#underground reader

“I told them I’d meet them at the apartment later, and that I needed to clear my head or another dumb excuse,” he breathes close to your mouth, closed eyes, hiding the heat that lives within them for this short instant.

You nod and sigh, already crumbling under his hands so easily. There are many things you know by now, about his body as well as your own, all the different ways desire and pleasure can be dragged out and brought to completion. Still, there are some things about the nature of this that you can’t quite figure out, which maybe attests to your lack of experience beyond him: are you supposed to feel your pulse quicken from the sight of him only? Sense his presence like a shift in atmosphere, engulfed by the scent of him from afar? Be consumed by the familiar tugging in your lower abdomen and have heat spreading through your center even before his touch has reached you? Could any man make you feel this way, if not Levi?

It’s been months of this, quick escapades between patients and robberies, secret sessions of stolen kisses and undercover sighs. You’re used to his impatience, the urge he has to reach out and touch after days of carefully crafted indifference. He was never one for physical contact, and you suppose you weren’t, either. You wonder why it feels different, now: is this only the effect that life-long deprivation can cause in people? Is that why you feel addicted to it, while he looks restless and even greedy every time you do this? In spite of your own natures, closeness calls to you, as if you’ve only recently found out that you’ve been starving from the lack of it.

Whatever it may be that causes this, you like it. You like it too much , a scorning voice appears to whisper in your ear. Its insistence makes you pull away, also halting his crumpling hands over your shirt at the sides of your body. It’s only then that you’re able to take a good look at his face, the slight furrowing of his forehead that indicates he’s upset about something.

“Elric withdrew from the deal again, the bastard,” he explains before you even ask. “He said it’s become too risky to conduct business with us, because of those idiots from the Military Police that have been on our asses. As if they’ll ever even come close,” he scoffs. While he speaks, your fingers drift from his nape to the sides of his neck, unconsciously trying to soothe him. You think he likes that — one more idiosyncrasy in your arrangement —, but you never really asked.

That’s a big issue, because Elric is an important client with enough purchasing power to push you closer to the surface with each successful business. His withdrawal is a tough setback, and it also means less money to afford the high-end medicines that Yan requires. Levi has every reason to be disappointed.

He leans in again, making his intentions clear. No more talking . This is what he does: he’s upset, he comes here. He’s particularly satisfied about a deal, he comes here. He’s not feeling anything at all, just drifting through the day and trying to find something to take him out of his numbness, his footsteps lead him to this same awaiting place with open arms and legs. This will never not be a mystery to you: why does he do it? Is it boredom, routine, distraction? And why do you keep letting him in? You can pretend not to know the answer to this last question, even though the truth of it has become increasingly hard to ignore.

His kisses become more pressing, hands working to open the buttons of your shirt, lips falling to your neck — good . He mumbles against your skin, finger drifting to draw patterns on the patches of your body he skillfully exposes. There’s a drunkenness to him that only becomes evident in moments such as these, which makes you think he actually likes this as much as you do. There’s lust in his stance, but also care — right?

You sigh and try to keep up, but the rushing thoughts slow your movements. It’s not that you’re starting to question this; it has more to do with the fact that you haven’t questioned this at all, ever since it started. Things just happened and kept on happening, and you told yourself that it was enough to go with the flow, just following wherever it would lead you. You don’t know what changed, exactly, but something seems to have, as the strong pounding of your chest every time he walks in would indicate; or the way you’ve been struggling to keep your hands to yourself in front of Isabel and Furlan, now, having to be extra careful not to let your excitement show when Levi’s fingers graze your skin or when Levi’s eyes flicker across the room to find yours.

“Aren’t you afraid Furlan will figure it out at this rate? He did say he’s onto us,” you recall the vow Furlan swore to see through only yesterday, trying to sound playful, both arms around Levi’s shoulders. Still holding him close in spite of your unexpected, spiraling doubts, legs opening to accommodate his body. He sighs and rests his forehead over your shoulder, leaning both hands on each side of you over the table. Sensing your hesitancy; frustrated about it? He raises his head to look at a spot beyond you, and you want to kiss his cheek. But you refrain yourself from doing it, because that would be purely affectionate, not at all seductive. Would he like it?

“It took months for him to even start suspecting,” he huffs. He seems tired, as the marks under his eyes would suggest. And he came here. Your heart aches inexplicably just from the sight of him, a disgruntling sensation. “At this rate, we’ll find our ways to the surface long before his slow head figures it out”.

And would that be so bad? , you bite your tongue before you say it. Not telling seemed to make sense when this abruptly started. It was never a decision, but something you ended up rolling along with, since it was easier to just keep it between you than to try to explain — hey, we’re casually fucking, is that cool with you?

But time passed — months that seem to hold the same worth of decades. Isabel is not a training girl Levi and Furlan took in anymore, but a steady part of the gang. And you’re not simply Isabel’s sister, but a close addition to the group and a constant part of their plans and ideas. You can’t see yourself parting ways with them, the closest to family you think you’ll ever get. None of you ever dared say the word to each other, almost afraid to jinx it; but it’s true.

So you want to say something about it, but you don’t know what . It’s been a thrilling secret, and maybe you should feel satisfied with that. But you want more , and you’re afraid he’ll keep getting comfortable with less , until whatever this is will just fade into nothing.

“I’m sorry for the deal,” you whisper instead, trying to remind yourself of why he’s here , convince yourself of a satisfying reason. It’s not just sex, but the comfort that exists in it. Deep down, he must know you understand , and that you’re someone he can share his frustrations with — which has happened time and time again, in the form of disgruntled, scattered admissions. You know him, and he knows you; that’s enough, or it has to be.

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes soften, his hand raising to hold your cheek in a way that is almost tender. When he kisses you again, you can feel the vibration of a hum pouring into your tongue, low and sultry, reaching out to spread through your whole body. Languidness takes over the previous rush, your hands bringing his face even closer, wanting to exist in the way your mouths meld together. He bites your bottom lip hard and licks it within a heartbeat, blurring the line between pain and pleasure until you’re unable to tell them apart. Unable to recognize your own voice, needy and breathy, whimpering his name in half agony, half rapture.

His left hand continues to cradle your face affectionately — you can tell yourself that —, tongue meeting yours in a slow dance. Your fingers dig into his hair, then wander down to feel the expanse of his chest, the shape of his muscles, almost cut-open and bleeding from the sharpness they meet in every corner of him. From the ethereal contour of his face to the honed sturdiness of his body, all of him seems to rip you apart and exposed, an incredibly gentle experience in spite of the deadliness. His hands are soft where they touch you, intent and so warm, drifting to rest on your thighs. Kneading, coaxing, thumbs circling the sensitive region of your lap until you’re dizzy and panting with want.

Your shirt is already half open from his previous efforts, enough of your cleavage showing for his eyes to get caught in it, simultaneously glinting and darkening with lust. He kisses his way down your throat and collarbone, his rhythm building into what it was before, desperate and hungry while he ravages your skin and leaves hidden marks on his wake. You almost cry out when his fingers graze your center, at the same time his lips close around your pebbled nipple over your thin undershirt.

So good , you can hear him mutter from time to time, nodding your head in earnest. He’s not much of a talker when you do this, but his occasional words of encouragement and appreciation are enough to make your insides melt. This is good , your mind repeats in a loop, too damn good , your shirt finally falling all the way down from your shoulder while you work to undo the buttons of his, completely intoxicated in him. His scent, the sweep of his tongue against your lips, the flexing of his arms when they pull you impossibly closer. You have all of this memorized by now, even if it feels new in every repetition.

You’re unraveling with every one of his low groans, the spark in his eyes raising too big of a fire that licks you inside and out, an exquisite burning. This is good , and you know him, don’t you? You know the effect he has on your body, the lowness of his voice, the bite of his clever statements as well as the softness hidden behind the harsh way in which he sometimes delivers his words. But you also know why he holds teacups from the top instead of the handle, the story of how hot liquid stained his clothes and scorched his skin when the delicate china snapped, making him too wary to trust it again. You know how he and Furlan met, the kind of childish alliance that only neglected kids can find in each other, growing into an unbreakable fellowship with every passing week, for years, now. You know that he hates his birthday and the way that it coincides with Christmas, reminding him of the kind of homely celebration he will never experience. The smell of death and the ache in his stomach at the small room he was confined to when too little to escape it, as well as the second desertion he was met with in his life when mysterious eyes turned his back on him for the last time.