#levi akerman

We? Please, we?

PLAIGARISM IS ILLEGAL

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x female oc reader (Attack on Titan) 18+ explicit content MDNI

Genre: canon-divergent, hella slowburn, angst, eventual smut, mystery, action, character arc

Warnings: MDNI profanity, reader going thru it, loss, loneliness, severe hunger (this is the Underground, folks), reader feels like a huge burden, rage, reader cusses out grandparents, reader finds an unhealthy coping mechanism for her anger, and idk canon-typical aot stuff

Word Count: 2681

Status: Ongoing

Masterlist // Previous Chapter // Next Chapter 

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Chapter 3 - Fury Ignited

Once you’re sure the man is gone and not looming on the front steps, you shrug off all the junk Grandma piled on top of you and rise to your feet. Her hands are clasped over her mouth, trembling, as tears fall freely. She doesn’t make a sound as she cries. Grandpa doesn’t so much as move a muscle. He just lifelessly stares at the closed door with his mouth agape. 

“Grandpa,” you stand behind him. “What was that?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Where are Mom and Uncle Ronan?”

He finally faces you. You don’t feel the warmth of his body standing just before you, or the exhale of his breath. There is no presence behind his eyes. He is lifelessly standing on two feet.

“Just go to bed, kid.”

Kid. 

—

Your family wakes you up by ripping the covers off of you and screaming.

“Happy eleventh birthday!” they all shout in unison, happy and proud smiles etched onto every one of their faces.

You jolt upright, half-asleep and startled. You’re grinning before your eyes even have a chance to adjust to the light. Grandma has a small pastry in her hand that looks only partially stale. Yum! Mom holds up a string of mismatched paper decorations that are uneven. Uncle Ronan is joyfully hooting and hollering. Grandpa’s leaning against the wall, mug in hand, shaking his head as a faint smile plays across his lips. It reaches all the way to his eyes.

It’s obnoxious. Loud. Completely over-the-top for the Underground.

And you absolutely love it.

You spend the whole day doing what you want—the one day a year Uncle Ronan doesn't train you. You play cards with him and your grandpa (your uncle cheats blatantly and denies it), cook with your grandma as she belts out sounds that were supposedly lyrics to a song, and barter at a food stall with your mom for dessert. 

You go to bed that night smiling, sticky from sweat and sugar. 

You never want the celebration to end.

—

You wake to a cold house the following morning—your twelfth birthday. 

You’re not dumb enough to ask what happened. At least not right now.

No celebration. 

No cheers.

No mom. 

No uncle. 

Just silence.

Your grandparents are already awake, sitting close together on the couch. Not a word is spoken between them. You notice your grandma’s puffy, red eyes and a distant look on Grandpa’s face. It’s like neither of them are really here.

—

In the following days, there is no explanation for what happened to your mom and uncle. Not even their names are spoken. You don’t know if they died. There is no funeral. 

Grandma wipes her tears when she thinks you’re not looking. Grandpa goes back to his nonchalant self and never leaves his chair. It’s driving you crazy. They shut down any time you ask a question about where your mom and uncle went, what happened, if they’re coming back. They don’t talk. They don’t even comfort. They just… exist.

And the worst part of all is they don’t let you go back home.

Your grandparents go to your uncle’s house themselves a week later. When they return, you find they’ve packed everything up—which isn’t much to begin with. But it was still your life for the last ten years. Mom’s life. Uncle Ronan’s life. It’s jarring how sudden every memory you all shared together got buried in bags and crates. 

They’re dropping the last bags full of your life from their shoulders when you begin hounding them for answers, face burning and eyes welling with tears. But they ignore you. Like you’re not even there, speaking, crying. Your grandpa just silently offers you a small crate of all your belongings: your only other pair of clothes, a few books your grandma gifted you throughout the years, a large bag of tea that your mom bought you from the market a few weeks ago because you wanted to try it, the knives your uncle sharpened specifically for you…

But the knife your uncle has been training you with since you were five is missing. And so is the bird pin from your mother. 

You don’t mention it.

Silent rage tightens your chest and overwhelms your body. Your hands ball into fists and your jaw tightens. You want to hit something. Watch something fall apart at the mercy of your destructive hands. 

An extension of you. Of your will.

—

At thirteen, you’ve never felt more alone in your entire life. 

Even though your grandparents never turned you away, they never mention that night. They still haven’t breathed a word of Mom and Uncle Ronan—not once in the last year. Not even when the house is quiet, whereas it once used to be filled with your grandmother’s singing. She’s been keeping her hands busy—kneading dough, cleaning, wringing out rags like she’s strangling them. Your grandfather still just sits in that same creaky chair and never says a word. Neither of them speaks much to each other, and they say even less to you.

You know it’s useless to ask what happened. They’re never telling you. 

They care about you—or at least that’s what you tell yourself—but not in the way you need them to. They feed you when they can. Let you sleep under their roof. Bought you new clothes when a fight completely tattered your old ones. They don’t scold you when you come back with bruises on your face, but they never ask what happened, either. They don’t ask if you’re okay or how you’re doing. Mention your shaking hands when you notice someone walking too closely to the house.

You never get the sense that they wish you weren’t there—but you do get the sense that they wouldn’t notice if you weren’t. 

You become a ghost. You try not to be a burden. You creep around the house. Let yourself in as quietly as possible when it’s late. Don’t speak to either of them. Don’t look at either of them. Clean up your dishes when you’re done, so your grandma won’t have to wash your plate and be reminded of your existence under her roof. You hate the space you take up there. How much noise you make. And you hate how much of their rations you eat. 

So—you begin doing little jobs here and there. Unloading shipments. Running errands. Cleaning. Helping merchants set up their stalls before sunrise. You never ask for much—just a few coins or a half-moldy loaf of bread—so some of the merchants and tavern owners begin to favor you over the other kids also scrounging for food by doing odd jobs. You make some connections, and it’s enough to keep you out of that house and put food in your stomach most days. 

And today is one of those lucky days!

The spice merchant got an extra big shipment in and needs your help hauling crates into his cellar. The chill bites hard today, and you imagine he feels bad for you since your teeth haven’t stopped chattering for the last two hours. In an act of quiet kindness—the most you’ll ever get in the Underground—he gives you enough coins to buy yourself a greasy meat bun from your favorite food stall. It’s only about the size of your fist—but it’s so, so tasty. Your favorite. You don’t waste a second after he gives you the coins, beelining for the stall and jumping in line. Your tummy rumbles in anticipation as you hand the vendor your coins, mouth watering at the overwhelming aroma of warm bread. You haven’t eaten properly in nearly two days.

You tuck the bun into your waistline and pull your shirt over it. It warms you a bit as you head back to your grandparent’s house. You walk in and gulp some water, and Grandma asks if you’ll be hungry for supper later as she chops some potatoes. You lie—say no, the spice merchant a few blocks over gave you an enormous amount of food for helping unload his shipment—and head back out. You think she knows you’re lying, but she doesn’t call you out on it. She just turns back to whatever she was doing and lets you walk right back out again.

You take the warm meat bun all the way behind the market stalls and into your usual little crevice in an alleyway, back sliding against a cold brick wall as you sink to your bottom. You hungrily pull it from your waistline and unwrap it, taking a bite. You eat slowly, carefully, swallowing intently. Every bite tastes better than the last. Your body warms from the inside.

A shadow suddenly falls over you. You look up. A boy, older than you—maybe fifteen. He looks animalistic, eyes wild with hunger. 

“Hand it over.” He doesn’t ask, just reaches for your bun. 

You don’t say anything or even make a face, just harshly slap his hand away with a loud crack. He lunges forward, angry now, but you’re already back on your feet and moving—ducking low and evading his greedy hands. Your knee suddenly flies up into his stomach before you can even think of what you’re doing. He grunts, doubling over, and you shove him back with all the force you can muster for a frail and starved thirteen year old girl. He stumbles for a moment and lunges again, his larger hands grabbing onto the collar of your shirt and pulling you in. 

The meat bun drops from your hand and onto the dirt.

Silent rage tightens your chest and overwhelms your body. That’s your meat bun now lying in the dirt. You seethe as the boy crouches to pick it up—steal it from you. Your hands ball into fists and your jaw tightens. You want to hit something. You want to hit him. You want to watch him fall apart at the mercy of your destructive hands. On instinct, you grit your teeth, plant your feet, and throw a punch that splits your knuckles open against his cheekbone. 

And you like the feeling.

The devastation of your anger. The power within your fist. The feeling of showing him that you can fight back—that you’re not so weak and helpless. 

The feeling of finally being seen.

The boy cradles his cheekbone in both hands, mouth agape. He takes a step back but you swing again, opting for an uppercut that lands right on the underside of his jaw. He yelps, staggering as blood drips from his mouth, then runs away from you. He deserted the meat bun.

You look down at your already bruised and now split knuckles, still pulsing from the impact. You’re not just angry anymore. You’re tired. Of being hungry. Ignored. Lonely. Dependent. Burdensome. 

Something hardens within you, like your heart has been enclosed with a seal that will never be tender enough to crack back open.

Now, you’re not inherently cruel.

But that is what you must be if you’re going to survive—if you’re ever going to find the truth about Mom and Uncle Ronan—all alone in the Underground. 

—

The next three years pass in a haze that stretches into one long ache. You still haven’t bothered asking your grandparents about what happened—not since that day they packed up your home. But that never stopped the questions from being planted in your mind, growing like weeds as they slowly become all-consuming. They’ve been festering quietly for the last three years, wrapping their poisonous roots around your emotions and tainting your anger with something darker—more violent.  

You’re sixteen in a month, and tonight, you decide that you’re done living in this house that feels like a waiting room for ghosts. Anything would be better than this. It’s bad enough that you’ve been here just shy of four years, living with these people who have pushed you so far away that you’ve become strangers. You will show them what their indifference has done to you. 

Your fiery rage has been boiling just beneath the surface of your skin, barely contained, clawing its way up your throat for years now. You’ve swallowed the flames time and time again, but tonight, they managed to burn a hole through your mouth and force their way out. 

You’ll reduce the house to ashes if it means uncovering what they buried. 

The aroma of the evening’s stew still lingers in the air. Grandma is drying the dishes from supper when you approach her. Grandpa is in his chair. It’s so quiet that you can hear the soft snores leaving his mouth. The only sound that fills this hollow space. 

Your grandma hasn’t sung once after that night.

You’re done with the silence.

“Tell me what happened that night,” you demand. Your voice doesn’t shake. It’s low and deep. Intentional.

Grandma doesn’t stop drying. Grandpa’s soft snores continue.

You suddenly take one of the plates she already cleaned and shatter it against the counter.

“Fuck you!” you explode and point your finger at her. “Stop pretending like I didn’t just ask you a question!” You clench your fists to stop your hands from shaking. 

Your grandma doesn’t flinch, but your grandpa’s snoring stops.

“I know something horrible happened,” you press, taking a step closer to your grandma. “I want the truth. I deserve the truth.”

Your grandpa shifts in his chair. Your eyes shift to him. He moves slowly, like it costs him all of his energy to move a single muscle. Your grandma keeps drying dishes.

He coughs. “They’re gone. There’s nothing else to it.”

“Gone where, exactly?” You immediately retort. “I know they didn’t just vanish.”

“You’re too young, child.”

Child.

You scoff. 

“We’re all too young for the shit that happens in the Underground!” you snap. You can feel your face turning red as your body overheats. “That doesn’t stop anyone. It didn’t stop whatever happened that night, and it didn’t stop you from brushing me off like some spec of dust for the last four fuckin’ years!” You’re heaving now. You can’t control the flames that spew from your mouth. “It’s like I’m not even here—like I don’t even exist!” 

Your grandma puts down the washcloth in her hand. It’s the same one she used to cover your face with that night. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she states calmly.

“Then explain it!” you demand. “Tell me what happened. Why you never let me go home. Why you packed everything up without me. Tell me who that man was!” You slam your fists on the table. The whole house ignites. Your flames coat every wall, every surface. It’s getting unbearably hot in this tiny room. “Tell me why I don’t know what happened to the real people who raised me!” Your body is sweating and your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest. Adrenaline flows through your veins.

You swallow. 

Holy fuck, reign it in.

Your grandma folds in on herself. She looks at your grandpa. “Lukas, maybe…” Her mouth stays open like she’s about to say more, but the words had just died on her tongue.

“Enough!” Your grandpa suddenly slams a closed fist onto the arm of his chair. “Eva, please. That’s enough.”

His face is hard. Grandma looks like she sees a ghost–like she sees you.

And you’re seething. Your head lowers. “Tell me the truth.” You sound cynical. Your sanity is held together by one thin thread that’s been begging to snap.

Grandpa doesn’t answer. Neither does Grandma. They’re still—frozen like statues. 

Just like that night.

You read their faces carefully, and suddenly it all clicks. The tightness in your grandpa’s fist. The tears in your grandma’s eyes.

They’re not silent because they don’t want to talk about it.

They’re silent because they’re afraid.

Fucking cowards.

You press your tongue into your cheek, jaw still tight with rage. “Actually, don’t bother.” You turn on your heel, heading for the door. “You just told me everything I need to know.”

It loudly slams behind you. 

They don’t call after you.

I’ll just find out for myself. 

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author’s note

Hi readers! I hope you’re all enjoying the story so far! Please feel free to leave any comments and/or feedback on my writing! It’ll only help me improve.

i feel like my voice as a writer came out much more in this chapter. It’s becoming easier to write now that the old and rusted writing gears in my head are turning again. I hope yall don’t mind the em dashes and commas and paragraph breaks. I write these stories like i’m the one narrating it for you, and my brain is adhd as fuck. I always give myself a good giggle when i reread my chapters during editing cuz one whole section is full of breaks and inserts and the next is like some super poetic stuff fr

I also already have the next 4 chapters written! They’re not edited yet and i’m going to try to release them on a weekly basis. I’ve been having so much fun writing this story that i literally just sit down with my laptop and type for 12 hours straight. Not even kidding

Our husband Levi is introduced to the story for the first time in 2 chapters. Stay tuned