Take my soul, leave my body.
Pairing: Levi Ackerman x female reader.
Warning: smut, NSFW 18+, minors dni.
Content: depictions of grief and guilt, solo masturbation, edging, choking, Levi cumming his brains out .
Author’s notes: Hi! This is my first one-shot ever. I hope I gave Levi’s character justice, as I absolutely adore him and he lives in my mind rent free. Keep in mind English is not my native language, so watch out for mistakes. Thank you for reading and enjoy!
Levi’s left alone in his office, but thoughts of you distract him from his paperwork.
The mess hall buzzes alive in the general uproar of the evening. The smell of wood wafts through the air, dishes being served left and right to greedy soldiers, who converse loudly and eat even more so. The sound of plates clanking together accompany the movement of dozens of people who walk past pushing each other, talking and grinning with the approach of the evening.
Flashes of green and brown pass by Lance Corporal Levi, seated on the veteran’s benches. Not bothered to entertain, the man remains firmly rooted to his spot, seemingly set in stone. A permanent scowl rests on his shapely lips, disturbing his otherwise polished appearance. A porcelain cup, fair like his complexion, rests between his elongated fingers, onyx bangs brushing against his eyelashes, uniform impeccably clean. Despite his still demeanour, nobody seems inclined to approach him tonight.
Not that he particularly cares for it, anyways. In fact, he’s glad he’s alone. Remnants of the day keep sneaking into his mind, confusing themselves with thoughts of his duties, the next expeditions, the upcoming training sessions. He’s annoyed, but most of all tired. His fingers tighten around the rim of the cup as soldiers bustle about next to him, shouting at a considerably high volume.
For him, it is one of those heavy nights: he feels a headache coming on this early into the dusk. He knows the tea won’t help; he’s too preoccupied by his own thoughts, granted to him in the form of discomfort, laced with a feeling whose definition he can’t quite place a finger upon. Typically it seethes deep in his being, reminding him of his past, prompting memories to arise deep in the nightfall; he thinks back to his youth, his companions in the Underground, his mother, alongside a recent addition: you. The emotion always renders him utterly useless, until the burning in his eyes subsides almost completely by the dawn of the following day and it stops washing over him in waves.
That’s why he doesn’t notice when you enter the hall.You’re with your comrades, your smile a bight contrast against the dark atmosphere, delighted at the prospect of finally relaxing in front of a plate of warm food. He doesn’t notice when you deliberately pick the table next to his, and when you sit on the furthest spot on the bench besides his, he feigns indifference until he lifts his gaze.
Before he can react, you greet him over the sounds of the hall. A couple of beats pass between the two of you. Then, there is a single indication of his acknowledgment: a mechanical nod, along with a look towards your direction.
His stormy irises glint under the dim lights of the room, like gray crystals shining in the moonlight. You don’t miss the gravity of the stare he shoots your way. You don’t think much of it: it seems a regular gesture, befitting of his intense character.
But you don’t detect the slight tremble of his fingertips, nor the way his gaze runs over you, taking in how you look, your expressions, your every move. He observes the outline of your face and neck even after you turn your head away from him, his slated eyes raking over your jacket. In his imagination, he would like to lean over, so close you would almost be touching, gently grab your wrist and feel the weight of your skin beneath his fingertips.He would be close enough to perceive the heat of your breath, and maybe he’d ask you questions and listen to you intently, without ever missing a word spewing from your lips. Maybe he’d even take you away, if you would let him.
But Levi is a rational man. He lives his life in the silent promise that one day, his heart's deepest desires will be fulfilled, and yet when anguish catches up to him, irrefutably and achingly, he’s terrified. He wholeheartedly wishes it would be the opposite, but every time he attempts to escape, it doubles down on him, suffocating him entirely.
So he looks away when your head tilts towards him. He doesn’t want to deal with the idea of you tonight. He’s aware he’s scarred, and all he wants to do this evening is to bask in his loneliness. So he convinces himself it would be wrong of him to trouble you.
He suddenly feels the urge to leave. The sound of laughter spreads trough the hall, the wood creaking as he lifts from his seat, swiftly and silently. A strange sensation simmers in his gut and engulfs him completely, and the next time you look towards his direction, he’s gone.
****************************************************************************************************************************
Levi walks away. The freezing corridor walls exude quietness, the only discernible sound his boots tapping against the cement floor, creating a rhythmic noise. He opens the door to his office, and he’s greeted by a familiar sight: bundles of paper on his elegant mahogany desk. The moonlight beams though the windows, ensuring a subdued and soft ambience, and the door closes behind him with a soft click. His shoulders drop as he walks over to his chair, exhaling softly through his nose. The rug mutes his boots, providing a muffled sound, disrupted by the squeaking of the chair as soon as he sits down.
The moon is ever-present, with a warm milky glow in the sky. Levi believes the sight of it could become a song in the eyes of anyone willing to raise their head upward. He’s reminded of his childhood, the moon his exclusive and solitary companion during those restless nights, in the city whose inhabitants sleep, while sorrow doesn’t.
He pinches the area between his brows. The dull headache doesn’t seem to pass, and he opts to distract himself by opening the stack of paperwork and grabbing a report, in order to not sit up late and think about reasons why he shouldn’t try with you. He always feels as though when he moves and speaks it’s his shadow, but he’s convinced when you look at him, it’s him really.
Because of this, Levi sometimes cannot stand himself. He’s certain he despises himself when during the never-ending dusk hours his mind, branded with your image, reels in contemplation of you, like right now.
The pen wavers in his hand as a persistent impulse creeps at the forefront of his mind.
He hates how much of an effect you have on him. He thinks of you these past few days, and the images his mind comes up with are proof of his longing: flashes of your pale, damp neck during training sessions, when you think he’s not looking. Your eyes, seductive and always welcoming. Rosy, pillowy lips in an almost perfect shape, never set in a straight line, inviting. He would be dishonest if he stated he’d never thought of them wrapping around his own, drawing out his breath, kissing him all over.
He lifts his hand, rubbing his temples even harder now. Levi’s sure it’s sinful, but he’s been dreaming of giving you highs. Of pleasuring you until you’re stupid, making you thoughtless against his sheets, quivering with satisfaction.
His mind fogs like the cold unfurling on a glass panel.
He would know how to treat you properly. At least, that’s what he always tells himself when twilight approaches. As the numbing coolness of nightfall imprints itself perpetually on the windowsills, rendering him scornful and estranged, he’s aware atonement is inconceivable.During these moments he’s reminded of everything and nothing at all simultaneously: your presence contained in fleeting fractions of time. Often, when he thinks of you, his heartbeat expands beneath his collar as darkness consumes him.
He’s aware he’s not allowed to have you, of course. Even more certain he’s not entitled to you; he thinks he would hate it if you so much as looked at him spitefully. And yet, he’s imagined your figure in impossible positions, his graceful fingers touching you, reaching spots bound to have you breathless, even better - gasping for air. The palms of his hands caressing the span of your entire frame, rousing goosebumps in their wake. His toned, lithe back spanning in between your thighs, his delicate tongue languidly tracing circles in places only he should see.
He knows you should be bent, but not ruined. Twisted, but not deformed. He has already seen the fire in your eyes, only he longs to feel it inflicted on him. He wouldn’t shun you for it, but most of all, he wouldn’t avoid it. He doesn’t believe he will ever steer clear of it when it burns through him, searing him alive.
He shifts in his seat. He feels hardness prodding at the fabric of his pants. The room is scorching hot, and he leans back in his chair in an attempt to calm himself, closing his eyes.
His ebony hair appears tousled and soft, inky strands scraping against his bare neck. Heat becomes visible on his cheeks, vividly pink. He’s always loathed how effortlessly his skin reacts; in the Underground, kids would mock him and call him names for being so pale. But right now, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all when the only thing on his mind is you. The air is stuffy, and everything on his body seems too tight, too confining.
He starts taking off his jacket, folding it on his desk, but the movement causes his pen to fall to the ground.
-Fuck- he curses, his voice cutting through the stuffy air, sounding foreign even to him.
But he doesn’t bother lifting it, guilt eating him alive. Would it be so wrong to relieve himself just one time? Levi doesn’t think he will ever be able to answer such a question. His cock throbs in his pants. Levi curses again. As his body betrays him, he recalls how he’s used all his willpower these past few weeks, and one thing he’s certain of: there’s not a single strand left.
So he values his options: slaving away on the paperwork until morning, or surrendering to his filthy desires. Before he can even follow his reasonings, he shifts in seat again, not realising his mistake.His train of thoughts is immediately interrupted when his bare hand brushes against his dick. He nearly moans from the contact, shivers running down the length of his back.
All rationality is gone out of the window in an instant when he grabs himself through the fabric of his uniform, and the sinful noise he spews will remain forever embedded in his brain.
He wonders if you hate him now.
In his mind, he begs for your forgiveness. But the need for you grows too strong. Especially when he rids himself of his shirt and cravat, and especially when he unbuttons his pants and doesn’t even bother to take them off all the way. He stops where the ODM gear marks are engraved on the planes of his muscular thighs, and pants wildly as he frees his dick from all kinds of restrictions.
He doesn’t have time to rationalize any of it, and he doesn’t think he wants to.He reels forward as he presses his thumb to his bright red tip, groaning when he rolls it in slow, tormenting circles. He wraps his palm around the sensitive area, huffing through his mouth as he starts moving up and down in sensual motions.
He thinks of having his way with you. He throws his head back as he fantasizes of bending you over, taking you right there in his office against the lacquered mahogany. He dreams of wrapping your hair around his hand and tugging it, forcing you to arch your back and allowing him to pound into you even harder. He moans particularly loudly when he focuses on the vein on the underside of his dick, imagining it’s you between his legs, running your precious tongue all over him, drooling over his round balls and rhythmically taking him deeper into your throat.
He feels his high approaching too fast. He’s gasping as he bunches up the fabric of his pants in his right hand. To give himself a reprieve, he spits into it, and squeezes his manhood as his saliva mixes with his precum. His abs stretch over miles of skin, and pearly beads of liquid fall languidly on the short, dark hairs of his pelvis.He looks gorgeous like this, deprived and wanton.
And so he whimpers when he thumbs his slit in an upwards motion, and falls apart slowly; he is so needy, but nothing is enough anymore. He wants to cum so bad- the stimulation is insufficient, and he grows desperate by the second.
He lifts his hand up and brushes against his nipples. He thinks of your cunt swaddling him in its wonderful heat, while you ride him on the exact chair he’s sitting on. His hand speeds up, and the only sounds heard in the room are his wheezing and the heavy squelching caused by his movements.A known sensation envelops him totally, and he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop, not anymore.
He’s certain you’ve bewitched him. As he pictures your pussy on his tongue, he experiments by closing his hand around his throat, cutting off his oxygen supply completely. The reaction is immediate: one of his knees comes up and he knocks something off his desk. He doesn’t bother looking. You have him right where he wants to be: weak with desire. He stifles a groan.
He understands that if you asked him for anything, he would give it away. He would do it, for you, and you only.He’s hanging right there, and for a split second he thinks he might slip and ruin everything. But Levi is not a person prone to making errors.
Right before his unravelling, he forcefully grasps the base of his dick and pushes down. His muscles tense up entirely, tears prickling his eyes. He heaves.
The sensation fizzles out around his tip, smouldering and taking over him. He cries out, his hips rising up. He knows that If it were you doing this, he would be begging.
He holds out for another moment, lifting his hand from his throat and grabbing the handles of the chair.Then, he furiously brings his hand down and touches himself.
A single tear escapes his eyes, and he nearly wails.
He chokes as his raging high washes over him, igniting him from the inside out. His muscles tremble though his entire peak as sweat dribbles down his forehead, his face scrunched up in an agonisingly beautiful expression.
Levi has never come this hard. Deep inside, he wishes you were here to witness it.
When he finally opens his eyes, they’re glazed over. Exhaustion seeps into his bones, milky white liquid sticking his fingers together. Cotton seems to have lodged itself into his ears, and while he would prefer to clean himself immediately, he’s too tired to.
He runs his hand over his manhood once more, his hand limp, and he almost hisses from the overstimulation. Papers are strewn all over the floor, a picture of his mind, and he gulps as he sits up further on the chair. He hears voices down the corridor, and he lifts his gaze towards his window.
One thing he’s positive of: he knows he can’t be saved. Nobody knows how will end will unfold. None of your gods can redeem him; so, as moonlight whispers pale hues into the dreamy night, he hopes you absolve him.
discoholicmusic
amandla
pixelskylines
germansingergirl
