” Zeke retorts between sips of his esoteric coffee order. “Although not as good as I was back then.” He talks about the past with shameless glee, the fucker.

Outside, a motorcycle speeds down the street. The roar seems to multiply and ricochet against the café’s wall. And Levi thinks of Erwin guiding a cavalry of children through a barrage of rocks. A field of corpses—muscles and blood and bones and everything that makes a body smeared into the ground—barely hidden by green smoke.

And yet, Levi’s here, watching Zeke salivate over every little cruel comment he gets to make, guilty relief gurgling at the bottom of his stomach.

“I figure it’s the same thing for you, Humanity’s Strongest?”  He uses his best mocking tone for the moniker. “This life’s too boring, isn’t it?”

You should be eating dinner by now. He imagines you at your dining table, withering lilies of the valley in a vase—you still get too sentimental with trash, sometimes. You would have left your shoes at the entrance, far enough from the rack for them to become a tripping hazard.

If Levi were there, you’d be ranting about some inane detail about your manager’s printing politics.

“Don’t talk shit about what you don’t know.”

“I wonder what your job is. Although not too difficult to guess.” Zeke grasps his cup with both hands and leans over the table, far too pleased with his own stupid games to know when to halt the bullshit. “All that hero complex…It must be hard to know what to do with it.”

He drinks more of his pretentious brew.

“Who are you protecting now? The infirm, the old, the weak? Maybe kids?”

“I don’t give a single shit about your guesses.”

“But you do.” Zeke’s grin grows bigger. “You are here, aren’t you?”

Levi is back in the forest. Hands itching to slice as the hours passed and the unrelenting jabs kept curling around him.

“Indulge me. You killed me, you owe me. I deserve a little game.”

“I won’t play.”

“You always do.” For a marvelous second, Zeke seems to get tired of his own incessant chatter. He takes out his nasty little box once again and places it on the table. He taps it on the bottom until a cigarette comes out. Then, he takes it to his lips. “So, a teacher…”

Levi doesn’t reply. It’s all that man needs.

“It doesn’t suit you. You are too violent for that. But I suppose you were also always too sentimental,” Zeke comments. “Either way, it’s a sad ending for a mythical Ackerman.”

Today, his kids undertook a botanical expedition in the school’s garden. They bundled in their little coats, which Levi had made them wear, even with the sun out, and marveled at the shittiest spectacle of green leaves and burgeoning flowers. Halfway through, a girl had Levi rescue a grasshopper, brutally exposed to her classmates’ grubby curiosity.

“I like it,” Levi says.

It finally shuts Zeke up. He tucks the cigarette over his right ear and pokes at the blocky cup. It’s nearly empty. He looks down—almost like an admonished child. And Levi realizes that, without the titan curse hanging over his head, Zeke seems a lot younger.

Any successful consultant could have refused to travel.

“Why are you here?”

It’s gotten dark outside. Once in a while, a car’s headlights lick the display window. A group of middle-aged salesmen sits at a nearby table, a  banquet-worthy array of pastries on their table. They cackle each time new tidbits of commonplace gossip demand it.

“I don’t think you have earned any type of information,” Zeke says, though his voice has lost its sharp edges. “However, you have that murderous look on your face, and my neck still hurts from last time.”

Levi bristles. He can still feel the pitiful give of the bastard’s neck beneath his blade. It’d offered him no relief.

“I was eleven. I spent the afternoon at my dad’s house, first time since the divorce. Grisha wanted me to meet my new baby brother.” Zeke continues toying with the ugly cup, as if he were disappointed in seeing it empty.

“And?” Levi falls for it.

“And what? That’s it.” The most self-congratulatory of shit-eating grins distorts his mouth.

Levi slaps Zeke’s hand away from the cup.

“And I don’t give a fuck about your permanent daddy issues. How did you remember?”

“I dreamed of paths that night. It wasn’t the first time. I had dreamed of building figures in the sand under a trail of colorful lights before. But that night I knew exactly what I was doing; I saw Ymir and I saw Eren’s colossals flattening the earth.”

Levi thinks of that boy. Protean green eyes. Vicious anger. He remembers him as a simple kid, sweeping the floors of the headquarters with a determination to impress so honest Levi was afraid to let him down. The hero-worship reminded him of Isabel a bit. He’d told you so one late evening when Petra, Gunter, Ouluo and Eld were still alive and playing babysitters. And he pictures his head, tucked under Mikasa’s arm.

Sometimes, when he thought about it all in his little Marleyan blood-earned house, Levi couldn’t remember how one Eren became the other: a brutal sleight of hand he should have called out. It still haunts him—disquiet settling over his skin—in his sleepless nights: he digs in his memories and searches around for the exact moment the boy changed.

Sometimes, he blames Eren for it all.

“Does Eren remember?” Levi asks.

“Not yet. I hope he doesn’t. It doesn’t do any good to remember. It wouldn’t do him any good,” Zeke replies. His eyes narrow and his voice quietens. His lip trembles, just a short-lived quiver before he can rule it with a grimace. “But he has the same look in his eyes he had back then.”

The barista comes to take Zeke’s empty cup. She looks at Levi’s untouched tea and asks a rote question about it; Levi replies with an equally formulaic answer.

He waits for her to scamper away but, unfazed, she stands at his side. She has decided to speak only to him and goes on a spiel about some sort of muffin made with seed flour ground by artisans in who-knows-what village to the north of Mitras.

Swiftly recovered from his slight moment of earnestness, Zeke has taken the cigarette out of the shitty box, again. As he taps it against the table, he snickers.

Levi buys the fucking muffin.

“You’re very popular,” he taunts. “The tortured kindergarten teacher routine does miracles… Does your little friend like it?”

“Don’t fucking start.” Levi falls for it, again.

His phone is heavy in his pocket. Levi hasn’t heard from you for six days; only that last paltry message he knows he should abide by. And he thinks he could be at that other café, chasing the shadows on your windows until your bedroom light turns off. Instead, he has Zeke leaning in with unbridled glee.

“You’re funny,” Zeke says. “But it’s true that she’s the least interesting part about this conversation. She can’t remember. That much is obvious.”

“What do you know about-”

“Quid pro quo, Levi,” Zeke interrupts him. “What about you?”

“I was seven. Birthday party.” Levi doesn’t tell him about the lonely childhood or the mud tracks or his inconsolablemom or the grief. “I blew out the candles and remembered it all.”

It’s getting late. He wants to check his phone, but not in front of Zeke; he’s seen enough.

“You were just a kid,” Zeke remarks, and he seems moved, truly. There’s a pity in his eyes that Zeke makes sure to blink away. “Too young for the unbearable loneliness…”

He doesn’t tell him about the creeped-out kids that cried until playdates finished early (he was too taciturn, too war-torn to play with balls). He doesn’t tell him about his teenage years, slumping into bed after caring for his mother (hair falling out, thin, and frail and fading) only to spend the night awake, thinking about the curve of your neck when you lay down next to him. Or the early mornings when insomnia shook him in its jaws, and he had to pretend to dream about you (a paper cut on your thumb from reading those incomprehensible books, foot soles perpetually rubbed raw by the gear’s leather straps, little hairs on your nape Levi had spent many mornings caressing with his fingertips).

“So were you,” Levi replies.

“It’s not like I had anything to compare it to.  I was already a warrior candidate at that age.” Zeke shrugs, but Levi sees the frown.

Levi imagines you as you should have been when he first saw you. Tiny, swift hands able to steal wallets, knives and the occasional watch in one imperceptible tug. Tiny mouth trying to make sense of the diminutive signs on the crumbling paper of old pamphlets using the few reading lessons your mother had taught you before dying.

You got to be a kid this time; Levi’s glad for it, grateful even. Still, sometimes, you look at him with wistful eyes, and he finds himself remembering Isabel’s singing, or Furlan’s shitty puns, or Erwin’s stories, or Hange’s fucking reckless shit, or the sight of Paradis’ sky at twilight, back when the Survey Corps’ greatest mission was surviving outside the walls and the world could be reduced to expanses of grass and infinite pine trees, and he wishes you could understand.

“Does anyone else remember?” Levi finally asks.

The group next to them leaves. They fight each other at the register to decide who’s paying. Behind lie the remains of their work escapade: scattered flakes, thin and wide, a spill of milk in the middle of the paper placemat, mugs with beige rings and brown dregs on the bottom.

“Grisha and Carla don’t,” Zeke says. “I have met some of the warriors, but none seems to remember.”

“Who?”

“Porco and Marcel, Pieck, once. They also got to live in Marley in this lifetime.” Zeke’s glasses have slid down his nose. He pushes them back and leaves another smudge on the lens.

“Gabi? Falco?” Levi asks. After so many years it became second nature caring for them.

“You managed to meet those two during the war?” He seems surprised: he widens his eyes just before letting out a frank, throaty laugh. “It’s weird: the monster that hunted me in nightmares transformed into a heartfelt nanny.”

“Are they in Marley or not?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen the Brauns or the Grices this time around.”

It’s dark. The barista is yawning in the back right next to the shelves of coffee beans. Levi imagines you waiting for him in his apartment—because you’re curious and forgiving, and you’d want to talk. You’d bring a box of black tea, the one he liked. He’d find you sitting on the left side of the sofa, closest to the window. He’d have a chance to sit at your feet to explain or to beg.

“Why do you remember?”

“Royal genes, titan powers.” Zeke is getting twitchy; he fishes for his cigarette box and opens it and closes it and opens it before taking out a cigarette. “It still connects us to paths in a way. Must be similar for Ackermans. Something from that blood of yours. Eren’s friend, the one from Hizuru, she’d remember too.”

“That’s all?”

On some early mornings, when you haven’t been able to blink the sleep away, you look at him with an understanding so unguarded that it makes him hope.

“You look disappointed… Were you expecting a different answer? Some miracle that’ll make her remember?” Zeke shows him his teeth—more of a grimace than a grin. “I’m all you have.”

And Levi could kill him again. If he had a knife. If the mud and blood that caked his fingers were real.

Levi pays for both drinks before he leaves. Zeke stays, fidgeting with the unlit cigarette.

Year 855. Thirty-seven.

The cold pushed into his skin like a million little needles. The wheelchair bumped along the dirt road under Gabi’s overeager push. Falco was somewhat ahead, but he ran back every ten steps to ask his girlfriend to be more careful with Mr. Levi. She bristled every time and then Falco had to appease her as if she were some sort of capricious animal.

His leg hurt—a deep, howling pain that traveled through his body in waves. The camp’s medic had said that it was common for the cold to make it worse.

It hadn’t even snowed and, once again, Levi couldn’t piss by himself.

This morning, he’d called for your help to get out of his cot. He was still too asleep to remember.

Someone had told the brats that today, for Yule, they were serving hot chocolate at breakfast—some of the unblemished countries of the south felt generous. So, Falco and Gabi fetched him earlier to get first in line. They said it was a nice way to start his birthday.

The pain robbed him of any hunger.

“Did you receive any letters, Mr. Levi?” Falco asked him once Gabi had placed him at one of the makeshift tables; splinters nipped at his skin as Levi ran his fingers across the rough grain of the planks. The girl was already yelling her way into the ration line. “For your birthday?”

“It’s too early,” Levi replied. Hange’s stitches were too tight; he still felt a twinge in his mouth every time he spoke. “They haven’t delivered the mail yet.”

Levi did not tell Falco that his bad eye made it too hard to read, that the blurry words made him nauseous and gave him a headache. He did not tell Falco that Armin had mentioned you in his last letter; that Levi couldn’t finish it, that the nurses had found him writhing on the ground, gravel digging into his shoulder.  Levi did not tell him that he hadn’t opened any mail since then.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Levi. They’ll deliver it today. It’s Yule!”

Falco was a good kid. Compassionate, even sweet. Levi was patient with his excitement for the fucking holiday because you would’ve asked him to.

“Yeah.”

Gabi ended up squabbling with a group of old women, as usual; Falco had to intervene by appealing to their sense of pity. The boy pointed at him while sputtering some variant of “It’s Mr. Levi’s birthday! We wanted to do something nice for him.”

Falco was too charming for his own good, and Levi’s breakfast went on amidst the chatter of grandmothers briefing him on the camp’s gossip.

He kept his hand over the mug’s rim; steam floated and coiled in the places where his fingers should have been. He still dreamed of searing air ripping them apart. To Gabi’s dismay, Levi didn’t drink; he surrendered the beverage to the first child that tried to climb over his chair’s wheels.

Someone asked him about the celebrations on the island. He heard the ghost of your voice saying “Fuck Yule” between laughs.

For the first time in his life, Levi got to hide behind his tired body. He asked the kids to take him away from the table.

The cold air was harsher to take in. It scratched his lungs and left him breathless. The medic said that was common, too.

Falco wanted to ask in the field hospital if they had something for the pain. Levi didn’t let him. The medicine shortage had them rationing morphine. Levi could deal with the leg.

Gabi just prattled. She had gotten a gift from Braun—some shiny dress from the lands of giant lakes that Eren’s razing anger couldn’t reach. The Warriors and the remnants of his squad were spending Yule in the outermost south, where the year ends in warmth (no one wanted to talk about peace and hope in barren landscapes). Gabi said she’d wear it for tonight’s Yule dinner. It was too nice for the camp’s shitty meals.

He wondered what you would have gotten him this year. A new knife: he’d lost his in the explosion. Tea: a small, expensive box from the east of Hizuru, the only plantation that had held out. A cane wrapped in a bow made with the sacks the lucky surviving nations sent their wheat in, and a teary laugh promising he would walk.

The kids left him in his tent. They’d come back later with his birthday gift, Falco had said.

Corpses couldn’t be buried after the Battle of Heaven and Earth. The ground was too compacted, too stuffed with human carrion. The pieces of your body that Jean and Connie managed to find were burned away. Levi had seen a resurrected jaw titan tear you in half with its claws.

Levi stumbled back to the cot. He had to drag his bad leg up the straw mattress—pain like his body ripped open right along the thigh bone.

Sitting alone on a table meant for two, drinking your third glass of champagne for the past thirty minutes, is bound to get people’s attention. Even in a black layered shoulder-length wig, nude makeup, and a simple mini dress, you still stand out unfortunately. People still stare at you, gossiping about you being stood up. Chances are people are already feasting over a few speculating posts on social media, and more paparazzi are on their way here. You really should’ve put on a pair of colored contacts or silicone prosthetics to better blend in with the crowd.

You take a sip of your champagne. Calm. Collected.

You glance at the empty champagne glass next to your half-filled glass. Your date didn’t ditch you. You’re simply just too early. Too excited. You know the man you are about to meet isn’t someone who will embarrass a woman, but then again, all you have is Hange’s word (and a lot of pictures, thanks them hyping you up.)

Levi Ackerman is an accomplished and very handsome man, one you’re too eager to meet in person.

You look at your watch. Hange did say he’s a punctual guy, so he should be here any minute now.

Another sip the last of your champagne. Refill.

Levi walks into the restaurant a short moment later, closing the top button of his suit. You watch him look around before his eyes eventually find you, widening a little in recognition. Hopefully, your being a royalty doesn’t intimidate him. He won’t be here if he doesn’t want to date a royal, right?

Unless Hange didn’t tell him.

No. You specifically told Hange to let him know. There’s no way they would withhold that information.

You put on a smile and stand up to welcome him. Immediately, you’re met by an inviting scent of mint, apples, and vanilla. Sweet and seductive. You take in his appearance: light grey windowpane checked suit, white dress shirt, and a blue silk cravat with white polka dots.

Ooh. Nice touch.

He clears his throat.

You snap out of your trance, clearing your throat as well. God, it hasn’t even been a minute and you’re already making a fool of yourself.

“Hi!”

“You’re Cameron,” he says with a tone of incredulity. Like he didn’t expect it’s the princess he’s on a date with.

Somehow you think Hange might not have told him.

You tell him your real name because that is who you came here as, not as the princess, “...but Cam’s also fine,” you add quickly. Though you do hope he’ll call you by your real name. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” you shake hands with him.

“Likewise.”

A man of few words, Hange said.

You gesture at him to take a seat. “I already started a drink,” you say as you pour champagne in his glass. “I hope you don't mind.”

His eyes never leave your face. “How long have you been waiting?”

“Not long,” you answer. Then, “actually, I was a little early. Nerves and excitement. Haven’t been on a date in a while.”

He nods simply.

It feels like he doesn’t want to be here. But then again, Hange did tell you Levi often looks like he hates life.

You shrug the thought away. Another sip should calm you down, even if only a little.

Then, you try again.

“So… Do you want to order now?”

“Actually—” he stands up abruptly, and you nearly choke on your drink. “Let’s go somewhere else. I hate the food here.”

“Oh, uh…” you down your champagne. “Let me pay for this first.”

Levi beats you to it, calling a waiter with a bill already in his hands, telling him to keep the change. People watch as he takes your hand and leads you out of the restaurant urgently, as though he hates the whole place itself and not just the food.

You laugh once the doors close. “Well, that was fun.”

Levi smirks, amused.

You realize he’s still holding your hand, and if he does too, he doesn’t show it and he doesn’t let go either. He leads you to the parking lot, past numerous new models of cars in different sizes and colors, to an old model of white Camry with a crisp paint job that makes it look brand new. He goes straight to the passenger seat to open the door for you while you walk slowly in front of the vehicle, fingers running along the smooth edge of its hood cover. It makes a little screech.

“1995,” you remark, looking up at him.

He’s quiet for a second, eyes a little wide in surprise. “You can tell.” He steps back as you approach the door.

“I know a thing or two. My father used to bring me to car shows.” When life was still simple. Life before the tragedy. When not one single person thought your father would be sitting on the throne years later.

“It used to be my Mom’s,” he says.

Sentimental.

The interior’s been overhauled. The seat’s comfortable, dressed in cotton cover instead of leather.

“Can you drive?”

“Haven’t touched a wheel in… eight years,” you sigh, a little surprised it’s been that long.

He nods, closing the door carefully.

The drive to wherever Levi planned to take you is quiet, but it’s not the awkward kind. You sit in silence, watching the buildings change to ones you’re no longer familiar with, until he stops in front of a small restaurant in the traditional Italian style with a rather plain looking signage to announce its name.

“I hijacked our date,” he notes, and you can’t tell if he’s being apologetic. “I just can’t stand the food there.” He hasn't stopped the engine yet, as if offering you a choice to back out.

“It’s alright,” you chuckle. “I did hear one of the diners say the tiramisu wasn’t good. Hard pass, instantly.”

He lets out a sharp exhale that sounds like a laugh. You start to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Aren’t you worried I’d kidnap you, princess?”

“Honestly? I wouldn’t mind if you did,” you chuckle and get out of the car.

Upon entering the restaurant is a deli for to-go boxes—cold cuts and different kinds of cheese sold per gram. The interior is built with bricks and warmly lit by hanging string lights, the walls filled with fancy wine cellars from top to bottom. At the most inner dining area is a big mural of Birth of Venus by Botticelli, where some people are waiting in line to take pictures. Levi, who doesn’t seem thrilled by the number of people instead, asks if you’d like to dine outside instead. Since the weather’s nice, you agree to dining outside, and a waiter follows you with menus in hand, informing you of their weekends-only offer: cooking your pasta of choice in a massive parmesan wheel for a price inclusive of a drink, the options for the pasta and the sumptuous choices for the sauces, all of which sound enticing to you but not to Levi, sadly.

“Did you want that?” Levi asks once the waiter is gone.

“No,” you answer a little too quickly. He holds your gaze for a moment, unconvinced, so you flash him a smile. “I swear, it’s alright. Then you add, “we can try it next time,” gauging his reaction.

He nods with a little smile before turning his attention to the menu in his hands.

Your eyes flicker to his stylish cravat. Then his hands. His slender fingers. Ugh.

“Is the menu written on my face?” He sounds amused.

You chuckle. “Are you getting pasta?”

“Their frutti di mare is good.” He flips the page.

“I’ll get the truffle pasta… so we can try both,” you say excitedly. “I mean, whatever you’ll get.”

He blinks at you, then looks back at the menu and clears his throat. “Sure.”

“You’ve been here before?”

He flips pages again. “Their pizzas are good.”

Is that an answer?? It doesn't matter, because your heart already sinks a little at the thought of him being here with an ex. Maybe this was her favorite restaurant and he’s come to love it too.

You brush the thought away. “Quattro formaggi?”

He nods in answer. “How about wine?”

You set aside the menu to prop your elbows on the table, your chin at the back of your interlaced fingers. “I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk,” you tease.

He tilts his head to the side. “If I am?”

“Where will you bring me next?” you challenge.

He crosses his knees. “Home.”

“Yours?”

He smirks audibly.

OK. Too much flirting. That’s so unladylike, especially for a princess.

“I’m just kidding,” you chuckle, picking up the menu again. “Let’s go with Pinot Grigio.”

You order a small charcuterie board, served ahead with the wine while the pasta platters and pizza are being prepared. The waiter pours your drinks. You share a toast with Levi. He then takes a cut of guanciale to try while you get a slice of each of the cheese.

You eat in silence, tasting each item on the board. You try to focus on the cheese you’re munching on, stopping yourself from even glancing up at him, but the desire to look at his face is killing you. You like his eyes the most: cold, steel grey orbs that seem to see through you and know just what you’re thinking. Then his lips: pale pink, set in a tight, deadpan line that shouldn’t even look attractive. You wonder what it feels like to kiss those lips (you’ve only ever kissed one guy, that one fuck buddy you had in college). Is Levi a good kisser? How many women have been lucky to feel those lips on their lips?

Lips that are moving slowly as he talks without a sound.

“What?” You snap out of your trance.

“Sixteen seconds,” he says, “that’s how long you’ve been staring at me.”

You let out a sharp breath in disbelief. “I wasn’t staring. I was deliberating over the cheese.”

“Sure, princess.”

Looking away, you grab your glass of wine to take a sip. “I just like the cravat.”

“Can’t miss the chance to impress the princess on our first date.” Levi crosses his arms and his knees, sitting back in his chair, looking relaxed and genuinely curious. “So, what keeps a lady like you busy?”

You hesitate. Not even Hange knows what you’re about to say.

“I’m a web developer and designer.”

He blinks. “You have a job,” he says in disbelief.

“You sound like my parents,” you chuckle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You did not,” you shake your head. “It’s unusual for a princess to have a job after all.” You watch the wine dance in your glass as you gently rotate it. “Before my father was made king we lived a simple life. A normal family with a father and the eldest kid who worked nine to five jobs and a full-time mother who took care of the house. For years, I was a corporate slave,” you pause, a bitter laugh bubbling from your throat. Talking about it now, you feel overwhelmingly nostalgic for the days you freely walked outside. Even when there were chances people would recognize you, they weren’t as invading as they are now that you’re next in line to the throne.

“And then that happened, half of my family gone because of a man who hated the king who’s been dead for decades.” You stop shaking the glass. You think the wine turns red. Like blood.

The criminal hadn’t even been out of prison for a whole month when he was hanged. Some part of you understood him somehow—you still do. He was wrongly accused and he wanted the king who put him in prison to pay for it, so he sought revenge. But that king was already dead. And he refused to let go.

You still blame him for killing your only cousin. You still blame that man every day for putting you where you are now.

“Jeez.” You let out a sharp breath that sounds like a laugh. “I sound like I hate being a royal—which I really do. Sometimes.” You chuckle, ashamed. 

“Understandable,” he sympathizes. “You’ve got a billion pairs of eyes watching your every move.”

And you’ve got to find a worthy husband soon, which is already no easy feat even when you aren’t significantly royal yet.

You set your glass on the table. He refills your drink. You shake it, then drink all of it. Uh oh. Your face feels hot. You had a lot of champagne already. It’s about time you slowdown from drinking.

“What about you, Levi? What keeps you busy besides your job?”

“Gym.”

You nearly choke on your wine as thoughts of Levi in a white compression shirt, grey gym joggers, and white training shoes fill your mind like a flash flood. You imagine him on the bench press, earbuds on, the muscles and veins in his arms bulging as he lifts the barbel. Oh, boy. You wish you’d get the chance to see him train sometimes. Maybe even train with him if a relationship blossoms from this first date.

The imagination is short lived when you spot two waiters arriving with your orders.

“Our food’s here!” You squeal excitedly.

He doesn’t respond, only watches you do a little happy dance as the waiters serve your orders. You ask for a hot sauce for the pizza and more parmesan for your pasta, but the waiter regretfully refuses because extra parmesan isn’t on the menu. With a pout, you murmur an “okay,” missing the surprised look on Levi’s face as you smile at the waiter.

There’s a moment of silence as you both begin to eat. You urge Levi to try the truffle pasta and in return, he shares some of his food with you. Throughout dinner, you exchange stuff about yourselves—hobbies, favorite food, likes and dislikes, places you want to go to. You share bits and pieces of your life and how it affects your job. That your parents still strongly disapprove of it, saying it’s not princess-like to be working such a technical job. When Levi asks about how you met Hange, you recount the project you were both assigned to, the business meeting where you met them personally, and how you became friends after. What you don’t say is that they have been encouraging you to meet Levi since then, insisting you’d be perfect for each other. But you were a career-oriented woman. And you almost got pregnant in college, so you couldn’t trust yourself anymore since then. You didn’t want to ruin your life, so you refused Hange until they stopped.

You wish you did not. You wished you enjoyed life more when you were younger and still have more freedom.

If only you knew things would turn out the way they did.

Sadly, your date soon ends, and you can’t help but wonder if Levi feels the same. He insists on paying for dinner despite your offer to chip in. You take home a deli box of cold cuts and cheese for your brother. Levi offers to drive you home, which you have to refuse since your driver is nearby, tasked to follow you around and bring you home at the end of the night.

“I see,” he murmurs.

You smile regretfully. You want to spend more time with him, even if that’s just another thirty minutes. You want to talk a little more, just be in the same space with him and enjoy his presence. The realization that you enjoyed this date more than you anticipated hits you harder than a slap. You can’t remember the last time you enjoyed a man’s company.

Ahh, you wish you could say yes to him. In fact, you do have the choice to say yes to him, but there are certain protocols you need to follow to ensure what happened before won’t happen again.

Besides, you don’t want to put Levi in the spotlight. Not when he just said he doesn’t intend to see you again.

You snap out of your thought bubble. “What?”

“I’m not the right man for you. I don’t want your life.”

He didn’t even hesitate. Ouch.

You feel like someone just splashed a bucket of ice-cold water on your face.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” he says, still with the deadpan look that makes you think the apology isn’t genuine at all.

Why date me then? You force a smile. “It’s alright, it was no waste at all. I had fun. And I understand…” you stop, feeling the tremors in your voice.

He nods, taking a step back. “It’s nice meeting you.”

“Likewise,” you manage to utter. “Thank you, Levi, for a good night.”

“Thank you,” he calls you by your name. “Take care of yourself.”

For the first time, you see emotions swirling in his eyes. Doubt? Sympathy? Things he wants to say.

You turn away from each other at the same time. You don’t see him looking back, watching you walk away for a short moment before turning away with a sigh. You walk in the direction of your car, each step sending your heart crumbling until you’re once again the empty girl that you were before this night started.

.

The night hasn’t even ended yet, but Levi’s face is all over the internet already. His phone buzzes every minute as more people find his social media accounts, sending him follower and message requests.

“Fucking Christ.”

His phone rings, the words Four-Eyes written in the caller ID.

“Oh my God, Levi, you’re famous!” They shriek excitedly.

“Fucking— tone it down. You’re on speaker.” Levi glares at the screen of his phone, hoping his friend would feel his frustration through the call. “You didn’t even consider giving me a heads up that it’s the princess I'm going on a date with?”

“You would’ve said no!” they reason out.

“You idiot,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t say no, not when the date’s already set. I could’ve come prepared though.”

Hange chuckles awkwardly. “Well, did you like her?”

“Yes.”

They squeal. “When’s the next date then?”

“There’s no next date.”

“WHAAAAT?! What do you—”

He drops the call.

His phone rings again two seconds later.

“What do you mean there’s no next date? Don’t tell me you rejected her?!”

Levi sighs.

“You rejected her?!” Hange repeats.

He did like you. He enjoyed your company.

Fine. He is stupid for doing that.

But he isn’t going to admit that to Hange. Or to anyone at all.

“I need to drop. I’m entering the highway.”

“No, Levi, you—”

He did the right thing. He’s a nobody. You deserve someone with status, with influence. Someone important just like you.

Clink, clink.

The air feels thick, heavy with tension, suffocating even in a big dining room.

Clank. Clink, clank.

The king doesn’t talk, he just glances at you every once in a while.

You hear it loud and clear.

We had a deal. No second chances.

If the date fails, you do it the traditional way: your hand offered in marriage. Like an auction item.

Never in your life did you think your own father would do this to you.

Oh, if only Levi didn’t say no.

You should’ve known better than to agree to the blind date—you’ve dragged him in a mess. Prince Levi, they already call him, rooting for him, while others question your choice, dating a man who’s unimportant. You hate that they call him that, so much that you reported every post that called him names. You wanted to talk to him, to apologize for the mess you pulled him into, but the Council advised otherwise. The Council also advised against responding to anything, insisting you let them handle everything. You’re pretty certain they reached out to Levi and bribed him into keeping quiet. Later, the PR team released a statement claiming it was just a friendly date between two high school friends.

You put your utensils down.

“You’re done?” asks your mother.

You wipe the side of your mouth. “Yes.”

“You barely ate,” she remarks.

Joshua shifts on his seat. “Are we gonna play Chained Together tonight?”

“Sure.” You pat his head on your way out.

You hear your mother asking, “must we really do this to her?” as the door closes behind you.

You don’t need to stay to know his answer. 

There’s no other way.

.

One of the few things you like in the palace is its vast backyard that houses not just ancient oak trees and various colorful flowering bushes and wild plants, but also your private house: a quaint bungalow that only you have access to, hidden from the meddlesome world outside. A large pond sits at the side, with stepping stones leading to the center, where you would sit to feed and watch the koi carps, goldfishes, and mosquitofishes. Afterwards, you’d head inside and grab some snacks from the pantry before going to the living room, where your work and gaming desks are set up next to a wall-mounted TV, a fireplace and an oversized bean bag. You sit on the couch, munching popcorn as you watch an anime show. Two hours later you hear a loud buzz, a notification that someone is at the backdoor. You check the ring camera from your phone to confirm your visitors before letting them in. You turn the TV off, wash the bowl you used then put it back in the cupboard, drink water, use the restroom, head back to the pantry to grab a bottle of wine and a glass, then head to the only "bedroom" in the house.

Your biggest secret.

You switch the cove lights on. Dim. Casting a soft and warm glow against wine red velvet walls. A full height, dark oak cabinet stands next to the door, and at the center of the room are a rococo-style cabriole couch with gold frames and wine-red velvet cushions, a wine-red leather chaise lounge, and a small dark oak long coffee table, where you set aside the wine and glass. A two-way mirror separates the lounge area from the bedroom; its walls covered in the same wine-red velvet. A dark oak bedside table sits next to a queen-sized bed covered in white and wine-red sheets and pillows dressed in wine-red cases. On the bed is a couple. Naked. Making out.

You sit on the cabriole couch, knees crossed, fingers laced together over your knee, and watch the couple start to get handsy. But it hasn’t even been a minute, yet when you stand up and take your clothes off, leaving them in a pool on the ground as you turn towards the cabinet, opening the doors and revealing a huge collection of sex toys. Collars, cuffs, vibrators, clit suckers, dildos—some of which are still in their packages, opened but never used. You have your favorites. Like the pair of black nipple clamps with fur pom-poms and a pastel red vibrator with a plump and ribbed shaft and rabbit ears-like clit tickler.

As always, not wanting to spoil the velvets of the cabriole couch, you lay on the chaise lounge instead, feet flat on the cushion so that your knees are folded up and spread apart. You place the nipple clamps on the areola, twisting the screws to slightly tighten the jaws until you feel a pulling and pinching sensation that fades to a dull ache over time. The pom-poms brushing against your underboobs send tingly sensations across your nerves, helping in the buildup of your arousal. You’ve always liked that feeling, like barely-there touches. You wet your fingers with your saliva, then the shaft of the vibrator, sliding it in and out of your mouth as if it’s a cock.

On the other side of the mirror, the man begins to suck on the woman’s tit. You watch his tongue twirling around the nipple until it’s stiff, while the other he works with his fingers, pinching and pulling. And then he trails lower, kissing and sucking down her stomach, until his face is between her thighs. You start the vibrator, wet your fingers some more to smear saliva on your cunt, and then press the vibrating shaft against your clit, making your breath hitch and your body twitch at the sudden yet very welcome stimulation. Up and down, you rub the shaft against your clit and between your folds, teasing a poke at your hole, letting out little moans while you watch the man push up the woman’s thighs against her stomach to eat her cunt. You wonder how good his tongue feels. It must be fucking heaven, how slowly he laps up her folds and then sucks on her cunt. Fuck, you wish that’s you on the bed with him. It’s been years since a man pleased you really good.

Eventually the man straightens up. The woman keeps her legs folded against her stomach, and you watch him slapping the head of his cock against her cunt. You position the tip of the shaft of the vibrator against your hole, and as he slowly thrusts into her, you gently insert the shaft on your vagina, pushing and pushing until the slender arms of the tickler are touching your clit. You switch the vibration mode: an exchange of deep one-second vibrations between the shaft and the ticklers, stimulating your G-spot and clit. You let out a low moan, spreading your legs further apart until your foot slips to the ground. God, you miss the feeling of a cock in you. You crave the sounds of heavy breaths, the skin against skin, the warmth of flesh. You crave real pleasure, the body connection.

A pair of steel grey eyes flashes in your head.

A moan slips from your mouth, and then a name.

Levi.

You nearly sit up in surprise, but then your climax hits you, sending your body shuddering violently.

Images of Levi flash before your eyes, naked, positioned between thighs, holding your right feet up and over his shoulder, your left leg pinned under his thighs as he slams his cock into you. You imagine clothes scattered around, the two of you on this very couch, panting, moaning, covered in sweat, fucking you senseless. Another wave hits you, and you aren’t sure if you’re orgasming twice or your orgasm’s lasting longer than usual. In your mind, you hear him calling you princess with that smirk on his lips.

“Feels good, princess?” You hear his voice loud and clear. You feel his touch, caressing your hip and then settling on your stomach as he fills you up with his cum.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head so hard you see white. You pull the vibrator out of your cunt, dropping it on the couch between your thighs, where it continues to vibrate intensely against the leather. Eyes shut tight, you pant loudly, chest rising and falling like angry sea waves as you lie limply on the lounge, cum dripping from your vagina and to the cushions.

When your eyes flicker open again and find the couple who are still fucking on the bed, all you could see is you lying on your stomach while Levi fucks you from behind.

You watch the men gather in the grand from where you stand on the second floor, all eleven of them acting like they’re friends with each other, talking to one another with fake smiles and laughter. Three of them are princes from other countries and the rest are men with high profiles: a politician, three celebrities, and four businessmen. One of the princes is twelve years younger than you, two of the businessmen have greying hairs and are twenty years older than you, and one is a divorcee. You understand now why they kept you out of the screening—if any screening did happen. None of these men would’ve made it here if you did the background check yourself.

Out of the eleven, you strike out four instantly: the young prince and the three businessmen. Marrying a politician is also a no-no. You find their lifestyle repulsive. Celebrities’ too. They hide so much behind the cameras. That’s eight out of eleven already, leaving you only the two princes and one businessman.

One who you wish is Levi.

You bite back the pathetic laugh that threatens to spill from your mouth.

Such a shame you let him walk away from you. You should’ve pursued him.

A kitchen staff approaches the group, offering wine. Your father joins them a moment later, his own glass of wine raised. 

“Gentlemen.”

“Your Majesty.” The pigs bow their heads slightly.

“Plus points to anyone who can tell what wine this is,” your father challenges, and you can’t help but huff incredulously.

“Commandaria. Cyprus,” says the divorcee proudly. “The world’s oldest continually produced wine.”

Your father looks up at you, as if you ought to keep track of these men’s points.

“You know a lot about wines, Your Majesty,” says one of the celebrities.

“My daughter does,” he corrects, looking up at you again, this time a little fondly. “I take after her.” The group chuckles. The King beckons you to come and join them, but you only stare. To spite him. He only smiles and turns back to the men around him.

“Princess,” the tall guy dressed in black and white suit raises his glass towards you. You recognize him from a few game release live streams you saw back then. “I heard you are a gamer,” he remarks with a curious smile.

“I am.”

“Jean Kirstein, Your Highness. I’m a fan. I watched your live streams when you were still streaming,” he brags.

“Kiss ass,” scoffs the dark-brown haired celebrity with a sleek man-bun.

Eren Yeager. You’ve seen some of his movies. He’s a good actor. Too bad he’s not your kind of person.

“Huh?!” Jean turns to him with a glare.

“Hush, you kids! Not in front of the princess,” chides the 54-year old businessman.

Whoever decided to let these men who are twenty years older than you join this stupid competition is an idiot.

Another kitchen staff approaches the King. You take that as a sign to head to the grand dining hall. Gotta get this over and done with, you think begrudgingly.

Across the King you sit, watching eleven strangers sit around the long table, their chins held high and their chest puffed. Every second is a competition, and they can’t afford to look unworthy. Funny. If you really have a choice, you would’ve sent all of them home already.

Throughout the meal, your “suitors” talked with the King as if it's his hand they are competing for in marriage, so eager to know more about the royal life and what power they would have should they become royalty. You’ve hated this kind of talk. Even when you or your parents weren’t directly involved in it, only listening to your grandpa and your uncle discuss such matters during family dinners when they were still alive.

The only one who shows interest is Jean, asking simple questions such as what do you like doing other than gaming, the places you want to go to, your favorite food. He’d say stuff about himself, as if this is a date where you’re getting to know each other, except Eren and Caleb are with you, both Jean would encourage to share too. You can’t tell if he’s just that good a person or he’s setting himself up to win.

Well, on the brighter side, he’s making things easier for you. He’s someone you can vibe with. He was a game developer before he became CTO of the company. Playing games can be one of your bonding activities, and your brother will like him too. Telling him your secret shouldn’t be a problem as well. He doesn’t seem like a judgmental person.

That’s it. You made your choice. Gotta get this over and done with, you remind yourself.

“Everyone.” You clear your throat.

Silence erupts. Twelve pairs of eyes turn in your direction, you keep yours glued to the king, urging yourself to speak.

“I would like to—”

The doors swing open.

The guards try to get hold of Joshua, who rushes in and announces, “big sis, you have a phone call!”

“Joshua, you shouldn’t be here,” says the King.

“It’s an emergency!” He reasons out, shoving his phone onto your hand.

It’s from an unknown number. You answer tentatively, thoughts racing in your head, thinking who it could be. The answer comes in a familiar voice shrieking your name, so loud it makes you flinch.

“Hange?”

“Maydaaaaay!!”

Oh.

Oh.

“They won’t let us in!!” Hange cries out.

“What’s happening?” asks the King.

“Your guards won’t let us in is what’s happening, Your Lord Majesty!”

“Us?” Your brows knit together. “Who’s us?”

There’s a funny feeling in your chest.

You stand up, thinking you already know the answer.

There’s a loud rustle, then Hange’s distant voice as they shout, “come on, talk to the princess!”

“Let the guards take care of it.” The King lets out a heavy sigh, running out of patience. “Put the phone down. Now.”

You meet his eyes with a defiant gaze. He says your name—your real name—in a voice so low but with alarm bells blaring in the background.

Ah, fuck it. Your only hope is right outside, waiting for the gates to let them in—to let him in.

So, that’s what you tell the guard, who, after a short moment of contemplation, meekly answers “yes, Your Highness.”

The chair shrieks against the marbled floor as the king gets up from his chair, glaring daggers in your way. “Sit down.”

“Pardon, Your Majesty,” a slight incline of your head. “I have guests to tend to.”

“Your guests are here.”

You turn to everyone on the table and excuse yourself with a curtsy. The King calls you by your name. A final warning.

You choose to ignore it.

Joshua follows you out of the dining hall, and when the doors close, you ruffle his hair, telling him he did a good job.

“You owe me primogems!” he grins and scurries away.

You march in the direction of the front doors, anxious yet excited. It’s got to be Levi—it has to be Levi.

The guards bow to you in greeting before opening the doors, and you quietly walk along the grand hall, your hands sweating, almost tripping on your heels as your pace quickens. Another pair of guards greet you before pushing the doors open, revealing the car that’s parked at the drop-off area and your guests, Hange and a tall blond, leaning against the side of the car, arms and feet crossed.

No Levi.

“There she is!” Hange smacks their hands together, pushing themselves off the car.

You force out a smile. Surely you didn’t just disobey the king for nothing?

“Come on!” They smack you on the back, nearly sending you tumbling forward. “You don’t look so thrilled to see us!”

“Of course I am,” you chuckle, awkward.

The blond guy steps towards you, offering a hand. “Princess, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Erwin Smith, their boss.”

“Their boss,” you murmur, turning to Hange.

“What? Bosses have bosses too!”

You roll your eyes at them. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I hope we’re not too late,” says Erwin.

Your lips part, but not even a small sound comes out of your throat. You can’t imagine yourself with this guy. Heck, you can’t imagine him joining this stupid contest at all.  He doesn’t seem that desperate.

“No. Certainly not—”

The car door opens. A black brogue boot appears, followed by the next of the pair. A man comes out of the car, dressed in a light mid-grey suit and a white dress shirt with a blue and black patterned silk cravat.

God, you love his cravats.

“Levi.” Your voice is almost inaudible.

He slams the door closed and walks up to you, taking your hand and kissing the back of it. “Sorry, I’m late. Hange’s a shitty driver. Got pulled up by the police twice for beating the red light.”

“Hey, I got you here in one piece!” Hange points out.

Levi scowls. “We almost crashed.”

“Missed a police car by a hair’s breadth,” adds Erwin.

Hange throws their hands in the air frustratingly. “You’re supposed to say she looks good in her dress! What happened to our rehearsal?!”

Levi rolls his eyes, turning to you, and in that split second his gaze softens. You get it, what he wants to say.

You squeeze his hand gently.

“I thought you didn’t want this,” you gesture to your surroundings.

“I don’t,” he confirms, and your heart drops. “But I like you.”

Now your heart would’ve jumped out of your chest if it could only break through your ribs. In your peripherals, you see Hange hitting Erwin’s arm.

“And I’ll be fine. I can tolerate all these—” he gestures widely to the mansion behind you, “—just fine.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That isn’t rehearsed, is it?”

“No,” he smiles softly.

You can’t help the big smile that nearly splits your face in half. “Well then, Prince Levi,” you tease, offering your hand to him with the palm up, “shall we make a scene?”

He smirks, placing his hand on yours. “Princess.”

“Wait!” Hange shrieks. “Please tell me there are desserts for us!”

A laugh bubbles from your chest. “You know where the pantry is.”

Levi throws you a funny look. “Hange’s really been here?”

“Told ‘ya!” The person in question pipes up.

You start pulling Levi into the mansion. “I hope you’re ready to meet the king.”

“Can’t wait,” he deadpans.

Hange and Erwin are taken to the kitchen by the palace maids. You walk towards the towering doors of the grand dining hall with Levi, your heart hammering in your chest. When the guards reach for the door handles, you stop them. Your stomach’s churning. Your father will certainly recognize Levi. He’s seen the pictures. He’ll definitely call the guards to drag him out of the palace.

You think you’re going to puke. You’ll embarrass yourself in front of everyone, in front of Levi, and he’ll find you disgusting—

His fingers lace with yours, and when you turn to look at him, he tells you, “we’ll make this work.”

“There’s no turning back after this,” you emphasize. “This isn’t like our first date. This is the real thing. And there’s still stuff about me you—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, his voice soft, but his hold in your hand firm, keeping you grounded. “I am sure.”

That feels enough. That is enough.

“Okay,” you breathe, shoulders relaxing.

“You’re hesitating,” he murmurs.

You shake your head. “Just anxious. It’s my dad I’m worried about.”

“There’s no turning back after this,” he returns, squeezing your hand and then tugging you closer. “You’re stuck with me now.”

You can’t help but chuckle. He smiles faintly.

With a single nod from you, the guards push the doors open. Eleven pairs of eyes turn to your direction. Quiet. Speculating. If they recognize Levi, they don’t show it.

“Everyone,” you clear your throat, “I want you all to meet Prince Levi.”

The king turns to two of you at last, his eyes cold, unimpressed. He eyes Levi from head to toe, then picks his glass of wine and takes a sip.

The 54-year old scoffs. “What is this, a joke?”

“He isn’t even a participant.” The politician tosses his serviette on the table.

“You wasted our time!” spats the other old guy. “You humiliated us!”

The glassware and utensils clink as the king slams his knuckle against the table. “I will not have my daughter disrespected in our own house.” He speaks in a low yet furious voice, turning to the enraged men. “Leave.”

“You say that to us after she toyed with us?” the politician questions.

Eren sighs loudly. “It’s not like you were going to win anyway.”

“Excuse me?” His nostrils flare.

“Leave,” the King repeats, louder, firmer, “before the guards drag you out of the palace.” And as if to emphasize, the guards step forward, one by your right side and the other, Levi’s left. The king slightly inclines his head, an eyebrow raised at the fuming politician. “You wouldn’t want that as that would be more humiliating, would you?”

One by one they leave the grand dining hall, stomping like children throwing tantrums, until the only ones left are Jean, Eren, and the three princes, all seemingly unaffected by the unexpected turn of events. The empty seats have been cleared. Clean plates and utensils are provided to you and Levi, followed by a fresh batch of food. You sit next to your father, who hasn’t spoken a word after the other candidates left. He’s only been drinking wine. He hasn’t even spared Levi a glance at all ever since he sat on the table! You can’t tell if he’s angry—well, he is angry, but this isn’t his usual anger. He’s uncharacteristically quiet. Like he’s waiting for either you or Levi to crack. Perhaps, a test?

No matter. He can’t treat Levi like this. You won’t allow that.

You empty your glass of wine. Then, a deep breath, ready to say—

“What made you change your mind?”

You press your lips shut and turn to Levi.

They talked. After the date. Your father reached out to Levi indeed, and knowing him, he might’ve struck a deal.

“I like her,” Levi says simply.

“You like the title,” the king suggests.

Levi meets your eyes. You offer a small smile. It doesn’t matter, you want to tell him, it doesn’t matter if he’s into the title more than you. You like him enough that you think you can share your secret with him and that’s all that matters. You can live with that. You can live with him.

But you like to hear what he has to say too. He was certain when he said he doesn’t want this life, so really, what made him change his mind?

“I liked that she was able to tell what year my car was made in just one look.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

The king takes a while before he finally responds with a smile. “She enjoyed going to car shows when she was a kid.”

“If she wants to drive again,” Levi continues, “I’d like to see through that. I want her to be able to go to places by herself, with or without her driver or me.”

“Road trips,” you murmur, grinning when he answers with a nod.

You miss the way your father’s eyes soften at the exchange. It’s gone the moment Levi looks back to him.

“I like that she gets excited over food, and that she didn’t use her status to get more parmesan for her pasta.”

You bite back the giggle that threatens to spill from your mouth. Oh, God. You think your heart’s about to explode.

“I liked that she shared her food with me.”

Your heart does somersaults in your chest.

“I want us to go out more often. Have picnics. Travel in and out of the country. I want to watch her little happy dances whenever she’s excited. I want…” he turns to you, his gaze softening, “I want to get to know her better.”

Instinctively, you wet your lips, then reach for his face, pulling him into a kiss. He blinks in surprise, a tint of red blooming on his cheeks.

Your father lets out a sigh, but when you turn to face him, you find him smiling. “I’m glad my daughter met you,” he says, picking up his wine glass. “I haven’t seen her this happy in a while.” The softness of his voice makes your eyes water. He raises his glass, and everyone else follows. “A toast to the prince and princess.”

The others chorus a “to the prince and princess,” raising their glasses to honor you and Levi.

“To us.” You raise your glass towards Levi.

He smiles. “To us.”

There’s a gentle knock on the door, followed by Hange shouting “Oi, Shorty! Lunch break’s over!”

“Is that Hange?” asks your father.

“Yes, papa.” You turn to Levi, who looks dismayed. “Work?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’ll stay if you want me to.”

“You have meetings.” He would’ve cancelled if they weren't important. “Come back tonight?”

He nods and gets up. You watch him approach the king to shake hands with, not expecting he’d receive a quick hug from your father as well. Levi nods to the other guests in respect, and they once again congratulate him. Then, he turns to you and kisses your hand with a promise to see you later. You catch Hange waving at you as the door closes.

Your father smiles. You can’t believe he’d accept Levi so quickly. You’re glad he did.

(He later tells you “I’m still your father, okay? And I want you to be happy first and foremost.” after you enveloped him in a tight hug.)

.

Levi does come back later that night, bringing with him sleeping clothes and a few sets of casual outfits for the weekend. You introduce him to your mother and brother before touring him around the mansion, the dining room being your last destination for some snacks and drink. You stand opposite each other on the bar table, exchanging stories over cheese, crackers and a glass of wine you’re sharing between the two of you. Each time it’s his turn to drink, you’d watch how he rotates the glass first so that the side where your lips touched faces his way. He’d pick up the glass, swirl the wine, and then drink, his eyes glued to your face while yours are on his lips, which he would later lick clean.

Well, fuck.

Standing on your toes, you bend as close as you could towards Levi and he smirks, eyes flickering to your lips. You take the wine glass back to refill it, pretending you aren’t feeling the way he’s staring at your lips as you drink, like he’s so close to tugging you towards him for a kiss. You swallow slowly, grab some crackers to eat, then pour wine into the glass for his turn. You aren’t sure who makes the contact first: Levi, when he puts his fingers over yours to receive the glass, or you, learning towards him to get a kiss. One thing’s for sure: you both like it, judging the way he’s hurriedly walking around the table to get to your side, how you immediately reach for his arms to close the gap between your faces, and how deeply he sucks in a breath when his lips crash into yours, as if he wants to breathe you in. His hands move down to the sides of your neck, his touch sending electricity through your nerves, frying your body.

You pull away, breathless as you say “we have to go. Mom drinks milk at nine-thirty!” You grab the bottle of wine, downing the remaining two glasses in it. Levi watches, eyes wide in surprise, and then laughs. You let out a huff, feeling bloated in an instant, and drag him through the hall and back to your room.

His mouth is on your lips the moment the door closes, neither of you bothering to turn the lights on. His hand won’t stop roaming all over back, fingers slipping under your shirt a few times, eliciting little moans from you. If his skin against your skin can only catch fire, you’ll be ashes now.

You’ve never felt this alive for such a long time.

Levi pulls away briefly. “We’re not in a rush to get married, are we?”

“No,” you chuckle, kissing him again. “Though, I believe, my parents are in a hurry for a grandchild.”

He hums, catching your lips in a heated kiss that sucks the air right out of your lungs. Levi breathes heavy, as if he’s been holding back for so long and is still holding back at the same time. His hands find the small of your back, fingers slipping under your shirt, sending a jolt through your nerves that makes you pull at his cravat to get him even closer. You grind your hips into his, and when you feel his hard-on through his suit trousers, you can’t help but smile against his lips. A gasp escapes your mouth, followed by a chuckle, when he lifts you so easily from the floor, as if you’re nothing but a doll to him. You wrap your legs around his waist, and without breaking the kiss, he walks to your bed, where he lays you gently. He props himself up and stares at you, your hands laced together above your head. Even in the dark, you find his eyes pretty, his steel grey irises that seem to glow faintly like moonlight. Maybe it’s just the alcohol in your system that makes you see things, makes you feel things. Like how sweet his breath tastes or how hot his body feels against yours. Or how your hands fit together as if you’re meant to be holding each other. Or how the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world.

“I liked your dress today, you look good in it. The red ribbons look good on white.”

You hum, nuzzling his nose.

“Couldn’t stop imagining myself untying them.”

“Naughty prince,” you scold playfully. “You should’ve told me earlier, so I would’ve kept it on for you to live your dream tonight.”

He smirks. “Plenty of chances to do that.” When he kisses you this time, it’s gentle and slow. He lets go of your hands only to comb his fingers in your hair. Your hands move to his waist, slipping under the suit and grabbing at his shirt to pull it out of slacks.

“Levi,” you sigh into his mouth. He breaks from the kiss only for his lips to trail along your jaw. “There’s something I need to show you tomorrow before we get really serious about this.”

He hums in question against your neck.

“It might change the way you look at me.”

He pulls away completely this time and eyes you curiously. “Any hint?”

You avoid his gaze, looking at his cravat instead as you fidget with it. “It’s… about sex. Or something like that.”

“Hmm.”

You straighten his already creaseless shirt. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

“Trying to get me to back out?” He kisses your lips. Then your chin.

“I hope not,” you sigh in his hair.

“Nothing—” he presses a kiss on the side of your neck, “about you—” a kiss on your jugular notch, “will make me—” a kiss between your chest, “back out.”

You chuckle. “But we haven’t had sex yet,” you point out.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs against your stomach, biting at the hem of your shirt and then pushing it up. You rake your fingers through his fringe, pulling the strands back to make him look up at you while his nose and lips trail down your lower belly.

“I’ve been waiting for this.”

He kisses you through your underwear and pyjamas. “Me too.”

“I bet…” you spread your knees apart for him, “you couldn’t stop dreaming of me like this while you were at work.”

Levi smirks audibly, and after one more press of his lips against your clothed sex, he straightens up and pulls your underwear and pyjamas down post-haste. A frenzied grin breaks through your mouth as you lift your legs quickly, and then he leans forward to quickly rid you of your shirt and bra. He wastes no time, burying his face between your tits, breathing in the smell of your skin before pressing wet kisses along the valley of your chest. You reach for the collar of his suit, desperate to get him naked as well, but it’s as if he’s gone mad and wouldn’t stop kissing all over your chest to let you undress him. You sigh out his name in plea, pushing at the shoulders of his suit, but he only murmurs “just let me” before his mouth feasts on your left tit. You arch your chest towards him, your fingers settling in his hair instead as his mouth moves to your other tit, tongue twirling around the nipple until it’s stiff. You sigh his name again, but he refuses to stop, alternating between your tits, replacing with his fingers what his mouth couldn’t reach. The only time he moves away from your chest is when you cry out “please!” He pulls at the nipple, letting it go with a pop before he starts placing a trail of sucking kisses on your stomach. Lips parted, you pant loudly, each puff complemented by the press of his lips on your skin and the little sounds they make.

But his lips don't make it to your pubic mound just yet. Levi straightens up. You bite back a grumble, pressing your lips together as you watch him finally take his coat off and toss it somewhere behind him. He pauses to take you in, eyes roaming all over your body, lingering a second longer on your chest and then your pussy. He leans forward, hooks his hands under your knees, and pushes them forward until they’re touching your breasts. Even when he straightens up again and lets go of your knees, you keep them firm against your chest.

“Look at you,” he praises.

You smile, sickly sweet, making your cunt clench and unclench around nothing. Levi smirks, pressing his fingertip oh-so-lightly on your clit, circling the nub before dragging his finger down your folds.

“Oh, Levi,” you sigh, pussy lips clenching around the tip of his finger that’s slightly poking your hole.

He twists his hand, gathering your slick at the pad of his finger.

“Stop teasing!” You grumble.

He leans forward, planting his left hand on the mattress by your waist while he rubs along your folds with the other. “What would you have me do, princess?”

Your breath catches in your throat when he nudges at your hole. But that’s all you get. A little nudge every few seconds, between circling your clit and spreading your lips with his slender fingers.

“Fuck me,” you demand.

He hums in thought. “Not tonight.”

“What?” You snap.

He leans forward to press a kiss on your lips, then your chin, slowly along each of your clavicles, down your cleavage and each of your nipples, flicking them with his tongue. He bites lightly at the flesh above the areola of your right breast and then sucks hard until the skin blooms red. You let out a breathy moan of his name, pleading, and he only answers with “not tonight, princess.” Firm. Decided. He trails down your stomach, bites again at the mound, and then breathes in your scent when he presses his nose against the inside of your thigh.

“God, Levi, can’t you be a little more eager?”

He smirks against your inner left thigh. “Oh, I am eager, my lady, just appreciating what is being offered to me right now.” A kiss, wet and loud, then he sucks on the skin until a red patch appears.

“Please, Levi…”

He silences you with a hush, blowing warmth against your cunt, causing your body to shudder.

He focuses on your clit, kissing, sucking, each pull at the hood by his lips making you pant a little heavier. You spread your legs as far apart as possible and reach for his head, tangling your fingers in his hair. Levi looks up at you, and the way your tits are pressed together between your arms makes him groan against your cunt. He grabs one of your breasts, squeezing and pinching at the nipple with an intensity that makes you twitch and moan louder. With the fingers of his other hand, he spreads your pussy lips apart for his tongue to slick up your folds, opening you up to give way to his fingers plunging into your cunt. You gasp, walls clenching around his middle and index fingers, squeezing out slick that makes him pull out his fingers just so he can lick you up and taste. You bring your ankles to his back, squeezing your legs on either side of his head. Such a euphoric feeling, his nose against your mound, mouth working your clit while his fingers are scissoring your insides. Your grip in his hair tightens, your toes curl in, your ankles dig harder into his back as you start humping his face. Levi continues to fuck you with his fingers even when he starts to feel like his ears are about to explode.

And it’s all worth it when your thighs begin to tremble against his ears and all you can say is his name in many ways his brain recognizes: pleading him for more, praising his work, announcing you’re close. It’s all worth it when he begins to hump the mattress too, grinding his still-clothed cock through the offending fabrics while he sucks your cunt harder. He looks up at your face and finds you looking down at him, only for you to show him a frenzied smile, then your eyes rolling back and your head thrown back to the pillow as your body shudders. You shove your feet into the mattress as you cry out his name, gripping his hair as you guide his face up and down your twitching cunt. Levi grunts, sucks the cum out of your hole while he, too, starts to spoil his clothes.

“My God,” you chuckle breathlessly when his mouth finds your lips again. Your taste in his mouth to yours doesn’t even bother you anymore, having used to it already when you would get too curious while pleasing yourself.

“I might’ve spoiled your sheets,” he murmurs, looking down at the bed between your legs.

“You finished?”

“Yeah.” He settles on top of you, nuzzling your neck.

You cling to him like a koala, arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist. “That’s good. Even better if you were inside me.”

“Not tonight.”

“You’re annoying.”

He chuckles against your clavicle. Then he kisses it. “May I use the bathroom?”

“Of course. Everything here is also yours.”

You hope Levi won't get tired of you. It’s been years since you had someone to cling to in your sleep.

The walk to your private house is quiet. You can’t figure out if he's just enjoying the scenery or he’s mulling over a hundred possible ideas about what he’s about to find out. This part of the palace grounds isn’t known to the public after all, so you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s too stunned to speak at the moment. You show him to the pond, where you stand in the middle and kiss for a while until you remember you’re there to feed the fishes. You then lead him into the house, and he hasn’t even toured the whole kitchen yet, when he pulls you into a kiss and your tongues are in each other’s mouths. You push him onto the bean bag, where you straddle him and kiss even more. You fumble for the buttons of his shirt. He reaches around your shoulders to unzip your dress. But by the time you’re pulling him up to remove his shirt and he’s unhooking your bra while kissing down your chest, a loud buzz startles you both.

“I thought no one else comes here?”

“From the family.” You pluck your phone from the pocket of his jeans (you asked him to keep it since your dress is pocketless) to let the couple in. You take your bra off and drape it over the headrest of your work chair—no use in keeping it on since the chances of you getting naked later are high. You do ask him to zip your dress up for you. Then, you take his hand and drag him out of the seat, leading him to the room. Backwards you walk, gauging Levi’s reaction when the cove lights switch on. His eyes are on the other side of the room first, still empty since the couple is still preparing. You watch Levi walk around, his eyes moving to the cabriole couch, then the chaise lounge, and when he finds nothing interesting, he walks to the glass and touches it.

“Two-way?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

You hear it, the amusement in his tone.

He turns away, gaze falling upon the cabinet. “I assume there aren't any clothes inside.”

“Mhm.” You stand with your back against the cabinet, arms on your back as you hold the handles. This is it, you think. You’re going to have your biggest secret told soon.

Behind Levi, the couple finally appears, walking to the bed, naked like always. Levi must’ve noticed your gaze isn’t on him, so he turns to face the glass again. He pauses, so quiet even his breathing can’t be heard. His attention is fixed on the couple who starts their performance. Sloppy kisses, hands everywhere. Then, the man carries his partner to bed, where they share more kisses before he whispers something in her ear. They exchange positions so that he now lies under her, stroking the top of her head as she peppers his skin with kisses.

“How long?” asks Levi.

“A year,” you answer in a quiet voice. “But they aren’t the first.”

Levi turns to face you completely, and it sucks that you can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s so good at that, maintaining an impassive gaze, suppressing his emotions.

“There was another couple. For two years.” You’ve got no choice but to go on. You’re here now. He’s going to find out one way or another.

“And you only watch?”

“Kinda.” You turn away to finally open the cabinet, its doors heavier than you remember, like they’re trying to stop you from embarrassing yourself further. With the contents bared, you can’t make yourself face Levi just yet, afraid that this time you’ll see a sliver of anything the screams not good on his face. Disappointment. Disgust. Ashamed of getting involved with a person who’s sick in the head.

“Huh.”

There it is again, the amusement in his voice.

You face him, lips parting in surprise when you find him approaching.

“You’ve used all this?”

“N—no. Only some. The rest are just for collection.”

“I see,” he hums, now standing by your side, eyes roaming all over the sex toys. Levi murmurs your name in a low and gravelly voice that makes your insides churn, and says “you always surprise me, princess.” He faces you, and your breath catches in your throat. There it is again, the glint in his eyes, the gaze that makes you feel things.

Levi steps between you and the cabinet, so close that your noses nearly touch. You hold your ground, keeping your eyes glued to his.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “This is what you’re afraid to tell me?” He steps forward, forcing you to step back until you hit the couch. “You thought this would disgust me and turn me away?”

“Yes,” you answer firmly even though deep inside, you feel ablaze and already melting.

“It did.”

Your heart drops in your chest but you keep your cool, pretending it doesn’t bother you. You should’ve known better than to tell Levi. You should’ve just stopped this, should’ve just fired the couple and locked this room up. Now he’s going to leave you and this time, he will never come back.

You feel his hand on your hip, almost at the top of your ass cheek, there but barely touching.

“It made me want you even more.”

Before you can even digest what he just said, his mouth crashes into yours, stealing the air right out of your lungs. The suddenness of it pushes you against the couch, causing it to slide back with a screech that would’ve made you jump if he isn’t pressing his pelvis against yours, letting you feel his growing hard-on through his jeans. The pressure that’s been building in your belly turns to something positive. His other hand finds your hip, pulling you against him, grinding his hips into yours. Your lips part as you moan into the kiss, and Levi slips his tongue into your mouth. You grab him by the collars of his shirt as you meet his tongue with your own. You need him. You want him so fucking bad.

And you own him.

Levi pulls away, leaving you reeling and panting.

“Show me what you learned from these two.”

You smirk, accepting the challenge. You grab at the part of his shirt that’s still buttoned and drag him around the couch. You push him to sit on the velvet cushion, positioning your knees between his parted ones as you lean forward for a chaste kiss. Slowly, you unbutton the rest of his shirt to finally get rid of it, tossing it somewhere behind you. You lean in for another kiss, slow and steady this time, but when he reaches for your face with his hands, you pull away to tell him, “no touching.” You don’t wait for an answer, capturing his lips in another slow kiss while your hands roam all over his chest, feeling his pecks, teasing the nipples. Levi stays still, but you feel the tension in his stomach when he arches his back slightly, gravitating to your touch. Slowly, your mouth inches along his jaw, to the skin under his ear. You place a trail of featherlight kisses down the side of his neck, smirking against his hot skin when you feel him tilting his head in your direction. “You’re cheating,” you whisper in his ear before moving down to his shoulder, “you’re lucky I’m in a good mood.” His chest heaves, but you can’t tell if it’s because of the sucking kisses you’re placing along his collarbone or if it’s because you’re teasing his erection through his jeans with a barely-there touch of your finger.

“Want me to take it off?” You ask sweetly.

“Whatever you want,” he croaks.

You kiss him on the mouth, a reward for leaving you the choice. With your eyes locked on his eyes, you unbutton his jeans and zip it open. “Up,” you instruct, and Levi lifts his hips off the couch for you to pull his pants down, leaving him in his boxer shorts. “My, my…”

He keeps his eyes on your face. He doesn’t need to look down to know he’s leaking through—

“Fuck!” He chokes out when you tap the head of his cock that’s poking against the wet fabric. It twitches after the touch, releasing more precum. He sighs out your name, frustrated.

“Patience, my prince,” you say against his mouth, feeling his hot breath against your lips. Another chaste kiss, then you trail down his chest, kissing softly the skin of his pectorals before focusing on his nipples, swirling your tongue around the stiff nubs. Levi shudders under your touch, breathing heavily through gritted teeth, knuckles turning white as his grip on the cushion tightens. With half-lidded eyes, he watches you move down his stomach, lips trailing along the narrow space between his abs, stopping right where his happy trail starts with a loud playful peck. Planting your hands on the cushion on each side of his knees, you look up at him and smile innocently.

“Still good?”

A sliver of emotion passes on his face. “Come on,” he sighs.

“Whatever happened to being patient?” You giggle, caressing his right chest.

“Been fucking patient enough,” he grumbles.

Your hand slides south, the tip of your fingers gliding along his abs. The sensation makes his cock twitch in the confines of his boxers.

“Fine, fine,” you sing-sang—you’re eager yourself, after all—hooking your index fingers over the garters to pull his boxers down. Levi’s cock springs free, twitching again in the sudden cold, its head glistening from being coated in so much pre-cum. The view makes your mouth water. He looks so delicious, like a melting ice cream that you can’t stop imagining you’re licking.

“Did they turn you on too?” You tease with a tap at his cockhead.

“Just fucking take me.” (But what he wants to say is that he hasn’t even so much as glanced at the couple behind you ever since you sat on the couch. You’re all he cares about. You’re all he wants to look at.)

“So impatient,” you remark in a playful scolding tone as you get down on your knees. Levi smirks, satisfied, but it’s cut short by a frustrated sigh when you remind him that he’s still not allowed to touch. You smile, mouth open and tongue sticking out right next to the bulbous cockhead. You let out a quiet breath through your mouth to see how sensitive he already is, and when it twitches, you reward him with a little lick at the frenulum. Levi throws his head back against the backrest of the couch as another frustrated sigh escapes him, and in that second that he’s unsuspecting, you quickly take all of him deep in your throat, startling him and causing him to choke out a gasp and grab hold of your head.

“Shit— sorry!” He withdraws his hands and settles back to gripping the cushions again. “You’re going to give me a heart attack."

Your hands glide along his inner thighs while you take him into your mouth, not too deep but just enough for the tip to hit your uvula before you pull back, cheeks hollowed out as you suck hard at the head. With your eyes glued to his pretty face, admiring his brows that are slightly creased, his half-lidded eyes, and slightly parted lips, you repeat the action slowly, sucking harder with every pull, and each time, Levi would buck his hips up, desperate to go deeper in your throat and make you choke. You give him what he wants once, twice, allowing him as deep as you can take until you’re twitching and your eyes cloud with tears. His grip on the cushions tightens that the fingers nearly turn white as he jerks his hips up in an attempt to bury his cock deep down your throat, sighing out a “fuuuck,” when you’d pull out not even two seconds after to gasp for air. Levi murmurs your name, pleading with you, and you’d comfort him with only a squeeze on both knees and a kiss on the head of his cock. You do this again and again, riling him up, enjoying the desperate moans he makes every time you leave him hanging, and God, it makes you feel so good to hear him beg, even if twice he lost his control and disobeyed you by gripping the back of your head to hold you still for a few seconds longer, waiting for you to start twitching at the lack of oxygen before letting you go. You let both times slip after he apologized and whimpered “you feel so good.”

It doesn’t take him long before he’s murmuring that he’s close. You quicken your pace and take him deeper until his breathing turns loud and erratic, and when he cries out “shit!” you pull back and watch his cock twitch in air as cum dribbles out. “You’re so fucking mean,” he whines, and you giggle at how he seems to be close to sobbing.

You wrap your fingers around the base, pushing his cock to his stomach and stroking him upwards to gather his cum towards his belly instead. You can’t spoil the velvet covers after all, not this time yet at least. He watches while you lick your fingers clean, his breathing slowing to calm as you place a trail of kisses up his stomach and chest, until you’re straddling him.

“You can touch me now.”

His hands slip under your skirts to caress your thighs.

You peck his lips, asking “how are you?” between kisses.

“Could be better,” is all he says, in his usual deadpan tone.

You chuckle, cupping his jaw, tilting his head to the side to kiss the side of his face.

His hands snake around your lower back, fingers slipping under the garters of your underwear, pushing them down and then spreading your ass apart so that he can feel your wetness at the tip of his fingers while he squeezes your cheeks.

You move your hips to rub yourself on his fingers, moaning against his lips when he nudges your hole.

“So… will you still be my prince or nah?”

He slips a finger into your cunt, curling it inward and outward, causing your hips to falter.

“You can’t get rid of me by giving me ruined orgasms. Or by watching strangers fuck.”

“Do you want me to fire them?”

He kisses your chin. “I wouldn’t mind if you don’t.”

“Good to know…” You bury your face in the crook of his neck as you lift your hips slightly, allowing him better reach and angle. He slips another finger, and you moan breathily against his skin as he starts fucking you with his fingers. You kiss the junction where his neck and shoulder meet and say, “I can finally put that gorgeous cock ring into good use.” Levi stiffens, his fingers still buried in your cunt. You pull away and laugh at the flabbergasted look on his face. “Not today, though.” You kiss the tip of his nose, winking at him as you get up. “I’ll just get my butt plug.”

p.s. i know nothing about wines (im a beer girl lol) so if the combination of food and wine i chose isn't a good pair, i'm sorry 😖😂

He’s not going to lie, you really are good at maintaining the cleanliness of the shop. You even donated potted plants to make the shop look appealing and a phonograph to play classical songs in the background, bringing color and life to the place. It’s only been six months since you started, yet you’ve already brought so much life to the shop (read: to his life), so much more than he ever could and would. There’s not one bad thing he could say about you, not one reason to fire you. You need not be told what to do, always ready to greet the customers with a smile (something he isn’t good at), prepared to help them choose which tea to drink (which, to his surprise, you know a lot of), serve orders right after they’re made, and clean up after the customers left. You’d wash the used teacups without being told, wipe them dry, and organize them on the overhead cupboards just the way he prefers. It didn’t take him long to realize he’s been watching you (and enjoying it) from behind the counter all this time.

And you are so, so good at making him feel good. So fucking nice to look at when you’re on the ground and between his knees, your calloused fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking him slowly while you suck at the head. He forces himself to look at you, eyes half-lidded, his cheeks a faint red, and it always catches him off-guard, makes him choke out a gasp, when he finds you already looking at him. A hum escapes his throat at the sight of your smile around his cock, his eyes rolling back so hard when your lips wrap around his head.

He breathes your name out, setting his eyes on you again. “Go deeper,” he murmurs.

You prop yourself up with your forearms on his thighs, careful not to hurt his knee. He grabs at the shelves on each side of him, gripping so hard his fingers turn white, still unable to make himself touch you with his disgusting hands. You let go of his cock, and he chokes out a moan, head hitting the jars on his back when you take all of him into your mouth, deep down your throat that your nose touches his stomach and you twitch and gag on his head. A sharp pain tears through his knee when his hips buck up in reflex, thrusting his dick further despite already hitting the back of your throat. You pull back with a loud gasp and an admonishing laugh that makes him sigh out another cuss. Levi watches you caressing his thighs. You’re staring back at him, tongue stuck out and pressed against the frenulum of his cock, your hands momentarily sliding up his pelvis and under the fabric of his shirt while his cock disappears into your mouth once more.

“Fuck—” he utters weakly, body shuddering as his cockhead hits the back of your throat.

He can’t believe he’s once again allowed himself to be this pathetic disabled man so easily reduced to a whimpering mess by a girl fifteen years younger than him. How can he let you do this? And in his tea shop, for that matter! How can he disgrace you and his little tea shop?!

How the heck are you so good? How the heck do you look so fucking good with your mouth around his cock?

“Fuck,” he sighs, thighs shaking, the coils in his belly starting to tighten. Your fingers wrap around his girth once more, stroking him while you kiss down his length, earning a twitch from his cock and a stream of pre-cum leaking from the slit. “I think I’m—”

“Please, Captain,” you cut him off, smiling prettily. Knowingly. He loves it when you call him that, you can tell. Even when he says he’s not that person anymore.

“Shit!” His toes curl in his shoes.

You grab at his hips, bracing yourself as you take him back into your mouth. He cries out a moan, and when his head hits your uvula and your throat tightens around him from another gag, the coil in his stomach finally snaps. His body shudders as a huge wave of pleasure takes over. You pull back slightly, fingers immediately wrapping around the base, stroking him hard and fast while you suck the cum right out his twitching cock. Suck harder and his soul might also leave his body. Levi bucks his hips once, twice, and stops when the pain in his knee becomes too much. He lets out a whimper, though he’s unsure if it’s because of the pain, or the pleasure, or the desperation to fill your throat until you’re choking on his cum. You giggle around him, eventually pulling away once he’s finished. Levi lets out a breathy sigh, tired yet very satisfied, as he watches the movement in your throat when you swallow.

Smiling, you wipe the corner of your mouth for a little show. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he answers, breathless. “Are you?”

You nod. “Felt good?”

“Yes.” No doubt about that.

You stand up. He straightens up in his seat when you begin to unzip your pants.

“Brat,” he utters, alarmed. He knows where this is going. You’re going to ride him next, and it wouldn’t even take him five minutes before he’s cumming again.

With the boots you’re wearing, you struggle a little to step out of your pants and underwear. It’s one of the things he likes about you: the not-so-fancy clothes or dresses (not that he’s going to ever say that out loud—at least, not yet).

“What?” you chuckle. “A good soldier should be rewarded, right?”

“Yes, but—” The words die in his throat when you sit on his lap. His hands immediately find your waist, keeping you still.

You lightly poke his nose before draping your arms over his shoulders. “Never had a girl go head over heels for you when you were younger?” A rhetorical question, one you always ask when you’re doing this with him. You know he would’ve had a line of women vying for his attention. You’re sure he was famous not just because he was Captain of a squad. Even until now, despite the broken eye and the scar on his face, he’s still the most handsome man you’ve ever laid eyes upon.

But Levi sighs, quietly as if he doesn’t want you hearing it. There’s a sad smile on his face, almost regretful, that you would’ve missed if you aren’t looking closely.

“I didn’t know,” he says, thumbs lightly brushing your hips. “With the threat of titans and all the fighting to survive, I didn’t have time for such things.”

Your shoulders drop. Levi lost half of his life battling monsters because of your people. Because of you. You begin to wonder how he could keep you with him at the shop. By his side. You can’t understand how he could still look at you so gently like you weren’t someone who killed his people during the war.

A gentle squeeze on your hips pulls you back to reality.

“You’re in there again,” he murmurs knowingly.

You shrug it off, then respond with a coy smile, “well, now you’ve got all the time in the world.” He only hums, and you take that as a positive response and begin rolling your hips, rubbing your wetness against his cock. “And we’ll make every second of it count.”

His hands trail up, staying at your waist. “I’m too old for you.”

You pause just to click your tongue at him, as if scolding a child. “Only I get to say that.”

“It’s true though,” he insists.

Pressing your foreheads together, you resume rolling your hips into his. “Fifteen years isn’t a lot.” You place a chaste kiss on his lips.

“You do know how much fifteen years is, don’t you?” he chuckles.

A loud knock from the main door startles the two of you. Levi glances at his wristwatch.

“They aren’t supposed to be back in another hour!” you cry out, pulling yourself away from him. “Ugh!”

Gabi’s shouting outside, calling your name and Levi’s. You quickly put back your underwear and pants on, glancing at Levi as he pushes himself up from the chair. You hurry over to help him pull his pants up to his waist.

“Go. Tell them we’re stocking up the shelves.”

You look over at the boxes of tea, none of which are open.

“Five minutes.” You close the door behind you.

Levi straightens his clothes and starts unboxing, get things moving even a little bit. Outside the stockroom, he hears you asking the trio how their days went, making small talks. You discuss your plan for dinner, a little belated celebration for Falco’s birthday. It doesn’t take long before Gabi’s asking about Levi while walking towards the stockroom. 

“Hey, old man,” she calls over to the man in question, who has just opened the second box. “Let’s get going! It’s the weekend!”

“It’s only Friday,” he answers.

“Friday night,” she points out.

Levi glances at his watch. “Ten minutes to four.”

“Come on, Grandpa,” Gabi chuckles, rolling her eyes. “You need to relax sometimes!”

Huh. He does need to relax after what you’ve done to him. He could still feel his heart hammering in his chest after his last orgasm!

“I’ll just finish this second box,” he answers with a sigh.

“Falco’s gonna help with the rest of the boxes!” Gabi volunteers, turning to the boy in question. “Right, Falco?”

“Of course,” he answers in a “do-I-get-a-choice” sigh.

Thirty minutes later, your group heads out to a steakhouse downtown, where you wait for another half hour before a table big enough to accommodate your group is cleared. You each get a steak meal, fruit juices for the kids, and a bottle of wine for yourself, Levi, and Onyankopon. A simple celebration. Quiet, but a happy one. Gabi recounts memories when she and Falco were still with the Warriors, birthdays they celebrated with Udo and Zofia. There is bitterness in her voice even though she’s smiling through her stories. You hate reminiscing. There’s nothing nice to remember when you were still in the military, not when the only friend you had died in battle. It was your fault after all. He may still be alive if only you didn’t run away. He may still be alive if you took him with you when you ran away.

You have been selfish. You still are, choosing to show up before Levi everyday despite knowing you were once with the people who made their lives a living hell.

“So, tell us what you’re grateful for, Falco!” Gabi’s voice pulls you out of your thought bubble.

You glance in Levi’s way, realizing he’s watching. He must’ve noticed you zoning out, knows what thoughts are in your head. You look away, pretending to stir your wine.

Falco’s reluctant for a moment. “Well… I am grateful that we are all here and that you remembered my… my birthday,” his voice cracks, tears clouding his vision. “It’s been a while since we’ve celebrated this peacefully.”

“Aww, you’re such a cry-baby!” Gabi teases. “What else?”

“That’s it,” he sniffles.

“That’s it?!” She complains.

“A-huh. Your turn.”

“What? It isn’t my birthday!”

“It isn’t, but the birthday celebrant wants to hear what you all have to say too,” Falco says with a chuckle, looking at each of you across the table.

Gabi smacks her forehead, earning a laugh from Onyankopon, who volunteers to go next. He says he’s grateful for the food and that he got a job to keep himself from starving and to keep a roof over his head. Then, he passes the spotlight to you.

You know what to say but somehow, the words won’t come out. You don’t want to ruin the mood, but besides the fact that you get to do whatever you’re doing with Levi—which, you obviously can’t disclose to anyone around the table—the only other thing you are grateful for is that…

“...I ran away,” you say, almost inaudible. Then, you look up, meeting Levi’s eyes, and in a louder voice you continue, “if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here with you all. What I did was a disgrace, but I’m glad I did it.” You swallow, remembering your late friend. “Somehow,” you added shakily, unsure suddenly, shame immediately eating up your insides.

“You still fought,” Falco points out. “And you kept us safe. Remember?”

“Mhm!” Gabi agrees eagerly. “You looked after our families!”

You nod, although weakly, as if you aren’t convinced yourself.

“None of you kids should’ve been there,” Onyankopon adds.

There’s a bitter smile on your lips when you turn to him. “I’m no kid. I’m twenty-five.” But you understand him. You were nineteen when you were conscripted. No one at that age should’ve experienced being in the frontlines of war.

“You did what you had to do to live,” says Gabi. “We all did.”

You shrug, turning back to Levi. “Not so good a soldier, am I?” 

He doesn’t answer. You know he thinks otherwise. He always tells you what you did isn’t wrong. That you should’ve had a choice back then.

He holds your gaze for a moment, and knowing it’s his turn without you having to voice it out, he says, “I’m grateful that we are all here celebrating.”

“Come on, you can do better than that,” Gabi protests.

Levi looks at her, unbothered. “Your turn.”

Gabi purses her lips. And then, she sighs and smiles softly. “We made it out alive.”

“That’s it?” Falco counters.

“That’s it!” She raises her glass of juice. “Cheers to us!”

That’s something you all easily agree with. Glasses raise and clinks together for a toast to what’s ahead and to the birthday celebrant.

They’re right. What matters is you being here. You are alive. What’s done is done, and you only did what you had to do to stay alive. You will forever bear the guilt of running away, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy anymore.

The day ends sooner than you would’ve wanted. You and Levi part ways from Onyankopon, Gabi, and Falco, whose houses are in the opposite direction. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, closing the space between you and Levi after looking behind you to confirm the trio are out of eyeshot. You shove your hands into your pockets, kick at the thin sheet of snow that covers the ground, before latching onto Levi’s arm.

“So cold,” you chuckle.

“Take my scarf.”

You squeeze his arm. “I’m good. Thank you.”

The two of you walk in silence, side by side, until you finally reach your house.

Standing at your doorstep, you turn to face him with a shy smile. “It’d be nice to have someone to cuddle with on this cold night.”

“Just ask, brat,” he says with an eyeroll and a chuckle.

You open the door and take his hand. “You should come in.”

And he does, closing the door behind him. You kiss him slowly, your cold hands trailing up his chest and hooking over his shoulders. It’s so quiet all you hear is the sound of your lips against his, none of his breathing nor yours, for time seems to have stopped and with it your lungs from needing air. He is your oxygen, your blood. Everything you need. He gently wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. Pulling away slightly, you smile at his pink cheeks and smoldering eyes.

“Stay for the night,” you hum, touching his cheek. Warm. They feel so nice against your fingers.

“We both had drinks.”

“Nothing will happen,” you promise.

You both know that’s a lie.

You take his hand and turn to face… the stairs. “Shit. I forgot.”

“I didn’t.” He squeezes your hand. Reassuring. “Go start heating water. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“I can still walk, brat,” he points out, no heat in his voice.

You let out a little cheer before placing a peck on his lips and then heading upstairs.

He steps out of his shoes, pushing them aside by the main door, which he makes sure is locked before following you upstairs. Levi tries not to be negatively affected by it, but it still takes him almost a minute to climb just an eight-step staircase. Forty six seconds, to be exact, for just eight steps. For fuck’s sake.

He’s not the kind of man you should be with.

When you come out of the bathroom, you’re humming to a song, dressed in just your plum sweater and underwear, walking into your room to get a pair of sleepwear for you and Levi. He takes a moment to catch his breath and lets the burning sensation in his knee subside. You always remind him to be patient with himself. Healing and recovering takes time, you always say, and you’ve always been patient with him even when he’s too much of a burden. You deserve better.

But he can’t leave you. Whatever it is he feels for you, he feels so intensely, he can’t bring himself to walk away.

“You good?”

He lets out a deep sigh. “Yeah.”

You hug the clothes and towels against your chest and take his hand, leading him to the bathroom. You help him undress, unbuttoning his trench coat, taking his shirt off, then his slacks, underwear, and socks. He watches you fold them neatly on the counter before starting the shower, letting the water run for a few seconds until steam fills the bathroom and clouds the mirror. You help him step into the bath with you, enjoying a short moment of comfort under the hot water that pours over your heads and down your bodies. When it’s time to bathe, he leans back against the wall while you scratch his hair to wet it thoroughly. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why he doesn’t want to go: he likes how you take care of him. He likes this kind of affection.

It feels so nice he wants time to stop so he could be with you for as long as possible. You always make him feel that way.

Maybe it isn’t so bad to want to be cared for the rest of his life.

He places his good hand on your back, the one with complete fingers, letting it sit at the top of your bum. You take a step closer, right thigh between his thighs, so close that it rubs against his cock whenever you move. He keeps his eyes glued to yours. You stare back, a ghost of a smile curling your lips. You know what you’re doing to him, what each barely-there contact does, sending jolts up his belly, rousing his body from sleep. The first twitch comes when you scratch at his undercut, and he barely manages to suppress the moan that escapes his mouth.

“Don’t tease,” he groans, and you only laugh. A bit late for that, because by the time you’re done washing the soap from his body, his cock’s already up.

“You sure you don’t want to?” You ask with a lilt in your voice.

No. He swallows down the word and says, “let’s not waste water.”

You chuckle. “Okay, gramps. Your back, please.”

He turns around, hands pressed on the wall for support. He notices the holes. 

“What are these for?”

“Oh…” you hesitate, but you know there’s no point in keeping it from him. “I was going to install handrails for you to hold onto at times like this.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Why would you do that? Why would you go through such lengths for him?

You pull closer, pressing your body to his, arms wrapped around his body. “Don’t you like it?” You ask, thinking his silence must’ve meant he disliked the gesture.

“I— I do… I appreciate it,” he forces out. “But you didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to, but I wanted to.” You place a kiss at the nape of his neck. Your left hand inches up his left pectoral, while the other takes his cock and starts stroking it. “It’ll help especially when I do this.”

“Shit—” He murmurs your name.

“Hmm?” You twirl his nipple in your fingers, pulling at it to stiffen. “How about this? Do you like it?”

“Y–yeah…” So much that his knees almost give out when your fingers focus on the head of his cock, stroking deliberately in a circular motion.

“I knew you would,” you murmur with another chuckle, pressing your thumb against the frenulum and then dragging it up the slit, drawing out some precum. That also pulls out a whimper from him and causes his hips to jerk back, which, unfortunately, sends a sharp pain down his bad knee.

Levi says your name in warning. You pull back with an apology.

Fuck. Fuck! He should be the one apologizing.

He shifts his weight on his other leg, but the discomfort in his knee wouldn’t go away.

You grab the soap and start cleaning his back. “Sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You did not.” He turns his face to look you in the eyes.

That brings a smile to your lips as you continue to wash his back, all the way down to his legs and feet. He still can’t believe how you’re patient with him, how you make things so much easier for him without asking anything in return.

How did he get this lucky? Does he even deserve this? Does he deserve you?

When you’re done with his back, you ask him to face you once more so you could wash his front thoroughly. He turns without a word, then pulls you into a hug.

“Oh,” you chuckle, hugging him back. For a moment, it’s just the sound of the shower that can be heard until you look up at him to ask “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, even when all he wants to say—to ask for—is that you never get tired of him. “Do you have the rails? Let’s install them tomorrow.”

You smile widely, and it steals his breath away.

When he’s all rinsed, he steps out of the shower to start drying himself with a towel. He watches you wash the shampoo off your hair, his heart swelling with emotions while thoughts race in his mind. He wishes he could do the same to you: wash your hair for you, scrub your body clean, fuck you under the shower, make you cum with his fingers, make you cum some more with his mouth (and his cock, if only his knees could handle his weight.)

He wants to be better for you, but he knows he can’t rush himself to heal. He does have to be patient with himself like you are with him.

“Did I forget anything?” you ask, realizing he’s still in the bathroom.

He shakes his head and starts getting dressed. “I’ll wait for you in bed.”

“Be there in a few minutes.”

Levi prepares the bed for the two of you—that’s the least he could do. And when you finally join him fifteen minutes later, he no longer stops you when you pull his trousers and briefs down and then lay on your stomach between his legs. He watches you closely as you kiss his still soft cock, nuzzling the head with your nose before taking him and stroking him with your mouth, so slowly until he’s hard as a rock and he comes. He doesn’t stop you when you mount him (he does choke out a ‘wait!’, but doesn’t get the chance to ask if you still have pills because you’re already taking him back inside you with your other set of lips). He doesn’t stop himself when he grabs your waist gently, a reminder that he’s got you should you get tired. He doesn’t stop you when you lean forward, pressing him down on the bed with your hands on his chest, as your hips move fast and your moans grow louder, more desperate, even louder, until you’re a twitching and whimpering mess on top of him.

And he doesn’t resist when he says he’s cumming and you tell him to do it inside you.

The first time was an accident. The two of you were busy studying in your room, with Levi occupying your desk and you on your bed with your laptop, typing out an essay. You had asked him to proofread a particularly difficult section on the assignment.

However, instead of taking the laptop you offer him back to the desk, he moved next to you on the bed. Close, thighs touching. He smelt of fresh linens and the faint scent of earl grey. 

That had sent your system into haywire, your heart taking on a tumultuous pace. As he turned to face you, no doubt with thoughts about your essay, you blurted out the first thing that never fails to come to mind when you see him. 

"I want to kiss you." 

Your words had manifested into a strangled kind of sound, something akin to a squawk. Levi had looked shocked for a second, eyes wide, making you wonder if he even knew what you had said.

And then he did. Kiss you. Nearly with no time between the words at all, as if he had been waiting for you all along, Levi kissed you. It was better than what you had imagined.

Then, it spiraled into kissing him in other places. 

Fast-forward three weeks after leaping over that line of friendship, you have been thinking of him everyday, which only exacerbates that pesky crush you had on him in the first place that began years ago. 

Bent over his desk, nails digging into the plastic wood as he takes you from behind, you think about how you would like to hold his hand and do more than fuck and study. This is the third time today alone you've thought about wanting something more from him, when this was just casual. 

You're his friend. You have evidence. He's begrudgingly introduced you to people as his best friend many times before and after this thing between you. You still do friendship film nights where you make fun of his weird philosophical horror, and he pokes your cheek with his index finger to distract you from the tears your shed at the end of your rom-coms. 

Levi bends to attach his lips to your shoulder, thrusts slowing but hitting you deeper than before. It's delicious. You moan lightly as his teeth scrape across the skin.

God, you hope he leaves a mark. You need him to. He bites down harder as if he heard every word. His name tumbles from your lips loudly in pleasure. A hand moves to smooth your hair out of the way, he presses his mouth against the free space of your neck. You pretend it's a promise to litter you with marks all over when he has some time to dedicate to you later, and not just something that makes your cunt squeeze around him so he can get off quicker and then leave to meet with Erwin or something to do … whatever. 

"Just what are you thinking about, mmh?" Levi breathes into your ear.

"Y-you," your reply nearly gets lost when Levi kisses you again, tongue licking into the cavern of your mouth, "Just thinking of you," you pant when the two of you part for air. 

He thrusts into you a few more times before his eyes narrow. He pulls out of you, still hot and hard. You hiss at the loss of him, empty.

What is he thinking? You can never tell.

"Levi, what the fuck—"

"Bed, c'mon. If we keep at it like this, your back is going to give out," he pulls you by the wrist, oddly gentle. Your back is fine — mostly. His eyes remind you of pencil lead when he looks at you so intently like this, "unless you don't feel like it." 

You shrug, "It's your bed." 

"I-Yeah, fine."

You think he wants to say more, but he's pushing your back into the bed and settling between your thighs before you get the chance to ask. 

"Bend your knees for me."

You almost cave from his voice alone, husky in a way that makes you want to hear him wake in the morning and whisper out your name. He kisses and sucks at the flesh of your inner thigh. Your breathe hitches, but you reach down and tap his cheek to get his attention. He looks up and the sight makes you want to cry. He's flushed, wearing the most ridiculously pretty shade of pink across his cheeks and nose. 

"You're not eating me out again are you?" You ask curiously, ignoring the way your pulse is hammering at the door of your ribs, wondering when you're going to stop being such a coward and ask for more, " You seriously don't have to." 

His fingers find their home between your thighs, gathering the wetness and pressing against your clit. A burst of heat runs through you. 

"Clearly the first time wasn't enough. I … I want you to feel good." 

"I also felt good when you were hitting it from the back though —" You cut yourself off with soft groan as he inserts a finger into you, prodding that sensitive spot inside you. 

"Then that wasn't good enough. You—" he chooses he next words thoughtfully, "—you weren't with me. You were thinking of something else." He dips his head to suck lightly at your nub. The fact that his eyes are glued to you makes your face heat. He catches every crease of your brow and twist of your mouth. 

"You're too sweet to me, Levi." 

His voice is muffled, but your hear it anyway, "You're the sweet one," over the sound of him plugging up your pussy with his fingers and tongue, "so pretty like this. All you have to do it take it, alright?" He sighs in delight the moment you thread your fingers through his hair. He dives down to lap up all the slick you leak out. 

Your core vibrates with need, "Yes-yes, Levi, please."