silqenced

“Leon, please, I’m so close-” The words break on a high, desperate whine. You turn your face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds he’s dragging out of you.

His hand grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back so you have no choice but to look at him. His blue eyes are dark and far too sharp for the soft-spoken kid you used to dismiss.

“Are you close, baby?”

All you can do is nod, a broken little sound escaping every time his hips snap forward.

“Aww.” The sound is almost gentle, but the grin cutting across his face is anything but. “You poor girl.” He leans down until his lips brush your ear, never slowing the punishing rhythm of his cock. “Is it all too much?”

You nod frantically, nails biting into his shoulders. The pressure is building so fast it’s almost frightening. You’re right there, right on the edge.

“I’ll let you come.” His voice is low, almost sweet. Then the grin turns wicked. “Under one condition.”

He pulls out completely.

The sudden emptiness is brutal. Your hips jerk up on pure instinct, chasing him, but he only uses the thick head of his cock to slap lightly against your soaked, throbbing cunt. The wet sound is obscene. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“You like me.” It isn’t a question. “Don’t you?”

The words hit harder than the denial of your orgasm. You squeeze your eyes shut and groan, the ache between your legs almost painful now.

“Leon, I’m so close, I-”

“Admit it.” He drags the tip up and down your entrance, coating himself in your slick, never quite pushing in.

You shake your head hard, stubborn even while you’re falling apart underneath him. You’re already taking his cock; you refuse to give him the rest.

“You liked me the very first day you met me.” His voice is calm, certain. He braces both hands beside your head, caging you in. Slowly he pushes just the head inside. The stretch is nowhere near enough. Your pathetic tears spill over.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You nod once.

The grin that spreads across his face is pure sin. “I need to hear you say it.”

He slams the rest of the way in with one long, brutal thrust. The force of it punches a broken sob out of your throat.

“Use your words,” he murmurs against your cheek, kissing the tears as they fall. “Like you always do.”

His pace changes, no longer the frantic, punishing rhythm from before. Now it’s slow, deep, deliberate. Every controlled drag of his cock makes you feel every inch. The fullness is almost too much after the emptiness.

“Yes,” you choke out.

He keeps moving, slow and steady, grinding against the spot that makes your vision blur.

“You wanted me,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Just as much as I wanted you.”

“Yes, Leon, yes” The confession spills out against his neck as you cling to him, completely undone.

“All the teasing.” Leon’s voice breaks on a rough moan as he drives into you harder. “All the times you said you hated me. And now you’re taking my cock like this.”

You can only nod, completely beyond words. Your mouth hangs open, broken sounds spilling out with every thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, loud and filthy, making your head spin.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“Imagine us together,” he purrs, voice low and rough while his hips keep pounding into you without mercy.

“If you were mine, I’d do whatever the fuck you asked.”

The confession hits harder than the next deep stroke. He kisses down the side of your neck, tongue dragging over the sweat-slick skin, tasting you.

“I’d take such good care of you,” he murmurs against your throat. 

“I would be so good to you.” Another moan rumbles out of him as he grinds in deep. 

“I’d fuck you like this every night.”

His hand slips between your bodies. Fingers find your clit and start rubbing tight, precise circles. The sudden pressure makes your back arch clean off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. Your nails dig into his back hard enough to draw blood, dragging down as black stars burst behind your eyes.

“Would you like that, huh, baby?” He smiles down at you, eyes half-lidded, watching every reaction like he’s memorising them.

You have nothing left to fight with. Your chest heaves as you nod frantically, tears still wet on your cheeks.

“Leon, I only want you,” you sob against his shoulder.

His whole body tightens at the words. The circles on your clit speed up, ruthless and perfect, while his cock keeps slamming into you at the same relentless pace.

“That’s my girl.” He seals the praise with a deep, claiming kiss. 

“Now come all over my cock.”

The orgasm crashes through you in heavy, rolling waves. Your body jerks and shakes as you cry out his name, clenching around him so tightly it almost hurts. Leon holds you through every tremor, burying himself to the hilt as he follows. Hot pulses of his release flood you while he groans into your neck. Low, broken praises spilling out between laboured breaths.

“Fuck… you feel so good… took it so well for me…”

He keeps rocking into you through the aftershocks, slower now, milking every last tremor from both of you until you’re left trembling and spent beneath him. 

Leon finally pulls out and rolls onto his side, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles next to you. Your body is still trembling, pulse hammering in your throat and between your legs, the aftershocks of everything he just did to you slow to fade. 

He doesn’t go far. Instead he leans in and presses soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your bare shoulder, tasting the salt of your skin.

Your hand finds his hair almost without thinking. Fingers slide into the damp strands, combing through them gently, nails grazing his scalp. He makes a quiet sound of contentment against your skin.

For a long moment neither of you speaks. You simply look at each other in the dim light, both still catching your breath. A small, genuine smile curves his mouth, and the sight of it does something dangerous to your chest.

Your hand drifts from his hair to his face, cupping his cheek. His skin is warm under your palm. He leans into the touch without hesitation, blue eyes never leaving yours.

“I hate you,” you say quietly. The words come out softer than you intended, almost fond.

The afternoon crowd flows into your shop. Somewhere beyond the open windows, wagon wheels clatter over Trost’s cobblestones while merchants shout over one another in the market square. Unfortunately for you, all you hear inside is a woman demanding to know why lamp oil costs more than it did last month and a child ratting a tin of nails despite his mother’s repeated warnings.

“You’re welcome to argue with the merchant who supplies it,” you tell the woman, sliding her purchase across the counter. “Though I should warn you, he’s louder than you are.”

She leaves muttering beneath her breath. You barely have time to breathe before the bell above the door rings again. Every conversation falters, then sinks into small murmurs as multiple customers glance toward the entrance and quickly pretend they haven’t. A man near the shelves steps aside, clutching his basket to his chest.

Captain Levi Ackerman stands just inside the doorway. You recognize him immediately. Everyone in Trost would. His height is less imposing than the stories suggest, but nothing else about him is small. He surveys the crowded shop with a flick of his eyes before they land on you. You straighten your spine without realizing it.

Don’t stare. He’s a customer. A very famous customer, perhaps, but still a customer.

Levi approaches the counter and places a folded sheet of paper in front of you. “Need these.” 

His handwriting is immaculate, each item listed with perfect alignment and the quantities written beside it: cleaning cloths, hard soap, lamp oil, leather wax, replacement buckles, stitching needles, and two tins of black tea. You’re not surprised humanity’s strongest soldier has perfect handwriting.

“I’ll get it,” you say.

Levi doesn’t just wait while you work—he inspects everything. He holds one cloth up toward the light, rubbing the fabric between his fingers before setting it down. He tests the buckles and opens one of the lamp-oil bottles to smell it.

“That batch burns clean,” you tell him. “Less smoke than the cheaper kind.”

“How long?”

“Forty hours, assuming the wick is trimmed properly.” Apparently satisfied, he adds the bottle to the growing order. You half-smile. Most people find your explanations irritating. Levi listens to every one. “You’re particular,” you observe as you place the tea tins beside the soap.

“I don’t like buying useless shit,” he says.

“Most customers simply grab whatever is cheapest and complain later when it falls apart.”

“Most people are idiots.”

The answer comes so flatly it pulls a surprised laugh out of you. A few nearby customers peek at you from the corner of their eyes. Levi narrows his eyes slightly, unable to tell if you’re laughing with him or at him.

“Can’t argue with that,” you say.

The final box of replacement straps is trapped on a lower shelf behind a wooden shipping crate delivered that morning. You step around the counter and crouch, planting both hands against its side. The crate doesn’t budge. You push harder, shoes sliding across the floor slightly. Your cheeks burn as you adjust your grip and try again, horrifically aware of the fact that Levi is watching this entire thing.

“Move,” he says.

You turn your head, irritation flaring. “I’m trying to.”

“Not the crate. You.”

You lift yourself with a scowl and step aside, prepared to tell him that the crate is packed with metal tools and will take two people to lift. After all, it took two people when the supply company brought it in the morning. Levi crouches before you can speak. He slides his fingers under the edge of the crate, and then he lifts it. There’s no grunt or even visible tremor of effort. The muscles in his forearms flex beneath his pale skin as he carries the crate a few feet away and lowers it beside the wall without struggle.

You forget entirely about the straps. You’re too busy looking at his hands, then the line of his forearms before common sense finally returns to you and you look away. When Levi straightens, his eyes are already on you. He says nothing. One eyebrow raises before he steps aside, leaving you to retrieve the straps with your face burning.

.

Levi returns fourteen days later. This time, he arrives with two Survey Corps soldiers and a wagon waiting outside. Levi checks the contents on his list while you direct the soldiers toward the stacked crates at the back of the shop.

“Those bottles stay upright,” Levi tells one soldier without looking up. “Unless you want to spend the trip back smelling like lamp oil.” 

The soldier immediately rights the crate. You hide your smile behind the ledger. 

It becomes a pattern after that. Sometimes Levi arrives with a wagon and several exhausted-looking subordinates. Other times he comes alone, slipping into the shop quietly between the larger groups of customers, waiting near the counter with an order folded neatly inside his jacket pocket. 

At first, his visits remain strictly practical. He asks for supplies. You collect them. He inspects them. You exchange money and brief, dry remarks before he leaves. Then, without either of you consciously agreeing to it, the space between those steps starts to fill.

You learn that he dislikes tea blended with dried fruit, considers floral varieties “perfumed water,” and will tolerate nothing weaker than a black tea brewed long enough to become almost bitter. When a merchant from the interior sends you a small shipment of unusually fine leaves, you place two tins beneath the counter before displaying the rest. It makes sense to save them for him—he buys consistently, pays promptly, and never wastes your time haggling over prices. 

Still, when he enters a few days later and you give him the hidden tins, the subtle surprise in his eyes feels far more rewarding than it should.

“You kept these aside?” he asks.

“They would’ve sold otherwise,” you say vaguely. He squints his eyes at you, but you busy yourself wrapping the tins in brown paper. “Don’t look too happy. You’re paying full price.”

.

The next month, Levi notices the lower door of the cabinet behind your counter hanging crookedly from one hinge. You’ve already kicked it shut three times that afternoon and intend to repair it eventually, which is what you tell him when he crouches to inspect it.

“You’ve been saying ‘eventually’ since I walked in,” he remarks.

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been kicking it.”

“It closes, doesn’t it?”

“Barely.”

Before you can object, Levi removes a small screwdriver from one of the maintenance kits he’s just purchased, tightens the hinge, adjusts the pin, and opens and closes the door twice to test it. The repair takes less than a minute. You lean against the counter, watching him put the screwdriver back in its case.

“Do you charge for unsolicited maintenance?” you tease.

“You couldn’t afford me,” Levi says dryly.

“Oh ho, arrogant, aren’t we?”

The cabinet never breaks again.

.

Many months and many visits later, you notice the torn edge of one of his canvas supply bags. The seam has split near the strap, likely from carrying too much weight, though when you mention it, Levi looks down at it with a blank expression.

“Leave it,” you say, holding out your hand.

“I need it.”

“You’ll have it back before the order is ready.”

He narrows his eyes. “You sew?”

“I run a supply shop. Things tear.”

He reluctantly passes it over. You mend the seam with a thick thread while he inspects a shipment of buckles, reinforcing the corner so it’ll withstand more abuse than the original stitching. When you return the bag, Levi tests the repair with a pull.

“You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you tell him. “I didn’t lace it with poison."

“Wouldn’t be surprised.”

He brings the bag back on his next visit so clean that it looks newly purchased.

.

By the beginning of summer, you’ve started offering him tea whenever his orders require more than a few minutes to prepare. 

The first time, he remains standing at the counter, one hand holding the cup by the rim while he reads through an invoice. The second time, he accepts the narrow stool you drag out from beneath the back table. By the fourth or fifth, he sits without being offered, watching you work silently.

Customers still recognize him, of course, and some continue staring from a distance, but Levi becomes part of the place. He’s as constant as the bell above the door. You would never admit it aloud, but you’re starting to enjoy his presence. Some days, you peer out the window, hoping to catch a glance of his undercut or short stature headed toward your shop.

“How’s business?” he asks one afternoon while you wrap bars of soap. Based on your interactions with other soldiers, you’re convinced only Levi uses it.

You look up, a little taken aback by the question. “Are you worried I’ll close and force you to buy inferior tea elsewhere?”

“No, so answer the question.”

“Busy. But merchants raised their prices again.”

Levi frowns, not at you but at the numbers written in your ledger. “You making enough?”

You can sense the small hint of concern in his voice, hidden beneath the bluntness. You lower your gaze before you can give yourself away—the joy you feel from being asked. “Enough,” you assure him.

After that, you begin asking questions too. You never ask for expedition details; civilians quickly learn that there are answers they truly don’t want to hear. Instead, you ask whether the day went well, whether the recruits listened, whether the commander has finally stopped drowning him in paperwork. His replies are usually brief, yet he answers every time.

Occasionally, he arrives with a hand wrapped in bandages, bruises disappearing under his collar, or exhaustion painted in dark shadows beneath his eyes. At first, you ask what happened.

“Training.”

“An idiot with bad aim.”

“Nothing worth discussing.”

Eventually, you stop asking. You simply add a small tin of salve to his order when his knuckles are split, or tuck fresh bandages beneath the cleaning cloths. The first time he notices, he sets the bandages back onto the counter.

“These aren’t on the list," he says.

“I know that.”

“I didn’t pay for them.”

“I know that too.”

Levi studies you for an uncomfortable moment. You prepare yourself for an argument, but he places them back inside of the bag and says, “Don’t make a habit of it.”

Unfortunately for him, you already have.

.

As autumn thins into winter, his schedule changes. The afternoon visits become early-evening visits, arriving when the crowds have faded and sunset pours orange light through the front windows. Soon, he begins appearing as you sweep the floor or count the coins in the till. 

“You know, the hours are painted on the door for a reason,” you tell him one evening.

Levi looks toward the sign. “Paint them to open later.”

“I can’t change my business hours like that.”

“Seems inefficient.”

“So does waiting until the last possible moment to buy supplies.”

“Military emergencies don’t arrange themselves around your schedule.”

“Neither do I.”

Yet you always serve him. Worse, you begin to expect him.

On evenings when the Survey Corps is due back from training or when you know an expedition is approaching, you leave the lamp in the front window burning after sunset. There’s inventory to finish and shelves to dust, but despite telling yourself all that, you find yourself looking toward the door whenever footsteps sound outside.

Most nights, he doesn’t come. On those nights, the shop feels hollow, and you resent it enough to extinguish the lamp earlier than you wanted to. 

One night, Levi arrives after you have already locked the door. You’re standing behind the counter with the day’s ledger open when his silhouette appears beyond the glass, briefly illuminated by the streetlamp outside. He sees the sign turned to Closed, then notices you through the window. You look up and lock eyes with him. Neither of you moves. Then Levi lifts his hand in a small acknowledgement and turns away.

You abandon the ledger, hurry around the counter, and fumble with the lock. “Levi!” His name leaves your mouth, and only a few seconds later do you realize you used it without his title. 

He stops. The street is nearly empty, the market long since abandoned, and cold air spills into the shop as you pull the door open. Levi turns slowly, his eyes dropping from your face to the hand still gripping the door handle.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” you ask, slightly breathless.

“You’re closed.”

“I noticed.”

“I can come back.”

“You’re already here, though.”

He hesitates before stepping inside, and you shut the door behind him, sliding the lock back into place. Levi looks toward the darkened street outside, then at the single lamp glowing in your window.

“You shouldn’t stay here alone this late.”

“I’m not wandering home through an alley,” you say, nodding toward the narrow staircase behind the counter. “I live upstairs.”

“That doesn’t stop someone from coming through the door.”

Despite yourself, you smile. There’s something about his irritation that warms your heart. It’s mere concern disguised as disapproval. “Then it’s fortunate humanity’s strongest soldier is with me, isn’t it?”

Levi gives you the flat look you expect from him, but he doesn’t answer at first. He looks at you smiling before turning toward the counter, and although his expression remains composed, the tips of his ears seem slightly darker than they were outside.

“Make the damn tea before you say anything else stupid,” he says.

You turn away to hide your widening smile, reaching for the tin you’ve kept beneath the counter specifically for him.

.

The Survey Corps’ order arrives three days before their next expedition, written across two sheets of parchment instead of Levi’s usual one. By midday, nearly every clear surface in the shop has disappeared beneath stacks of cloth, leather, tools, medical supplies, herbs, and enough tea to sustain an entire regiment—or Levi alone through one particularly irritating week.

By the time he arrives, the afternoon sky has paled to a wintery grey. A wagon waits outside the shop with its rear gate lowered. Cold air slips through the open doorway. Levi enters without the soldier who ordinarily accompanies him. Moblit, you think his name was. 

“Your help abandon you?” you ask, looking past him toward the empty wagon.

“Delayed at headquarters,” Levi answers.

“Convenient.”

“For him, maybe.”

You suppress a smile and lead Levi toward the back of the shop, where the largest portion of the order has been packed into a broad wooden crate reinforced with iron at each corner. It contains bottles, tools, hardware, and several heavy bundles of treated leather, all arranged tightly enough that nothing shifts when the box is pushed. It had required both you and the deliveryman to move it away from the wall that morning.

You place one hand on its lid. “This one will need two people.”

Levi looks at the crate, then at you. “No, it won’t.” Before you can explain how heavy it is, he steps forward and crouches, slipping his hands beneath the edges. The wood creaks faintly beneath his grip, then he lifts. The crate rises from the floor in one smooth motion and for a startled second, all you can do is watch.

His forearms clench beneath the rolled cuffs of his shirt, muscle shifting visibly as he adjusts the weight against his body. The fabric pulls across his shoulders and upper arms, revealing the strength hidden beneath his uniform. It’s easy to overlook just how much power he carries. 

He doesn’t grunt or stagger. There’s only a subtle deepening of his breath and the steady placement of each boot as he crosses the shop. You know exactly how heavy that crate is. That knowledge makes the sight infinitely worse.

Heat gathers low in your stomach with humiliating speed, enough to make your thighs press together beneath your long skirt. This is stupid. You’ve seen men carry stock before. You’ve hired laborers with broader shoulders and arms twice the width of Levi’s, and none of them have ever aroused you by simply picking up a box.

But none of them are Levi. 

Levi carries the crate through the doorway and lowers it into the wagon without dropping or dragging it. When he returns, flexing his fingers once, he finds you still standing beside the empty space where the crate was. Staring. He narrows his eyes slightly.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

You shake your head lightly. “Nothing.”

“You look… strange.”

“The shop is warm,” you say quickly.

Levi turns his head toward the open door. A cold gust sweeps inside at that exact moment, raising goosebumps on your arms. You curse yourself in your mind as Levi returns his gaze to you. 

“Right,” he says.

You retreat toward the remaining supplies before he can say anything else. “There are two smaller boxes left.”

“I can see that.”

“They can be taken separately.”

Levi looks at you, then at the boxes. For the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth twitches. He stacks one on top of the other and lifts. You stare as he adjusts them against his chest, his arms wrapping securely around both. He doesn’t need to carry them together. You know it, and judging by the way he shifts his grip before looking directly at you, he knows it too.

“Show off,” you mutter.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

This time, the faintest smirk appears before he turns toward the wagon.

.

Afterward, his behavior becomes suspicious. On his next visit, Levi rolls his sleeves past his elbows before moving a stack of supply boxes, despite the shop being cold enough that you keep your own sleeves buttoned at the wrists. He carries four shovels when two would have been sensible, the muscle in his arms tightening beneath the weight while you lose your place twice in the ledger.

The following week, he steps behind you to examine a tin stored on the upper shelf, bracing one hand against the wood beside your head instead of simply asking you to move. His chest nearly touches your back, his body surrounding you.

“How old is this batch?” he asks close to your ear.

Your thoughts are completely empty. “Recent.”

“How specific.”

“It arrived…” You swallow. “Tuesday.”

Levi hums, reaching over you for the tin. Your voice has gone embarrassingly thin, and from the slight tilt of his head, he notices.

The final confirmation comes several weeks later when you climb onto a stool to retrieve a box from the top shelf. The moment you pull it forward, another box shifts beside it, sliding toward the edge before you can catch it. Levi moves faster. One hand catches the falling box. His other arm circles your waist and draws you backward against him, steadying both you and the stool before either can topple.

For one suspended second, you’re pressed firmly to his chest, his forearm tight across your middle and his fingers spread against your side. “You trying to kill yourself?” he asks.

“No,” you breathe.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He sets the box aside but doesn’t immediately release you. Your hand has landed over his arm. Beneath your palm, the muscle remains taut from holding your weight, and your fingers clench before you can stop them. Levi’s gaze drops to the contact.

Then he looks at your face. There’s no mistaking the satisfaction in his eyes now. He’s been doing it deliberately. 

Levi knows he should find your staring irritating. He has spent years enduring people gawking at him, but your attention feels different. You watch his hands and arms with open hunger, yes, but you’re also the person who notices when those hands are bandaged, who slips salve into his orders without demanding explanations and leaves the window lamp burning when his duties keep him late.

He likes the little hitch in your breath when he stands too close. He likes watching your confident words tangle whenever he rolls his sleeves higher. And, perhaps most dangerously, he likes knowing that he can make you look at him that way.

Levi steadies the stool beneath you and finally steps back. “You should be more careful,” he says.

You turn, narrowing your eyes at the calm expression he has arranged over his face. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He reaches for the heaviest box on the floor. This time, he rolls his sleeves up first.

.

Cold falls over Trost early in the evening. The cobblestone glitters faintly beneath a thin layer of frost. Most of the market has gone dark hours ago, yet the lamp in your front window continues to burn.

You’ve already looked over the ledger twice. The shelves are dusted. The floor is swept. The till is counted. There’s no practical reason for you to remain in the shop. Still, you sit behind the counter with a book open before you, rereading the same paragraph while listening for footsteps beyond the glass.

When they finally come, your heart jumps. Levi appears with his cloak wrapped around him. He slows when he sees the illuminated window, then glances at the hours painted on the door sign. You’re out of your chair before he can turn away. You swing open the door.

“You’re late,” you say.

Levi looks past you into the empty shop. “You’re still open.”

“For the moment.”

He steps inside, bringing a rush of bitter air with him. You close the door quickly before locking it again. Levi watches your hand leave the handle.

“Why are you still down here?” he asks.

You move toward the counter, pretending to straighten the book you abandoned. “I had work.”

“The work you finished hours ago?”

Your head snaps toward him. “How would you know?”

“The floor’s dry, the ledger’s closed, and you’ve been staring at that same page since I reached the window.”

Damn him for noticing. You fold your arms. “You’ve been coming later.”

His expression shifts, only slightly. “You stayed open for me?”

“Well, I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Heat rises in your cheeks despite the cold in the room. You turn away under the excuse of examining the small list he places on the counter. Two tins of tea. One spool of heavy black thread.

“That’s it?” you ask.

“That’s what the list says.”

“This could’ve waited until morning.” You look up, but Levi meets your eyes without looking away. The certainty in them makes something warm unspool in your gut. You clear your throat. “You want tea?” He nods. You retreat into the small room behind the shop.

A narrow table stands beside the stove, surrounded by crates, jars, and half-cartons waiting to be sorted. While the water heats, Levi removes his cloak and drapes it neatly over the back of a chair, then shrugs out of his uniform jacket. The pale shirt beneath fits tight against his muscles. The sleeves are already rolled to his forearms.

You turn toward the upper shelf for the tea tin, stretching onto your toes. Your fingers brush its edge, but as you pull it forward, the heavy ceramic container beside it tips. Levi moves before you can recoil. One hand catches the container inches from your head. His other arm grabs you, pulling you back and against his chest as the shelf rattles above. 

The tin is secure in your hand, but your other one is flat against him, pressed over his chest. Beneath the thin fabric, you feel hard muscle clenching. Levi’s breath warms your temple. His arm remains locked around your waist, his fingers spread along your side. He could easily lift you if he chose. You shake the thought out of your head before it can take root.

Then, because you’re incapable of feeling humiliated right now, you press your fingers slightly into his chest. Levi lowers the container to the table, his gaze dropping to your palm.

“Finished inspecting me?” he asks.

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “Not particularly.”

Silence expands between you. Levi’s eyes lift slowly to yours, and the amusement there is unmistakable now. Something hotter lingers underneath that makes your pulse trip. “That so?”

“You’ve been distracting me for months.”

“By buying supplies?”

“By carrying them.” His mouth twitches. You squint. “You smug asshole. Stop it.”

“I’m not smug.”

“Yes, you are.”

Levi loosens his hold enough for you to turn within the circle of his arm, though he doesn’t step away. The closeness forces you to tilt your face upward. His voice drops. “Is that why you keep finding heavier things for me to move?”

You stare at him. “What? I don’t—”

“The crate of tools.”

“That was part of the order.”

“The bookshelf.”

“It needed moving.”

“The box you put back on the highest shelf after I carried it down.” You open your mouth, then shut it, embarrassed. Levi’s faint smirk deepens. “You’re not subtle.” Your name drops from his lips.

“You knew?”

“I suspected after the first crate.”

“You leaned over me to reach a shelf you could’ve asked me to move from too.”

“You were blocking it.”

You search his face, catching the satisfaction he no longer bothers to hide. “You’ve been doing it on purpose.”

Levi’s thumb shifts once against your waist. “Mm, you kept staring.”

For months, every late visit, every cup of tea, every unnecessarily heavy box has been leading here. The realization fills you with a sudden, reckless courage. You may not have any experience in this department, but the feeling inside you is too full to keep hidden.

“So you like it,” you say.

“Like what?”

“When I stare.”

His eyes darken. “Depends where you’re looking.”

Your breath hitches and Levi sees it, the smugness in his expression becoming nearly unbearable. You decide you’ve had enough and grip the front of his shirt before kissing him. For a second, Levi freezes. The stillness sends panic flashing through you—I misread him, I pushed too far—but before you can pull away, his hand closes firmly around your waist and drags you flush against him. He kisses you back.

All the restraint he’s carried through a year of visits seems to break at once. His mouth moves against yours hungrily, his other hand sliding to the back of your neck. He has no intention of allowing distance between you now that it’s fully disappeared. You clutch at his shoulders, feeling his muscles shift beneath your hands as he turns you and presses you against the edge of the table. A quiet sound escapes you. Levi swallows it, tightening his grip.

When he finally draws back, both of you are breathing harder than the kiss should justify, your foreheads nearly touching. Levi looks toward the tea kettle on the stove, then he looks back at your mouth.

“Tea’s waiting,” he says.

You smile. “I don’t really care.”

“Neither do I.”

His mouth comes down on yours again, and this time, there’s no hesitation left in it. He resents every wasted day. He could’ve had this all along. His hand slides from your waist to the curve of your hip, fingers pressing in through the fabric of your dress. The other hand remains at the nape of your neck, angling your face so he can take his time stealing the breath from you. When you make a soft sound into his mouth, Levi pulls back to look at you.

“A little lifting, a little showing off, and you’re half out of your mind,” he teases. 

Heat floods your face, but there’s no use pretending now. Not after the way you kissed him. Not with his arm still caging you in and his mouth swollen from yours. “I hate you.”

“Something tells me you’re lying.”

Before you can answer, he slips both hands to your waist and lifts you. The gasp rips out of you before you can stop it. One moment your feet are on the floor, and the next, you’re perched on the edge of the table as though you weigh nothing at all. Levi stands between your knees, an unmistakable satisfaction in his gaze. The motion is so easy and effortless that your stomach flips hard with arousal.

“Pathetic,” he says softly, and there’s a cruel little curve to his mouth that tells you he intends the word to land like a caress instead of an insult. “You like that this much?”

You swallow and fail to hide how your legs instinctively spread a little wider for him, inviting him closer. “You know I do.”

“I do now.”

He fits himself between your thighs, moving in until the warmth of him is everywhere. Your hands go to his shoulders for balance, then slide upward, fingers brushing the undercut at the back of his head. Levi exhales through his nose, the sound almost like a warning, and then kisses you again with more force than before. His hands travel over you, one splaying against your back, the other smoothing down your side and over your thigh before gripping beneath your knee and hiking your leg higher around his hip.

Your mind dissolves into sensation. The heat of his body. His shirt brushing against the fabric of your dress. The roll of his hips that lets you feel exactly how hard he is already. The realization sends a jolt through you, strong enough that you clutch at him. Levi breaks the kiss just long enough to catch your expression.

“Oh, that got your attention,” he says.

You glare at him, breathless and flushed. “If you’re going to keep talking, at least do something useful with your mouth.”

One eyebrow lifts. “Bossy.”

He obeys, though. His mouth drags along your jaw and to the side of your throat, where he kisses twice before biting lightly enough to make you shiver. You tip your head back without permission. Levi’s hands tighten on you when he feels the surrender in it. The small approving sound he makes against your skin sends another pulse of heat low through your belly.

The kettle begins to rattle on the stove. Neither of you pays any attention to it—until it begins to whistle a moment later, stupidly domestic against the way Levi is kissing down your throat like he means to ruin you before the tea ever reaches the cups. He lifts his head, annoyance flashing over his face.

“Damn thing,” he mutters.

You laugh shakily, and that undoes the last thread of his patience. Levi reaches for the kettle, yanks it off the heat without taking his eyes off you, and sets it aside. Then he turns back, hooks his arms under you, and lifts you again. You gasp and instinct makes your arms loop around his neck while your legs wrap around his waist. He doesn’t even brace. He simply picks you up and presses your weight against him. It’s so easy, and it leaves you utterly pulsing. Levi feels your thighs tighten around his hips. He knows exactly what this is doing to you. The faint smirk at the corner of his mouth confirms it.

Levi starts up the stairs and doesn’t strain in the slightest. His shoulder nearly brushes one side on the turn, yet he climbs with ease. One step, then the next, utterly untroubled by the fact that he’s carrying your full weight in his arms while you cling to him. He isn’t breathing hard. His pulse doesn’t stumble beneath your palm where it rests against his pulse point. He simply carries you like this is the easiest thing in the world. You press closer without meaning to.

He reaches the landing and nudges your bedroom door open with his foot, carrying you inside. Your room is simple. The bed is neatly made—at least from what Levi can see in the dark. He makes out the shape of a folded shawl resting over the chair by the window. A brush lies on the dresser. Ordinary things. He lays you back on the bed with more care than you expect before he reaches to light a lamp. Then he returns to you, his hands braced beside your shoulders as he leans over you and kisses you again, savoring the fact that he finally can. You grip his shirt and hold him there.

When you break apart, you both remain close. Then, you ask, “How far are we…” You pause, clearing your throat. “How far are we going tonight?”

Levi stills. His expression shifts, some of the heat fading into a more serious tone. “As far as you want. No further.”

You look at his collar instead of his eyes when you speak. “I haven’t done this before.”

For the first time all evening, Levi looks caught off guard. Enough for you to see the brief flicker of surprise, followed by something rarer: nerves. It’s subtle, almost hidden under his natural stoicism, but it’s there. His gaze drops for a moment, then returns to yours with more caution than before.

“You mean at all?” he asks. You nod. He exhales slowly through his nose. One of his hands leaves the bed to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. His thumb lingers at your temple.

He’s been with women before. He knows how to make a body respond, how to use his mouth and hands, how to be careful when it’s required and rough when it’s wanted. But this is you. You, who saved the expensive tea for him. You, you waited with the lamp lit at night. The idea of your first time being with him should make him unbelievably happy, and it does, but layered beneath that is an unwelcome thread of concern.

What if you regret this? What if afterward you look at him and realize you wanted the idea more than reality? What if he’s not what you deserve for this?

“You should think about that,” he says, lower now. “About whether this is really what you want.”

“It is.”

“You’re saying that while I’m on top of you.”

You almost smile despite your nerves. “Would you prefer I write a strongly worded letter first?”

A breath of dry amusement leaves him. “No.”

You reach up and touch his face, brushing your thumb near the corner of his mouth. “I want this,” you say softly. “I want it with you.” You hesitate only a second before forcing yourself to add the rest. “As long as you’re not planning to disappear tomorrow and pretend this never happened.”

Levi’s eyes sharpen at the thought of it. His hand closes over yours where it rests against his cheek, holding it there. “Do I seem like that kind of bastard?”

“You seem like many kinds of bastard.”

The draws the faintest huff from him. Then his expression turns serious again, stripped bare. He leans down and presses his mouth to yours once. “I’m not walking away from you after this,” he says against your lips. “Couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

The words are simple, but the meaning inside them lands so hard your throat tightens. Levi doesn’t say the softer thing plainly. He probably never will. Yet you hear it anyway, those three words, there in the certainty of his voice and in the way his hand cradles your face.

“I want you to stay,” you whisper.

“I’m here.”

You nod, gather your courage, and say the words that matter. “I want this.”

Levi searches your face one last time. Whatever he sees there satisfies him. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, replaced by concentration. “Then let me take care of you.”

He sits back enough to begin undoing your clothes. He doesn’t rush and is careful with each fastening. When he loosens your dress and slides it from your shoulders, his gaze follows. You help where you can, lifting, shifting, letting the dress fall away until you’re left in your underwear beneath his stare. A shiver runs through you. 

He removes the rest, pausing each time your breathing changes, giving you space to stop him if you so choose. You never do. By the time you lie bare beneath him, your skin feels oversensitive everywhere his eyes touch. Being looked at by him nearly makes you hide, but his hand slides up your calf, over your knee, and across your thigh, and you can’t seem to think of covering yourself when his touch feels like that.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

Your face burns. “Levi—”

“Don’t start arguing.”

You laugh softly, then gasp when his hand reaches the inside of your thigh and parts you. His gaze drops. The expression that crosses his face at the sight of how wet you already are sends a shameless jolt of warmth through you.

“All this from me carrying a few boxes?” he teases.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” you sigh.

“Not a chance.”

He bends and kisses you again while his fingers stroke through the slickness between your thighs, teasing at first. You jolt when he brushes over the sensitive little bud and he makes a low sound of approval into your mouth. You reach for him, for anything, one hand catching in his shirt. He draws circles over your clit while kissing along your jaw and throat, and the pleasure rises quickly, making your hips twitch against his hand.

“Easy, I’ve got you,” he murmurs. Then one finger slides lower and presses at your entrance. You tense instantly. Levi lifts his head to look at you. “Look at me.” You do. His eyes hold yours. “You can tell me if something doesn’t feel right. Understand?”

“Yes.”

He nods and eases his finger inside you slowly, giving your body time to adjust around the intrusion. The sensation makes you suck in a breath. It’s not unpleasant. His free hand smooths up your side. You try to relax. It helps that he keeps kissing you between instructions. His finger moves carefully, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. The tightness begins to fade, and you part your thighs wider.

Levi notices and rewards it by adding another finger only when you’re ready, stretching you gently, patient despite the fact that his own breathing has grown heavier and the front of his pants strains visibly now. He doesn’t rush, even when you clench around him, even when you make a tiny sound that nearly drives him to the edge. He’s intent on preparing you properly.

You’re a mess by the time he’s finished. Flushed, damp, squirming against the sheets, thighs trembling around his hand while he works you open and keeps your pleasure just shy of too much. When he finally withdraws his fingers, your body protests with an empty ache. Levi brings his slick fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean without looking away from you. The sight nearly makes your soul leave your body. He sees that too, bastard that he is.

“Thought you might like that,” he smirks.

“You’re horrible,” you whine.

“And you’re soaked.” You cover your face with one hand, mortified and too aroused to care properly. Levi grabs your wrist and draws it away. “Don’t hide.”

Then he stands to undress. There’s no vanity in the way he removes his clothes. You stare at him greedily while he strips with no hint of self-consciousness at all. Shirt first, revealing his muscled chest, then the rest. When he pushes his pants and briefs down and steps free of them, your breath catches hard enough that his mouth curves.

He’s large. Larger than what you felt pressed against you downstairs. Large enough that you feel your stomach turn with anxiety despite everything else. Levi sees it immediately and some of the smugness drains from his expression. He climbs back onto the bed and settles over you, one hand stroking your thigh.

“We’ll go slow,” he says.

You nod, forcing air back into your lungs. “I trust you.”

He bends, kisses you deep, and when he positions himself at your entrance, his forehead presses briefly to yours. The first push inside makes both of you stop. You tense around him with a soft whimper, the stretch intense, bordering on pain exactly as you feared. Levi stops at once, one arm braces beside your head while the other grips your hip.

“Breathe,” he says, his voice strained now. “Slowly.”

You try. He kisses your cheek, your mouth, your temple, anywhere he can reach while waiting for your body to ease. The tenderness of it steals some of the discomfort away. He murmurs low reassurances you barely even register as words, only tone. Inch by inch, he sinks farther in, stopping whenever your face pinches, giving you time, letting your body accept him at its own pace.

When he’s fully inside you, the feeling is overwhelming. Full, stretching, intimate in a way that knocks the breath from you all over again. Tears prick faintly at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity.

“We can stop if you want,” Levi says.

You shark your head, fingers gripping his shoulders. “No. Just… stay for a second.”

He does. His chest rises and falls against yours. You can feel the effort it takes him not to move yet, not to chase his own relief when your body is wrapped so tightly around him. There’s tension all through him, each muscle held on a leash. The knowledge of that, of how much strength he’s containing for your sake, sends a throbbing ache through you even now. 

The discomfort ebbs slowly. “I think…” You swallow. “You can move.”

Levi searches your face one more time before he obeys. He draws out only a little before easing back in, the first slow stroke unbearably careful. The friction is different now, no longer a stretch or an ache. It’s a full feeling that makes your lips part on a shaky breath. Levi watches your face the entire time, gaze flicking over every minute change in your expression. Your hands grip his shoulders when he shifts his hips and finds a deeper angle.

“That better?” he asks, the low rasp of it sending a tremor through you.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Gods… yes.”

He moves again, still slow, his control so complete it almost makes you dizzy. Each thrust is a little deeper once your body gives him permission. The bed creaks softly beneath you. The lamp on your nightstand throws gold over the planes of his face and shoulders, over the darkness of his hair falling slightly loose at the front.

This is Levi. In your bed. Inside you. The thought lands so hard in you that your thighs tremble where they surround his hips. He notices that, and his hand slides down your side and over your thigh in response, thumb stroking once at the sensitive skin there while he keeps moving patiently.

“Still with me?” he asks.

You manage a breathless huff that might have been a laugh. “You ask that while doing this?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Your fingers climb into his hair, tugging lightly. “Don’t stop.”

“Bossy again.” His mouth returns to yours before you can answer, swallowing the small sound that escapes you when he rolls his hips and sinks in more fully. The kiss is slower than the ones downstairs. 

Levi had expected nerves and expected the need he’s been suppressing for months to make him clumsy with it. But he hadn’t expected this feeling each time you look at him. He wants to make this good for you. Wants it so fiercely that it unsettles him, because he’s wanted bodies before, wanted release, wanted the fleeting distraction of skin and sweat, but this is different. This is you looking up at him from his bed—no, your bed, damn it—with flushed cheeks and parted lips and your hand in his hair. He realizes he could very easily hurt you by being careless.

So he keeps it slow. He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth while he finds a rhythm gentle enough for your first time and deep enough to keep his own control from snapping in half. Your body adjusts around him, the remaining sting fading beneath the building pleasure. You no longer feel the ache. Soon you’re arching into him slightly when he thrusts, seeking more.

The fullness that felt almost too much at first has become delicious, each stroke dragging against something inside you that leaves your breath catching higher every time. He presses a kiss below your ear and you wrap your legs around him further. That earns a low sound from him, a mix between a breath and a growl.

“Easy,” he mutters.

“You’re the one telling me to relax.”

“You’re the one squeezing me like that.”

Your face goes scarlet. “Levi—”

“Mm.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded now, his restraint beginning to crack around the edges. “Keep doing it.”

The answer that slips from you is embarrassingly needy. Levi’s mouth curves again. He braces more of his weight on one arm and brings the other hand down between your bodies, fingers seeking the place he made you squirm under his touch before. When his thumb strokes your clit, you jerk with a broken gasp.

“There,” he says.

The added pleasure is immediate and enough to numb your mind, if only for a moment. Your heels dig into the mattress. Levi keeps thrusting slowly while circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, giving you too much and not enough at the same time. Every pass of his thumb sends sparks racing through you. 

You’ve never felt anything like this. Nothing in your imagination, nothing in those half-embarrassed late-night thoughts about his hands, his forearms, the ease with which he could move supplies and you along with them, comes close to the reality of him using his body on yours.

“Levi,” you breathe, clutching at him.

He hums against your throat. “Tell me.”

“I—” The words snag on another wave of pleasure. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

His hand gentles for a beat, thumb stroking slower as his forehead touches yours. “You don’t need to know. Just feel it.”

You do. You feel all of it. Him sliding in and out of you. The strain in his body as he holds back for you. The roughness of his palm against your thigh. The pressure building between your legs. Your body answering him more greedily than you knew it could. 

He shifts, reaching for your hands. At first, you think he means only to lace his fingers with yours, but instead he draws both of your wrists up above your head and presses them into the mattress with one hand. A tiny noise escapes you. Levi freezes for a second, then looks down at your face, feeling your pulse jumping beneath his grip. He sees the sudden dilation of your pupils and your thighs spreading more willingly beneath him. A slow, wicked recognition dawns.

“Oh,” he says, and this time the smugness in him is pure sin. “I almost forgot.”

“F-forgot what?”

His next thrust is a little firmer, enough to make you squirm beneath him while his hand keeps your wrists pinned in place with ease. “You like this, don’t you?” You turn your face away instantly, mortified. Levi shakes his head. “No. Look at me.”

When you hesitate, he gives your wrists the slightest reminder press and drags his thumb over your clit again. The helpless sound you make forces your eyes back to his.

“Answer me,” he says.

You can’t even pretend. Not when your whole body is betraying you like this, gut coiling tighter every time he holds you down and moves inside you. “Yes,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes what?”

You glare at him as best you can while half-melting under him. “Yes, I like it.”

“Like what, exactly?” You make a muffled sound of frustration, but he only tilts his head down at you as the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re stalling.”

Your face burns so badly it feels feverish. He waits, mercilessly patient, still rolling into you that makes thinking impossible. “It’s your strength,” you finally confess in a rush. “Alright? I—I think it’s insanely hot. You move me like I weigh nothing, you—” Your voice breaks when he ruts into you suddenly. “The way you can do this.”

“Insanely hot,” he repeats, testing the words.

You regret talking. But he doesn’t laugh or mock you. The hand around your wrists loosens just enough for him to slide his fingers down and intertwine them with yours instead. Then he lets go entirely and sits back on his heels, withdrawing from you, making you whimper at the loss.

“Levi—”

“Up.”

You barely have time to prop yourself on your elbows before he slides his hands under you and lifts you off the mattress. A startled gasp leaves you as you rise into his arms once more. Instinct makes your legs wrap around his waist, arms clutching around his shoulders. With you hanging onto him, he slides his cock back into you. Your head falls back with a broken cry.

The angle is different like this—deeper, somehow. Levi’s hands settle beneath your thighs and around your back, supporting your weight effortlessly while he stands planted on the floor. Not a shake. Not a stumble. His breathing deepens, yes, and a line appears between his brows from the strain of restraint, but his hold on you is secure. You cling harder.

“Oh my gods—”

Levi’s mouth brushes your jaw, the words almost a kiss. “This what you wanted?”

You can’t answer properly. He gives you one shallow thrust, then another, each movement lifting you slightly on his cock. You dig your nails into his shoulders. The sheer indecency of being held up like this while he fucks into you sends a white-hot rush through your body. He feels the way you squeeze around him and huffs a dark laugh against your skin.

“Thought so.”

You bury your face against his neck. His skin is warm, smelling of soap and the cold air he brought in from outside. Every thrust jolts through you. Every time his arms flex under you to keep you lifted, your mind goes blank.

Levi had known your fixation of his strength aroused him. He hadn’t anticipated how much. Holding you like this, feeling you cling and gasp and grow wetter every time he proves exactly what he can do, is doing ugly, wonderful things to his self-control. There’s a possessive pride in it, a hot satisfaction each time your body answers to him. You like that he can carry you. That he can pin you down. That he can lift and hold and fuck you all at the same time. The knowledge goes straight to his cock, straight to that selfish place in him that wants every pretty reaction wrung from you by his hands alone.

He thrusts harder. The sound that comes out of you is wrecked, and Levi closes his eyes for one second as it shudders through him. “That’s it. Hold on,” he mutters.

You do. Dear gods, you do. Your legs lock tighter around his waist and you cling to his shoulders while he sets a steadier pace, more confident in what your body can take. Your own little cries fill the room, thin and breathless at first, then louder when Levi’s mouth finds your throat and he bites lightly there before soothing the spot with his tongue.

“Levi—

“Mm?”

“You’re—” A thrust cuts the sentence in half. “You’re really doing this.”

He actually scoffs, the arrogant bastard. “You sound surprised.”

“You’re just—” You can’t think. His hips snap up again and your whole body jolts in his arms. “Strong.”

The praise lands visibly. His grip tightens. His next thrust is deeper. “Keep talking like that and I’ll forget to be nice.” The warning should be alarming. Instead it sends a thrill through you, and you moan outright. Levi lifts his head, eyes narrowing. “You’d like that too, wouldn’t you?” Your expression must answer for you, because his mouth curves in disbelief and hunger. “You’re filthier than I thought.”

“Says the man holding me up and—ah—fucking me.”

The pleasure is building so high now you feel almost lightheaded from it, every thrust feeding it, every subtle flex of his arms reminding you that he is truly just holding you there, using strength and balance and pure controlled force to keep you suspended on him. Your cunt clenches around his cock. Levi’s hand leaves the back of your thigh for a moment to slip between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again. You nearly sob.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says, and the endearment is so unexpected, so warm in the middle of all his rough control, that it makes your whole body flutter around him. “Doing so well.”

Sweetheart. The word goes through you like lightning. Levi feels it instantly, the way you tighten, the way your nails dig in, the way your breath turns ragged. He groans under his breath and rubs firmer circles against your clit, pushing you closer to the edge you only half understand. 

“Come on. Let me see it.”

Your head tips back. The room blurs in amber and shadow. All you can feel is him—inside you, around you, beneath your hands, holding you up. Your lips find his ear. You barely know what you’re saying until it spills out.

“Captain—”

He stills just enough to suck in a sharp breath. Then his entire body goes tighter. The title out of your mouth, here, now, in that tone, hits him somewhere primitive. His eyes flash. The hand at your back slides higher, gripping harder, and the next thrust lands with enough force to rip a cry from you. His restraint splinters a little more with each movement after that. Not reckless, never that, but harder. Hungrier. He fucks you with a rougher rhythm that leaves your body jolting in his arms.

“Say that again,” he says, voice ragged.

Your brain is melting, but you obey. “Captain.”

“Again.”

“Captain—”

“Fuck.”

His head drops to your shoulder. You feel the hot burst of his breath against your skin, the strain in his body as he drives up into you with a tempo that makes your eyes roll back. His hand works your clit between thrusts, and the pressure inside you turns unbearable in the best possible way, coiling tighter and tighter.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his control roughens and his breathing finally falters. Every muscle in his arms and stomach hardens when you clench around him. He lifts his head enough to look at you, pupils blown wide. “Tell me where.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“Where do you want it?” His voice is all gravel now, barely held together. “I’m not pulling out unless you tell me to.”

The question goes through you with another violent rush of arousal. You think of the tea tucked in your cupboard, the bitter contraceptive brew you bought once from a woman in the market after too many whispered warnings from older shopkeepers. 

“I have the tea,” you gasp. “The contraceptive one.” He watches your face, making sure. You nod frantically. “Inside. Please.”

That does it.

Levi’s eyes close for one shuddering moment, as if the permission hits him almost too hard to process. When he opens them again, they are dark and wrecked. Then he kisses you, hard and deep, and thrusts up into you three more times, each one stronger than the last. 

The final one has your whole body shaking in his arms. Levi comes with a strangled groan against your mouth, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you. The sensation is so intimate, so overwhelming, that you moan into the kiss and cling to him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t. He stays buried in you while the force of it takes him, forehead pressed to yours now, breaths finally breaking rough from his chest. His arms never loosen. Even at the peak of his own release, he holds you securely, never letting your weight slip for a second.

When the shuddering in him begins to ease, Levi kisses your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye, all those tiny places with a gentleness that feels almost dazed. Then he carries you the two steps back to the bed and lowers you onto the mattress carefully. He doesn’t pull out. He braces over you, still inside you, one hand slipping between your legs again while the other strokes your hair back from your damp face. You’re still drifting, still trying to understand what just happened to your body, when his fingers find your clit and begin rubbing slow, slick circles.

You jolt. “Levi—”

“You haven’t finished.”

“I think I might die.”

“Not tonight.”

There’s the faintest thread of dry humor in it, but his expression is intent. Focused. He watches your face the way he did when he first touched you, reading every shift in your breath, every twist of your hips. His cock softens only slightly inside you, still warm and filling, and the combination of that lingering fullness with the precise pressure of his fingers drives the pleasure back up almost immediately, harder to escape.

You grab at his wrist. “It’s too much.”

His free hand catches yours and pins it gently to the mattress beside your head. He knows you’re close to shying away from what you want. “No,” he says quietly, firm as iron. “You can take it.”

The certainty in his voice goes straight through you. Your body arches under him. The sensations pile too high, too fast, each circle of his fingers pushing you toward something that feels impossible, unbearable, then suddenly inevitable.

“Levi, I—”

“I know.” His mouth brushes yours. “Let it happen.”

It breaks over you all at once. Your body locks and then shakes as rapture crashes through you in bewildering waves. A broken cry leaves your mouth. Your thighs try to close, your spine arches off the mattress, and Levi is suddenly everywhere—his hand holding yours down, his mouth at your cheek and jaw and lips, his fingers still working you through the violence of your release.

He’d meant to guide you through it gently, meant to be patient all the way through the end and let the moment belong entirely to you. Instead, the tight way you pulse around his cock sends a jolt up his spine, and his hips rock before he can stop them. The movement is small, but your body answers. Levi hisses under his breath.

“You’re trying to kill me now,” he says.

You barely hear him. You’re floating, your limbs feeling loose and heavy, your skin sensitive, your chest still heaving as the aftershocks ripple through you. Levi eases his touch at your clit only when your whole body twitches from oversensitivity, and even then he doesn’t pull away completely. He strokes once, gentler now, until the pleasure fades.

Then he kisses you, trying to collect himself after watching you come apart underneath him. You taste your own breath on his tongue, still shaky. His hand leaves yours only to cradle the side of your face. When he lifts his head, all severity has left his features. He looks tired.

“Well,” he says, “that answered that.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Answered what?”

“Whether you’d be satisfied.”

The memory of his earlier hesitation comes back through the haze. Of all the things you might have expected from Levi, concern that you would regret giving him your first time was not among them. But it was there. You’d seen it.

You lift a weak hand and touch his face. “You were worried.”

He looks as if he wants to deny, just off reflex. Then he looks down at you spread beneath him, flushed and thoroughly ruined in your bed, and he decides the effort is pointless. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he says, and pauses for a moment. “You matter.” Levi looks away as your throat goes tight, but when he looks back, his gaze drops to your mouth again. “And because I know exactly what I’m like.”

You almost laugh. “Terrible?”

“Difficult.”

“That too.”

The corner of his mouth moves. He leans down and presses his lips to yours once, then closes his eyes, as if the contact eases his mind. “I didn’t want this to be something you regretted later.”

You slide your hand behind his neck and hold him there. “I won’t.” His eyes search yours because some part of him still seems to need proof. You give it by lifting yourself enough to kiss him first, despite your exhaustion. “I won’t,” you repeat against his lips. “Not even a little.”

That, at least, seems to reach him. He relaxes his shoulders slightly and sighs through his nose, almost laughing at himself. “Good.”

Only then does he carefully pull out. The empty feeling after such intense fullness makes you wince. Levi sees you and mutters an expression of sympathy under his breath. He reaches for a folded cloth lying on your bedside table. You know it’s clean, at least. He parts your thighs with one hand and swipes the cloth between your legs. He then wipes himself and tosses the cloth into a basin.

Your limbs feel like they’re made of sand. You watch him through half-lowered eyelids as he straightens the blankets one-handed, then lifts them over both of you and lays beside you on the bed. He reaches for you and pulls you against his side. For a second, you’re too surprised to move.

“What?” he says.

You turn your face against his shoulder. “Nothing.” You smile faintly into his skin. “I just didn’t expect you to be the sort of man who cuddles.”

Levi makes a sound of profound displeasure at the word. “Don’t—don’t call it that.”

“What should I call it, then?”

He pulls you closer with an arm around your waist. Your thigh slides over his and your head rests against his chest. When your fingers drift over his sternum, you find a scar and trace it.

“Sleeping,” he says.

“In my bed.”

“Yes.”

“With me in your arms.”

His chin brushes the top of your head. “You’re pushing it.”

You laugh softly. A sleepy thought nudges at you, and you tilt your face up enough to look at him. “So you’re staying.”

Levi looks down, unable to believe you’d ask that after everything. But he doesn’t ridicule you, and instead slides his hand up your back and down again. “I told you I would.”

You hum, then after a few moments, speak again in a quieter voice. “That thing you said downstairs,” you murmur.

“You’ll have to be more specific, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flips at the name. “When you said you couldn’t walk away from me even if you wanted to.”

He’s silent. You can feel, more than see, the moment he realizes where this is going. He resents having to say any truth that leaves him feeling exposed. You flatten your hand over his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat is slow.

“I heard what you meant,” you say.

Levi stares at the far wall for a few seconds. “Then I don’t need to say it badly.”

You lift yourself just enough to kiss his jaw. “You really are difficult.”

“I warned you.”

“And I still let you into my shop.”

“That was your first mistake.”

“My second was apparently letting you into my bed.”

His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers combing through your hair. “You don’t sound sorry.”

“I’m not.”

A faint huff leaves him. He tips your face up and kisses you properly, his lips tasting of the last remnants of intimacy. It eases you when he settles you back against him. For a while, neither of you says anything. You listen to his breathing and feel the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. He’s spent so long appearing in your doorway with lists and lingering over tea before vanishing back into duty that being held by him feels stranger than being taken apart by him. It’s somehow more intimate.

Levi’s fingers continue to drift along your spine. You wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it. It’s so unlike the precise man who inspects all of the supplies you give him and criticizes the way you lift things. But that fact only makes you feel more tender.

Sleep starts to tug at you. Then it hits you, and you mumble into his chest, “The tea downstairs.”

“The tea can wait.”

“No, the other tea.”

His hand pauses. “You’re thinking about the contraceptive tea now?”

“If I fall asleep without taking it—well, are you ready to be a dad right now?”

Levi closes his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“You asked.”

“I asked where to finish, not whether you intended to become irritating immediately afterward.”

“You like me irritating.”

“Sometimes.”

“Most of the time.”

“Arrogant,” he mutters.

“You’re one to talk.”

For all his complaints, he shifts and eases out from under you. He reaches for his pants. The sight of him dressing just enough to go downstairs in the middle of the night, hair messy and expression blank despite the bite mark appearing on his throat, nearly makes you laugh. He catches your smile as he buttons his pants and narrows his eyes.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing, Captain.”

His gaze darkens. “Don’t even start.”

“Who’s starting? I’m exhausted.”

“You don’t sound exhausted.”

“Just… inspired.”

That earns you one of his annoyed looks, but it’s ineffective against you now that you’ve seen him when he orgasms. He disappears downstairs before you can tease him further. You hear him moving through the back room of the shop below. Another intimacy. Levi in your kitchen. Levi pouring hot water. Levi handling your cups with those same hands that held you through your first climax.

When he returns with the cup in hand, you push yourself upright. The blankets slide down your chest. Levi’s gaze flicks over you, taking in your skin and messy hair and the marks he left behind. 

“Drink,” he says.

You accept the cup with both hands. “You didn’t poison it?”

“Wouldn’t waste the effort.”

You sip and gag immediately. “That’s foul.”

“It's medicine, not tea.”

You drink the rest anyway, then hand him the empty cup. He sets it aside before sliding back into bed with you, pulling the blankets up around you both. You settle into his shoulder this time, one leg slipping between his. He allows you to tangle with him without comment.

Sleep drifts closer. Through the drowsiness, you ask, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Levi freezes. “Tell you what?”

“That you were in love with me.”

He makes an irritated sound. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You lift your head enough to look at him. He looks almost younger in this soft glow of the lamplight. Less like the captain everyone in Trost recognizes at a glance, more like simply Levi—sharp-tongued, meticulous, and currently in your bed with no way out of the question except honesty or cowardice. He clearly dislikes both options.

“I started looking for the light,” he says.

“What, like you’re dying?” you joke.

He rolls his eyes. “No, you idiot. The one in your window.” His gaze shifts past you, fixed somewhere else in the room. “You always left the lamp on. Later than you needed to.”

It takes you a second to understand that this, from him, is a confession. He’s answering in the only way he can bear: by naming evidence, by admitting he saw your care and returned it, by refusing to wrap his emotions in pretty words.

You slide your arm across his middle and move closer. “Then I’ll keep leaving it on.”

A long silence follows. Then his mouth brushes your hair. “You’d better.”

The lamp eventually burns all the way through, throwing the room into shadow. The sheets have cooled where you’re not touching. Levi’s breathing evens out, though his arm never leaves your waist, even in the drift toward sleep. You lie awake a little longer, just enough to feel the occasional brush of his thumb against your side. 

At some point, you murmur half into sleep, “You know everyone in Trost would lose their minds if they knew Captain Levi Ackerman was asleep in my bed.”

His chest shifts under your cheek with what might be a laugh, but it’s too small to be certain. “Then don’t tell them,” he says.

You smile, eyes closing fully at last. “How selfish of me.”

“You have permission to be.”

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divider by: dollywons

Arriving home, the apartment door clicks shut behind the three of you. Hiromi immediately heads for the kitchen, shedding his jacket over the back of a chair, “Whiskey orrr whiskey?” he calls without turning around. You drop your bag on the entry table with more force than necessary. Nanami stays near the door for a second longer than he needs to, loosening his tie with the same deliberate calm he used to use when he was about to end a long day by ending things with you.

“Whiskey’s fine,” Nanami says. Hiromi pours three glasses without asking if anyone wants ice. He hands one to Nanami first then you. You all sit. You take the couch. Nanami takes the armchair across from you. Hiromi perches on the arm of the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against your shoulder.

“So.” He swirls the glass lazily. “Kento. Still doing the corporate bullshit. “Or did you finally tell them to fuck off like we talked about senior year?” Nanami smiles, “Still employed. Still billing hours. You?”

“Still losing cases I should win and winning ones I shouldn’t.” Hiromi shrugs. “Same shit. You remember that class I had to retake four damn times?” “Oh—yeah,” he says, motioning toward you with a small lift of his chin. “You were in it. Same section. Same professor. You used to finish the hypotheticals before Ikeda even finished reading the facts. I sat behind you every Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Ikeda’s class. The one with the curved grading and the weekly hypotheticals that made half the section cry.” Hiromi clarifies. Nanami nods once. “That one.” Hiromi’s gaze snaps to you disbelieving, “You were in Ikeda’s morning section?”

You swallow. “Yeah.” staring into your whiskey like it might grow a mouth and save you.

Nanami continues, “We dated for a little over a year. Then I graduated early. Corporate offer came in. Timing didn’t work.” ‘GODFCKN DAMNIT KENTO why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut.’

Hiromi goes still. The room is so quiet you can hear the refrigerator hum. Hiromi takes a sip slowly. “You dated,” he repeats. Hiromi looks at you then sets his glass down with a soft clink. “So,” he says casually, “you two have history.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Hiromi—”

Hiromi lets out a short, incredulous laugh that has no humor in it. “I was in the afternoon section. Same professor. Same material. Same fucking hell. And you—” He points at you, then at Nanami, then back at you. “—were in the same goddamn classroom as him. Every Tuesday and Thursday. For a whole semester.” You open your mouth. Nothing helpful comes out. Nanami exhales through his nose—the same sound Hiromi makes. It’s uncanny. Hiromi’s eyes flick to you. “And then you met me.”

You glare. “You’re making this weird.” “I’m making it honest.” He leans back, arms crossed. “I mean, come on. My old college friend—who I haven’t seen in years—happens to be your ex. And neither of you thought to mention it until we’re all three sitting here.”

Nanami looks at you. “I thought you would have told him.” “I thought it was ancient history,” you mutter. Hiromi snorts. “Ancient history, sure. So, which one of us fucks you better?” Kento chokes on his drink, as you shoot your boyfriend a glare, “What has gotten into you?!”

“What’s gotten into me?” he echoes, “I don’t know—maybe the fact that my girlfriend’s ex is sitting in my living room, drinking my whiskey, and apparently sat behind her in the same goddamn Contracts class I used to come home and bitch about every single week. Maybe it’s the part where neither of you thought that was worth mentioning. Ever. Or maybe—” he tilts his head, eyes flicking between you and Nanami, “—it’s the part where I’m sitting here realizing the guy who used to steal my ramen and proofread my briefs is the same guy who used to fuck my girlfriend.”

Nanami sets his glass down carefully. “Hiromi,” he says gently, “That’s enough.” Hiromi’s laugh is bitter, “Is it? Because I’m just getting started.”

You stand up so fast the couch creaks. “Hiromi, stop.” He looks up at you angrily, “I’m not mad at you,” he says, “I am mad that you lied. For pulling this shit tonight. I’m mad that I invited him here like an idiot because I was happy to see an old friend. And I’m mad that—” He gestures vaguely at the three of you. “—this is happening. All of it.”

Nanami stands slowly. “I can go.” Hiromi’s head snaps toward him. “Sit the fuck down, Kento.”

Nanami doesn’t sit. He just stays standing, hands loose at his sides, waiting. Hiromi exhales, “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “That was out of line. The question. All of it.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I just… I don’t know how to process this without sounding like a jealous asshole.”

You soften despite yourself. “You’re not an asshole. You’re just… processing. Loudly.” He huffs a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Nanami goes to turn and leave, “I didn’t come here to cause problems,” he says. “And I’m not here to compete. If you want me to leave, I will. No hard feelings.” Hiromi studies him for a long beat. Then he looks at you again. “I don’t want either of you to leave.” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his already wrecked hair. “You’re really gonna say that right now.”

You shrug, helpless. “It’s the truth.” He looks between you and Nanami like he’s weighing between jealousy, curiosity, maybe both and then his mouth curves into a smirk. “Alright then,” he says, sliding off the arm of the couch, settling properly beside you, one arm draping behind your shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of your neck as his eyes stay locked on Nanami.

“You still think about her?” Hiromi asks bluntly. Kento takes a sip before answering. “I don’t lie to myself about the past,” he says evenly. “Yes. Sometimes.”

Hiromi’s thumb strokes once against you, “And you?” He turns to you, voice dropping. “You still think about him?”

“Sometimes,” you admit softly, “Not like before. But… yeah.” Hiromi nods once, like that’s the permission he needed. He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Then go ahead and fuck him.” Your cough turns into a startled laugh. “Go on, baby. I know you want to.” He urges you again. You hesitate before softly saying, “Ken… come here.”

Hiromi shifts, pulling you back against his chest so you’re half in his lap, legs parting instinctively as Nanami sinks to one knee between them. Kento’s hands settle on your thighs, pushing the fabric of your dress up inch by inch while Hiromi mouths along the side of your neck, “Look at her,” Hiromi murmurs against your skin, “Isn’t she so pretty.”

Nanami’s thumbs trace slow circles higher, higher, until they brush the damp lace between your legs. You arch without meaning to, a soft moan slipping out. Hiromi hums approvingly, one hand sliding down to cup your breast through the dress, thumb flicking over the nipple until it pebbles.

Kento hooks his hand through your wet panties, shoving them aside. The first swipe of his tongue is slow, like he’s relearning every inch. You gasp, hips jerking, but Hiromi bands an arm around your waist, holding you still. “Easy, baby,” he soothes, even as his other hand works the zipper of your dress down. “Let him taste what he’s been missing.”

Nanami groans against you, his tongue circles your clit once, twice, then dips lower, lapping at your pussy. Hiromi’s already hard against your ass through his slacks. His arm tightens around you, holding you open, “Tell him how much you missed this,” Hiromi whispers, “Tell him, baby. He’s listening.”

You start trembling and whimpering, “I—I missed your mouth, Ken. The way you… fuck, the way you always knew exactly—” Nanami doesn’t let you finish—just doubles down, sucking gently on your clit until your thighs tremble. Hiromi finally gets your dress off your shoulders, baring your breasts to the cool air of the apartment. He rolls one nipple between his fingers, pinching just hard enough to make you whine.

“Look at him,” Hiromi orders, “Look at how much he wants this.” You do. Nanami’s eyes are half-lidded and focused, blond hair falling forward as he works you over with devastating patience. When he slides two fingers inside making you whimper, back bowing. Hiromi laughs softly, “There it is. That sound I love.”

He shifts behind you, freeing himself from his pants with one hand while the other keeps you pinned. His cock presses hot and heavy against your lower back as he strokes himself lazily, watching Nanami devour you. “Think you can take both of us?” Hiromi asks, lips at your ear. “Like we talked about that one night. Remember my pretty girl?” Your brain short-circuits. “Yes—fuck, yes.” Nanami pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny. “Hell yes.”

Hiromi nods in agreenment, before pressing a kiss beneath your ear. “You heard him, sweetheart. He’s in.”

Nanami rises smoothly to his feet, shedding his jacket, The metallic clink is obscenely loud in the quiet room. Hiromi helps you turn, maneuvering you until you’re facing the back of the couch, knees sinking into the cushions, ass presented. “Hands here,” Hiromi murmurs, guiding your palms to the backrest. “Keep them there unless one of us says otherwise.” You nod, breath hitching.

He walks around behind you, slapping your ass as Kento appears in front of you. “Hi, pretty girl.” He tips your chin up with two fingers. “Open.” You do, tongue flat, and he slides in slow—filling your mouth inch by inch until your lips stretch around him. The weight of him on your tongue makes you moan around the shaft; he exhales sharply through his nose, hand sliding into your hair to guide the rhythm.

Behind you, Hiromi lines up, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave prints, the other spreading you open. He pushes in with one long, steady thrust, your back arching with a muffled cry vibrating around Kento's cock.

“Fuck,” Higuruma rasps, “So tight after all that arguing earlier. You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” You can’t answer—mouth full—but you push back against him, clenching deliberately. He groans, hips snapping forward harder, setting a brutal pace that rocks you onto Nanami’s length.

His control slips a fraction. Hiromi’s thrusts drive you forward forcing more of Nanami’s cock past your lips until the head bumps the back of your throat. You gag softly, eyes watering, swirling your tongue under the ridge just the way you remember he liked. The two of them find rhythm without speaking: one pulls out as the other pushes in, seesawing you between them until your whole body is shaking.

“Goddamn,” Hiromi growls, fingers digging deeper into your hips as he watches the way your throat works around Nanami. “Look at that. Taking him like you never forgot how.” He begins thrusting deeper, balls slapping against you with every snap. You whine around Nanami’s cock—drool slipping down your chin—as Higuruma angles just right. Kento tightens his grip in your hair, fucking your mouth while Higuruma rails you. Nanami pulls out just enough to let you gasp, strings of spit connecting your lips to his tip. “Words,” he says calmly. “Tell us how it feels, baby.”

You manage a whimpered, “F-fuck—full—don’t stop—” Higuruma’s rhythm stutters at your voice. They sync up—Higuruma slamming deep from behind, Nanami sliding back into your mouth. The position holds: you bridged between them, body rocking with every thrust, throat and cunt stuffed. Nanami’s thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a stray tear that slipped free when you took him especially deep. “Still so good at this. Always were.”

Hiromi laughs possessively, “Yeah? Tell me something I don’t know, Kento.”

Nanami’s eyes flick to Hiromi over the top of your head, “She used to come untouched just from sucking me off,” he says, “First time it happened she cried—thought something was wrong with her. Took me half an hour of coaxing to get her to admit how close she was.”

Hiromi’s thrusts turned punishing, that comment clearly hit a nerve. “Is that right?” Hiromi rasps, one hand sliding up your spine to fist lightly in your hair, tilting your head back so Nanami can sink even deeper. “You never told me that, baby. Keeping secrets from me now?”

You can’t answer—mouth too full, throat working frantically—but your body does: a fresh gush of wetness before you come first shaking hard, muffled screams around Kento as your walls flutter and clamp down on Hiromi as his pace turns erratic. “Fuck—fuck, that’s it—squeeze me just like that—”

Nanami pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop, hand stroking himself fast, eyes locked on your wrecked expression. “Where do you want it?” he asks, voice strained. You don’t even have to think. “On me,” you rasp, voice hoarse. “Both of you.”

Hiromi swears viciously as he pulls out at the last second, flips you onto your back so fast the room spins, then straddles your hips. They stroke themselves in tandem—Hiromi’s hand flying over his cock, Nanami’s slower but no less desperate—until they both come.

Hiromi comes first, hot stripes painting your stomach, your breasts, one pulse landing across your nipple. Nanami follows seconds later, spilling over your chest, your collarbone, a few drops catching your chin when you tilt your head back for him. Hiromi exhales roughly, dropping down beside you, pulling you half into his lap before reaches for the throw blanket on the back of the couch and drapes it gently over your lower half.

Hiromi snorts softly. “Ever the gentleman even when he’s fucked my girlfriend. Classic Kento.” Nanami’s mouth quirks—just the tiniest hint of a smile. “Someone has to be.”

You laugh, weak and shaky, head lolling against Hiromi’s shoulder. “You two are ridiculous.”

Nanami disappears into the hallway without a word, returning a minute later with a damp washcloth and a glass of water. Classic fuckin’ Kento, what a sweetie. He hands you the glass first. You take it with trembling fingers, sip slowly, grateful for the cool slide down your raw throat. Then he kneels again between your spread thighs and gently wipes the mess from your stomach, your breasts, your collarbones with slow careful strokes.

Hiromi watches the whole thing with half-lidded eyes, one arm still slung around your shoulders. “You always this sweet after you come on someone else’s girl, Kento?” Nanami doesn’t look up from his task. “Only when she asks nicely.”

You choke on a laugh that turns into a soft groan when the cloth brushes a particularly sensitive spot. “Stop. Both of you.” Hiromi smirks, reaches over to take the washcloth from Kento’s hand, and finishes the job himself dragging the damp fabric across your nipple until it pebbles again under the attention.

You look back up at Kento, about to ask him not to leave before Hiromi beats you to it. “You should stay,” he says, “Since it’s already so late y’know.”

Kento looks up, eyes flicking from Hiromi to you. You reach out before you can overthink it, fingers curling loosely around Nanami’s wrist. “Please,” you add softly. “Stay.” He brushes your hair to the side of your face, “Alright, of course. I’ll stay.”

Hiromi smirks lazily, already reaching for the half-empty whiskey glasses on the table. “Good. Because we’re not done catching up.” You bury your face in Hiromi’s neck to hide your blushing.

Whatta small world, indeed.

since you had no family, signing up for something as dangerous as the survey corp wasn't hard to do; you had no one to stop you. you trained and fought like you had nothing to lose; and you truly don't.

50 pushups were absolutely nothing. you could do that in your sleep. you were always the first one to finish, and when you did, you would stare at levi. the scariest man here. you wouldn't hide your gaze; in fact you wanted him to know you were staring.

you heard how talented he was outside the walls; titans standing no chance against him. he was ruthless, showing no mercy towards those beasts that creep outside your homes. you heard he didn't even have to go through the typical 3-year training; he was specifically chosen.

you were so fascinated by him, you haven't seen him fight with your own eyes, but if everyone says how crazy he is, what else are you supposed to believe?

he's leaning against a poll with a blank expression. if he's enjoying the pain of your fellow cadets, he doesn't show it. truth be told, you've never seen any other expression on his face. he finally moves his eyes to yours; but you can't read him at all.

"another 50. now." his tone serious but his eyes hold something else, but you don't have time to think about it; you get down and give him another 50, just like he told you to.

you're on your 30th rep when you see a shadow; Levi's shadow. you can feel him towering over you, watching like a hawk. you start sweating profusely but not because the pushups were getting tough; but you can feel the weight of his stare.

you suddenly feel something heavy slam against your back. you unexpectedly fall to the ground, who the fuck—

"50 more. now." levi demands.

you have no idea what could possibly be on your back, but you get up shakily. is this because you were staring him down? why were you the only one doing weighted pushups?

you quickly finish and find out there's a 50-pound bag of rice levi put on your back. you stand up tall, back straight, and levi's still staring at you with his hands behind his back. your bangs stick to your forehead; your sweat acting as glue, your chest heaving up and down, but that doesn't stop you from glaring back at him.

"watch those eyes." he warns, almost sounding like a threat.

you keep your mouth shut, of course. you can't help but feel your core warm up. his demanding, cold demeanor makes you more motivated than ever.

"dismissed."

he's still staring at you. other cadets rush to go home, exhausted from today's training but you're never the type to back down, so you do the exact opposite of watching your eyes, you stare at him with heat. you could feel hearts form in your pupils as you study his face.

he's incredibly handsome. small scars decorate his face, but they add to his face, not take away. his hair messy as if he just rolled out of bed, he somehow isn't sweating at all despite the blazing weather, and he looks at you with such disdain. too bad you're into that.

"come with me." he says sharply, and he doesn't wait for a response. it's like he knew you'd do whatever he told you to do. his back turns and he walks away; it doesn't take long before you're following him like a lost puppy.

he leads you to a double door that leads to an office? you look around and it's huge. you can see another door that leads to a bathroom, and he even has a couch in here with a large tv hung on the wall.

he takes a seat on his office chair while you stand there awkwardly. your hands behind your back while you pray that you're not in any trouble. it feels like eternity before he speaks up again.

"c'mere." he says simply. he taps his left thigh, inviting you to sit on him.

"sir, i hardy think this is professional—"

"sit."

you slowly walk over to him, hands still behind your back. you stand in front of him for a moment before taking a seat on his thigh. but you don't put all your weight on him, you're basically squatting.

"s-so, what's up—AH."

he suddenly brought his right foot to your feet then kicked, so you had no choice but to bare your entire weight on him.

"don't think i can handle a small thing like you? hm?"

he's mocking you. you don't think you've ever felt as small as you do now. your back leaning against his hard chest, you can feel his breath brush against your nape, and his hands settle on your thighs. you can feel how cold his hands are, even though you're wearing pants.

you're burning up, your face is bright red and feels like it's gonna explode.

"w-what are you doing?"

"not so brave now, huh?"

you turn your head to meet his eyes and you finally see a new expression. his eyes filled with lust, his cheeks slightly pink and you feel him getting harder and harder underneath you.

"what did i say about those eyes?"

"i don't think my eyes are the problem. i think you're the problem—"

he slaps you across the face. he actually slapped you.

but that's not what you're focusing on. you're focusing on the fact that you moaned. it wasn't a quiet moan either, it was loud; something you can't quite cover up.

"strip." he demands.

you stand up with so much force; you stumble a little bit. it's true, you'd do anything he says. you're so wet, you left a mark on his pants. so embarrassing. you take your pants off quickly, then your shirt and he watches your every move.

you're standing naked in front of the scariest man alive, but you aren't scared; you're excited. you're waiting patiently for his next command; like a puppy.

he stands up then picks you up effortlessly. he plops you down on his desk; the desk he didn't bother to clear before putting you on it. he grabs your knees and spreads you open; your pussy is so wet, it's glistening under the lights. he stares before getting comfortable on his chair.

"touch yourself. for me."

you bring your hand down to your clit and start rubbing in circular motions. you start off slow; you don't even know how you ended up here. touching yourself in front of your captain.

it's like he senses your anxiety, so he unbuckles his belt and takes out his cock. he's huge. veins everywhere and his tip wet from his pre-cum. he starts pumping his length; with the same pace your fingers are moving.

your fingers move faster and faster; the pace that made you come every night, but for some reason, it's not doing what it usually does. you're getting so pent up; you wanna come so, so bad.

"h-help me? please?" your voice is so quiet, a normal person would've missed it.

"louder."

"please. please help me." you say it louder, but it doesn't satisfy his needs; not yet.

"can't hear you, cadet." he's smiling; smiling at your pain.

"please! please make me come, captain. p-please." you yell.

without another word, he gets to work. he buries his face in your cunt. he instantly learns what you like. he swipes his tongue slowly across your clit; a sensation that makes your legs shake ruthlessly. he brings his middle finger to your entrance; teasing you.

"s-slow down—ngh."

he plunges his middle and index finger inside your warm cunt. he doesn't give you time to adjust; he transitions to a merciless rhythm. his tongue and fingers work together to make you come all over him.

your legs instinctively trap his head between your thighs, but he has insane strength, so he easily separates them. he sends a slap to your thigh as a warning.

that was your final straw as you come all over his mouth.

"fuckk, a-aah, Levi!" you scream his name and you can feel him smile against your sensitive pussy. he continues to slurp and lick; sending you to another world. you're grabbing his hair; an attempt to pull him away, but he doesn't let up.

you feel another orgasm being ripped from your body, but this time it's with clear liquid. you're squirting everywhere, on his face, his desk that had important papers and his body.

and levi? he's drinking your squirt as if he's a stranded man in the sahara desert. it takes him a while before he decides to take a breath.

you're finished. you're laying down flat completely on his desk, drenched.

you gradually lifted your head to see levi.

"did you just—"

"not a word."

he came. he came from eating you out.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

your gaze, which was fixated on the wooden floorboards of levi's room, shifted with no merit. from your position, bent over his knees and completely bare, there was nothing to do except wallow in the feeling of submission and a twinge of humiliation.

his hand rubbed against the firm planes of your ass, fingers digging into flesh until it left mottled red marks along the skin.

the mess he was referring to was your dripping, aching cunt that mocked you for being turned on by this demeaning position.

"do you want to apologize now?" a beat passed. you bit down onto your bottom lip, stifling the crude whimper that threatened to leave your mouth. "or do you need another reminder?"

without waiting, his rough hand came down with a harsh smack! rippling through your bones and echoing in the room. it wasn't a gentle tap, it's a stinging, deliberate strike. he doesn't give you a second to recover before he strikes again, making your ass jiggle from the force of the blow.

you yelped, hissing at the impact that he instantly soothed with the palm of his hand. you could imagine it now, the red hand shaped mark that accompanied the others. evidence of your punishment.

"you know better than to distract me," levi spoke in a condescending tone, referring to earlier today when you made the mistake of letting your hand travel a little bit too high on his thigh during a midday strategy meeting, squeezing the muscle and reveling in the way the tendon in his neck strained.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, only because you were so frustrated with him ignoring where you wanted him most. "i didn't mean—"

"i don't even want to hear it anymore."

his hand slides down in between your thighs, a single finger slipping through your folds which were already dripping with need. he chuckles, finger diving inside with no preamble. you lurch forward at the contact, thighs instinctively pressing together which he combats by using his other hand to hold you still.

"don't run away," he said, curling the finger up and moving it in at a slow pace, giving you just enough to keep you reeling but not enough to grant any real pleasure. "look at you. all that confidence before and you're soaking for me."

a second finger joins the first, pumping them in and out that makes your back arch towards his legs, eyes squeezing shut and toes curling. his thumb rubs against your clit with zero tenderness, testing to see how much you could take before you broke.

the friction is intense, his fingers working to stretch you and creating wet, squelching sounds.

tiny moans leave your mouth, bucking your hips backwards to try and chase the rhythm of his fingers. "you like being treated like this, don't you?" he murmurs, watching in almost a state of awe at how compliant you were being. "say it. be a good girl and say you like it."

but you couldn't, not when you could feel your walls tightening against his fingers, the pad of his thumb scraping just right against your clit.

then, he does what you feared most, withdrawing his fingers with a wet, sucking sound leaving you glistening in the dim light. his hand raises again, not as high this time, and instead of slapping your ass, his hand comes down on your pussy.

you yelped, whole body jerking at the feeling. it stung, a dull ache that left you reeling more than anything. you didn't feel pain. you felt pleasure from it. and levi knew, repeating the motion and enjoying the way you jumped again.

"say it."

his finger traces your entrance, not even giving you the satisfaction of pushing it in. it sends goosebumps up your spine all the way to the back of your neck, mouth parting, trying to find the words. "i... i—"

"you... you what?" he stammered just like you. "use your words, brat."

a slap to your cunt again was the final crack in your composure, a loud, languid moan of i like it spilling from your lips. you repeat it again for good measure, hoping that he would give you some type of relief by touching you.

your prayers were answered, but in all the wrong ways.

levi didn't push his fingers back in, instead he grabbed you by the base of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your face up.

"such a good girl," he whispered into your ear, pulling you by the hair harder so you moved off of his legs onto the floor. "you're so pretty when you do what i say."

levi grabbed you by your arms, pushing you face down onto the bed.

Disapproval immediate takes over you, you sure as hell weren’t gonna let her make you drink chemicals.

“I’m not drinking your makeshift love potions”

Laughter erupts from Hange.

“No chemicals involved, Well…No dangerous ones atleast. it’s…something a bit, I suppose erotic”

“…I’m confused but intrigued”

“Just be ready when I get home”

“How should I prepa-”

“Byeee, love youuu”

And with that, the vague phone call ends. You kiss your teeth but eventually ease back into your mundane task after taking a bit of time to focus on your appearance and maybe switching your undergarments for a cuter pair.

Just incase.

Soon enough, the door swings open, Hange waltz in with a container in hand, them in scientific attire was lowkey a sight to see.

You greet each other lovingly before Hange coerces you into their study office. You had never properly seen the inside of it due to it being off guards.

The room was decently sized, with shelves of books along the walls and a desk with papers and reports pilled on top along with random trinkets and photo frames of the two of you. Nearby the desk was a two seater sofa, which looked moderately brand new due to lack of use.

They take this chance to pick up papers from the floors, pretending not to see your look of dissatisfaction from the state of the room.

You sit on the sofa.

“Sooo, what’s the plan?” You inquiry

They tuck the papers away in a drawer of the desk before turning back to you, pushing their glasses back up their face and taking off their lab coat to fold on the back of the chair.

“Well, I’ve got something I want you to drink, and I promise nothing bad will happen” they reassure you, watching you sigh.

“Does it atleast taste good?”

“…Not really. But the end result will feel good for sure” they mutter that last part as they grab a small test tube filled about a quarter way with a purple-ish liquid out the container , sitting on the sofa next to you, pushing the tube toward your mouth.

You swallow it, oblivious to the troublesome look in their eyes. The bitter liquid leaving an after taste in your mouth.

“Good job” they praise quietly as they walk away to wipe out the test tube, storing it away professionally.

“What should I be expecting now?” You fidget with the hem of your jeans.

“You’ll feel it eventually, then you can tell me all about it for my report” They refer to the clipboard resting on their desk.

To pass time, you support Hange in cleaning her lab, from helping sort out documents to storing books on their designated shelves rather than them being on the floor. You scold her throughout the process but you’re swiftly distracted by the growing arousal you feel.

Since you’ve been here, nothing sexual has happened so you were caught off guard but nonchalantly playing it off infront of Hange. Prying your staring eyes away from their attractive features.

Eventually, Hange looks down at the watch resting on their wrist.

“Been around 12 minutes, you feeling anything yet?” They gaze at you intently. You still weren’t sure if this uncalled-for feeling of attraction was apart of their plan, but you assumed not.

“Um, don’t think so” Your voice wavers a bit.

You rest back on the sofa, Hange plopping next to you with a huff before turning to you.

“You look adorable. Dressing up for me, huh?” They cup your face, you melt into their touch, you meant to answer them but that minimal amount of touch set you off. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from their lips, taking the opportunity to initiate a kiss.

It was meant to be a peck at most, or that’s what Hange expected. Except you dragged it out, your heaving breath filling the air as you pull Hange closer into you.

Your lips glide against their with passion. Each break from the heated kiss was filled with strings of saliva and sighs. Hange catches on to the fact her aphrodisiac worked on you, smirking against your lips while running their hands down to your waist.

Hange gradually leans back onto the sofa as you climb on top of them, you mindlessly grind lightly on their thigh, generating just enough stimulation to keep you satisfied.

The fast acting aphrodisiac heightened every touch, causing weak whines to fall from your lips.

You abruptly sit up on Hanges lap, swiftly taking your shirt off and unclasping your bra, tossing both across the floor before leaning back down to resume the kiss.

Hanges eyes never left your figure as they begin unbuttoning their own shirt. The air in the room was thick with intoxicating lust and desire.

Hange made a mental note to write down the results of her experiment.

Result 1. Heightened sensitivity

Your muffled whines become more desperate as you crave more, resulting in you slipping your hand down your panties to soothe the needy throb of your clit.

As you moan against Hanges lips, they pull away.

The confusion displayed on your face quickly turns to a flushed expression as you continue to pleasure yourself onto of them. Smooth hands run up your thighs to your ass.

“Let me see your fingers, baby” they order, you swiftly obey, displaying your drenched fingers to Hange.

By this point, they had starting listing different findings of their experiment.

Result 2. Increased wetness

“Shit your soaked, aren’t you?” They coo, You whimper a needy ‘mhm’

Through your half lidded eyes, you watch Hange remove their glasses, placing them on the floor next to them.

“Come sit on my face, wanna taste that sweet pussy”

Without hesitation, you immediately climb up them, hovering about their face. Their hands wrap securely around your thighs, bringing you down onto their face.

You gasp breathlessly, feeling their warm tongue flat against your aching pussy. Hange groans deeply in pleasure, feeling you sloppy cunt drench their face.

You quickly begin grinding on their tongue, feeling them occasionally suck on your sticky clit. Your hands reach down to their hair, dragging their mouth across with animalistic desire until you shift a bit too far, feeling the edge of their crooked nose.

“Shit–haaah–” your legs tense around their head at the sensation, craving it again.

“Ride my nose, darling” Hange calls out from under you, in pure bliss, savouring each taste of you. You begin shifting again, hips stuttering as you feel that bump on their nose nudge perfectly into you.

“ahh–fuckkk” Breathy moans fall out your mouth, The friction was overwhelming, you couldn’t stop the rocking of your hips, moaning out as you hump their nose.

Their tongue eventually begins prodding at you entrance, penetrating it in and out and feeling the inside of your wet walls.

a heat pooled in your stomach, a sensation building up in your core that makes your moans grow heavy and deeper. Your legs tremble and your thighs clamp tightly around her head, rolling your hips to feel more of her nose hitting into you.

Your orgasm hit hard and without warning, you moan lowly, feeling Hanges hands knead into your hips, continuing to glide you on their face to ride out the high.

They lap at the slick leaking out of you, peppering your pussy with soft kisses affectionately. you pant, your mind fuzzy, body limp from the pleasure and aftermath of your orgasm but your libido never faltering.

Result 3. Quicker orgasms

They gradually sit up slightly, shifting you off their face back down to their lap and laid back on the sofa.

As they climb on top of you, they strip off their shirt and trousers, tossing them on the floor next to yours.

They hold your flushed face, their thumb swiping seductively on your bottom lip. You take it as an invite to bite lightly onto it, gazing deep into their eyes before sucking on the digit.

A slow groan is produced by Hange.

“You’re trouble” An idea they forgotten comes back into view

“Guess I gotta fuck it out of you”

They push off you, walking towards their desk, bending under it to retrieve a box.

Thirty seconds to a minute passes by, you whine with impatience.

“So needy, aren’t you, sweetheart?” They teased as they finish fastening the harness.

Hange loved trying new things, Hense her chaotic experiments

But it also applied to other things, like new toys in the bedroom.

You gasp as they slide the tip of their strap in, feeling yourself stretch around the girth of it. They ease it into you whilst observing your expressions for any discomfort and watching how easily they slip in.

“Was gonna start slow…” They shift their hips, bottoming out completely, stalling to allow you to adjust. “But you managed to take me whole”

4. Less prep required (?)

A gentle hand brushes your cheek, their eyes flickering to gaze at your desperate ones before redirecting back to the sloppy sight where you two connect, watching your needy hips fuck yourself back into them.

Hanges gradual movement quickly became long, deep strokes, accustomed to your pleasured moans that fell without resistance from your mouth. Each thrust hit a new hot, sweet spot inside you, the rhythm had you basically drooling and whining

“A-aah…don’t—f-fuck—stop” Your eyes rolling back before shutting completely as you throw your head back into the cushioning of the sofa.

Hange took the chance to push your legs up to your chest, hanging your legs upon their shoulders, spreading you wider in the process, allowing them to hit deeper angles. You feel them trail soft kisses up your heaving chest and neck, muttering nasty praises into your flushed skin.

Your moans quickly became broken, your thighs twitching against their hold.

They watch your expressions momentarily, taking pleasure in watching your eyes flickering open every now and then as if trying to predict your next orgasm.

Your moans develop into desperate groans, the arch of your back making you shudder against the sofa, clawing at the soft cushioning. The overwhelming sensations felt too much as Hanges relentless thrusts drive you insane.

“Just keep being good for me sweetheart” They shush your sobs of pleasure, fighting your shivering limbs attempting to push them away. A skilled hand moves down to rub tight wet circles over your clit, massaging the swollen nub to enhance pleasure.

“Shit–so deeeep”

“I know baby, I know” They run their thumb over your drool-covered lips “But you’re doing amazing”

Each mention of praise hits your mindless state hard, causing you to clench against them.

You meet their gaze temporarily, watching their lustful eyes stare at your lips before leaning in for a messy kiss. Saliva spreads itself across both your mouths, your tongues tangling around each others lovingly. Their arm cages around your head, keeping you comfortably but tightly locked to them.

Their strokes slow down as they grind their hips to hit deeper and harder, their strap beautifully rubbing against your g-spot. Each sensual hit made you twitch just a bit more in their grasp.

As your eyebrows furrow, that you could communicate were airy whimpers and half botched versions of their name as warning of your oncoming orgasm.

“Ngh- o-oh, I- fuck!—gonna cummmm”

You’re so close. So close your vision blurs with tears of pleasure. Every breath is laboured and heavy.

“Yeah you are, cum for me baby”

One last deep thrust and you collapse, succumbing to the intense waves of pleasure. Your legs tremble on their shoulders, whole body going limp as they fuck you through it. You twitch uncontrollably whilst moaning shakily.

Gushes of sweet slick lazily squirt out as Hange soothingly rubs your throbbing clit to the point of overstimulation.

“Gosh look at that mess” Hange chuckles as they caress your cheek, kissing your face softly. They slide out of you leaving you feeling empty but euphoric. Their sap coated hand leaves your clit, redirecting to your mouth.

You obediently open, tasting yourself on your tongue before they eagerly lean in for a messy open-mouth kiss. As the kiss dies down, you smile faintly against their mouth.

“You could’ve told me it was an aphrodisiac beforehand y’know” you criticise.

They immediately comment back “Well how would that be fun?”

———————————————————————————

Yay I’m posting againnnnn, idk why I randomly just really wanted to finish this draft well probably cuz it’s been collecting dust but yk I SHOULD BE SLEEPING anyways, I’m setting up my ao3 account so I’ll drop the user name soon chat

The stable yard is a churned-up mess by the time you reach it.

Rain has been coming and going all evening, never heavy enough to wash anything clean, only enough to turn the ground soft underfoot. Mud clings to the wheels of the supply carts, to the hem of your cloak, to the soles of your boots.

Tomorrow's expedition hangs over everything.

No one ever quite says it that way, but everyone knows. It follows the officers from room to room as they argue over routes and weather. It makes the younger scouts loud in the mess hall, all elbows and false laughter, pretending hunger is the reason their hands shake. The veterans say less—they check their gear until there is nothing left to check, then start again, because leather and steel are easier to face than the thought of who might not ride back.

You have been given the last stable check with Captain Levi.

Which is either an honour, a punishment, or some clerical error made by a tired superior with no idea what he has done to you.

Levi is already there when you arrive, standing beneath the lean-to beside the tack room, a lantern hung from a nail above his shoulder. Its light cuts his face into severe pieces: dark hair damp at the ends, eyes grey and flat, mouth set in its usual unimpressed line. His cloak is folded over a fence rail, his sleeves are still neat at the wrist despite the hour, his boots dark under their coating of road filth.

Dirt doesn't soften him, nor does wear make him look ordinary; that's the problem with him. Even here, in a yard that smells of wet straw, horse sweat, old leather and rainwater, Levi Ackerman looks as if the world is something he has already judged and found lacking.

"You're late," he says.

You aren't. You checked the clock twice before leaving.

"I was told after supper," you say, approaching him with a crate of folded linen against your hip. "I came straight here."

"Try chewing faster next time."

You set the crate down harder than necessary. One of the horses shifts in its stall, ears flicking toward the sound.

Levi looks at the crate, then at you. "Careful with that."

"It's linen."

"Clean linen," he says. "Which tends to matter when our people are bleeding into it."

You bite back whatever sarcastic answer wants to climb out of your mouth and lift the crate again, properly this time, careful to keep it away from your muddied cloak.

The supply cart waits beneath the stable overhang, half-loaded for morning: feed sacks, spare tack, medical packs, rolled canvas, everything the squad will need once the horses are saddled.

You carry the crate over with Levi behind you, close enough that you hear the wet pull of his boots from the mud. The sound is small and obscene in the quiet. Every step seems to gather in your ears.

You tell yourself to stop noticing. Captain Levi has a talent for catching people at their worst, and you are already far too close to yours.

The stables are warmer than the yard, packed with the heavy living heat of horses. Lanterns hang from hooks along the posts. Their light sits low and yellow over the stalls, catching in the brass buckles, the damp leather and the steam lifting faintly from the animals' coats. Somewhere near the back, a horse knocks its hoof against the boards. Another tears hay from a rack with slow, grinding teeth.

You know this work. You've done it enough times to do it half-asleep. Feed sacks by the east wall. Spare bridles checked for cracks. Saddlecloths sorted by unit. Water topped up. Medical crates in the supply cart, ready to be strapped down at first light.

It should be simple.

Except Levi reaches up to take a bridle from its peg, and the movement pulls his uniform taut across his shoulders. Except he bends to inspect a girth strap—one boot braced against the wooden lip of the tack-room threshold—and mud flakes from that boot onto the floor, which he will absolutely complain about later.

You look away too fast and nearly walk into a pitchfork.

Of course, Levi notices.

His eyes lift, not much, just enough to pin you from across the narrow aisle. "Problem?"

"No."

"Then stop handling the equipment as if you've never seen a stable before."

Heat crawls under your collar. "Yes, Captain."

He returns his attention to the tack, but the damage is done. Your hands feel less like hands and more like items issued to you by mistake. You keep moving crates and sacks from one cart to the other, and try desperately to think of something useful to say—something normal—something a soldier might say to her captain while preparing for an expedition rather than standing there with her mind full of leather and mud and his voice.

Levi crouches near the tack-room door and picks up a stiff brush from a bucket. He drags it across the side of one boot, knocking off a thick clot of mud that lands on the straw.

You watch the motion before you can stop yourself—the scrape of bristles, the flex of his ankle, the narrow line of his trousers tucked cleanly into the top of the boot despite the muck below.

A thought comes to you so clearly that it feels as if someone else has placed it in your head.

You want to be the brush.

Your stomach drops. You turn sharply toward a feed sack and pretend to check the stitching.

"You're going to walk back through the yard anyway," you say, because apparently your mouth has chosen now as the moment to suddenly speak. "Why bother cleaning them?"

The brush stills.

You keep your eyes on the feed sack as though it contains all the answers.

Levi rises, brush in hand, and looks at you until your skin prickles under your uniform.

"Because unlike some people, I notice when I'm tracking shit everywhere," he says.

You nod. "Right."

"And because you've been staring at my boots for the last ten minutes, I assumed you had an opinion."

Your fingers slip on the twine. The sack slumps sideways. Grain rustles inside it.

"I wasn't—"

"Don't bother." He drops the brush back into the bucket. "You're a terrible liar."

You turn, humiliation prickling behind your ears. "I was just noticing the mud."

"Right." His eyes drop to his boot, then come back to you. "And then asking why I'm bothering to clean it."

You open your mouth, already reaching for some excuse, but it dies before it reaches your tongue.

Because he's right. You can't make the mud meaningless and interesting at the same time. You can't claim you were only noticing it when you'd already questioned what he was doing with it.

Levi watches you arrive at that conclusion on your own.

"Must be fascinating," he says.

You look down at the floorboards between you: straw, hoof scuffs, a darkened patch where rain has blown under the door. You can survive Titans. You can stitch a wound with shaking hands or ride until your thighs bruise and your fingers go numb.

You cannot survive trying to bluff a man who notices everything and wastes nothing, not even a contradiction.

"I'll finish the medical packs," you say quickly, red-faced and desperate to escape.

"Good idea."

You move through the work with all the grace of a trainee in her first week. You miscount bandage rolls and set packs in the wrong pile. At one point, you reach for the same strap Levi is already holding and snatch your hand back as though burned. Every time his boots come into view, your attention drops before you can drag it back and every time he steps close, you brace for him to say something else—something that proves he's worked out exactly where your mind keeps going.

And by your fourth mistake, that moment comes.

Levi stands beside the saddle rack with one hand resting on the worn leather, his expression so flat it borders on bored. Only the faint lift of one brow gives him away.

"This is painful," he says.

"I'm sorry..."

"Use your head."

You swallow. "I am."

"No. You're letting some filthy thought make you sloppy."

Your breath catches.

The horse nearest you tosses its head, chain clinking softly against the stall ring. Levi's gaze does not move from your face.

You should deny it or laugh. You try to say something—anything—dry enough to save what remains of your dignity.

Nothing comes.

Levi exhales through his nose, irritated, then hooks the toe of his boot under an overturned bucket and drags it closer. He sets his foot on top of it.

"If you're so interested in filth, get on your knees and clean it up. At least then one of us might accomplish something."

It's an insult. A sarcastic little cut meant to shame you back into competence.

But your body obeys before your pride can stop it.

The straw scratches through the knees of your trousers. The aisle looks different from down here: larger, dimmer, filled with the thick legs of horses and the long shadows of posts. Levi's boot is inches from your hands, dark with rain, mud-coated along the sole and heel.

"What the hell are you doing?"

You could still turn this into nothing: a nervous laugh, a mumbled apology. Just a clumsy misunderstanding.

Instead, you stay on your knees and lift your eyes.

His face has changed by almost nothing, but nothing on Levi is still something. His attention has sharpened—the boredom is gone. His hand resting on the saddle rack is still, knuckles pale where they press into the leather.

Levi's gaze drops to your knees in the straw, then back to your face.

"That was sarcasm," he says.

"You told me to clean them..."

"I meant stop being useless."

You hold his gaze, your pulse beating hard enough to make your vision swim strangely around the edges. "I can do both."

The words surprise you. They surprise him, too, though only his eyes show it.

Silence settles between the horse stalls, filled only by new, light rain ticking against the stable roof.

"You know where these have been?" he asks.

It's the nearest thing to mercy he will give you—one last chance to stand, blame nerves, pretend this can still be folded away with the saddlecloths and spare reins.

You look at the mud crusted on the leather. At the dark shine beneath, where he's already brushed some of it clean. At the man above you, severe and quiet, waiting for you to stop pretending this was obedience and admit it was want.

"Yes, Captain."

His mouth barely moves. "Disgusting."

The word goes through you with a heat that feels like both shame and relief.

"Hands behind your back."

You obey.

"Open your mouth."

He angles his foot, bringing the toe of his boot to your lower lip. The leather is cold and damp from the yard. You smell mud first, then worse, then the sharper scent of treated leather. Your tongue touches the surface, tentative, and the taste makes your stomach pull tight: earth, rainwater, grit, the bitter trace of whatever the yard has collected through the day.

Levi watches without blinking.

"Tch," he says, low enough that the horses hear none of it. "All evening trying to act like a soldier, and this is what was distracting you."

You drag your tongue over the toe again. Mud smears across your mouth. Your eyes sting from the strain of holding yourself together while kneeling in straw at his feet.

"You wanted this bad enough to let it ruin your work?"

You nod.

"Don't nod at me. Answer."

"Yes, Captain."

He presses the boot firmer to your mouth. Enough to make your lips part wider around it.

"Keep cleaning."

There is no elegance to it. No way to make it pretty. You lap at the leather, work your tongue along the seams, catch grit on your lips and swallow because you are too embarrassed to spit it out. Mud thins under your saliva and runs down to your chin. Your shoulders begin to ache from keeping your hands behind your back, but the ache helps. It gives you something to hold onto that is not the awful, needy pulse between your thighs.

Levi's boot shifts, the sole turning toward you.

You hesitate.

His eyes lower. "It's not a suggestion."

The tread is worse. Mud sits deep in the grooves, dark and wet, where the yard has not dried. You have cleaned boots before with a cloth and a brush, like any scout. This is different. This is abasement made practical. It's Levi taking the ugliest part of your want and making you put your mouth to it.

You lean in, and the first stroke of your tongue over the sole makes a small sound escape you. When Levi hears it, his expression does not soften. If anything, it grows even colder.

"Filthy," he says. "Seems your mouth has better discipline than the rest of you."

Your face burns.

You lose track of the stable for a while after that. There is only his boot, the rain and the lantern-light shivering over the wet leather. Levi's voice comes in small, cutting pieces. He tells you where you missed a spot. Tells you not to turn your face away. Tells you soldiers who can't keep their minds clean can at least put their mouths to honest work.

It should break you.

Instead, it hollows you out until there is nothing left but obedience.

When you forget yourself and reach for his ankle, his hand catches your chin at once.

"Did I say you could use your hands?"

You freeze.

His thumb presses under your chin, lifting your face.

"No Sir—Captain—you didn't," you whisper.

"No," he agrees. "You just can't help disobeying orders, can you?"

He studies the mud on your mouth, the shine on your lips, the way you are trying to look ashamed and failing at it. His eyes narrow by the smallest amount.

Then he spits on you.

It lands warm over the mess already smeared across your lower lip and chin. Your whole body locks, heat rushing so hard through you that your bound-up thoughts scatter completely.

Levi watches your reaction with quiet disgust.

"Open your mouth for mud, but that surprises you?" he says.

He lets go and steps back. For one sick second, you think he's done with you, that you've ruined even this. Then his hands go to his belt.

The sound of the buckle seems louder than the rain.

He pulls the leather free in one clean length and folds it once in his hand. The motion is practical and bored, which makes your stomach twist harder than any show of theatrics could have. He circles behind you while you keep still, though every part of you wants to look.

"Wrists."

You bring them together at the small of your back.

He binds them neatly. Tight enough that you can't slip free, but careful enough that the buckle doesn't bite your skin. His fingers check the restraint with the same competence he gave the harness straps.

"There," he says. "Since you can't be trusted."

Your breath leaves you unevenly.

He comes back into view, beltless now, his shirt tucked less perfectly than before. You notice what you shouldn't notice: the strain at the front of his trousers, the way he's ignoring it with visible effort.

"Eyes on the boot. That's what you wanted," he orders.

You obey a second too late, and his boot comes up, sole pressing against your cheek.

Mud smears across your skin. The pressure turns your face slightly, grinding humiliation into the line of your jaw. You hear yourself make a small, broken noise and hate how much it gives away.

Levi's voice drops. "You've got mud on your mouth and straw stuck to your knees," he says. "You should be thinking about the walk back. Not what's in my trousers."

Your whole body clenches.

"You're a mess," he continues. "Soaking through your uniform and drooling over a shit-covered boot. Pathetic."

You can't cover your face. Can't hide behind your hands. His belt holds you open to all of it.

"Yes, Captain."

His control slips only in the rise of his chest, a deeper breath dragged in through his nose before he can stop it.

"Honest at last."

He lowers his foot. This time, the toe of his boot nudges between your knees.

You part your thighs.

Levi looks down at you with open disdain.

The boot presses against you through your uniform, right where the ache has been building since he first called you disgusting. The pressure is blunt, maddening, not enough and too much at once. Your bound hands twitch uselessly behind your back. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep quiet.

"Don't make more mess," he says.

It's already too late.

You rock once, helplessly, and the friction drags a soft gasp out of you. Levi allows it. Then another. His boot stays steady, letting you shame yourself against it while he watches. The horses shift around you, oblivious. Rainwater slides from the eaves outside. Somewhere beyond the stable, the Corps sleeps under roofs full of bad dreams and morning orders.

Here, you're reduced to the scrape of cloth, the dark leather between your thighs, Levi's gaze cutting through the last of your pride.

You're already close enough to feel the warning of it building under your skin.

Levi seems to know it before you do.

He removes his foot.

The loss is so abrupt you nearly pitch forward.

"No," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

His eyes narrow. "No?"

You lower your head at once. "Sorry..."

"You will be, if you start giving orders from your knees."

He reaches down, grips your chin, and draws your face back to his boot.

"You were told to clean."

Need keeps pulsing through you, ugly and unfinished, while mud clings to your tongue, and the belt keeps your hands exactly where he put them.

And you clean.

You clean until his boot is wet with your saliva and less with rain. You clean until your tongue feels clumsy and swollen, and your knees ache. You clean while the bulge in his trousers grows impossible to ignore, while his breathing shifts in the smallest ways he cannot fully command back into order.

At last, Levi's hand moves to his fastening and, when your eyes lift, he doesn't tell you to look down this time.

He frees himself with a controlled economy that makes you dizzy. His cock is hard, flushed at the head, heavy in his hand. He gives himself one stroke, then another, his gaze fixed on the ruined state of you: face streaked with mud, lips swollen from leather and grit, hands bound behind you with his belt like you're something he has taken charge of and means to keep exactly where he put you.

"Keep going," he says.

You put your mouth back to his boot, but your eyes stay fixed on him.

His hand works above you. Quiet at first, then less so. The faint wet sound of his fist around himself threads through the rain and the restless horses. He doesn't fall apart loudly. He's Levi even in this: controlled, harsh, fighting his own body until the very end. But you see the signs. The tension in his stomach. The small twist across the hard line of his mouth. The way his eyes stay on your face as if he resents how much it affects him.

"You would've done this all night," he says, voice rougher now despite himself. "Wouldn't you?"

You drag your tongue along the side of the sole and nod.

"For me."

"Yes, Captain."

His hand speeds.

The words seem to do more to him than your mouth on the boot. His free hand braces against the stall post beside him, fingers digging into old wood. He looks down at you with something almost angry in his face, as though your willingness is becoming less useful to him and more dangerous.

"Disgusting brat," he growls.

You answer by pressing your tongue deeper into the tread, breaking a clot of mud loose against your tongue and swallowing the bitter taste like it was part of the order. Levi's gaze drops to your throat as it moves, and his chest lifts once above you.

The sight seems to strip the last of his restraint down to the nerve.

His release hits your cheek first, hot against the mud cooling there. Then your lips, your chin, the toe of the boot you had been cleaning so obediently. Some lands across the polished leather, white over black, indecently stark in the lantern light. Levi's breath leaves him in a low curse. His hand slows, then stills, his body held rigid until the last shudder passes through him.

Silence hangs there while he puts himself back under control.

Then he tucks himself away, his breathing still not quite even. His attention drops to the white streaks across the toe of his boot.

You know before he says it.

"Lick."

Your stomach flips.

You bend again, awkward and aching, and put your mouth to the leather again. The mess he left is warmer, saltier, mixed with the gritty taste of earth already coating your tongue. The humiliation of it closes over your head until you can hardly think past the fact that he is watching you swallow what he left there.

Levi's face is unreadable, but his breathing has not fully settled.

You lick the last streak from the toe. Then the side. Then the small smear near the welt where it had begun to slide toward the sole.

When you finish, you keep your head bowed.

Levi lets the silence stretch long enough to make your thighs tremble.

Then he crouches in front of you.

He takes a clean cloth from his pocket and wipes your mouth with the corner of it. Not enough to clean your face completely; only enough that you won't drip filth onto the barracks floor when you get back. His fingers pause at the belt knot behind your wrists before he unties it, checking your skin after the leather falls away.

You flex your hands slowly.

"Any pain?" he asks.

"No."

"Good."

The word is plain, but it settles through you with more force than praise.

He stands and threads the belt back through his uniform. You watch, dazed, while he makes himself presentable again, every buckle returned to its place, every strap corrected. By the time he is done, he looks like Captain Levi once more.

You, unfortunately, look like someone who has lost a fight with the yard.

Mud marks your cheek. Straw clings to your knees. Your mouth feels swollen and tender. Your trousers are damp, and a knot sits heavy in your gut from where he denied you. There is no possible way to cross the courtyard unnoticed.

Levi picks up the forgotten supply list from a crate and scans it as if nothing remarkable has happened.

"Medical packs are still short two rolls of bandage," he says.

You stare at him, dumbfounded. "Captain..."

"What?"

"I look…"

He glances over.

His eyes move from your muddy face to your knees, then back up.

"Like you slipped."

You try to laugh, but it comes out too shaky.

He lifts a lantern from its hook and heads for the door. "That's the version they're getting."

"I slipped... inside the stable?"

"You're clumsy," he says. "And distracted."

You stand on unsteady legs, brushing straw from yourself with hands that still remember being tied, your body throbbing miserably between your thighs from everything he refused to finish.

Levi waits at the door—the boot you cleaned catches the light for one last second before he steps out and sinks it into the mud again, like he means for you to notice, though his face gives nothing away.

HQ sits beyond the yard in blocky darkness, a few windows still lit for officers too tired or too afraid to sleep. Morning will come soon. Horses will be saddled. Orders will be given. The gates will open.

Levi looks back at you, and his gaze lingers on your mouth for a dangerous second before it returns to your eyes.

"Keep your head clear tomorrow," he says.

You nod. "Yes, Captain."

He turns toward HQ.