Dreamer

Clack, clack, click.

Those are the sounds that Morphes would like to hear—only hear. But no. 

When his publisher decided to push up the date for his manuscript to be sent in, Morpheus—after a moment of groaning complaints—started to get to work. Only, the roof of his manor started leaking and had to be fixed. Lucienne managed to find a contractor and crew to start working on it immediately, but that meant he was typing away with the sound of hammers pounding right above his head from 6:00 AM to 6:00 PM. 

In a desperate attempt to get away from the noise, he took the risk to go into the city. Though the sound of cars honking and pedestrians walking past was still noisy, it was better than whatever was going on in his own home. 

That is, his city townhouse didn’t prove much usefulness either. On the other side of the wall of his office was a neighbor he had never met before. Yet, he knew all too much of her anyway. Yes, her. If not for the shrilling, excited squeals you made when you win a video game or the way you shout at your TV screen when something didn’t go as you expected for a show. 

“Damnit!” Morpheus threw his pen across his desk, the ink marring his rough draft. 

His concentration is gone. Again. He hears another loud laugh come from the other side of the wall, followed by more excited screams. He assumes you’re playing another video game again, talking to other people you’re playing with.

With the onslaught of your shrills and the traffic outside his door, his concentration wasn’t merely lost—it was practically drowned in the Mariana Trench. 

He’s tempted to call it a night, shove all of his papers off to the side and lounge on his couch. Throughout the day, a snowstorm has been brewing. That morning, it was nothing but news warnings and light flurries of snow. By late afternoon, there were fat globules and harsh winds that made driving impossible, much less seeing a few inches in front of oneself. It would be cozier to make a new cup of tea and open a book he’s been meaning to read. 

The townhouse had the opposite problem compared to his manor—the heating unit ran too hot instead of too cold. His sweater practically clings to his frame as he stands from his desk. Though given how this storm is to continue throughout the night, he doesn't mind. Better too hot than too cold in this weather. 

 Morpheus makes a simple dinner, then sits himself against a warm lamp and opens a book. 

Then, everything goes dark. 

The screens go dark, the lamp shuts off, and the general hum of the city dies instantly. It only takes Morpheus a few more seconds before he’s fumbling and reaching for his phone. He used to have a flip phone, as he found no use in any of the newer ones. But Lucienne insisted on a newer model—“for her sanity” as she put it. 

It proved fruitful, as he used the flashlight that is built into the phone to rummage around his space. He had a generator at least. He sets it up, connecting it to an old heater that could probably catch the whole place on fire if he isn’t careful with it. Sighing contently, he goes about finding candles to light up. Soon enough, the living room regained most of its warmth. 

After all, who wouldn’t have a generator in case of an emergency?

You wouldn’t. That’s who. 

Wrapping yourself tighter in your quilt like a pitiful Victorian child, you’re tripping over your furniture and other things you didn’t know you owned. It takes nearly 15 minutes to safely get into your kitchen and open the drawer where you hold all your emergency things. If you can even call them that.  

You squint in the low light, barely seeing shapes in there. There was a grand total of one half burned candle, a few matches, and a flashlight with no batteries in it. 

Your dad was the one who gave you these things several years ago when you first moved in. But, you only scoffed and said that there would never be a time for you to use any of these things. And you were right, technically. Until today. Thank god your phone was dead, or else you’d be receiving a lot of “I told you so” texts followed by several thumbs up emojis. 

A shiver runs through you, your dinner completely forgotten in this snowy crisis. Your teeth start to chatter, the cold settled in quicker than you’d thought, biting through your pajamas and sweater. 

You stare at the little dim candle, watching it sputter due to the leak in your window you were too lazy to call a repairman for. You let out a defeated groan, sliding down the wall. 

The candle is your only entertainment until it weakly sputters out, leaving only the trace of smoke that you can’t even see. Another icy gust comes through your window and you shudder, toes curling, trying to maintain warmth. 

The wall is surprisingly warm. 

Your head snaps up before you’re running your palm against the wall. 

Your neighbor. 

He’s only arrived in the area about a week ago, but you knew he owned the space whether or not he occupied it or not. He would be the type of person to have a generator. 

You can imagine him now, sipping wine and enjoying a generator powered heater. Maybe he’d be dressed in a robe and sulking like a trouble novelist from the 1800s. He’s probably going to kill you for showing up in the middle of the storm. 

But you’d definitely kill yourself staying in this cold side of the townhouse. 

Yet another gust of wind comes through the crack in the window and you’ve made up your mind. You fumble around your kitchen, grabbing two packets of instant hot chocolate before you’re stomping over to his door. The footsteps you make with your slippers are soon filled with more snow. 

It’s too cold to hesitate before your fist is banking on his door. Inside, you hear movement. Then the lock clicks and the door opens. 

A gush of warm air and you’re looking at your neighbor up and down, teeth still chattering and lips blue. Shame. He’s not a brooding, robe wearing, moody novelist. 

He just wears a simple black sweater and plaid patterned sleep pants. And… 

Your eyes linger on his slippers. Black cat slippers. Whiskers and all. 

“Can I help you?” He asks, his voice deep and soothing. 

“H-hey,” you greet past your shivering. “Want company?”

“Not particularly…”

“Too bad, I’m fucking freezing!” You manage to push out before you’re already weasling yourself past his door. 

“Do not touch anything,” he says immediately, closing the door and locking it to prevent a breeze. 

You shrug, already looking through the magazines he has on his coffee table. The candles flicker over your features as you flip through a National Geographic magazine going over the different species of ravens. 

“So, is this how you survive snowstorms and zombie apocalypse?” You ask jokingly. “Brooding in candlelight and kitty slippers?”

He sits onto the couch, snatching the magazine out of your hand. “Something akin to that.”

You grin. So he did have a sense of humor. “Y/N,” you introduce yourself, holding out a hand. 

“Morpheus.”

The next 20 minutes are spent asking him harmless questions, all of which were answered in 3 words or less. 

“What are you writing?” To which he merely grunts.

“Where do you buy so many candles?” - “Costco.”

“What’s your favorite winter food? You seem like a stew guy.” - “Shepard’s pie.”

It’s a slow siege, but you’re starting to see the cracks in his demeanor. Within 45 minutes of questions, Morpheus has moved from three worded answers into sentences. Sometimes, you’re rewarded with a twitch of his lips as you banter back and forth amidst a very poorly constructed game of charades. 

“A… snowman?” Morpheus guesses when you mime shivering.

You shake your head, holding up one finger.

“Right, right, one word.”

You tap your arm with the finger four times. 

“Four syllables,” he deducts to which you nod happily. 

You pretend to shiver again then open your mouth and pretend to drop something inside and swallowing. 

“Mastication!” He says, clapping his hand as if he got the answer. 

You let out a sneer and shake your head. Pressing a hand to your forehead then fanning it, you look at Morpheus expectantly. 

“Overheating?” He shrugs. 

You mimic your actions again. Holding your hand to your forehead, fanning yourself, shivering, and swallowing something. 

Morpheus offers a useless shrug. 

“It’s ibuprofen!” You break character. “I had a fever and was shivering so I took ibuprofen.”

“You joke, surely,” he scoffs. 

Before you could return with a witty remake, the heater clicks off and the low hum of the generator dies.

“Um…” you say, pulling your quilt back around yourself. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Morpheus rises from the couch and squats by the generator. Smacking it a few times before letting out a defeated sigh. He just remembered—he didn’t add gasoline to it since his sister borrowed it for a camping trip. “It’s out of fuel.”

“So… no heat?”

Morpheus meets your gaze, reaching for a second sweater to layer up. The temperature is already starting to dip. Without the power from the heater, the candle’s heating element is laughable. 

By the time the chill truly sets in, you’ve both migrated to the couch. Morpheus' nose and the tips of his ears are starting to get a bit red. Your quilt is wrapped around both of your shoulders. 

“This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous,” Morpheus mutters as you shift deeper into your quilt cocoon. 

“Science says body heat is the best way to stay warm,” you spew out. You’re not sure if it’s even true. It was something you saw in passing on social media. “Unless you want to send me back to my side of the townhouse and get frostbite and turn into a popsicle and die like that.”

Morpheus gives you an unamused look, the subtlest flare of his nostrils at your dramatic ramblings. But who is he if not an author and therefore the bringer of the dramatics to life? 

The storm outside lets out a shrill as it rattles the windows, but in here the air is thick with candlelight and the low, uneven hum of two strangers trying not to realize how close they are to each other.

You shift to tuck your feet under yourself and your hips bump into his. Morpheus stiffens even further at the subtle contact. 

“You’re stiffer than meringue peaks, Morpheus.”

“I am fine,” he murmurs in a way that someone who is not fine would say. 

You turn your head in the enclosed space, catching the way the candlelight dances down the straight of his nose. “You’re not really good at this whole human proximity thing, are you?”

“I am a solitary person.” He exhales through his nose slowly. 

“Yeah, but you had a generator so now you’re a solitary person sharing his living room and warmth with their neighbor.”

That earns you a sideways glance. It isn’t annoyed, but neither was it appraisal. Simply… watching. 

When you lay your head lightly against his shoulder, you half expect him to pull away. To your surprise, Morpheus doesn’t. The tension starts to shimmer and change. Morpheus no longer has walls up anymore. It was more like a door that he hasn’t decided to open or keep locked. 

“You’re warmer than I thought,” you murmur. 

“Your head is heavier than it seems,” he replies without hesitation. 

You snort a laugh. There was that sense of humor again. Morpheus’ arm settles behind your shoulders on the couch, close enough that his knuckles brush your shoulders. You both pretend not to notice. 

“Will you tell me about your writing?” You ask again.

“It’s a story of grief,” he answers truthfully this time. “About a father who killed his son.”

You listen about his story as the storm continues to rage outside. The quilt traps the warmth between you but the chill seeps in at the edges, pushing you two closer together. You pull the quilt higher over your shoulders, your knees brushing against each other again—lingering. 

Morpheus doesn’t move away. His voice continues in that hypnotizing way, low and soothing—perfect for storytelling. His knuckles begin to brush against your shoulder as he continues. 

“That’s awfully sad,” you comment as Morpheus catches you up to the latest chapter he’s written. 

Another gust of wind hits the windows, and even though you know the wind can’t come in, it doesn't stop you from leaning closer to Morpheus to steal his warmth. His arm drops from your shoulder to your arm, pulling you closer. 

“It is,” he agrees. “I haven’t decided on the ending yet.”

“Well, obviously, you have to give him a happy ending.”

You glance up at him when he doesn’t answer right away only to find him already looking at you. The tension in the air turns from a shimmer to a boil quickly, almost electric. And you realize, with a sudden almost neck-jerking clarity that if either of you leaned in even just a breath, the line you’ve been toeing with your neighbor all night would be crossed. 

Your eyes drop to his lips, so soft and tempting. The window rattles again but you barely hear it over your own heartbeat. 

“I’m not good at this,” Morpheus admits quietly. 

You shift closer, the quilt tightening around you two like an urge. “Lucky for you,” you murmur. “I am.”

You feel his breath before his lips, just the faintest bit of warmth before you close the distance. It’s not a rush, not at first, just the soft pressing of lips. The slow, testing kind of discovery that makes every surface inch of contact deliberate. 

Morpheus’ hand comes up to the side of your neck, fingers warm even through the chill of the room. It pushes you to tilt toward him, deepening the kiss, and his other hand drops from your shoulder to your waist, shifting you onto his lap. 

When you finally part, a string of saliva connecting your lips, the air between you is warmer than you’ve managed all night. 

“Good?” You breathe.

“Yeah,” he swallows. “Good.” 

He lets out a broken moan when you kiss him again, your fingers dragging across his scalp. His inexperience is evident through the way he follows your lead, allowing you to set the pace, and the way his hips buck up into your heat. Morpheus’ hands roam underneath the quilt, trailing down to the hem of your pajama pants until the pads of his fingers meet the skin of your lower back. 

When you part for air again, he chases after your lips with a needy sound, not wanting the connection to break. You barely get the chance to suck in more air before his lips are crashing onto yours again, eliciting a moan of your own. 

This time, the kiss is messy and desperate. Less of a routine waltz and more of an unpracticed tango. Passionate, but teeth clashing, hands roaming, and uneven breaths. Your lips leave his, kissing across his subtle stubble, your hand tracing his jaw. 

His breath hitches as your hands move lower, fingers tickling down his neck before resting over his erratic heartbeat. 

“Can I?” You whisper into his ear, pressing another kiss to the soft skin beneath it. 

You feel him nod, only once. But once is all you need. 

You catch the movement of Morpheus’ hand as he reaches into the small drawer beside the couch, fingers brushing over knickknacks until he pulls out a condom. 

“Were you expecting this?” You tease, snatching the little foil packet from his fingers. 

“No, just not an idiot,” he says in a breathy laugh that has your thighs unconsciously flexing around his lap. 

You respond with a smile before your lips are back on his. With your kiss distracting him, you pull down the elastic of his sweatpants and his erection springs free. 

His groans turn into another breathy whimper as your kisses trail down his jaw, your fingers working themselves to open the condom packet. 

“Fuck,” he curses when you suck on his adam’s apple and roll the rubber over his length. 

His eyes flutter close as you give him a quick pump, feeling the warmth of your hand through the thin plastic. His hips jerk involuntarily into your touch, cock already leaking pre-cum and sensitive for more. 

Morpheus pants out your name, voice shaky and desperate. “Please… I need…” he trails off, too overwhelmed to finish his own sentence. 

“I know,” you whisper back, stepping away for a moment. 

He watches with heavy lidded eyes  as you shimmy out of your pajama pants and underwear, the candlelight flickering across your flushed skin. The sight of you crawling back on top of him sends another wave of need through him and he forces down another choked whine. 

The condom covered tip presses against your entrance and you press a searing kiss to cut off the gasp that threatens to leave his lips. “Ready?” you murmur against his lips. 

Morpheus nods. “Yes,” he whimpers softly against your lips, close to begging again. 

His hips raise slightly in anticipation, hands gripped tightly on your hips. Another curse leaves him as you sink down, inch by inch, onto hom, his eyes rolling back from the intense sensation. His fingers flex at your hips as his body tries to not short circuit from the warmth wrapped around him. 

“Oh, god,” he gasps out, head tilting back against the backrest. 

You couldn’t help himself as he exposes his neck, pressing light kisses across the blank canvas. Your hips remain still, letting yourself become accustomed to his size before you start moving. 

Morpheus’ body shudders underneath yours—this time, it’s not from the cold. His hands move from your hips to frame your face, looking deep into your eyes. 

“So warm,” he chokes out, already addicted to the feeling of being inside you. 

His hips shift again, groaning at the aching drag of his cock out of your warmth before it slides back in. You finally roll your hips along with his, keeping the movements slow and deliberate, riding him gently. Your breaths mingle as condensation between your bodies, sweat slowly clinging to your skin. 

The snow storm and the chill it’s brought is long forgotten. No one dares remember it when Morpheus lets out another whimper of your name. Each time you sink down onto him brings forward another broken moan, his breath coming in short gasps against your neck where he tries to muffle it. Every inch feels like heaven wrapped around him. 

HIs fingers dig into your flesh, worming themselves beneath your shirt and cupping at your breasts. You moan softly, arching into his touch, encouraging him further. 

Morpheus’ hips lift to meet yours now, matching your quickening pace, his body becoming familiar in your embrace. 

He comes faster than he’d like to admit. It wasn’t even much of a proper buildup. It comes without warning, his body shaking violently and his thighs tensing beneath you as he fills the condom. A strangled cry leaves his lips as pleasure rockets through his body, leaving his spine tingling. His hands tighten around your hips as he holds you down onto him, allowing you to feel each pulse of his cum as he empties into the condom. 

Coming undone so quickly leaves him embarrassed as the waves of his ecstasy finally subsides. Panting heavily against your neck, he apologizes. “I am… so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you soothe with a small laugh. 

He pulls away, blinking his eyes open. The tips of his ears are flushed red, though this time you doubt it’s from the cold. 

“I didn’t mean to finish so quickly,” he rushes to say again, his embarrassment spreading as a blush across his neck. 

“We have until the power comes back on,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Me not writing this because I didn't know what I wanted to do with the prompt vs me realizing I could make Morpheus whimper

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

“You haven’t been responding.” Levi’s foot blocked the door that you were just about to shut on him.

It was one of those few dreadful times of the year. You barely get your period given the erratic and unbalanced nature of your hormones, so unlike others, you only get to have it for about three times annually, or less. It wasn’t that you hated not having it as often as other girls do, but in your case, the problem was that when you did have it—everything’s pretty much ten times worse than if you were regularly menstruating. 

To put it simply, being on your period meant that you felt like you were standing on the second to the highest podium of the worst things you get to biologically experience (first being childbirth)—with symptoms that were hitting twice harder.

And, well, Levi didn’t know that.

He’s your friend in college, and it's only been one semester of it. You considered him as one despite his very hard to read expressions and terribly dry sense of humor because under all that, he was a nice guy…sort of. At least to you he was—and the short list of his other friends.

You weren’t chat buddies or anything. Though you two frequently exchanged messages for a few things about uni or, in Levi’s case, to complain about something his friend, Hange, was doing or—was bothering him with. And you always responded minutes or an hour after. 

Just not last night.

He stared at you through the gap from where he stood, his foot comfortably wedged between the door and its frame, “ you look like shit.”  he noted, glancing past you, into what he could see of your place, then back.

He arrived at your apartment without announcement just a minute ago. Knocked once, you hadn’t called out. Knocked for the second time, you hadn't answered again. Knocked for the third time and called your name, you didn’t answer, again. If he hadn’t threatened to break your door down the second later, you wouldn't have gotten up from the couch and answered it even if he’d knocked for the fourth time. 

“...thanks.” You mumbled, clearly not in the mood for anything—even for him. You always were, to his inconvenience. He’d just gotten desensitized enough of your company to not be annoyed. Now he doesn’t admit to the fact that he looks for it everyday.

Levi raised a brow, the palm he had on his side of the door pushed to keep the gap existing, “Are you sick?” He asked, voice low since he didn’t quite know what to say. Partly because he didn’t understand why he’d gotten up so early, opened your dms first thing in the morning, seen that you still hadn’t replied yet, and chose to drive to your place twenty minutes out so he could check on you. 

He wasn’t insecure of not getting a reply from someone or anything, but shit, that seems to not be the case with you.

“I’m not.” You answered. “Your place is a mess.”

“I haven’t even let you in yet.” “I can see it from here.”

You sighed loudly then pointedly looked at him, “Did you just come here to insult me because I didn’t reply?” 

“Maybe I did,” Levi’s hand retracted from the door, now shoved into one of his pockets, “maybe I thought something happened.” You’d rolled your eyes then spoke, every syllable pronounced like you were talking to a toddler, “It’s just as simple as me missing the notification—” “You don’t have notifications on.” 

“How do you even know tha—” 

“Are you okay?” He cut off, expression shifting just slightly, “I didn’t say you look like shit to insult you—I could’ve done a hell of a better job if I really wanted to. I said it because you don’t look okay.”

You shut your mouth, chewing on your cheeks as you looked away, “I’m fine.” you mumbled.

Levi watched you avoid looking back up at him for a good thirty seconds, then he pulled his foot out of the gap, giving you the chance to finally shut the door in his face. 

…but you didn’t. Instead, you stepped aside and he walked in. 

You welcomed him with saying that you were on your period and that yes, you feel shitty, yes, you were in pain, yes, you hadn’t slept last night, and yes, your place was a trash pile because you could not be bothered to get up either the bed or the couch to clean up.

He didn’t say anything at first, only nodded you to the couch and suddenly started cleaning around you like it was his responsibility. You could only raise your brows and reluctantly become a witness to the statement that Levi was a man who was more cleaning than words. 

Every time you tried to tell him off, he kept saying stuff like—”No.”—”It’s fine.”—”Stay on the damn couch.”—”I’m throwing this away whether you want me to or not.”

One thing you did notice was that he hadn’t once said anything that made you feel like you’re a raccoon’s second cousin. 

“Need anything?” He’d asked, wiping his hands dry with a paper towel as he approached you, still on the couch, pretty much a melted cocoon on it. You were hugging your knees to your face, laying on your side, half embarrassed, but currently being gnawed at from the inside. 

You shook your head, biting your lip as another wave of cramps took over. 

A blanket flew over your figure, hovering over you until it covered your body, the material soft, “how bad?” his voice came quiet, crouching in front of you as he’d said it. Gentle, too gentle. You don’t recall any other time he’d spoken to you like this. 

When you only managed another shake to your head, Levi stood up and walked somewhere in your place. 

He came back crouched in front of you ten minutes later with a warm compress you didn’t fucking know you still had.

“Sit up,” he said, now taking the space beside you on the couch, “use this.” 

It wasn’t like he knew what he was doing. Like shit does he know specifics about menstruation, let alone the difference between regular ones and irregular ones—or if it was normal that it was painful enough that it shut you up. Or if a warm compress would actually help for even at least a little. 

But what he did know was that you needed someone right now…and that much he was willing to provide. 

“Didn’t think sweet could be part of your character’s vocabulary.” You chuckled, most of the pain had subsided, the weight and temperature  of the warm compress easing it.

Levi glared at you from where he sat opposite of you on the couch.

“Seriously though, thank you,” you muttered a beat after, “you didn’t have to.”

His gaze softened a fraction and he looked away, “Thank me by replying to my text.” He said quietly, like he purposefully didn’t want you to hear it, but you still did. 

You laughed and swore you would check it out later. Something lighter built in his chest when he heard you laugh despite the lady predicament you were in.

He was happy he was the reason you had.

'til next time. cheers, my love

Levi is on his knees at the foot of your shared bed, shoulders slightly rounded in that familiar posture that is equal parts patience and quiet devotion. His dark hair is already a mess from the way he’s been running his hands through it all evening, a telltale sign of anticipation he’d never admit out loud. 

Candlelight flickers across his pale skin, painting him in soft gold and shadow, and when he looks up at you with those steady grey eyes, there’s a faint flush climbing his neck that gives him away completely, making your heart twist with a gentle, helpless kind of affection.

God, he looks so vulnerable like this. He’s your perfect boy, desperate for just a touch from you. 

He shifts slightly where he kneels, the thin fabric of his loose sweatpants doing little to hide the evidence of his arousal. His hands curl into tight fists in his lap, knuckles pale, like he’s holding himself still through sheer willpower, resisting the urge to reach for you before he’s allowed.

“Please,” Levi whispers, and the word trembles as it leaves him, barely more than a breath. A small, helpless sound slips from him as he leans forward just slightly, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him actually touching you. “Touch me, baby… I need you. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I just… need your hands on me.”

His lips part as another needy sound catches in his throat, barely held back. He drags his teeth over his lower lip, eyes falling half-closed with clear frustration. You’re so close, right within reach, but he holds himself still, refusing to touch you without permission. His cock throbs painfully against the confines of his pants. He has to beg like you like. He has to show you how much he craves your control.

You stand in front of him, still fully dressed in the simple black slip that skims your body and falls to mid-thigh. You let the silence linger, deliberately stretching the moment, quietly savoring the way his barely contained desperation reflects the slow, steady hunger building inside you too. A gentle smile curves your lips as you reach out, not to grant his plea just yet, but to trail a single fingertip along the line of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there rasp against your skin.

“Not yet, pretty boy,” you say softly but firmly, laced with that loving authority he craves. “You’ve been so patient tonight. Show me how much you want this. Undress me first.” 

Your words send a visible shiver through him, his breath catching in a way he can’t quite hide. You watch his eyes darken, pupils blown wide with lust. Levi’s hands tremble slightly as he rises to obey, hovering for a brief moment before finally moving to the thin straps of your dress.

A rush of gratitude sweeps through him, tangled with the spark of arousal that makes his fingers slightly unsteady at first. He carefully slides the straps down your shoulders, moving slowly, his palms brushing over the fabric as it slips away from your skin. The motion reveals the delicate lace of your bra beneath, and his breath catches at the sight.

The dress whispers down your arms, catching briefly on the swell of your breasts before he tugs it free, letting it pool at your feet in a silken puddle. His gaze devours you, tracing the way your nipples harden against the sheer black lace of your bra, the soft dip of your waist flaring into hips he knows fit perfectly against his own.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, sinking back down to his knees, leaning in to press a feather-light kiss to the exposed skin just above your navel, his hot breath fanning across you.

You thread your fingers through his hair, not pulling but guiding, encouraging him as heat builds between your thighs at the worship in his touch. He always unwraps you like candy, like you’re a gift he doesn’t deserve. It makes you want to give him everything.

“Good boy,” you praise.

The words draw a muffled moan from him as his hands move to your underwear, hooking into the sides. He eases them down your legs, one agonizing inch at a time, his lips following the path with open-mouthed kisses—along your hip bone, the sensitive inner curve of your thigh—until the damp lace joins the dress on the floor.

Naked now except for your bra, you feel exposed under his adoring stare. Your core clenches with need as he nuzzles against your bare mound, inhaling your scent with a shuddering whimper.

“Stand up, baby,” you instruct gently, stepping back just enough to climb onto the bed. You reach behind your back to unclasp your bra, throwing it off to the side. “Undress.”

Levi scrambles to his feet, shedding his sweatpants and briefs in a hurried tangle, his cock springing free—red and hard, already leaking pre-cum from the tip, curving upward in blatant supplication. He crawls onto the bed after you, positioning himself between your thighs on his back, hands resting palms-down, slightly gripping the sheets. He wants to feel you. He needs to be inside you, under you, yours completely.

You straddle his hips, your slick heat brushing teasingly against his length, coating him in your arousal as you lean down to capture his lips in a deep, languid kiss. His mouth opens eagerly beneath yours, tongue yielding to yours in a dance of surrender. A broken moan vibrates into your mouth as you rock against him once, twice, denying him entry just yet.

“Such a good boy for me,” you whisper against his lips, nipping at the full lower one before soothing it with your tongue. “Begging so sweetly. You want me to ride you, don’t you?” 

Levi nods frantically, hips twitching upward in search of friction, his hands gripping the sheets to keep from grabbing you. “Yes, please,” he gasps when you pull back, his voice a wrecked whine, chest heaving as he stares up at you with eyes glassy from want. “Ride me, baby. Make me yours. Touch me anywhere, everywhere—I can’t take it anymore.”

Tears born from sheer, overwhelming need gather at the corners of his eyes, making them shine in the soft light. The sight sends a thrill through you, your own desire flaring at how completely he yields, how openly he places his trust in your hands, offering you every piece of his vulnerability without hesitation.

With a loving hum, you reach between your bodies, your fingers finding his cock—hot and velvety against your palm, the skin impossibly soft over the steel-hard rigidity beneath, pulsing urgently—and align your swollen tip with your entrance. The slick bead of pre-cum smears across your skin. Slowly, with a torturous patience that makes Levi whine high and buck his hips upward in a wordless plea for haste, you sink down onto him until you’re fully seated with him buried to the hilt.

Levi’s back arches off the bed, a long, keening whimper tearing from his throat as your walls clench around him. Pleasure borders on pain as it radiates from where you’re joined. He could live like this forever, just feeling you take him until he feels consumed by it, reshaped by it, and possessed by you.

“Oh god—you feel… so good,” he sobs out, hand flying to your hips despite himself, fingers digging in just enough to anchor himself.

You begin to move, rolling your hips in a slow, grinding rhythm that has him sliding deep inside you with every downward press, your clit grinding against his pubic bone for sparks of your own pleasure. 

“That’s it,” you coo, bracing your hands on his heaving chest. Your nails scrape lightly over his nipples to elicit more of those delicious, desperate sounds from him—whimpers, moans that break into fractured pleas of your name, breathless gasps that fill the room like music.

His head thrashes side to side on the pillow, body trembling beneath you as you pick up the pace, lifting almost off him before slamming back down, the wet slap of skin on skin punctuating his cries. He falls apart beautifully. Arousal coils tighter in your core with every roll of your hips, every flutter of his eyelids as he struggles to keep them open, to keep watching you.

Levi is a mess now, truly—lips swollen from biting them to stifle his cries, cheeks streaked with the remnants of those frustrated tears, cock twitching wildly inside you as your rhythm drives him toward the edge. “Please… harder,” he begs between moans. “Touch my neck, baby. Need it, need’you to own me.”

The plea rushes through you, your hand gliding up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm before you curl your fingers gently around his throat. You don’t squeeze, not really—just enough pressure to steal a breath from him, to make his inhale stutter, his eyes fluttering back with a soft, helpless sound. His body goes pliant beneath you, trusting you completely with his breath, his life, his everything.

The gentle restriction sends bright, euphoric sparks racing down his spine, heightening every thrust until his whole world narrows to you alone—your weight holding him in place, your scent surrounding him, your voice guiding him, leaving nothing else that matters.

“Fuck… yes, just like that,” he chokes out, the words garbled around your hold. His hips buck up to meet you in a sloppy, desperate rhythm, no longer coordinated or controlled but driven by pure instinct and the drive to merge with you, to become part of you. “Please—fuck, please—”

You lean forward, your breasts pressing against his chest. Your free hand tangles in his hair as you ride him faster, chasing your peak while watching his face contort in bliss. It’s the most beautiful expression of submission you’ve ever witnessed

“My pretty boy,” you murmur, thumb stroking the side of his neck even as your fingers maintain that perfect, gentle pressure, “look at you, whimpering for me. You look so cute when you say please.” You love how he gives himself to you. This trust. This surrender. It's everything to you.

Levi’s moans turn to continuous, broken whimpers, his body taut beneath you, every muscle clenched in the throes of submission. “Gonna cum—please let me,” he pleads, voice muffled under your hand. Tears slip free now as the dual sensations—your choking grip, your pussy clenching—push him over the brink. His thoughts fragment into pure sensation and love and devotion, white-hot need consuming him whole until he feels like he might actually collapse.

“Cum for me, baby,” you command softly, easing the pressure on his throat just enough for him to gasp in air. 

Your own climax shatters through you at the sight of him unraveling—hips stuttering, cock pulsing as he spills deep inside you with a shattered cry, ropes of cum filling you while your walls milk him dry. You keep grinding down onto him, prolonging the waves of ecstasy that crash over you both. Your body moves in smaller circles to draw out every twitch, every spasm, every sob that wracks his frame until he goes completely limp beneath you. His chest heaves with desperate breaths, his eyes glazed and distant, utterly fucked out and blissful. One hand rises weakly to touch your wrist, to trace the hand that had choked him, now soft against his racing pulse.

You release his neck completely, trailing soothing kisses along his jaw, his temple, murmuring endearments as you collapse onto him, still joined, his softening cock nestled warm inside you.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, heart full as you feel his arms wrap around you weakly.

You’re everything to him, he thinks. He would beg for you forever.

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divider by: enchanthings

It was more of a slip of a tongue than anything. 

It’s late in the night. The corridors have gone quiet. Everyone has finally surrendered to their sleep. Lanterns have either been snuffed or are running down to the end of the candle wicks. Branches of the trees drag across the glass, and somewhere beyond the courtyard, a horse whinnies, restless in the same way everyone seems restless these days, even where there’s nothing immediate to fear.

But you know as well as anyone, that there is always something to fear.

That’s the thing about the Scouts. You don’t carry fear with you. It follows you. It lives in your bones, beneath your fingernails, in your tight shoulders after a mission briefing, in silence that follows when someone says a name and no one answers because that person is already gone.

Maybe that’s why you’re so attracted to Levi. Because he never seems afraid. Not openly, anyway.

He sits at his desk with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, a stack of reports arranged neatly in front of him. His teacup is placed at the exact corner of the desk, where even one small shake of the desk could knock it over. His cravat is loosened slightly, but it’s not enough to make him look relaxed, because you believe Levi would rather be dragged through the streets tied by the hands than look relaxed where anyone can see him. But it’s enough that the sight catches you off guard every time you glance up from your own work.

You’re supposed to be copying casualty numbers into a ledger. You’re, instead, watching the flex of his fingers as he writes. It’s almost humiliating how attracted you are to them. It’s even worse because you realize that it’s humiliating, and yet you keep on doing it. You really should stop staring.

“You’re staring,” Levi says without looking up.

Your quill nearly slips from your fingers. Caught. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That must be new for you.”

Maybe you should be offended. Maybe you already are. Perhaps a part of you lifts its head, bares its teeth, and considers he’s awful and it’s about time you stop treating him like he’s royalty when all he’s done is insult your intelligence and correct your handwriting twice. But you simply smile over your ledger, because there’s obviously something wrong with you.

“I was thinking,” you say, dipping your quill again, “that you look nice like this.”

Levi’s hand stops. It’s tiny. So small. A momentary pause in gesture, a flicker of silence between one word and the next, and yet you notice it, as you always do. You always see the things you wish you didn’t, because your affection for him has made you perceptive to the point of self-injury. 

Then he resumes writing. “Get your eyes checked.”

You laugh tiredly. “I mean it,” you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to ignore every remaining sensible instinct you possess. “You always look nice, but especially when you’re not threatening to make someone scrub the latrines with a toothbrush.”

“I can still threaten you, if that helps.”

“It might,” you say, and when he finally lifts his gaze to you, one brow faintly lifted, you press your lips together to keep yourself from smiling too much. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Captain.”

You definitely did not plan on saying that out loud. 

The words are like a lit match dropped onto paper. You expect something to happen, though you’re not sure exactly what; maybe for Levi to look startled, maybe for your own heartbeat to become so loud that he hears it and tells you to quiet down, but there’s only the sound of his quill stopping and his eyes fixing on you with a disbelief that’s usually reserved for soldiers who have done something phenomenally stupid with live blades. You’ve seen Connie almost cut open his own hand at least a dozen times now.

“No, you’re not,” he says. It’s so blunt that, for a second, you almost laugh again.

“I think I know what I’m feeling.”

“You clearly don’t.”

“That’s a little presumptuous.”

“You’re exhausted. You’ve been copying death tolls for two hours, and your standards are slipping.”

You should probably retreat now, but the bruise of it is too new to hurt yet, and maybe you’re still brave because you haven’t learned your lesson on how this man can cut you without drawing steel.

“My standards are excellent,” you say. “That’s why I picked you.”

Levi stares at you. You stare back, fully aware of the heat gathering beneath your skin. You notice how he hasn’t looked back down yet.His face shifts—not much, because Levi’s expressions never move far enough to be generous, but enough that something flickers behind his eyes. You can’t tell what it is. 

Then he presses his lips together and scoffs. “Finish the ledger. And don’t say stupid things just because it’s late.”

The match goes out. You look down. “Right,” you say, your smile feeling much more fragile than it was one minute ago. “Yes, sir.”

After that, you decide that confession didn’t count. It was late. You were tired. He was rude, but Levi is always rude, and somehow that makes the rejection easier to deal with.

Except it does count.

Because the next time you say it, you’re not tired enough to pretend you don’t mean it.

The next time you flirt with him is after training, when the sun is high and cruel and every inch of your uniform is clinging to your skin. The sound of the training grounds is always loud. Someone groans dramatically near the water barrels. Sasha is arguing that dinner time should be two hours earlier than it is, to which Jean tells her that she’s going to get kicked out of the Scouts with her behavior. Eren is insisting to Mikasa that he could take down one of the veterans in hand-to-hand combat, which is not true and everyone knows is not true.

You’re bent forward with your hands braced on your knees, sweat dripping from your chin into the dust, lungs burning, thighs trembling with the intensity of being thrown onto your back three times by a man who has the emotional warmth of a snail. Levi stands several feet away, not even breathing hard. You hate him a little for it. You love him more. 

“You’re leaving your right side open,” he says, acting like that’s the main problem and not the fact that he’s driven your spine to the ground so many times that the two of them might as well get married. 

You straighten your back, wincing when your shoulders throb in pain. “I noticed.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m choosing to believe you’re only being this mean because you’re impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“Wounded,” you say, touching a hand to your chest. “And after I gave you such a good show.”

Levi’s eyes narrow as they fix on you. There’s dirt on your cheek, gritty beneath the sweat. Your hair is tousled, strands sticking to your face and neck. You know you probably look half-dead, which makes it even more ridiculous when you grin at him as though you’re the one with the upper hand.

“If I land a hit, you have to have tea with me,” you say, shifting your stance again, though your legs are already screaming in pain.

You feel the shift around you immediately, the tiny ripple of attention passing across the training grounds. People know by now. They know you admire him. They know you’re reckless enough to smile at him when most soldiers avert their eyes. They know Levi has never once softened for you in front of them. But they don’t know that you’ve already told him once. They don’t know that some small part of you is hoping the second time will land differently.

Levi looks at you for a long moment. “Good thing you won’t,” he finally says.

Then he attacks. It’s over quickly. You last longer than you did the first round, which you’ll cling to as a personal victory when your pride has stopped bleeding. But it’s not enough to make him sweat, and certainly not long enough to win yourself tea. He hooks your ankle and drops you onto the dirt with one hand gripping your sleeve and the other arm pressed against your throat.

He’s too close. Close enough that you can see the dark crescents beneath his eyes, the tiny nick near his jaw from shaving too quickly, the dust clinging to his hair. Close enough that his arm, still pressed against you, feels like the only solid point in the universe.

“You know,” you say breathlessly, “there are easier ways to get me on my back.”

Someone chokes in the distance. Jean, probably. Armin winces and covers his face. Levi’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers clench your sleeve before he releases you and stands up.

“Get up,” he says.

You push yourself onto your elbows. “No tea, then?”

“No.”

“Dinner?”

“No.”

“A walk?”

“No.”

“An emotionally honest conversation?”

“Are you always this annoying?” 

You laugh then. If you don’t laugh, you think you might cry a little. To anyone else, it would sound like he despises you, but you know deep down, he appreciates your presence. At least, you think he does. You hope.

Levi steps back, eyes already moving toward the others. “Again,” he says.

Your smile falters. “Again?”

“You wanted to land a hit.”

“I also want to retain the use of my spine.”

“Then move correctly.”

You groan, but you get up anyway. When he turns away to retrieve the training blade he had discarded near the fence, you miss how his gaze drops briefly to the place where his fingers had been on your sleeve. He didn’t mean to do that.

Levi hates this. Not you. This. This thing you keep doing. This reckless habit of saying what you feel for him as though feelings are not the most complex thing known to man, wanting someone has never been a mistake, and affection is something you can simply place in another person’s hands and expect them not to drop it. He has no use for it. He has no patience for it.

And yet, when you stand again with dirt on your uniform and that stubborn light in your eyes, Levi’s first though is not that you’re irritating like he says you are.

It’s that you’re still alive and with him.

His second thought is that he wants you to stay that way.

His third thought is so dangerous that he buries it before it finishes forming.

.

People start to make jokes about you and Levi. The Scouts have a talent for taking anything sensitive and turning it into humor. It begins—as it always does—in the mess hall. It’s loud. The long tables are crowded with soldiers leaning shoulder to shoulder, passing bread, stealing scraps, arguing over insignificant things (mostly Eren and Jean), laughing too loudly at stories that are shared between moments in the training yard. 

You sit with your squad, eating your soup as you try not to stare at the officers’ table. You naturally fail. Levi sits apart even among the other officers, a cup of tea held lightly in one hand. Erwin is talking beside him, and Hange is gesturing enthusiastically enough—probably about their latest experiments—to nearly knock over their own bowl. Levi appears to be listening, though his eyes flick briefly toward the table with Connie and Sasha when both of them laugh too loud.

Then he looks at you.

“You’re doing it again,” Petra says beside you. 

You look down at your soup immediately. “I’m eating.”

“You’re daydreaming.”

“I’m not!”

“You absolutely are,” Oluo says, leaning back with misplaced confidence. “It’s pathetic, really.”

“You bite your tongue every other sentence trying to imitate him. Don’t start throwing stones,” Eld says. Oluo sputters. You smile, grateful for the distraction and defense, but your eyes betray you by drifting toward Levi again; and this time Gunther catches it too.

“You could always confess again,” he says. You had told the squad about your confession a week or so ago, and naturally, they found it the funniest thing in the world. And then they called you the stupidest person in the world. “Maybe persistence will wear him down.”

“It works on doors,” Eld says.

“Levi isn’t a door,” Petra says.

“He’s got the personality of one,” you say. That earns a few laughs. 

Across the room, Levi’s eyes lift again. You know immediately that he heard that last part. The man could probably hear dust drifting in the air. For a moment, you consider looking away. Instead, because your pride is a stubborn creature, you lift your cup and toast it in his direction. His eyes narrow, but you smile anyway. He looks back to Erwin.

That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t. After dinner, when the mess hall begins to empty and soldiers drift toward their beds or their duties, you find yourself in the kitchen near the dedicated tea station—which you’re convinced was set up only for Levi—reaching for the kettle at the exact same time Levi does. Your fingers nearly brush, and it’s enough for your breath to hitch. Levi glances at your hand, then at you.

“Move,” he says.

“You could say please,” you mutter.

“I could also assign you stable duty.”

“You make romance very difficult, Captain.”

He frowns at the title, but you don’t really notice it too much since you’re trying to not pour hot water on yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you think. It’s only tea. He barely touched you. Levi is just standing this close—close enough that you can smell his soap—because he’s impatient and waiting for the kettle.

Behind you, someone snickers. You don’t turn, but Levi does. The snickering stops with impressive speed. “Problem?” he asks.

“No, sir,” several voices answer.

You press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing. Levi turns back to you. “You enjoy making yourself a spectacle?”

You don’t know why, but those words hit a tender spot in your nerves. Your smile falters. “I’m not trying to.”

“Aren’t you?”

That stings. Not badly, but enough for you to look down at the tea in your cup, watching the surface tremble with the tiny motion of your hand. “I just like you,” you say, quiet enough for only him to hear.

The silence that follows is almost deadly. Levi doesn’t move. You suddenly wish you’d said it louder, made it into a joke or dressed it up with such an unserious tone that he could brush it off as nothing. But it’s not nothing.

Levi’s face tenses. “Don’t,” he says.

One word. Not no. Not stop. Don’t. You’ve clearly reached for a wound without knowing it was there. Your throat tightens slightly. It’s stupid how much that single word hurts. The others have gone quiet behind you, though whether because they heard or because Levi’s silence has made things tense, you don’t know. You nod once.

“Sorry,” you say.

Levi’s jaw flexes. For the briefest moment, his eyes change, and a hint of regret moves through them, but then he reaches for his cup, turns away, and leaves you standing at the tea station with a teacup in your hand that suddenly feels too hot to hold.

You should probably stop. You tell yourself that while watching him disappear down the corridor. You tell yourself this while you stand there with the unbearable knowledge that you won’t.

.

Levi doesn’t sleep well that night, which isn’t unusual. Sleep has always been an issue for him. It’s something his body demands but his mind resents, a brief surrender that leaves too much room for memory to crawl in with its dirty hands. He’s accustomed to lying awake for hours. He’s accustomed to the silence of the night and his own thoughts circling until they get stripped down to their bones.

He’s not used to thinking about the way your voice sounded when you said, I just like you. Then he realizes that’s a lie. He is used to thinking about your voice. That’s the issue. 

Levi lies on his back in the dark, one arm folded behind his head. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. He knows this has gone on long enough. You’re careless with your affection. You throw it around like it costs nothing. Like you have so much of it that losing some wouldn’t hurt you.

Then he remembers your hand trembling around your cup. He realizes, no, you’re not careless. That would be easier. Careless people don’t look away so quickly when they’re hurt. Careless people don’t apologize for taking up too much space in someone else’s guarded life. Careless people don’t learn how someone takes their tea and remembers it without being asked. You’re not careless. You’re one of the few sincere people he knows. That’s worse to him.

Levi closes his eyes. Behind them, he sees you smiling at him across the training yard, flushed and breathless, daring him to be human for one second. He sees you in the mess hall, laughing because everyone else is laughing, even though your eyes keep searching for him. He sees you tonight, freezing around a single word.

Don’t.

He should have said something else. He should have said nothing. He should have made you stop sooner. If you stop, this ends. If this ends, no one gets hurt. Except he already hurt you. 

Levi opens his eyes. The ceiling offers no answers, no matter how hard he stares.

“Damn brat,” he mutters.

.

The confessions become a routine, almost. They’re never spoken in the same way, but they become woven into the strange fabric of your days. It’s as familiar as the bitter taste of weak coffee when tea runs low and the scent of soap after Levi has ordered an entire hallway scrubbed because someone left a single muddy footprint in it.

You tell him in fractions. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes because the feeling rises up in you with nowhere else to go, and the alternative is swallowing it until you choke. 

Levi rejects you every time. Sometimes you think he has a list of things to say prepared. Sometimes you think he makes them up on the spot. You’re not sure which scenario is worse.

The fourth time you confess comes in the stables, of all places. Rain has slicked the yard into a mess. The horses are restless tonight. You’re adjusting tack and cleaning hooves, your sleeves rolled up despite the cold because one of the mares keeps nudging your elbow and trying to chew the cuff.

Then Levi enters. “You’re doing that wrong,” he says.

You glance down at the stirrup strap in your hand. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Exactly.”

You sigh and step aside, letting him take over, because while there are many hills you’re willing to die on, arguing with Levi about equipment care isn’t one of them. He checks and adjusts the straps that you already did. Then he lifts the tack onto the assigned mare to make sure everything looks good. The horse calms beneath his touch, which is unfair, because Levi is as soft as a sword, yet animals seem to understand him. You watch him stroke one hand down the mare’s neck, murmuring something too low for you to catch. You feel a strange flutter in your stomach.

“You’re gentle with them,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Levi looks at you. “With horses.”

“Horses. Animals. Things that scare easily.”

His expression goes blank, and it tells you instantly that you’ve stepped too close to something he’s not willing to reveal yet. You should retreat, and yet, you don’t.

“I like that about you.”

His hand stops on the strap. Rain thunders on the roof. The mare huffs, her warm breath ghosting into the air. Levi stares at you for a long moment, then says, “You’re reading too much into basic competence.”

“Maybe,” you say. “Or maybe you’re more careful than you want people to know.”

Levi looks away before you can follow up, tightening the girth. “Stop romanticizing me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I’m just seeing you for who you are.”

He laughs humorlessly. “You should look somewhere else.”

You breathe in through your nose, the scent of hay and wet earth filling your nostrils. It should be comforting, but you feel foolish standing here with your heart spilling out of your chest like this.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” you say.

Levi hardens. “That’s your problem.”

You flinch. It’s tiny, but it’s there. You know it’s visible because Levi’s eyes move immediately to your face. You can tell he caught it. He seems to recoil, his brows drawing faintly together, but then he looks away.

“Finish checking the tack,” he says.

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

.

You don’t count the next time you confess because you’re half-delirious with exhaustion after an expedition that has left everyone hollow-eyed and covered with dirt and moving like ghosts through the building. You sit on a bench outside the infirmary with a bandage around your forearm and a bruise forming on your ribs, watching medics hurry past you. Levi is standing next to you with blood on his sleeve—blood that doesn’t belong to him—with a look in his eyes that tells you he’s not fully here.

You’re alive. He’s alive. Too many others are not. That kind of thing makes people act and speak recklessly. Which is why you think you say what you say.

Levi hasn’t spoken to you since returning through the gate except to ask if you were injured, and when you showed him your arm, he clicked his tongue and said, “Idiot,” with enough fury that you understood he had already been watching when that Titan came too close.

Now he stands in front of you, arms crossed, staring at the bandage. “You hesitated,” he says.

You look up at him. “What?”

“Out there. You hesitated.”

You’re far too tired to defend yourself quickly. You say, exhausted, “I was trying to pull Kessler back.”

“Kessler was already dead.”

You look away. You know that. You felt the moment that Kessler’s body relaxed and it started dragging you down. You felt the horrible slackness of his arm in your grip. You knew, even then, but knowing and letting go are not the same thing, and you’re too tired for Levi’s version of mercy.

“I know,” you say.

“Do you?”

Your head snaps back up, anger flaring. “Yes, Levi. I know.”

His eyes narrow at the use of his name. Good. Let him hate it. Let him feel something.

“I know he was dead,” you continue. “I know I almost got myself killed trying to save someone who was already gone. I know that was stupid. I know you’re going to tell me it was stupid. I know.”

Levi stares at you as you breathe too hard. Your ribs ache. Your eyes burn, though you refuse to let any tears fall, because crying in front of Levi after a mission feels like bleeding in front of a shark. His jaw works once.

“Then don’t do it again,” he says.

It’s still an order, but there’s a certain rawness underneath it that makes your anger falter. You look at him, at the dirt on his clothes, the blood on his sleeve, the exhausting plastered on his face. You look at the man everyone calls humanity’s strongest, standing there as though strength has ever saved him from grief.

The words come out before you can stop them. “I worry about you too, you know.” He tilts his head, expression hardening. You should probably stop, but you don’t. “I know you don’t want me to. I know you think it’s stupid, or useless, or whatever else you tell yourself when people care about you, but I do.” Your hands curl into fists against your thigh, nails biting into your palms. “I worry every time we leave the walls. I worry every time you go quiet after we come back. I worry because I—”

“Enough.”

You shut your mouth. Levi is no longer looking at you, but through you. You feel a shiver run down your spine. He can’t even look at you when turning you down? 

“Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”

You swallow. “And what is it?”

“A bad habit.”

You feel the color drain from your face. The whole world closes around you. You can only focus on the mud on the soles of your boots, the muffled sounds of suffering through the infirmary doors, Levi standing there with his hands clenched so tightly beneath his crossed arms that his knuckles have blanched.

A bad habit. That’s what your affection has become. An inconvenience. Something to correct. 

You nod once, though the movement feels fuzzy. “Right,” you say.

Levi eyes flick back to yours. You stand before you can fully lock your gazes. Pain flashes through your ribs, and you nearly sway, but you keep yourself upright because you can’t bear the thought of him seeing you so weak. 

“I should get this checked again,” you say.

Levi’s gaze drops to your arm. “You already did.”

“I know.”

He understands then. You see it happen, the moment he realizes you’re leaving because of him, not because of the wound. He doesn’t stop you. You walk away. 

Behind you, Levi remains still for a long time. Long after your footsteps disappear. Long after the rain begins again. Long after he realizes that the words he meant to use to keep you alive have found the most tender spot of your heart.

And still, you come back. You always come back. Even if it pains you to see him right now.

The next morning, you pass him in the corridor and give him a smile that’s smaller than usual. “Captain,” you say.

Levi nods once. He expects you to say something else. Some joke. Some reckless little comment. Some ridiculous remark about how he looks like he slept badly and should let you fix that by being charming towards him for ten minutes.

You say nothing, and you keep walking. Levi turns his head without thinking, watching you disappear around the corner. He has a strange feeling in his chest. Annoyance, he decides. That’s all it is.

That’s all it ever will be.

.

Days later, while you’re cleaning, you stand on a stool to reach for a stack of fresh rags on the highest shelf of the supply room. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with folded clothes, brushes, buckets, spare mopheads, bottles of polish, and enough cleaning solution to disinfect the entire world if Levi ever gets his way. The door opens behind you. 

“Careful,” Levi says.

You glance down. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed. With what, you’re not sure. He seems to be in a perpetual state of disappointment with the world. You can’t say you blame him.

“I am being careful,” you reply.

“Standing on that thing will make you crack your skull open.”

“It’s a stool. It’s meant to be stood on.”

“...It’s wobbling.”

“That’s because it fears you.”

“It should.”

You laugh. It surprises you. Maybe it surprises him too, because Levi’s eyes flick up to your face and stay there for half a second too long. There’s a dangerous pause, and both of you feel it. You ignore it and reach for the rags too quickly to escape it, your fingers brushing the edge of the stack. You can’t quite grab it. The stool shifts.

Your balance suddenly tips just enough for your stomach to drop. Before you can correct yourself or grab onto anything, one of Levi’s hands meets your waist, the other gripping your forearm. You feel your heart slam against your ribs. 

“Idiot,” he snaps.

You can’t focus on anything except for his fingers on your waist, warm through the fabric of your shirt. He’s standing so close behind you that when you inhale, you catch his scent. It’s always smelled of clean soap with an undercurrent of something almost like cedar.

You look down at his hand. He does too. Then he releases you as if you’ve burned him. “Get down,” he says.

You quickly grab the rags and climb off the stool, holding the items to your chest. “Thank you,” you say.

“Don’t thank me. Stop doing stupid things.”

“I was just trying to reach the—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I—I had it under control, Captain.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You pause, then you hesitantly say, “You worry about me.”

Levi’s eyes flash briefly before he restrains it. “No.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No.”

“Then what was that?”

“Reflex.”

“Your reflex was to grab my waist?”

His mouth tightens, which is how you know you’ve gotten under his skin. “My reflex was to stop a soldier from injuring themselves because they can’t manage basic balance.”

“That almost sounded affectionate.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

You smile then, because despite everything, despite the way he keeps pushing you away with both hands while somehow still catching you when you stumble, your heart keeps finding reasons to love him. 

“I think you care about me more than you want to admit,” you say.

Levi steps closer. Your smile fades as his shadow falls over you. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You hold his gaze, and for once, you don’t try to soften the moment with a joke or quip. There are moments you need to be serious, and this is one of them. “Maybe not, but I know what it feels like when you look at me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His answer comes far too fast. Levi seems to realize it at the same time you do, because he sighs and looks away toward the shelves. 

“I wish you’d let me care about you,” you say quietly. Levi’s head turns back, and suddenly, the room feels smaller than it did a moment ago.

“I don’t need that from you.”

It’s not the cruelest thing he’s said, but it still breaks a piece of you inside. You inhale slowly, gripping the rags a bit tighter. “Sorry.”

Frustration flickers across his face, but you can tell it’s directed inward this time, at himself, at you, at the entire existence of this thing neither of you seems to be willing to label.

“Just do your job,” he says, harsher now.

“Yes, Captain.”

You don’t see the small flinch he gives when you turn back to the shelves.

.

By now, Levi has recognized that there are stages to this. First, you say something reckless and stupid. Second, he rejects it. Third, you smile. Fourth, he says something. Fifth, your smile falters. Sixth, he feels like the worst kind of bastard for doing that. Seventh, he tells himself you brought it on yourself. Eighth, he thinks about it all night.

It’s a miserable system. He wishes to dismantle it. He’d like, more than that, to understand why he keeps waiting for it to happen again, because that’s the part he can’t excuse. He can excuse rejection. Rejection is clean and sets boundaries where your affection keeps trying to cross them. He can excuse harshness. Harshness is useful. Soldiers listen better to shouts than soft pleas. He can even excuse the anger that rises in him whenever you come too close, because anger is familiar, and familiarity makes things easier to handle.

But he can’t excuse the waiting. He can’t excuse his attention shifting when you enter a room. He can’t excuse the fact that he knows your footsteps by sound now. He can’t excuse how he notices when you don’t look at him. He definitely can’t excuse how guarded he feels when your voice comes gently, as if he’s bracing for impact from a hand that’s never struck him.

He hates it. He hates the anticipation. He hates the feeling that lingers. He hates that some part of him, buried deep beneath the discipline and the loss and blood, wants to hear you say it again. He wants to know if you still mean it. He wants to know how many times he can refuse you before you finally decide he’s not worth the trouble.

Part of him hopes the answer is infinite.

.

You find Levi in the corridor outside of Erwin’s office, standing with a stack of documents in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His expression is blank as always, lit by the dim afternoon light. The day has been mostly gray from morning onward. The entirety of headquarters feels submerged. You’re carrying reports from the supply division when you stop beside him.

He looks tired. Levi often looks tired, but there are different tiers to it, and you’ve learned them despite not trying to. This isn’t ordinary irritation or sleep deprivation. This is the kind that only comes after countless meetings and casualty estimates, after decisions that will ask other people to die in the name of maybe—someday—being free from the Titans.

“You should eat something,” you say.

His eyes slide to you. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I meant what I said. Leave me alone.”

“Not until you eat.”

He exhales through his nose. “Are you always this insistent?”

“With you? Usually.”

“Fantastic for me.”

You smile. “You make it very easy.” He looks away. Instead of walking away like you know you should, you shift the reports against your chest and say, “I brought extra bread.”

Levi’s gaze returns to you. “What?”

“For you.” You try to shrug it off, pretending like you haven’t been carrying it wrapped in cloth beneath the reports because you noticed he skipped lunch. “It’s in my pocket. Which sounds unsanitary, but I wrapped it. Mostly.”

He stares at you, then says, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

You wish he wouldn’t ask. You wish, sometimes, that Levi would allow kindness to come to him without dragging it into the spotlight and demanding to know whether it has teeth or not. But he’s looking at you now with a challenge in his eyes, but something else lingers. Something that tells you he doesn’t understand why anyone would go out of their way for him unless obligated or expecting something in return. Your heart hurts for him.

“Because I care,” you say.

Levi grips his documents a little more. “Stop it.”

“I’m not asking you for anything.”

“You are.”

You frown. “No, I’m not.”

“You say things like that because you want me to say them back.”

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, maybe because it’s partly true, and maybe because it’s not the whole truth, and he’s chosen the ugliest piece of it to hold up between you.

“I want you to eat something,” you say quietly. “That’s all this was.”

Levi says nothing. You reach into your pocket, pull out the wrapped bread, and place it carefully on top of the documents in his hand. His eyes drop to it, then lift to meet you. 

“You don’t have to make everything a battle,” you say.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say, the words coming out a little sadder than you intend. You see him hear it, and you see the shift in his eyes. But you don’t wait for him to respond. You walk away, reports held tightly against your torso, and you tell yourself that caring about someone shouldn’t feel this much like holding your hand over an open flame and pretending the burn is proof of devotion.

Behind you, Levi looks down at the bread. He stands there and stares at it for a long time. Then, with a quiet curse, he takes it with him into the office. He eats it later. Every bite tastes like guilt.

.

“You know,” Hange says one afternoon, leaning casually against the doorway of Levi’s office while he tries to read a report and pretend they’re not there, “most people enjoy being adored.”

“Most people are idiots,” Levi says.

“True, true. But still. It’s good for morale.”

Levi doesn’t look up from his papers. “If you’re here to waste my time, find a better hobby.”

“I have several. You hate all of them.”

“Because they’re obnoxious.”

“Everything is obnoxious to you.”

Levi’s quill pauses, and that makes Hange grin a little more. He resumes writing, shaking his head. This isn’t exactly new business—Hange always comes to annoy him for the most miniscule problems and to talk about the most insignificant topics. He’s learned how to block it out over the years.

“I’m serious,” Hange says. The shift in their tone catches Levi’s attention. “She cares about you.”

“No shit.”

“And you care about her.”

The quill stops again, and this time, it doesn’t resume. Levi lifts his eyes slowly, sharpened to a point. “Careful.”

Hange, to their credit or possibly their doom, doesn’t turn around and leave like any sensible human would after the tone Levi just used against them. “That sounded like a threat.”

“It was.”

“Mm.” Hange tilts their head, studying him in such an invasive way that it makes Levi want to shove them into the nearest supply closet and lock the door. “You get nastier after she talks to you.”

“I get nastier after you talk to me too.”

“Yes, but that’s because I’m charming in a way that overwhelms you.”

“You’re exhausting in a way that makes murder understandable.”

Hange waves his remark away. “With her, it’s different.”

Levi’s face goes blank. Is it different with you? He realizes now that while he blocks out Hange’s antics, he doesn’t block out yours. He realizes that all the times he’s kicked Hange out for uttering a single stupid sentence, he’s let you stay after uttering a dozen. Hange sees the realization and smiles softly.

“I’m not saying you have to return anything,” they say. “No one can make you feel something you don’t. But if you don’t, you should stop letting her bleed herself dry trying to reach you.”

“I’m not letting her do anything.”

“No,” Hange says, “you’re just standing there while it happens.” The room goes dangerously quiet. Levi looks down at the report, but the words have rearranged into nonsense. Hange sighs deeply. “For what it’s worth, I think she knows you’re not as indifferent as you act.”

Levi’s grip tightens around the quill. “She’s wrong.”

“Maybe.” He looks up at that. Hange gives him a sad little smile, which is worse than their normal grin, worse than their teasing, worse than anything else they could have done. “But if she’s wrong, then you should make that clear before it hurts her even more.”

Levi says nothing. Hange leaves.

That evening, you bring Levi tea. You didn’t plan on doing so. It just sort of happened. You told yourself several times that day that you’d stop doing things like this, acting like your kindness is water and he’s a dying flower that you can bring back to life. You pass the kitchen, see the kettle, and think of the tension in his face that morning.

So you make the tea. Because you’re weak and hopeful, and you’re beginning to suspect those are sometimes the same thing.

When you arrive at his office, the door is slightly ajar. You knock anyway. He calls for you to come in, and you step inside. Levi sits behind his desk, eyes on a report, the candlelight casting shadows across his face. The room is painfully neat, which you should have expected. Your presence feels immediately disruptive. You carry the cup carefully, both hands around the saucer.

“I made too much,” you say.

Levi looks at the tea, then at you. “You made too much tea?”

“Yes.”

“For yourself?”

“Yes.”

“In one cup?”

You blink at him. He stares back at you. Your face warms slightly. Not your best attempt, but it was worth it. “Fine. That was a terrible lie.”

“Embarassing.”

“Deeply.”

He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. “You here for a reason?”

The question should be harmless, but it’s not. You think of all the times Levi has made you feel childish for just wanting a connection. You think of the fact that your hand is already starting to ache from holding the saucer too tightly.

“No,” you say. “Not really.” You step closer and set the cup on his desk, exactly where he usually keeps it, because you’ve grown to know the exact spot by now. “I just thought you’d want some.”

“I can make my own tea.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then stop.”

You look at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are clear as day. There’s a tension and conflict there, anger held down so hard that you see it shaking. But you’re tired too. Tired of reading hope into every almost-soft thing he does. Tired of standing at the edge of him, calling out, and hearing only your own voice come back.

“Stop bringing you tea?” you ask.

“Stop acting like this means something.”

Your heart drops. “This?”

Levi looks at you. For once, you wish he wouldn’t. At the same time, you want him to.

“All of it,” he says. “I’ve told you no multiple times. What part of that are you too stupid to understand?”

All of it. The tea. The bread. The jokes. The concern. The confessions. The look you give him after missions. You remembering his preferences. The way you keep offering pieces of yourself and pretending it doesn’t matter when he refuses to take them. All of it.

You nod, though it feels like something has finally broken inside you. 

You’re too tired to keep doing this.

“I see,” you whisper.

Levi’s eyes gleam in the moonlight as he looks at you. He looks like he might say something else. Something better. Something worse. You don’t even give him the chance.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice calm enough to make yourself believe that you’re not hurt. “I didn’t realize I was making you uncomfortable.”

Levi makes a face, the most emotion you’ve seen from him in months. “That’s not—”

“I’ll stop.”

He goes silent. You give him a small smile because you can’t seem to help yourself. Even now, you’re trying to make things easier for him, because some habits are harder to kill than hope. Then you turn toward the door.

Behind you, Levi says your name. It stops you for a second, but only a second. You look back. His hand is resting near the cup, not touching it. He looks almost panicked, if Levi Ackerman were capable of such an honest expression.

“Yes?” you say. He says nothing, and there it is. The whole tragedy of him. You wait one second. Then two. Then you nod. “Goodnight, Captain.”

You leave. The door closes behind you. Levi sits very still. The tea cools untouched on his desk. And for the first time, the silence you leave behind feels less like peace and more like punishment.

.

You stop. 

You don’t stop in a manner that would give him the satisfaction of calling it dramatic, because the stubborn, wounded part of you refuses to let Levi Ackerman look at the ruin he’s made of your heart. 

You don’t avoid your duties. You don’t let your work slip. You don’t flinch when his name is mentioned, and you don’t turn your head too quickly when he speaks, and you don’t stand in the kitchen holding the kettle, telling yourself that tea is only tea and kindness is only kindness and that none of it has to mean anything unless he lets it.

You simply stop offering. That’s all.

Reports appear on his desk when they’re supposed to. Your handwriting is clean across the pages. Supplies are accounted for. Gear is cleaned, straps are checked, blades are sharpened, and when you pass him in the corridor, you step aside with the same respect you would give any superior officer. 

“Captain.”

Nothing more. No little smile curling around the title. No teasing lift to your brow. No, you look terrible, did you sleep at all? No, I saved you bread before Sasha could inhale the entire basket. No, if you keep glaring like that, your face will get stuck and then what will we do?

Just Captain.

The first time it happens, Levi tells himself he’s relieved.

He has paperwork in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. You walk down the hall with a crate of medical linens balanced against your hip, your sleeves rolled to your elbows. You see him, shift the crate higher, and move out of the way.

“Captain,” you say. Levi nods once. You keep walking. That’s all there is to your interaction.

He should be relieved. Instead, he grips his teacup a little tighter. Idiot, he thinks, though he’s not entirely sure whether he means you or himself.

By the second day, the relief has turned into irritation.

You’re everywhere, because the universe apparently has something against him and is trying to force you into his everyday life when he’s trying his hardest not to notice you. In the training yard, helping one of the newer recruits correct their stance with a voice soft enough that the soldier actually listens instead of stiffening under correction. In the mess hall, laughing at something Petra says, your face finally turned away from him. In the corridor outside Erwin’s office, handing over a stack of documents to Miche with a polite nod before disappearing around the corner before Levi can decide whether he wants to speak to you.

Not that he does. He doesn’t. There’s nothing to say, after all. He told you to stop, and you stopped. That’s how orders are supposed to work.

Levi’s spent his life surrounded by people who either don’t listen or listen too late, by soldiers who break formation, by fools who mistake hope for strategy, by men who die because they can’t follow one simple command when terror has sunk its teeth into them. He should appreciate obedience. He should appreciate silence. He should appreciate how you gave him exactly what he asked for.

Instead, every “Captain” feels like a door slamming shut in his face. And the worst part, the most aggravating, unforgivable part, is that you’re not even punishing him. Punishment would be easier. Punishment would give him something to push against. If you snapped at him, he could snap back. If you glared, he could meet it with his own colder stare. If you cried, if you accused him, if you said, how dare you, Levi, after all the chances I gave you, then at least he would know what to do.

But you do none of them. You’re kind. Professionally kind. You answer when spoken to. You follow orders without hesitation. You still look after the youngest soldiers, still trade your last piece of bread to Sasha, still smile when Armin asks a question and still help Connie adjust his gear that he should know how to adjust by now. You haven’t become colder in all aspects—you’ve merely taken your warmth away from him.

And Levi, who has survived hunger, blood, filth, loss, and the Underground’s endless ruthlessness, finds himself undone by the absence of things he once pretended not to want.

By the third day, Hange notices. They appear beside him in the training yard while he’s watching you across the dirt, though he’d rather be disemboweled with his own blades than admit that he’s watching you. You’re speaking to Eld near the fence, head tilted as you listen, one hand braced on your hip, the other gesturing toward the Titan dummies. Eld says something that makes you laugh.

Hange hums. “Interesting.”

“Walk away,” Levi says.

“I didn’t even say anything—”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say the weather’s nice.”

“It’s overcast.”

“Emotionally, then.”

Levi turns his head just enough to glare. Hange grins, but their expression softens too quickly, and that’s how he knows he’s in trouble. He can handle Hange’s manic curiosity, their teasing, their horrifying experiments, their complete lack of respect for personal space or peace. He can’t handle pity.

“She stopped,” Hange says.

Levi looks back toward the yard. “Good.”

Hange’s brows rise. “Very convincing.”

“Shut up.”

“You told her to?” Levi says nothing, and that’s answer enough. Hange exhales, not quite a sigh. “Well, congratulations. You won.”

Hange looks ahead at you. Across the yard, you take the training blade Eld offers you and shift into position. Levi looks back at you, and he sees how dirt has already lined your face. There’s no bright glance tossed in his direction, no grin, no silent invitation for him to notice you. It makes him furious. Not at you, though—that would be simpler. No, the fury coils inward, because there’s a place inside him that recognizes that this silence is something he made with his own hands.

“I did what needed to be done,” he says.

Hange tilts their head. “For who?”

Levi doesn’t answer, and instead, he watches you lunge, watches Eld parry, watches your foot slide back to correct your balance—something you learned from him. There are pieces of him in your movements now. Small ones. Things he taught you without meaning to leave any part of himself behind.

For who?

His mouth dries. For you, he wants to say, but even in his own head, the lie limps, because if this were for you, then why does your smile seem weaker when you think no one is looking?

.

That evening, you deliver papers to his office. You knock once. 

“Come in,” he says, and he hates that he knows it’s you just by the sound of your footsteps approaching. You step inside with the papers held to your torso. For some stupid reason, Levi expects tea. There’s none, only papers. You cross the room, set the stack on the corner of his desk, and take a half step back.

“Commander Erwin asked that these be reviewed before morning,” you say.

Your voice is perfectly calm. It’s built for distance, polished until nothing tender can catch onto it. Levi’s eyes shift from the reports, then to you.

“You can leave them,” he says.

You nod. “Yes, Captain.”

Levi swears his eye twitches from the title. “You don’t have to call me that every time,” he says.

You look at him then, and he almost wishes you hadn’t. Your eyes are not angry or pleading, but they’ve been extinguished of that hope you’ve been carrying with you for months now.

“I thought you preferred professionalism,” you say.

Levi grips the arm of his chair slightly. “I prefer people not putting words in my mouth.”

A flicker of hurt passes over your face, but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. “Understood.”

He should stop. He knows he should stop, but the silence after your answer feels unbearable, and Levi is not built for handling unbearable things he can’t kill. “That all?”

“Yes.”

You turn toward the door. He feels a spike of panic, the kind he’s only ever felt when he was galloping in the rain to return to Isabel and Furlan. His stomach sinks. “Wait.”

You stop. Your hand rests on the doorknob. Levi stares at your back, at the tension in your shoulders. You’re holding yourself with a carefulness that implies you’re waiting for something to split you open at any moment.

What does he want to say? Don’t go? No, ridiculous. I didn’t mean it? He did mean it. At least, he meant part of it. The part that wanted safety. The part that believes every relationship eventually ends in the ultimate heartbreak of the other person’s name carved into stone. I miss you? Absolutely not. The words rise to his tongue anyway, but Levi crushes them beneath the heel of his pride.

You wait. He says nothing, so you glance back at him. “Yes?” you say.

His throat works. The candlelight looks so soft against your face, and only then does he see how tired you are. Not physically, though perhaps that too, but tired emotionally. Tired of holding your hands to someone who keeps treating them like weapons.

Levi looks away first. “Nothing,” he says. The word tastes bitter in his mouth.

Your expression doesn’t change, and somehow that makes him feel worse. “Goodnight, Captain.”

You leave. Levi sits there for a long moment, staring at the place where you stood. The reports remain untouched. His tea, made by his own hand and brewed exactly the way he likes it, has gone cold beside him. He lifts the cup anyway, takes one sip, and slams it back down so hard that the porcelain almost cracks.

It tastes wrong.

Everything is wrong.

.

Levi sees you laughing with Eld in the training yard, and the feeling that moves him makes him so nauseous that he can only stand there with his hand still on his harness and hate everything about himself.

It’s not like he feels betrayal. He doesn’t overhear any confession and there’s no obvious intimacy that any reasonable man could point to and say “that’s the reason my blood is boiling.” You’re simply standing near the fence, one shoulder leaned against the post, your arms crossed as Eld speaks to you. His hair is messy from training, and his expression is unmistakably fond. Fond.

Levi’s eye twitches.

Eld says something too low for Levi to hear from across the yard, and you laugh. Not that small, polite laugh you’ve been giving Levi lately (at least before you started ignoring him weeks ago), the one that feels like a closed door and leaves him standing outside of it like an idiot. You laugh properly. Your head tips back and your face eases in a way that Levi hasn’t seen directed at him in days. Eld smiles, knowing he’s the reason you look a little less tired now.

Levi’s grip on his harness worsens until it creaks. He should look away, but he doesn’t. Eld steps closer, enough to reach past you and grab his coat hanging from the side of the training dummy, but from where Levi stands, the movement brings him into your space. Your shoulder brushes his. You don’t even flinch or step back. You only look down at what he’s doing, say something that makes his smile widen, and then you lift your hand to shove lightly at his shoulder.

It’s the same kind of touch you used to give Levi without thinking. A hand on his sleeve when you wanted his attention. Fingers brushing his hand when you set tea beside him. Your shoulder bumping his when you walked too close in a corridor and pretended it was accidental. The touch he had rejected so many times that you finally learned to control it.

Levi doesn’t know what he feels, but he convinces himself it’s not jealousy. Jealousy is for men who think they have a claim. Levi is without a claim. He made sure of that. In fact, he was the one who caused the distance with each cold reply, each command, and the times when you were vulnerable with him and he pushed it back as if tenderness was a weapon aimed at his throat.

So no, he has no right to feel anything when Eld leans closer to you. He has no right to hate the way you seem calmer beside him. He has no right to remember your face when you once told him that you wish he’d let you care about him, and how he had answered how he didn’t need that from you.

Eld says something else. You smile. Levi moves before he decides to.

By the time he crosses the yard, his expression has gone sharp enough to send three nearby soldiers into immediately pretending to be very busy with their gear. Eld notices him approaching first, straightening his posture the way a subordinate does when they realize their superior is walking toward them.

“Captain,” Eld says.

You turn. The smile fades from your face. Not entirely—you’re too composed for that now, too determined not to let Levi see where the pain still lives, but he sees the change anyway, the armor coming up to shield you.

“Captain,” you say.

Levi looks from you to Eld, then back to you. “You done wasting time?”  The words are even colder than he wants them to be. Or they might be just as cold as he means them to be, because quite often being cruel is more acceptable, in his mind, than standing there and confessing that he actually walked across the yard because another another man made you laugh and Levi wanted, with a sudden violence that disgusts him, to insert himself between you and that warmth.

Eld’s brows draw together. You freeze. “I’m not wasting time,” you say. “Eld was helping me with the new recruits’ drills.”

“Looked like a lot of laughing for drills.”

The silence that follows is thin and almost dangerous. Eld’s eyes move briefly between the two of you, and because he’s neither stupid nor cruel, he steps back. “I’ll go help Auvray’s squad. Captain.” He gives you one last look, almost protective, then leaves. 

Levi hates that too. He hates that Eld looks at you as if your feelings are something he knows how to handle gently. He hates more the fact that Eld might be better at it than he is. When the space between you clears, you face Levi fully.

“That was unnecessary,” you say.

“Excuse me?” Levi scoffs.

“You heard me.”

A month ago, the challenge in your voice would have come wrapped in humor. You probably would have tilted your head at that moment and smiled, softened the tone for him so you could pretend you were just teasing. This time, there’s no smile, nor softness offered for his comfort. He should be glad. He isn’t.

“You’re still on duty,” he says.

“So is Eld.”

“Eld isn’t the one I’m talking to.”

Your lips part slightly, half in surprise, half in disbelief. “No. I suppose not.”

Levi’s hands ball into fists at his sides. He wants to ask what that means. He wants to ask if there’s something between you two. He wants to ask if Eld has touched your hand, if you’ve brought Eld tea, if you smiled at Eld the way you used to smile at him. He wants to ask if you’re happy now that you’ve stopped talking to him. But he knows he has no right to ask any of it.

“You should be more careful,” Levi says instead, because his mouth has always known how to be the worst possible weapon. “People get the wrong idea when you throw yourself at every man who gives you attention.”

He did not mean to say that.

Your face goes blank. Completely, utterly blank. You don’t even look hurt or angry. It’s just blank. His stomach drops. Your fingers twitch once at your side, but your voice, when it comes, is surprisingly—painfully—eased.

“I see.”

You step back. Levi says your name. It leaves him before he can stop it, stripped of rank and anger and all the useless armor he keeps trying to force between himself and whatever the hell you’re doing to him.

“Don’t, Captain.” You turn away and leave without looking back.

The title hits harder than if you had slapped him. He honestly would have preferred if you slapped him. Levi just stands there, frozen, watching you leave while the recruits pretend not to stare, pretending that they didn’t just overhear the most emotionally charged conversation they’ve heard in their entire time in the military.

He thinks of following you at first. Then he thinks of what he would say. Nothing comes. Nothing that would undo it. Nothing that would explain why he keeps turning fear into a knife and then acting surprised when you bleed. So he stays where he is until your figure disappears amongst the crowd. Only then does he realize Eld has stopped near the fence and is looking at him with disappointment. Levi looks away first.

By the time he reaches his office, the anger has returned, boiling hotter than shame. He shuts the door harder than necessary, and the sound breaks through the silence of the room before it rushes back in, deeper than before. He looks at the teacup waiting on the corner of the desk, empty, because he’s not yet made tea and you no longer do.

It’s better this way, he tells himself. No more pointless kindness. No more interruptions. No more break snuck to him because you noticed he skipped a meal. No more stupid confessions. No more of you looking at him like he could be anything other than what he is. A soldier. A killer. A survivor by habit, not by virtue. A man who has spent his life learning the names of the people he couldn’t save.

Levi grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He remembers the exact words he said to you not two hours ago. The memory of your face after he said it hits him with such force that his breath hitches.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He pushes away from the desk, pacing once toward the window, then back again, restless energy crawling beneath his skin. He wants to clean something. He wants to tear something apart. He wants to go back in time into the yard and rip the words out of the air before they can reach you. If he could, he would slap himself before he could even get the words out.

Instead, he does nothing. His thoughts circle you first. Your hand in his field of vision as it places tea on his desk. Your melodic voice. Your laugh across the mess hall. Your eyes, now careful, guarded because he taught you to guard them.

Then Eld. Eld standing too close. Eld making you laugh. Eld smiling at you. Eld looking at you like he wouldn’t punish you for wanting to be wanted.

Levi’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. This isn’t about Eld. That’s the truth, and he hates it. Eld is a good soldier. Loyal. Kind without making a spectacle of it. He’s the kind of man who probably knows how to accept affection. The kind of man who might say yes if you chose him instead.

The thought makes Levi’s stomach turn. He braces both hands on the desk and lowers his head. He realizes now what he’s been avoiding. It isn’t jealousy; it isn’t irritation or discipline or concern with professionalism. It’s fear. Raw fear.

It’s been there from the start, waiting beneath every rejection, every insult, every cold turn of his shoulder. He sees it now. You were never the danger. Wanting you was. Wanting you means imagining you outside the walls and worrying you won’t return. Wanting you means knowing the exact sound of your laugh and then imagining a world where he never hears it again. Wanting you means letting your existence become a part of his own, and losing you would nearly kill him. No, it would kill him.

And Levi knows loss.

His mother. Kuchel, pale and motionless in a bed that he’d seen too much of. Her hand no longer able to reach for him. Her voice gone before he was old enough to understand all the ways the world could take from him.

Then Isabel. Loud, passionate Isabel, with her recklessness and her impossible faith that the world above could be something other than a nightmare. Isabel, who had called him big brother with such devotion that he’d pretended to hate it because pretending was safer than letting himself feel vulnerable. 

Furlan too. Furlan, who had trusted Levi’s judgement more than anyone had a right to, who followed him out of the Underground, who believed, who died because the world is merciless and Levi is never fast enough when it matters most.

His comrades. Countless comrades buried beneath banners and speeches and the rotten consolation that they died for humanity’s cause. Faces that once turned toward him in trust before the Titans took them. 

Connection, to Levi, has never been safe. To him, it’s a door opening into a room that will one day be empty. A hand reaching for his that will one day go cold. A voice saying his name that will one day stop answering. 

So he rejected you. Again and again and again. And some sick, righteous part of him had called it mercy. If he kept you away, you would be safer. If he made you stop loving him, you would stop standing too close to the blast radius of everything he loses. If he refused to want you, then losing you—if the world ever took you, when the world took you—would not destroy him.

Except you’re not gone. You’re alive. And he’s still managed to lose you.

Levi sits slowly in his chair, his legs suddenly feeling unsteady. He did this. Not titans. Not the Underground. Not fate, not duty, not the walls, not the endless bloody machinery of survival. Him. His fear. His hands pushing away the one person stubborn enough to keep reaching for him. To keep trusting him.

He doesn’t move for a while. The office grows darker around him, the last of the daylight fading behind the curtains. Somewhere outside, he hears footsteps. They’re not yours. He wishes he wasn’t so disappointed. He hears voices fall and rise. Life continues with an indifference that feels almost insulting.

Then comes a knock at the door. For a moment, he thinks foolishly that it’s you. Then the hope is snuffed by reality, and he doesn’t bother answering. The door opens anyway. Hange steps inside, takes one look at him sitting motionless behind his desk, and pauses. They already have a knowing look on their face.

“You know,” Hange says, closing the door behind them,” for someone so smart, you’re impressively stupid about feelings.”

Levi sighs deeply. “Fuck off, Four Eyes. Not in the mood.”

“No, I imagine you’re not.” Hange approaches without waiting for permission and leans against the edge of the desk. “I saw what happened. Eld looked like he wanted to hit you.”

“Eld knows better.”

“Mm. He does. That’s probably the only reason he didn’t.”

Levi looks away. The words should irritate him—and they do—but beneath the irritation is shame, and shame has sharper teeth. Hange studies him for a moment.

“What did you say to her?” they ask.

Levi’s eyelids flutter down briefly. It would be easy for him to lie. He could tell Hange to get out and leave him alone with the wreckage he caused. Instead, because some exhausted part of him is too tired to keep bleeding in secret, he says, “Something I shouldn’t have.”

“That bad?” Levi gives them a look, and it makes Hange wince. “Ouch. That bad.”

Silence settles between them. For once, Hange doesn’t rush to fill it. Levi stares at the teacup near his hand. He wonders if you still make tea for yourself. He hasn’t seen you near the tea station in a while—but then again, you could just be avoiding him that efficiently. Or perhaps you just avoid the places where he lingers.

“She stopped,” he says finally.

“You asked her to,” Hange says.

“I know.”

“Did you mean it?”

Levi’s throat tightens. That should be an easy question. He's built his entire life on making hard answers sound simple, but nothing about you has ever been simple, not from the first time you looked at him like he wasn’t nearly as scary as everyone was making him out to be.

“I thought I did,” he says.

“And now?” Hange asks.

Levi’s hand wraps around the teacup, though there’s nothing in it. He thinks of you laughing with Eld. He thinks of your face going blank. He thinks of how much easier it was when you loved him loudly enough that he could pretend your heart was the problem and not his own cowardice.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

Hange doesn’t ask what this means—they know. “Start by not hurting her every time she gets close.”

Levi bitterly laughs once under his breath. “Brilliant advice.”

“You’re ever so welcome.” His eyes lift to meet them, and Hange’s expression is painfully serious now. He hates when they look like this—it means they’re impossible to escape. “You’re allowed to be scared, Levi.”

He looks away instantly. “No.”

“Yes,” they say, firmer. “You are. After everything you’ve lost, you’d be insane not to be. But being scared doesn’t give you the right to make her feel disposable.”

Levi’s stomach churns. “I know,” he says. It sounds like defeat. Maybe it is.

Hange’s voice gentles. “Do you love her?”

Levi freezes. His first instinct is to refuse. His second is anger. His third is to remember your face. Your smile. Your voice that softens only for him. Your absence now, filling his office more than your presence ever dared. Levi lowers his gaze. There’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

He nods.

Hange doesn’t smile like they normally would. They only nod once, confirming what they already knew and had been kind enough to let him reach on his own. “Then you’d better figure out how to say that to her before someone else does.” Levi glares at them, and they lift both hands in defense. “Just being real. She’s a catch.”

Real. Levi has always hated that word, but this reality sits in front of him now, unavoidable. He loves you. He hurt you. You might not wait for him to become brave. The idea ought to make him stand, should send him out of his office, down the corridor, to your door with an apology and every wall inside him burning down behind it. Instead, he stays seated, because despite his love being genuine, the fear that was born first is still the one to rule.

Hange pushes away from the desk. “For what it’s worth,” they say at the door, “I think she loved you enough to listen.”

Loved. Past tense. Levi flinches at that. Hange notices, but they leave anyway, the door clicking shut behind them. Levi sits alone in the dark with the word still lodged in his chest.

Loved.

.

Levi didn’t plan on drinking. He doesn’t drink. Not normally. He definitely doesn’t drink because he enjoys it. Enjoyment has always been something he doesn’t trust easily. He drinks because the bottle has been sitting untouched in the bottom drawer of his desk ever since Erwin left it there three months ago after some late night visit that had run past midnight and into the hours of the morning. He drinks because the office is silent now. He drinks because Hange’s question won’t stop replaying in his mind.

Do you love her?

He grabs the glass and pours the amber liquid into the cup with a hint of anger and almost spite. He doesn’t lift the glass for a toast to the empty room. There’s nothing worth celebrating or honoring in this moment. No winning, no relief, no opening up of himself that could be considered noble or brave. There’s only the fact that he loves you. And because Levi is a man who’s lived by the rule of cutting off weakness before the world can get its hands on it, that very fact feels like a wound in his gut, and he has no idea how to bandage it. 

He drinks. The liquor burns down his throat and warms his chest. The heat gives him something physical to hate for a blessed second. He pours again. Outside his office, the headquarters eases into a slumber. Someone’s laughter echoes down the corridor before it’s hushed by another person. A door closes somewhere else. The fact that life continues is taunting him, acting like it doesn’t matter that his entire world has shifted because you finally stopped loving him.

Well, you didn’t stop. He doesn’t know if you stopped. He only knows you learned how to be silent about it. He taught it to you. The thought makes his heart skip a beat.

Levi leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, but the darkness behind them provides no mercy. It gives him the image of you instead, because his mind can’t go anywhere else. He imagines you in the supply room. You in the corridor, placing bread in his hand. You in the stables, admiring his connection to animals. You outside of the infirmary with both physical and emotional wounds. You in the courtyard today, your face going blank after he used your own affection against you.

“Damn it,” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow ridge. He’d just meant to protect himself. He’d looked at the recklessness of your devotion and saw every grave he’s stood over. His mother’s body. Isabel’s smile turned slack. Furlan’s trust, wasted on the impossible idea that Levi could let them all out alive.

Levi drinks again and again. The room begins to spin slightly. His reflection waits in the dark window as he turns to face it. Pale, blurred, a man with too much blood on his hands. A man who has no idea what to do with love except ruin it. He’s a coward.

If rejecting you had been mercy, then why had it only hurt you? If pushing you away had been kindness, then why had your voice gone so careful around him? If he had been protecting you, then why does the memory of your face make him feel like the danger was never the world outside the walls, but him?

He pours again, his hand shaking this time, and a small amount spills onto the desk. Normally, he would reach immediately for a cloth. Tonight, he only stares at the dark stain spreading over the polished wood. His mouth twists in both disgust and irritation.

“Great,” he says to no one.

Every time he raises the cup, it feels heavier. So does the truth. He loves you. He loves the way you say his name. He loves the stubborn tilt of your chin when you refuse to let his cruelty be the only thing between you. He loves you for noticing when he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, when he’s so angry that you know grief alone couldn’t cause it. He loves you, and it scares him so much that he’s tempted to seek refuge behind every locked door inside himself.

Instead, drunk and stripped bare by the quiet, Levi thinks of you. Your room is down the corridor, past the turn by the east stairwell, three doors from the end. He knows it by heart, despite not being there often.

For several long minutes, he sits motionless with the glass in his hand, raises to press against his forehead. He breathes deeply through the horrible desire of wanting to see you and the equally horrible knowledge that, deep down, he has no right to ask anything of you now.

Then he stands. His vision swims. Levi grips the desk, scowling at the fact that he can’t even balance himself. It’s pathetic, he thinks groggily, but he doesn’t sit back down. He leaves the bottle open on the desk. The spilled liquor dries beside his hand. He stumbles into the corridor. 

You need to hear the truth from him. Even if you no longer want it.

.

You sit on the edge of your bed with a half-mended shirt in your lap, needle in your fingers. The motions are familiar after years of practice, though it has been a while since you’ve needed to mend something. You’re surprised, considering the less than gentle treatment your clothing constantly endures. You’re glad, however, that your mother taught you how to sew. You think briefly that you should send her a letter soon. 

Then a knock comes. It’s so late in the night that you think you might have imagined it. You shake your head, dislodging the illusion, and return to your sewing. But then the knock comes again, more urgent. Your hands stop moving. Your stomach turns at the first thought that comes to your mind. But you know it’s not him. Why would it be? You sigh and set the shirt aside, then stand.

When you open the door, you’re immediately proven wrong. Levi is standing before you, one hand braced against the doorframe, his hair slightly messy, his cravat loose at the throat, his eyes too dazed. Levi is many things—controlled, scary enough to whip grown men into shape just by entering a room, but he’s never this. Never unsteady or vulnerable. Never looking at you like this as if he’s spent the entire night debating and fighting over the urge to go to your room, still not knowing whether he deserves to enter.

“Captain?” you say.

His face twists. He leans in slightly—not intentionally, but from a loss of balance. “Don’t call me that.”

Then you smell the liquor. You blink, taken aback. “Levi, are you drunk?”

His mouth pulls into a line that’s too bitter to be a smile. “Unfortunately.”

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do with him at your door in the middle of the night, drunk enough that he’s tipping over but sober enough that his eyes are still full of pain. You don’t know if you should let him in or tell him to screw off, whether to be worried or angry, whether to protect yourself or reach for him before he walls. And the worst part is that deep down, you still want to care for him.

“Why are you here?” you ask.

Levi looks at you, and his face breaks in a way you’ve never seen before. “I fucked up.”

The words come rough and raw. They’re not even surprising to you, because you’ve known that for weeks now, but hearing him say it is different. You peer down the hall and step aside before you can convince yourself not to.

“Come in before someone sees you like this.” He enters slowly. You close the door behind him, and when you turn around, he’s just standing there, his shoulders and hands tensed, looking at everything except your face. “You should sit down.”

“No.”

“Levi—”

“I wanted you.” You freeze. His eyes finally lift to yours. “I wanted you. Every damn time. Every time you said it, every time you smiled at me, every time you made those stupid jokes. I wanted to say yes. And I didn’t, because I’m a coward.”

You swear all of the air in the room escapes at that moment. You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest, shock and hurt and old longing colliding so violently that you almost feel sick. This is what you wanted once, isn’t it? This confession, this man standing in front of you and finally saying the thing you’ve been dying to hear. But it only came after he drank. After he’s made you feel stupid for offering what he now claims he wanted. You swallow hard.

“You’re drunk,” you say. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.”

“No,” Levi says, stepping closer, then stopping himself. “You’re going to hear it. You listened to every shitty thing I said. You can listen to this too.”

He’s not wrong. You did listen. Every time. You stood there and took every dismissal, every wound, and you kept making excuses for him because loving him was easier than admitting he had been hurting you on purpose.

Your eyes burn. “Fine,” you whisper. “Say it, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Levi says. He swallows, looks down, then forces himself to look at you again. “I’m sorry for all of it. For making you feel like you were stupid for caring. For treating you like dirt under my shoes. For taking every good thing you gave me and throwing it away because I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Your throat closes. You want to hate him. You think hatred would be far easier than this—the fact that you still love him while still remembering why you learned to retreat. “You made me feel pathetic.” Levi flinches at that. For a second, you’re happy, and then you hate yourself for thinking that.

“I know,” he says, his voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“You made me wish I hadn’t said any of it,” you continue. “I meant it every time, Levi. Even when I made it sound like a joke. Even when I smiled. Even when everyone laughed. I meant it, and you—” You pause. “You made me feel humiliated.”

Levi’s eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, they’re wet. “I know.”

“That doesn’t fix it.”

“I’m not trying to fix it.”

“Then what are you trying to do here?”

He looks at you so helplessly that it hurts you. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

His gaze drops to your hands, then returns to your face, and when he speaks, the words sound like they’ve been dragged out of the deepest, most guarded place in him. A place you have rarely, if ever, seen.

“Love someone.”

The room goes silent. The candle flickers across his face. Your heart twists. Levi takes a shaky breath. You match him.

“But I love you. I do. And I’m sorry it took me hurting you to stop lying about it.”

Part of you wants to reach for him. The other part of you wants to step back. You want to tell him you love him too, and you always have. You want to ask why love had to be dressed in apology. Instead, you look at the floor between you.

“Levi,” you say quietly. “I still love you. But I’m hurt.”

“I know,” he says.

“And I don’t forgive you yet.”

“Good.” That surprises you. You raise both eyebrows, and he gives a humorless little exhale. “You shouldn’t. Not just because I finally stopped lying to myself.”

“You need to sit down,” you say.

This time, he doesn’t argue. He lowers himself into the chair by your desk, elbows resting on his knees, head lowered. He looks so exhausted. You pour him some water from your pitcher and bring it to him. Both of you freeze momentarily when his fingers brush yours when he takes the cup. He withdraws first.

“I’ll say it again when I’m sober,” he says hoarsely. You look down at him. “If you’ll let me.”

Your fingers curl around the empty space where the cup had been. The answer should be simple, but it isn’t. You don’t know if you want to hear those words without the barrier of alcohol. They might just break your resolve.

After a moment, you nod. “Say it sober,” you whisper. “And then we’ll see.”

Levi nods and closes his eyes.

.

Morning breaks through the thin curtains, laying a strip of light across the floor and the half-mended shirt still folded at the end of your bed. Levi wakes in a chair—the same chair he was in last night. He’s no stranger to falling asleep in chairs. Where others would be aching, he feels fine, save for the headache pulsing behind his eyes.

He doesn’t remember where he is for a second. Then he looks around, and he remembers everything about last night. The drinking. Coming to your door. Your face when he said he wanted you. Him confessing his love.

Levi sighs. Across the room, you’re laying in bed, turned toward the wall, blanket pulled to your shoulder. You look peaceful, or close enough to peaceful that guilt moves through him with a force that nearly brings him to his feet to leave before you can wake up. Maybe that would be better. He could go back to his quarters and pretend this never happened.

He shifts carefully, trying not to make the chair creak, but the movement sends pain up his spine and a low sound leaves him before he can swallow it. You stir in your sleep and wake. Levi freezes. You open your eyes slowly and turn around to face him. Now that he looks at you, you don’t look like you’ve just woken up from sleep. You don’t have that grogginess most do, and your hair is neatly brushed.

He gets confirmation of this when you get out of bed and grab a teacup, filled with tea that you must have brewed before he woke up. You carry it over to him. He stares at it, then at you, and you hold it out.

“Well?” you say.

Levi takes the teacup, though his fingers shake around the porcelain. He doesn’t even bother to hide it this time. He looks at the caution in your eyes, the hurt still sitting behind it, the hope that lingers. His mouth dries and his throat closes up, but he forces the words out anyway.

“I love you,” he says.

Your lips part slightly. “You’re sure?”

Levi lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, though it’s not really a laugh, more like an exhale of exhaustion laced with a hint of relief. “I was sure before,” he says. “I was just an idiot.”

Your face crumples for a second. You never thought this day would come, that he could utter those words. You didn’t realize how badly you wanted this. How much it cost to hear it now.

He sets the tea aside and stands, keeping enough distance that you can choose whether to close it. You’re not sure if you want to yet, but the urge trembles between you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

You look down, blinking hard to force the tears back. “Please don’t hurt me every time you’re scared.”

Levi nods. “I won’t. I promise.”

The silence comes to rest between you. Then, carefully, you step forward and reach for his hand. Levi looks down as your fingers touch his, stunned by the gentleness of it, by the fact that after everything, you’re still willing to reach out. He grabs your hand and wraps his fingers around yours.

“I’ll do better,” he says.

You squeeze his fingers once and smile.

“You’d better.”

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tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @hoebuns @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @ddilfs4life @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita

divider by: diviniyae

It was more of a slip of a tongue than anything. 

It’s late in the night. The corridors have gone quiet. Everyone has finally surrendered to their sleep. Lanterns have either been snuffed or are running down to the end of the candle wicks. Branches of the trees drag across the glass, and somewhere beyond the courtyard, a horse whinnies, restless in the same way everyone seems restless these days, even where there’s nothing immediate to fear.

But you know as well as anyone, that there is always something to fear.

That’s the thing about the Scouts. You don’t carry fear with you. It follows you. It lives in your bones, beneath your fingernails, in your tight shoulders after a mission briefing, in silence that follows when someone says a name and no one answers because that person is already gone.

Maybe that’s why you’re so attracted to Levi. Because he never seems afraid. Not openly, anyway.

He sits at his desk with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, a stack of reports arranged neatly in front of him. His teacup is placed at the exact corner of the desk, where even one small shake of the desk could knock it over. His cravat is loosened slightly, but it’s not enough to make him look relaxed, because you believe Levi would rather be dragged through the streets tied by the hands than look relaxed where anyone can see him. But it’s enough that the sight catches you off guard every time you glance up from your own work.

You’re supposed to be copying casualty numbers into a ledger. You’re, instead, watching the flex of his fingers as he writes. It’s almost humiliating how attracted you are to them. It’s even worse because you realize that it’s humiliating, and yet you keep on doing it. You really should stop staring.

“You’re staring,” Levi says without looking up.

Your quill nearly slips from your fingers. Caught. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That must be new for you.”

Maybe you should be offended. Maybe you already are. Perhaps a part of you lifts its head, bares its teeth, and considers he’s awful and it’s about time you stop treating him like he’s royalty when all he’s done is insult your intelligence and correct your handwriting twice. But you simply smile over your ledger, because there’s obviously something wrong with you.

“I was thinking,” you say, dipping your quill again, “that you look nice like this.”

Levi’s hand stops. It’s tiny. So small. A momentary pause in gesture, a flicker of silence between one word and the next, and yet you notice it, as you always do. You always see the things you wish you didn’t, because your affection for him has made you perceptive to the point of self-injury. 

Then he resumes writing. “Get your eyes checked.”

You laugh tiredly. “I mean it,” you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to ignore every remaining sensible instinct you possess. “You always look nice, but especially when you’re not threatening to make someone scrub the latrines with a toothbrush.”

“I can still threaten you, if that helps.”

“It might,” you say, and when he finally lifts his gaze to you, one brow faintly lifted, you press your lips together to keep yourself from smiling too much. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Captain.”

You definitely did not plan on saying that out loud. 

The words are like a lit match dropped onto paper. You expect something to happen, though you’re not sure exactly what; maybe for Levi to look startled, maybe for your own heartbeat to become so loud that he hears it and tells you to quiet down, but there’s only the sound of his quill stopping and his eyes fixing on you with a disbelief that’s usually reserved for soldiers who have done something phenomenally stupid with live blades. You’ve seen Connie almost cut open his own hand at least a dozen times now.

“No, you’re not,” he says. It’s so blunt that, for a second, you almost laugh again.

“I think I know what I’m feeling.”

“You clearly don’t.”

“That’s a little presumptuous.”

“You’re exhausted. You’ve been copying death tolls for two hours, and your standards are slipping.”

You should probably retreat now, but the bruise of it is too new to hurt yet, and maybe you’re still brave because you haven’t learned your lesson on how this man can cut you without drawing steel.

“My standards are excellent,” you say. “That’s why I picked you.”

Levi stares at you. You stare back, fully aware of the heat gathering beneath your skin. You notice how he hasn’t looked back down yet.His face shifts—not much, because Levi’s expressions never move far enough to be generous, but enough that something flickers behind his eyes. You can’t tell what it is. 

Then he presses his lips together and scoffs. “Finish the ledger. And don’t say stupid things just because it’s late.”

The match goes out. You look down. “Right,” you say, your smile feeling much more fragile than it was one minute ago. “Yes, sir.”

After that, you decide that confession didn’t count. It was late. You were tired. He was rude, but Levi is always rude, and somehow that makes the rejection easier to deal with.

Except it does count.

Because the next time you say it, you’re not tired enough to pretend you don’t mean it.

The next time you flirt with him is after training, when the sun is high and cruel and every inch of your uniform is clinging to your skin. The sound of the training grounds is always loud. Someone groans dramatically near the water barrels. Sasha is arguing that dinner time should be two hours earlier than it is, to which Jean tells her that she’s going to get kicked out of the Scouts with her behavior. Eren is insisting to Mikasa that he could take down one of the veterans in hand-to-hand combat, which is not true and everyone knows is not true.

You’re bent forward with your hands braced on your knees, sweat dripping from your chin into the dust, lungs burning, thighs trembling with the intensity of being thrown onto your back three times by a man who has the emotional warmth of a snail. Levi stands several feet away, not even breathing hard. You hate him a little for it. You love him more. 

“You’re leaving your right side open,” he says, acting like that’s the main problem and not the fact that he’s driven your spine to the ground so many times that the two of them might as well get married. 

You straighten your back, wincing when your shoulders throb in pain. “I noticed.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m choosing to believe you’re only being this mean because you’re impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“Wounded,” you say, touching a hand to your chest. “And after I gave you such a good show.”

Levi’s eyes narrow as they fix on you. There’s dirt on your cheek, gritty beneath the sweat. Your hair is tousled, strands sticking to your face and neck. You know you probably look half-dead, which makes it even more ridiculous when you grin at him as though you’re the one with the upper hand.

“If I land a hit, you have to have tea with me,” you say, shifting your stance again, though your legs are already screaming in pain.

You feel the shift around you immediately, the tiny ripple of attention passing across the training grounds. People know by now. They know you admire him. They know you’re reckless enough to smile at him when most soldiers avert their eyes. They know Levi has never once softened for you in front of them. But they don’t know that you’ve already told him once. They don’t know that some small part of you is hoping the second time will land differently.

Levi looks at you for a long moment. “Good thing you won’t,” he finally says.

Then he attacks. It’s over quickly. You last longer than you did the first round, which you’ll cling to as a personal victory when your pride has stopped bleeding. But it’s not enough to make him sweat, and certainly not long enough to win yourself tea. He hooks your ankle and drops you onto the dirt with one hand gripping your sleeve and the other arm pressed against your throat.

He’s too close. Close enough that you can see the dark crescents beneath his eyes, the tiny nick near his jaw from shaving too quickly, the dust clinging to his hair. Close enough that his arm, still pressed against you, feels like the only solid point in the universe.

“You know,” you say breathlessly, “there are easier ways to get me on my back.”

Someone chokes in the distance. Jean, probably. Armin winces and covers his face. Levi’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers clench your sleeve before he releases you and stands up.

“Get up,” he says.

You push yourself onto your elbows. “No tea, then?”

“No.”

“Dinner?”

“No.”

“A walk?”

“No.”

“An emotionally honest conversation?”

“Are you always this annoying?” 

You laugh then. If you don’t laugh, you think you might cry a little. To anyone else, it would sound like he despises you, but you know deep down, he appreciates your presence. At least, you think he does. You hope.

Levi steps back, eyes already moving toward the others. “Again,” he says.

Your smile falters. “Again?”

“You wanted to land a hit.”

“I also want to retain the use of my spine.”

“Then move correctly.”

You groan, but you get up anyway. When he turns away to retrieve the training blade he had discarded near the fence, you miss how his gaze drops briefly to the place where his fingers had been on your sleeve. He didn’t mean to do that.

Levi hates this. Not you. This. This thing you keep doing. This reckless habit of saying what you feel for him as though feelings are not the most complex thing known to man, wanting someone has never been a mistake, and affection is something you can simply place in another person’s hands and expect them not to drop it. He has no use for it. He has no patience for it.

And yet, when you stand again with dirt on your uniform and that stubborn light in your eyes, Levi’s first though is not that you’re irritating like he says you are.

It’s that you’re still alive and with him.

His second thought is that he wants you to stay that way.

His third thought is so dangerous that he buries it before it finishes forming.

.

People start to make jokes about you and Levi. The Scouts have a talent for taking anything sensitive and turning it into humor. It begins—as it always does—in the mess hall. It’s loud. The long tables are crowded with soldiers leaning shoulder to shoulder, passing bread, stealing scraps, arguing over insignificant things (mostly Eren and Jean), laughing too loudly at stories that are shared between moments in the training yard. 

You sit with your squad, eating your soup as you try not to stare at the officers’ table. You naturally fail. Levi sits apart even among the other officers, a cup of tea held lightly in one hand. Erwin is talking beside him, and Hange is gesturing enthusiastically enough—probably about their latest experiments—to nearly knock over their own bowl. Levi appears to be listening, though his eyes flick briefly toward the table with Connie and Sasha when both of them laugh too loud.

Then he looks at you.

“You’re doing it again,” Petra says beside you. 

You look down at your soup immediately. “I’m eating.”

“You’re daydreaming.”

“I’m not!”

“You absolutely are,” Oluo says, leaning back with misplaced confidence. “It’s pathetic, really.”

“You bite your tongue every other sentence trying to imitate him. Don’t start throwing stones,” Eld says. Oluo sputters. You smile, grateful for the distraction and defense, but your eyes betray you by drifting toward Levi again; and this time Gunther catches it too.

“You could always confess again,” he says. You had told the squad about your confession a week or so ago, and naturally, they found it the funniest thing in the world. And then they called you the stupidest person in the world. “Maybe persistence will wear him down.”

“It works on doors,” Eld says.

“Levi isn’t a door,” Petra says.

“He’s got the personality of one,” you say. That earns a few laughs. 

Across the room, Levi’s eyes lift again. You know immediately that he heard that last part. The man could probably hear dust drifting in the air. For a moment, you consider looking away. Instead, because your pride is a stubborn creature, you lift your cup and toast it in his direction. His eyes narrow, but you smile anyway. He looks back to Erwin.

That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t. After dinner, when the mess hall begins to empty and soldiers drift toward their beds or their duties, you find yourself in the kitchen near the dedicated tea station—which you’re convinced was set up only for Levi—reaching for the kettle at the exact same time Levi does. Your fingers nearly brush, and it’s enough for your breath to hitch. Levi glances at your hand, then at you.

“Move,” he says.

“You could say please,” you mutter.

“I could also assign you stable duty.”

“You make romance very difficult, Captain.”

He frowns at the title, but you don’t really notice it too much since you’re trying to not pour hot water on yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you think. It’s only tea. He barely touched you. Levi is just standing this close—close enough that you can smell his soap—because he’s impatient and waiting for the kettle.

Behind you, someone snickers. You don’t turn, but Levi does. The snickering stops with impressive speed. “Problem?” he asks.

“No, sir,” several voices answer.

You press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing. Levi turns back to you. “You enjoy making yourself a spectacle?”

You don’t know why, but those words hit a tender spot in your nerves. Your smile falters. “I’m not trying to.”

“Aren’t you?”

That stings. Not badly, but enough for you to look down at the tea in your cup, watching the surface tremble with the tiny motion of your hand. “I just like you,” you say, quiet enough for only him to hear.

The silence that follows is almost deadly. Levi doesn’t move. You suddenly wish you’d said it louder, made it into a joke or dressed it up with such an unserious tone that he could brush it off as nothing. But it’s not nothing.

Levi’s face tenses. “Don’t,” he says.

One word. Not no. Not stop. Don’t. You’ve clearly reached for a wound without knowing it was there. Your throat tightens slightly. It’s stupid how much that single word hurts. The others have gone quiet behind you, though whether because they heard or because Levi’s silence has made things tense, you don’t know. You nod once.

“Sorry,” you say.

Levi’s jaw flexes. For the briefest moment, his eyes change, and a hint of regret moves through them, but then he reaches for his cup, turns away, and leaves you standing at the tea station with a teacup in your hand that suddenly feels too hot to hold.

You should probably stop. You tell yourself that while watching him disappear down the corridor. You tell yourself this while you stand there with the unbearable knowledge that you won’t.

.

Levi doesn’t sleep well that night, which isn’t unusual. Sleep has always been an issue for him. It’s something his body demands but his mind resents, a brief surrender that leaves too much room for memory to crawl in with its dirty hands. He’s accustomed to lying awake for hours. He’s accustomed to the silence of the night and his own thoughts circling until they get stripped down to their bones.

He’s not used to thinking about the way your voice sounded when you said, I just like you. Then he realizes that’s a lie. He is used to thinking about your voice. That’s the issue. 

Levi lies on his back in the dark, one arm folded behind his head. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. He knows this has gone on long enough. You’re careless with your affection. You throw it around like it costs nothing. Like you have so much of it that losing some wouldn’t hurt you.

Then he remembers your hand trembling around your cup. He realizes, no, you’re not careless. That would be easier. Careless people don’t look away so quickly when they’re hurt. Careless people don’t apologize for taking up too much space in someone else’s guarded life. Careless people don’t learn how someone takes their tea and remembers it without being asked. You’re not careless. You’re one of the few sincere people he knows. That’s worse to him.

Levi closes his eyes. Behind them, he sees you smiling at him across the training yard, flushed and breathless, daring him to be human for one second. He sees you in the mess hall, laughing because everyone else is laughing, even though your eyes keep searching for him. He sees you tonight, freezing around a single word.

Don’t.

He should have said something else. He should have said nothing. He should have made you stop sooner. If you stop, this ends. If this ends, no one gets hurt. Except he already hurt you. 

Levi opens his eyes. The ceiling offers no answers, no matter how hard he stares.

“Damn brat,” he mutters.

.

The confessions become a routine, almost. They’re never spoken in the same way, but they become woven into the strange fabric of your days. It’s as familiar as the bitter taste of weak coffee when tea runs low and the scent of soap after Levi has ordered an entire hallway scrubbed because someone left a single muddy footprint in it.

You tell him in fractions. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes because the feeling rises up in you with nowhere else to go, and the alternative is swallowing it until you choke. 

Levi rejects you every time. Sometimes you think he has a list of things to say prepared. Sometimes you think he makes them up on the spot. You’re not sure which scenario is worse.

The fourth time you confess comes in the stables, of all places. Rain has slicked the yard into a mess. The horses are restless tonight. You’re adjusting tack and cleaning hooves, your sleeves rolled up despite the cold because one of the mares keeps nudging your elbow and trying to chew the cuff.

Then Levi enters. “You’re doing that wrong,” he says.

You glance down at the stirrup strap in your hand. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Exactly.”

You sigh and step aside, letting him take over, because while there are many hills you’re willing to die on, arguing with Levi about equipment care isn’t one of them. He checks and adjusts the straps that you already did. Then he lifts the tack onto the assigned mare to make sure everything looks good. The horse calms beneath his touch, which is unfair, because Levi is as soft as a sword, yet animals seem to understand him. You watch him stroke one hand down the mare’s neck, murmuring something too low for you to catch. You feel a strange flutter in your stomach.

“You’re gentle with them,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Levi looks at you. “With horses.”

“Horses. Animals. Things that scare easily.”

His expression goes blank, and it tells you instantly that you’ve stepped too close to something he’s not willing to reveal yet. You should retreat, and yet, you don’t.

“I like that about you.”

His hand stops on the strap. Rain thunders on the roof. The mare huffs, her warm breath ghosting into the air. Levi stares at you for a long moment, then says, “You’re reading too much into basic competence.”

“Maybe,” you say. “Or maybe you’re more careful than you want people to know.”

Levi looks away before you can follow up, tightening the girth. “Stop romanticizing me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I’m just seeing you for who you are.”

He laughs humorlessly. “You should look somewhere else.”

You breathe in through your nose, the scent of hay and wet earth filling your nostrils. It should be comforting, but you feel foolish standing here with your heart spilling out of your chest like this.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” you say.

Levi hardens. “That’s your problem.”

You flinch. It’s tiny, but it’s there. You know it’s visible because Levi’s eyes move immediately to your face. You can tell he caught it. He seems to recoil, his brows drawing faintly together, but then he looks away.

“Finish checking the tack,” he says.

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

.

You don’t count the next time you confess because you’re half-delirious with exhaustion after an expedition that has left everyone hollow-eyed and covered with dirt and moving like ghosts through the building. You sit on a bench outside the infirmary with a bandage around your forearm and a bruise forming on your ribs, watching medics hurry past you. Levi is standing next to you with blood on his sleeve—blood that doesn’t belong to him—with a look in his eyes that tells you he’s not fully here.

You’re alive. He’s alive. Too many others are not. That kind of thing makes people act and speak recklessly. Which is why you think you say what you say.

Levi hasn’t spoken to you since returning through the gate except to ask if you were injured, and when you showed him your arm, he clicked his tongue and said, “Idiot,” with enough fury that you understood he had already been watching when that Titan came too close.

Now he stands in front of you, arms crossed, staring at the bandage. “You hesitated,” he says.

You look up at him. “What?”

“Out there. You hesitated.”

You’re far too tired to defend yourself quickly. You say, exhausted, “I was trying to pull Kessler back.”

“Kessler was already dead.”

You look away. You know that. You felt the moment that Kessler’s body relaxed and it started dragging you down. You felt the horrible slackness of his arm in your grip. You knew, even then, but knowing and letting go are not the same thing, and you’re too tired for Levi’s version of mercy.

“I know,” you say.

“Do you?”

Your head snaps back up, anger flaring. “Yes, Levi. I know.”

His eyes narrow at the use of his name. Good. Let him hate it. Let him feel something.

“I know he was dead,” you continue. “I know I almost got myself killed trying to save someone who was already gone. I know that was stupid. I know you’re going to tell me it was stupid. I know.”

Levi stares at you as you breathe too hard. Your ribs ache. Your eyes burn, though you refuse to let any tears fall, because crying in front of Levi after a mission feels like bleeding in front of a shark. His jaw works once.

“Then don’t do it again,” he says.

It’s still an order, but there’s a certain rawness underneath it that makes your anger falter. You look at him, at the dirt on his clothes, the blood on his sleeve, the exhausting plastered on his face. You look at the man everyone calls humanity’s strongest, standing there as though strength has ever saved him from grief.

The words come out before you can stop them. “I worry about you too, you know.” He tilts his head, expression hardening. You should probably stop, but you don’t. “I know you don’t want me to. I know you think it’s stupid, or useless, or whatever else you tell yourself when people care about you, but I do.” Your hands curl into fists against your thigh, nails biting into your palms. “I worry every time we leave the walls. I worry every time you go quiet after we come back. I worry because I—”

“Enough.”

You shut your mouth. Levi is no longer looking at you, but through you. You feel a shiver run down your spine. He can’t even look at you when turning you down? 

“Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”

You swallow. “And what is it?”

“A bad habit.”

You feel the color drain from your face. The whole world closes around you. You can only focus on the mud on the soles of your boots, the muffled sounds of suffering through the infirmary doors, Levi standing there with his hands clenched so tightly beneath his crossed arms that his knuckles have blanched.

A bad habit. That’s what your affection has become. An inconvenience. Something to correct. 

You nod once, though the movement feels fuzzy. “Right,” you say.

Levi eyes flick back to yours. You stand before you can fully lock your gazes. Pain flashes through your ribs, and you nearly sway, but you keep yourself upright because you can’t bear the thought of him seeing you so weak. 

“I should get this checked again,” you say.

Levi’s gaze drops to your arm. “You already did.”

“I know.”

He understands then. You see it happen, the moment he realizes you’re leaving because of him, not because of the wound. He doesn’t stop you. You walk away. 

Behind you, Levi remains still for a long time. Long after your footsteps disappear. Long after the rain begins again. Long after he realizes that the words he meant to use to keep you alive have found the most tender spot of your heart.

And still, you come back. You always come back. Even if it pains you to see him right now.

The next morning, you pass him in the corridor and give him a smile that’s smaller than usual. “Captain,” you say.

Levi nods once. He expects you to say something else. Some joke. Some reckless little comment. Some ridiculous remark about how he looks like he slept badly and should let you fix that by being charming towards him for ten minutes.

You say nothing, and you keep walking. Levi turns his head without thinking, watching you disappear around the corner. He has a strange feeling in his chest. Annoyance, he decides. That’s all it is.

That’s all it ever will be.

.

Days later, while you’re cleaning, you stand on a stool to reach for a stack of fresh rags on the highest shelf of the supply room. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with folded clothes, brushes, buckets, spare mopheads, bottles of polish, and enough cleaning solution to disinfect the entire world if Levi ever gets his way. The door opens behind you. 

“Careful,” Levi says.

You glance down. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed. With what, you’re not sure. He seems to be in a perpetual state of disappointment with the world. You can’t say you blame him.

“I am being careful,” you reply.

“Standing on that thing will make you crack your skull open.”

“It’s a stool. It’s meant to be stood on.”

“...It’s wobbling.”

“That’s because it fears you.”

“It should.”

You laugh. It surprises you. Maybe it surprises him too, because Levi’s eyes flick up to your face and stay there for half a second too long. There’s a dangerous pause, and both of you feel it. You ignore it and reach for the rags too quickly to escape it, your fingers brushing the edge of the stack. You can’t quite grab it. The stool shifts.

Your balance suddenly tips just enough for your stomach to drop. Before you can correct yourself or grab onto anything, one of Levi’s hands meets your waist, the other gripping your forearm. You feel your heart slam against your ribs. 

“Idiot,” he snaps.

You can’t focus on anything except for his fingers on your waist, warm through the fabric of your shirt. He’s standing so close behind you that when you inhale, you catch his scent. It’s always smelled of clean soap with an undercurrent of something almost like cedar.

You look down at his hand. He does too. Then he releases you as if you’ve burned him. “Get down,” he says.

You quickly grab the rags and climb off the stool, holding the items to your chest. “Thank you,” you say.

“Don’t thank me. Stop doing stupid things.”

“I was just trying to reach the—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I—I had it under control, Captain.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You pause, then you hesitantly say, “You worry about me.”

Levi’s eyes flash briefly before he restrains it. “No.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No.”

“Then what was that?”

“Reflex.”

“Your reflex was to grab my waist?”

His mouth tightens, which is how you know you’ve gotten under his skin. “My reflex was to stop a soldier from injuring themselves because they can’t manage basic balance.”

“That almost sounded affectionate.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

You smile then, because despite everything, despite the way he keeps pushing you away with both hands while somehow still catching you when you stumble, your heart keeps finding reasons to love him. 

“I think you care about me more than you want to admit,” you say.

Levi steps closer. Your smile fades as his shadow falls over you. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You hold his gaze, and for once, you don’t try to soften the moment with a joke or quip. There are moments you need to be serious, and this is one of them. “Maybe not, but I know what it feels like when you look at me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His answer comes far too fast. Levi seems to realize it at the same time you do, because he sighs and looks away toward the shelves. 

“I wish you’d let me care about you,” you say quietly. Levi’s head turns back, and suddenly, the room feels smaller than it did a moment ago.

“I don’t need that from you.”

It’s not the cruelest thing he’s said, but it still breaks a piece of you inside. You inhale slowly, gripping the rags a bit tighter. “Sorry.”

Frustration flickers across his face, but you can tell it’s directed inward this time, at himself, at you, at the entire existence of this thing neither of you seems to be willing to label.

“Just do your job,” he says, harsher now.

“Yes, Captain.”

You don’t see the small flinch he gives when you turn back to the shelves.

.

By now, Levi has recognized that there are stages to this. First, you say something reckless and stupid. Second, he rejects it. Third, you smile. Fourth, he says something. Fifth, your smile falters. Sixth, he feels like the worst kind of bastard for doing that. Seventh, he tells himself you brought it on yourself. Eighth, he thinks about it all night.

It’s a miserable system. He wishes to dismantle it. He’d like, more than that, to understand why he keeps waiting for it to happen again, because that’s the part he can’t excuse. He can excuse rejection. Rejection is clean and sets boundaries where your affection keeps trying to cross them. He can excuse harshness. Harshness is useful. Soldiers listen better to shouts than soft pleas. He can even excuse the anger that rises in him whenever you come too close, because anger is familiar, and familiarity makes things easier to handle.

But he can’t excuse the waiting. He can’t excuse his attention shifting when you enter a room. He can’t excuse the fact that he knows your footsteps by sound now. He can’t excuse how he notices when you don’t look at him. He definitely can’t excuse how guarded he feels when your voice comes gently, as if he’s bracing for impact from a hand that’s never struck him.

He hates it. He hates the anticipation. He hates the feeling that lingers. He hates that some part of him, buried deep beneath the discipline and the loss and blood, wants to hear you say it again. He wants to know if you still mean it. He wants to know how many times he can refuse you before you finally decide he’s not worth the trouble.

Part of him hopes the answer is infinite.

.

You find Levi in the corridor outside of Erwin’s office, standing with a stack of documents in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His expression is blank as always, lit by the dim afternoon light. The day has been mostly gray from morning onward. The entirety of headquarters feels submerged. You’re carrying reports from the supply division when you stop beside him.

He looks tired. Levi often looks tired, but there are different tiers to it, and you’ve learned them despite not trying to. This isn’t ordinary irritation or sleep deprivation. This is the kind that only comes after countless meetings and casualty estimates, after decisions that will ask other people to die in the name of maybe—someday—being free from the Titans.

“You should eat something,” you say.

His eyes slide to you. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I meant what I said. Leave me alone.”

“Not until you eat.”

He exhales through his nose. “Are you always this insistent?”

“With you? Usually.”

“Fantastic for me.”

You smile. “You make it very easy.” He looks away. Instead of walking away like you know you should, you shift the reports against your chest and say, “I brought extra bread.”

Levi’s gaze returns to you. “What?”

“For you.” You try to shrug it off, pretending like you haven’t been carrying it wrapped in cloth beneath the reports because you noticed he skipped lunch. “It’s in my pocket. Which sounds unsanitary, but I wrapped it. Mostly.”

He stares at you, then says, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

You wish he wouldn’t ask. You wish, sometimes, that Levi would allow kindness to come to him without dragging it into the spotlight and demanding to know whether it has teeth or not. But he’s looking at you now with a challenge in his eyes, but something else lingers. Something that tells you he doesn’t understand why anyone would go out of their way for him unless obligated or expecting something in return. Your heart hurts for him.

“Because I care,” you say.

Levi grips his documents a little more. “Stop it.”

“I’m not asking you for anything.”

“You are.”

You frown. “No, I’m not.”

“You say things like that because you want me to say them back.”

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, maybe because it’s partly true, and maybe because it’s not the whole truth, and he’s chosen the ugliest piece of it to hold up between you.

“I want you to eat something,” you say quietly. “That’s all this was.”

Levi says nothing. You reach into your pocket, pull out the wrapped bread, and place it carefully on top of the documents in his hand. His eyes drop to it, then lift to meet you. 

“You don’t have to make everything a battle,” you say.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say, the words coming out a little sadder than you intend. You see him hear it, and you see the shift in his eyes. But you don’t wait for him to respond. You walk away, reports held tightly against your torso, and you tell yourself that caring about someone shouldn’t feel this much like holding your hand over an open flame and pretending the burn is proof of devotion.

Behind you, Levi looks down at the bread. He stands there and stares at it for a long time. Then, with a quiet curse, he takes it with him into the office. He eats it later. Every bite tastes like guilt.

.

“You know,” Hange says one afternoon, leaning casually against the doorway of Levi’s office while he tries to read a report and pretend they’re not there, “most people enjoy being adored.”

“Most people are idiots,” Levi says.

“True, true. But still. It’s good for morale.”

Levi doesn’t look up from his papers. “If you’re here to waste my time, find a better hobby.”

“I have several. You hate all of them.”

“Because they’re obnoxious.”

“Everything is obnoxious to you.”

Levi’s quill pauses, and that makes Hange grin a little more. He resumes writing, shaking his head. This isn’t exactly new business—Hange always comes to annoy him for the most miniscule problems and to talk about the most insignificant topics. He’s learned how to block it out over the years.

“I’m serious,” Hange says. The shift in their tone catches Levi’s attention. “She cares about you.”

“No shit.”

“And you care about her.”

The quill stops again, and this time, it doesn’t resume. Levi lifts his eyes slowly, sharpened to a point. “Careful.”

Hange, to their credit or possibly their doom, doesn’t turn around and leave like any sensible human would after the tone Levi just used against them. “That sounded like a threat.”

“It was.”

“Mm.” Hange tilts their head, studying him in such an invasive way that it makes Levi want to shove them into the nearest supply closet and lock the door. “You get nastier after she talks to you.”

“I get nastier after you talk to me too.”

“Yes, but that’s because I’m charming in a way that overwhelms you.”

“You’re exhausting in a way that makes murder understandable.”

Hange waves his remark away. “With her, it’s different.”

Levi’s face goes blank. Is it different with you? He realizes now that while he blocks out Hange’s antics, he doesn’t block out yours. He realizes that all the times he’s kicked Hange out for uttering a single stupid sentence, he’s let you stay after uttering a dozen. Hange sees the realization and smiles softly.

“I’m not saying you have to return anything,” they say. “No one can make you feel something you don’t. But if you don’t, you should stop letting her bleed herself dry trying to reach you.”

“I’m not letting her do anything.”

“No,” Hange says, “you’re just standing there while it happens.” The room goes dangerously quiet. Levi looks down at the report, but the words have rearranged into nonsense. Hange sighs deeply. “For what it’s worth, I think she knows you’re not as indifferent as you act.”

Levi’s grip tightens around the quill. “She’s wrong.”

“Maybe.” He looks up at that. Hange gives him a sad little smile, which is worse than their normal grin, worse than their teasing, worse than anything else they could have done. “But if she’s wrong, then you should make that clear before it hurts her even more.”

Levi says nothing. Hange leaves.

That evening, you bring Levi tea. You didn’t plan on doing so. It just sort of happened. You told yourself several times that day that you’d stop doing things like this, acting like your kindness is water and he’s a dying flower that you can bring back to life. You pass the kitchen, see the kettle, and think of the tension in his face that morning.

So you make the tea. Because you’re weak and hopeful, and you’re beginning to suspect those are sometimes the same thing.

When you arrive at his office, the door is slightly ajar. You knock anyway. He calls for you to come in, and you step inside. Levi sits behind his desk, eyes on a report, the candlelight casting shadows across his face. The room is painfully neat, which you should have expected. Your presence feels immediately disruptive. You carry the cup carefully, both hands around the saucer.

“I made too much,” you say.

Levi looks at the tea, then at you. “You made too much tea?”

“Yes.”

“For yourself?”

“Yes.”

“In one cup?”

You blink at him. He stares back at you. Your face warms slightly. Not your best attempt, but it was worth it. “Fine. That was a terrible lie.”

“Embarassing.”

“Deeply.”

He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. “You here for a reason?”

The question should be harmless, but it’s not. You think of all the times Levi has made you feel childish for just wanting a connection. You think of the fact that your hand is already starting to ache from holding the saucer too tightly.

“No,” you say. “Not really.” You step closer and set the cup on his desk, exactly where he usually keeps it, because you’ve grown to know the exact spot by now. “I just thought you’d want some.”

“I can make my own tea.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then stop.”

You look at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are clear as day. There’s a tension and conflict there, anger held down so hard that you see it shaking. But you’re tired too. Tired of reading hope into every almost-soft thing he does. Tired of standing at the edge of him, calling out, and hearing only your own voice come back.

“Stop bringing you tea?” you ask.

“Stop acting like this means something.”

Your heart drops. “This?”

Levi looks at you. For once, you wish he wouldn’t. At the same time, you want him to.

“All of it,” he says. “I’ve told you no multiple times. What part of that are you too stupid to understand?”

All of it. The tea. The bread. The jokes. The concern. The confessions. The look you give him after missions. You remembering his preferences. The way you keep offering pieces of yourself and pretending it doesn’t matter when he refuses to take them. All of it.

You nod, though it feels like something has finally broken inside you. 

You’re too tired to keep doing this.

“I see,” you whisper.

Levi’s eyes gleam in the moonlight as he looks at you. He looks like he might say something else. Something better. Something worse. You don’t even give him the chance.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice calm enough to make yourself believe that you’re not hurt. “I didn’t realize I was making you uncomfortable.”

Levi makes a face, the most emotion you’ve seen from him in months. “That’s not—”

“I’ll stop.”

He goes silent. You give him a small smile because you can’t seem to help yourself. Even now, you’re trying to make things easier for him, because some habits are harder to kill than hope. Then you turn toward the door.

Behind you, Levi says your name. It stops you for a second, but only a second. You look back. His hand is resting near the cup, not touching it. He looks almost panicked, if Levi Ackerman were capable of such an honest expression.

“Yes?” you say. He says nothing, and there it is. The whole tragedy of him. You wait one second. Then two. Then you nod. “Goodnight, Captain.”

You leave. The door closes behind you. Levi sits very still. The tea cools untouched on his desk. And for the first time, the silence you leave behind feels less like peace and more like punishment.

.

You stop. 

You don’t stop in a manner that would give him the satisfaction of calling it dramatic, because the stubborn, wounded part of you refuses to let Levi Ackerman look at the ruin he’s made of your heart. 

You don’t avoid your duties. You don’t let your work slip. You don’t flinch when his name is mentioned, and you don’t turn your head too quickly when he speaks, and you don’t stand in the kitchen holding the kettle, telling yourself that tea is only tea and kindness is only kindness and that none of it has to mean anything unless he lets it.

You simply stop offering. That’s all.

Reports appear on his desk when they’re supposed to. Your handwriting is clean across the pages. Supplies are accounted for. Gear is cleaned, straps are checked, blades are sharpened, and when you pass him in the corridor, you step aside with the same respect you would give any superior officer. 

“Captain.”

Nothing more. No little smile curling around the title. No teasing lift to your brow. No, you look terrible, did you sleep at all? No, I saved you bread before Sasha could inhale the entire basket. No, if you keep glaring like that, your face will get stuck and then what will we do?

Just Captain.

The first time it happens, Levi tells himself he’s relieved.

He has paperwork in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. You walk down the hall with a crate of medical linens balanced against your hip, your sleeves rolled to your elbows. You see him, shift the crate higher, and move out of the way.

“Captain,” you say. Levi nods once. You keep walking. That’s all there is to your interaction.

He should be relieved. Instead, he grips his teacup a little tighter. Idiot, he thinks, though he’s not entirely sure whether he means you or himself.

By the second day, the relief has turned into irritation.

You’re everywhere, because the universe apparently has something against him and is trying to force you into his everyday life when he’s trying his hardest not to notice you. In the training yard, helping one of the newer recruits correct their stance with a voice soft enough that the soldier actually listens instead of stiffening under correction. In the mess hall, laughing at something Petra says, your face finally turned away from him. In the corridor outside Erwin’s office, handing over a stack of documents to Miche with a polite nod before disappearing around the corner before Levi can decide whether he wants to speak to you.

Not that he does. He doesn’t. There’s nothing to say, after all. He told you to stop, and you stopped. That’s how orders are supposed to work.

Levi’s spent his life surrounded by people who either don’t listen or listen too late, by soldiers who break formation, by fools who mistake hope for strategy, by men who die because they can’t follow one simple command when terror has sunk its teeth into them. He should appreciate obedience. He should appreciate silence. He should appreciate how you gave him exactly what he asked for.

Instead, every “Captain” feels like a door slamming shut in his face. And the worst part, the most aggravating, unforgivable part, is that you’re not even punishing him. Punishment would be easier. Punishment would give him something to push against. If you snapped at him, he could snap back. If you glared, he could meet it with his own colder stare. If you cried, if you accused him, if you said, how dare you, Levi, after all the chances I gave you, then at least he would know what to do.

But you do none of them. You’re kind. Professionally kind. You answer when spoken to. You follow orders without hesitation. You still look after the youngest soldiers, still trade your last piece of bread to Sasha, still smile when Armin asks a question and still help Connie adjust his gear that he should know how to adjust by now. You haven’t become colder in all aspects—you’ve merely taken your warmth away from him.

And Levi, who has survived hunger, blood, filth, loss, and the Underground’s endless ruthlessness, finds himself undone by the absence of things he once pretended not to want.

By the third day, Hange notices. They appear beside him in the training yard while he’s watching you across the dirt, though he’d rather be disemboweled with his own blades than admit that he’s watching you. You’re speaking to Eld near the fence, head tilted as you listen, one hand braced on your hip, the other gesturing toward the Titan dummies. Eld says something that makes you laugh.

Hange hums. “Interesting.”

“Walk away,” Levi says.

“I didn’t even say anything—”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say the weather’s nice.”

“It’s overcast.”

“Emotionally, then.”

Levi turns his head just enough to glare. Hange grins, but their expression softens too quickly, and that’s how he knows he’s in trouble. He can handle Hange’s manic curiosity, their teasing, their horrifying experiments, their complete lack of respect for personal space or peace. He can’t handle pity.

“She stopped,” Hange says.

Levi looks back toward the yard. “Good.”

Hange’s brows rise. “Very convincing.”

“Shut up.”

“You told her to?” Levi says nothing, and that’s answer enough. Hange exhales, not quite a sigh. “Well, congratulations. You won.”

Hange looks ahead at you. Across the yard, you take the training blade Eld offers you and shift into position. Levi looks back at you, and he sees how dirt has already lined your face. There’s no bright glance tossed in his direction, no grin, no silent invitation for him to notice you. It makes him furious. Not at you, though—that would be simpler. No, the fury coils inward, because there’s a place inside him that recognizes that this silence is something he made with his own hands.

“I did what needed to be done,” he says.

Hange tilts their head. “For who?”

Levi doesn’t answer, and instead, he watches you lunge, watches Eld parry, watches your foot slide back to correct your balance—something you learned from him. There are pieces of him in your movements now. Small ones. Things he taught you without meaning to leave any part of himself behind.

For who?

His mouth dries. For you, he wants to say, but even in his own head, the lie limps, because if this were for you, then why does your smile seem weaker when you think no one is looking?

.

That evening, you deliver papers to his office. You knock once. 

“Come in,” he says, and he hates that he knows it’s you just by the sound of your footsteps approaching. You step inside with the papers held to your torso. For some stupid reason, Levi expects tea. There’s none, only papers. You cross the room, set the stack on the corner of his desk, and take a half step back.

“Commander Erwin asked that these be reviewed before morning,” you say.

Your voice is perfectly calm. It’s built for distance, polished until nothing tender can catch onto it. Levi’s eyes shift from the reports, then to you.

“You can leave them,” he says.

You nod. “Yes, Captain.”

Levi swears his eye twitches from the title. “You don’t have to call me that every time,” he says.

You look at him then, and he almost wishes you hadn’t. Your eyes are not angry or pleading, but they’ve been extinguished of that hope you’ve been carrying with you for months now.

“I thought you preferred professionalism,” you say.

Levi grips the arm of his chair slightly. “I prefer people not putting words in my mouth.”

A flicker of hurt passes over your face, but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. “Understood.”

He should stop. He knows he should stop, but the silence after your answer feels unbearable, and Levi is not built for handling unbearable things he can’t kill. “That all?”

“Yes.”

You turn toward the door. He feels a spike of panic, the kind he’s only ever felt when he was galloping in the rain to return to Isabel and Furlan. His stomach sinks. “Wait.”

You stop. Your hand rests on the doorknob. Levi stares at your back, at the tension in your shoulders. You’re holding yourself with a carefulness that implies you’re waiting for something to split you open at any moment.

What does he want to say? Don’t go? No, ridiculous. I didn’t mean it? He did mean it. At least, he meant part of it. The part that wanted safety. The part that believes every relationship eventually ends in the ultimate heartbreak of the other person’s name carved into stone. I miss you? Absolutely not. The words rise to his tongue anyway, but Levi crushes them beneath the heel of his pride.

You wait. He says nothing, so you glance back at him. “Yes?” you say.

His throat works. The candlelight looks so soft against your face, and only then does he see how tired you are. Not physically, though perhaps that too, but tired emotionally. Tired of holding your hands to someone who keeps treating them like weapons.

Levi looks away first. “Nothing,” he says. The word tastes bitter in his mouth.

Your expression doesn’t change, and somehow that makes him feel worse. “Goodnight, Captain.”

You leave. Levi sits there for a long moment, staring at the place where you stood. The reports remain untouched. His tea, made by his own hand and brewed exactly the way he likes it, has gone cold beside him. He lifts the cup anyway, takes one sip, and slams it back down so hard that the porcelain almost cracks.

It tastes wrong.

Everything is wrong.

.

Levi sees you laughing with Eld in the training yard, and the feeling that moves him makes him so nauseous that he can only stand there with his hand still on his harness and hate everything about himself.

It’s not like he feels betrayal. He doesn’t overhear any confession and there’s no obvious intimacy that any reasonable man could point to and say “that’s the reason my blood is boiling.” You’re simply standing near the fence, one shoulder leaned against the post, your arms crossed as Eld speaks to you. His hair is messy from training, and his expression is unmistakably fond. Fond.

Levi’s eye twitches.

Eld says something too low for Levi to hear from across the yard, and you laugh. Not that small, polite laugh you’ve been giving Levi lately (at least before you started ignoring him weeks ago), the one that feels like a closed door and leaves him standing outside of it like an idiot. You laugh properly. Your head tips back and your face eases in a way that Levi hasn’t seen directed at him in days. Eld smiles, knowing he’s the reason you look a little less tired now.

Levi’s grip on his harness worsens until it creaks. He should look away, but he doesn’t. Eld steps closer, enough to reach past you and grab his coat hanging from the side of the training dummy, but from where Levi stands, the movement brings him into your space. Your shoulder brushes his. You don’t even flinch or step back. You only look down at what he’s doing, say something that makes his smile widen, and then you lift your hand to shove lightly at his shoulder.

It’s the same kind of touch you used to give Levi without thinking. A hand on his sleeve when you wanted his attention. Fingers brushing his hand when you set tea beside him. Your shoulder bumping his when you walked too close in a corridor and pretended it was accidental. The touch he had rejected so many times that you finally learned to control it.

Levi doesn’t know what he feels, but he convinces himself it’s not jealousy. Jealousy is for men who think they have a claim. Levi is without a claim. He made sure of that. In fact, he was the one who caused the distance with each cold reply, each command, and the times when you were vulnerable with him and he pushed it back as if tenderness was a weapon aimed at his throat.

So no, he has no right to feel anything when Eld leans closer to you. He has no right to hate the way you seem calmer beside him. He has no right to remember your face when you once told him that you wish he’d let you care about him, and how he had answered how he didn’t need that from you.

Eld says something else. You smile. Levi moves before he decides to.

By the time he crosses the yard, his expression has gone sharp enough to send three nearby soldiers into immediately pretending to be very busy with their gear. Eld notices him approaching first, straightening his posture the way a subordinate does when they realize their superior is walking toward them.

“Captain,” Eld says.

You turn. The smile fades from your face. Not entirely—you’re too composed for that now, too determined not to let Levi see where the pain still lives, but he sees the change anyway, the armor coming up to shield you.

“Captain,” you say.

Levi looks from you to Eld, then back to you. “You done wasting time?”  The words are even colder than he wants them to be. Or they might be just as cold as he means them to be, because quite often being cruel is more acceptable, in his mind, than standing there and confessing that he actually walked across the yard because another another man made you laugh and Levi wanted, with a sudden violence that disgusts him, to insert himself between you and that warmth.

Eld’s brows draw together. You freeze. “I’m not wasting time,” you say. “Eld was helping me with the new recruits’ drills.”

“Looked like a lot of laughing for drills.”

The silence that follows is thin and almost dangerous. Eld’s eyes move briefly between the two of you, and because he’s neither stupid nor cruel, he steps back. “I’ll go help Auvray’s squad. Captain.” He gives you one last look, almost protective, then leaves. 

Levi hates that too. He hates that Eld looks at you as if your feelings are something he knows how to handle gently. He hates more the fact that Eld might be better at it than he is. When the space between you clears, you face Levi fully.

“That was unnecessary,” you say.

“Excuse me?” Levi scoffs.

“You heard me.”

A month ago, the challenge in your voice would have come wrapped in humor. You probably would have tilted your head at that moment and smiled, softened the tone for him so you could pretend you were just teasing. This time, there’s no smile, nor softness offered for his comfort. He should be glad. He isn’t.

“You’re still on duty,” he says.

“So is Eld.”

“Eld isn’t the one I’m talking to.”

Your lips part slightly, half in surprise, half in disbelief. “No. I suppose not.”

Levi’s hands ball into fists at his sides. He wants to ask what that means. He wants to ask if there’s something between you two. He wants to ask if Eld has touched your hand, if you’ve brought Eld tea, if you smiled at Eld the way you used to smile at him. He wants to ask if you’re happy now that you’ve stopped talking to him. But he knows he has no right to ask any of it.

“You should be more careful,” Levi says instead, because his mouth has always known how to be the worst possible weapon. “People get the wrong idea when you throw yourself at every man who gives you attention.”

He did not mean to say that.

Your face goes blank. Completely, utterly blank. You don’t even look hurt or angry. It’s just blank. His stomach drops. Your fingers twitch once at your side, but your voice, when it comes, is surprisingly—painfully—eased.

“I see.”

You step back. Levi says your name. It leaves him before he can stop it, stripped of rank and anger and all the useless armor he keeps trying to force between himself and whatever the hell you’re doing to him.

“Don’t, Captain.” You turn away and leave without looking back.

The title hits harder than if you had slapped him. He honestly would have preferred if you slapped him. Levi just stands there, frozen, watching you leave while the recruits pretend not to stare, pretending that they didn’t just overhear the most emotionally charged conversation they’ve heard in their entire time in the military.

He thinks of following you at first. Then he thinks of what he would say. Nothing comes. Nothing that would undo it. Nothing that would explain why he keeps turning fear into a knife and then acting surprised when you bleed. So he stays where he is until your figure disappears amongst the crowd. Only then does he realize Eld has stopped near the fence and is looking at him with disappointment. Levi looks away first.

By the time he reaches his office, the anger has returned, boiling hotter than shame. He shuts the door harder than necessary, and the sound breaks through the silence of the room before it rushes back in, deeper than before. He looks at the teacup waiting on the corner of the desk, empty, because he’s not yet made tea and you no longer do.

It’s better this way, he tells himself. No more pointless kindness. No more interruptions. No more break snuck to him because you noticed he skipped a meal. No more stupid confessions. No more of you looking at him like he could be anything other than what he is. A soldier. A killer. A survivor by habit, not by virtue. A man who has spent his life learning the names of the people he couldn’t save.

Levi grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He remembers the exact words he said to you not two hours ago. The memory of your face after he said it hits him with such force that his breath hitches.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He pushes away from the desk, pacing once toward the window, then back again, restless energy crawling beneath his skin. He wants to clean something. He wants to tear something apart. He wants to go back in time into the yard and rip the words out of the air before they can reach you. If he could, he would slap himself before he could even get the words out.

Instead, he does nothing. His thoughts circle you first. Your hand in his field of vision as it places tea on his desk. Your melodic voice. Your laugh across the mess hall. Your eyes, now careful, guarded because he taught you to guard them.

Then Eld. Eld standing too close. Eld making you laugh. Eld smiling at you. Eld looking at you like he wouldn’t punish you for wanting to be wanted.

Levi’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. This isn’t about Eld. That’s the truth, and he hates it. Eld is a good soldier. Loyal. Kind without making a spectacle of it. He’s the kind of man who probably knows how to accept affection. The kind of man who might say yes if you chose him instead.

The thought makes Levi’s stomach turn. He braces both hands on the desk and lowers his head. He realizes now what he’s been avoiding. It isn’t jealousy; it isn’t irritation or discipline or concern with professionalism. It’s fear. Raw fear.

It’s been there from the start, waiting beneath every rejection, every insult, every cold turn of his shoulder. He sees it now. You were never the danger. Wanting you was. Wanting you means imagining you outside the walls and worrying you won’t return. Wanting you means knowing the exact sound of your laugh and then imagining a world where he never hears it again. Wanting you means letting your existence become a part of his own, and losing you would nearly kill him. No, it would kill him.

And Levi knows loss.

His mother. Kuchel, pale and motionless in a bed that he’d seen too much of. Her hand no longer able to reach for him. Her voice gone before he was old enough to understand all the ways the world could take from him.

Then Isabel. Loud, passionate Isabel, with her recklessness and her impossible faith that the world above could be something other than a nightmare. Isabel, who had called him big brother with such devotion that he’d pretended to hate it because pretending was safer than letting himself feel vulnerable. 

Furlan too. Furlan, who had trusted Levi’s judgement more than anyone had a right to, who followed him out of the Underground, who believed, who died because the world is merciless and Levi is never fast enough when it matters most.

His comrades. Countless comrades buried beneath banners and speeches and the rotten consolation that they died for humanity’s cause. Faces that once turned toward him in trust before the Titans took them. 

Connection, to Levi, has never been safe. To him, it’s a door opening into a room that will one day be empty. A hand reaching for his that will one day go cold. A voice saying his name that will one day stop answering. 

So he rejected you. Again and again and again. And some sick, righteous part of him had called it mercy. If he kept you away, you would be safer. If he made you stop loving him, you would stop standing too close to the blast radius of everything he loses. If he refused to want you, then losing you—if the world ever took you, when the world took you—would not destroy him.

Except you’re not gone. You’re alive. And he’s still managed to lose you.

Levi sits slowly in his chair, his legs suddenly feeling unsteady. He did this. Not titans. Not the Underground. Not fate, not duty, not the walls, not the endless bloody machinery of survival. Him. His fear. His hands pushing away the one person stubborn enough to keep reaching for him. To keep trusting him.

He doesn’t move for a while. The office grows darker around him, the last of the daylight fading behind the curtains. Somewhere outside, he hears footsteps. They’re not yours. He wishes he wasn’t so disappointed. He hears voices fall and rise. Life continues with an indifference that feels almost insulting.

Then comes a knock at the door. For a moment, he thinks foolishly that it’s you. Then the hope is snuffed by reality, and he doesn’t bother answering. The door opens anyway. Hange steps inside, takes one look at him sitting motionless behind his desk, and pauses. They already have a knowing look on their face.

“You know,” Hange says, closing the door behind them,” for someone so smart, you’re impressively stupid about feelings.”

Levi sighs deeply. “Fuck off, Four Eyes. Not in the mood.”

“No, I imagine you’re not.” Hange approaches without waiting for permission and leans against the edge of the desk. “I saw what happened. Eld looked like he wanted to hit you.”

“Eld knows better.”

“Mm. He does. That’s probably the only reason he didn’t.”

Levi looks away. The words should irritate him—and they do—but beneath the irritation is shame, and shame has sharper teeth. Hange studies him for a moment.

“What did you say to her?” they ask.

Levi’s eyelids flutter down briefly. It would be easy for him to lie. He could tell Hange to get out and leave him alone with the wreckage he caused. Instead, because some exhausted part of him is too tired to keep bleeding in secret, he says, “Something I shouldn’t have.”

“That bad?” Levi gives them a look, and it makes Hange wince. “Ouch. That bad.”

Silence settles between them. For once, Hange doesn’t rush to fill it. Levi stares at the teacup near his hand. He wonders if you still make tea for yourself. He hasn’t seen you near the tea station in a while—but then again, you could just be avoiding him that efficiently. Or perhaps you just avoid the places where he lingers.

“She stopped,” he says finally.

“You asked her to,” Hange says.

“I know.”

“Did you mean it?”

Levi’s throat tightens. That should be an easy question. He's built his entire life on making hard answers sound simple, but nothing about you has ever been simple, not from the first time you looked at him like he wasn’t nearly as scary as everyone was making him out to be.

“I thought I did,” he says.

“And now?” Hange asks.

Levi’s hand wraps around the teacup, though there’s nothing in it. He thinks of you laughing with Eld. He thinks of your face going blank. He thinks of how much easier it was when you loved him loudly enough that he could pretend your heart was the problem and not his own cowardice.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

Hange doesn’t ask what this means—they know. “Start by not hurting her every time she gets close.”

Levi bitterly laughs once under his breath. “Brilliant advice.”

“You’re ever so welcome.” His eyes lift to meet them, and Hange’s expression is painfully serious now. He hates when they look like this—it means they’re impossible to escape. “You’re allowed to be scared, Levi.”

He looks away instantly. “No.”

“Yes,” they say, firmer. “You are. After everything you’ve lost, you’d be insane not to be. But being scared doesn’t give you the right to make her feel disposable.”

Levi’s stomach churns. “I know,” he says. It sounds like defeat. Maybe it is.

Hange’s voice gentles. “Do you love her?”

Levi freezes. His first instinct is to refuse. His second is anger. His third is to remember your face. Your smile. Your voice that softens only for him. Your absence now, filling his office more than your presence ever dared. Levi lowers his gaze. There’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

He nods.

Hange doesn’t smile like they normally would. They only nod once, confirming what they already knew and had been kind enough to let him reach on his own. “Then you’d better figure out how to say that to her before someone else does.” Levi glares at them, and they lift both hands in defense. “Just being real. She’s a catch.”

Real. Levi has always hated that word, but this reality sits in front of him now, unavoidable. He loves you. He hurt you. You might not wait for him to become brave. The idea ought to make him stand, should send him out of his office, down the corridor, to your door with an apology and every wall inside him burning down behind it. Instead, he stays seated, because despite his love being genuine, the fear that was born first is still the one to rule.

Hange pushes away from the desk. “For what it’s worth,” they say at the door, “I think she loved you enough to listen.”

Loved. Past tense. Levi flinches at that. Hange notices, but they leave anyway, the door clicking shut behind them. Levi sits alone in the dark with the word still lodged in his chest.

Loved.

.

Levi didn’t plan on drinking. He doesn’t drink. Not normally. He definitely doesn’t drink because he enjoys it. Enjoyment has always been something he doesn’t trust easily. He drinks because the bottle has been sitting untouched in the bottom drawer of his desk ever since Erwin left it there three months ago after some late night visit that had run past midnight and into the hours of the morning. He drinks because the office is silent now. He drinks because Hange’s question won’t stop replaying in his mind.

Do you love her?

He grabs the glass and pours the amber liquid into the cup with a hint of anger and almost spite. He doesn’t lift the glass for a toast to the empty room. There’s nothing worth celebrating or honoring in this moment. No winning, no relief, no opening up of himself that could be considered noble or brave. There’s only the fact that he loves you. And because Levi is a man who’s lived by the rule of cutting off weakness before the world can get its hands on it, that very fact feels like a wound in his gut, and he has no idea how to bandage it. 

He drinks. The liquor burns down his throat and warms his chest. The heat gives him something physical to hate for a blessed second. He pours again. Outside his office, the headquarters eases into a slumber. Someone’s laughter echoes down the corridor before it’s hushed by another person. A door closes somewhere else. The fact that life continues is taunting him, acting like it doesn’t matter that his entire world has shifted because you finally stopped loving him.

Well, you didn’t stop. He doesn’t know if you stopped. He only knows you learned how to be silent about it. He taught it to you. The thought makes his heart skip a beat.

Levi leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, but the darkness behind them provides no mercy. It gives him the image of you instead, because his mind can’t go anywhere else. He imagines you in the supply room. You in the corridor, placing bread in his hand. You in the stables, admiring his connection to animals. You outside of the infirmary with both physical and emotional wounds. You in the courtyard today, your face going blank after he used your own affection against you.

“Damn it,” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow ridge. He’d just meant to protect himself. He’d looked at the recklessness of your devotion and saw every grave he’s stood over. His mother’s body. Isabel’s smile turned slack. Furlan’s trust, wasted on the impossible idea that Levi could let them all out alive.

Levi drinks again and again. The room begins to spin slightly. His reflection waits in the dark window as he turns to face it. Pale, blurred, a man with too much blood on his hands. A man who has no idea what to do with love except ruin it. He’s a coward.

If rejecting you had been mercy, then why had it only hurt you? If pushing you away had been kindness, then why had your voice gone so careful around him? If he had been protecting you, then why does the memory of your face make him feel like the danger was never the world outside the walls, but him?

He pours again, his hand shaking this time, and a small amount spills onto the desk. Normally, he would reach immediately for a cloth. Tonight, he only stares at the dark stain spreading over the polished wood. His mouth twists in both disgust and irritation.

“Great,” he says to no one.

Every time he raises the cup, it feels heavier. So does the truth. He loves you. He loves the way you say his name. He loves the stubborn tilt of your chin when you refuse to let his cruelty be the only thing between you. He loves you for noticing when he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, when he’s so angry that you know grief alone couldn’t cause it. He loves you, and it scares him so much that he’s tempted to seek refuge behind every locked door inside himself.

Instead, drunk and stripped bare by the quiet, Levi thinks of you. Your room is down the corridor, past the turn by the east stairwell, three doors from the end. He knows it by heart, despite not being there often.

For several long minutes, he sits motionless with the glass in his hand, raises to press against his forehead. He breathes deeply through the horrible desire of wanting to see you and the equally horrible knowledge that, deep down, he has no right to ask anything of you now.

Then he stands. His vision swims. Levi grips the desk, scowling at the fact that he can’t even balance himself. It’s pathetic, he thinks groggily, but he doesn’t sit back down. He leaves the bottle open on the desk. The spilled liquor dries beside his hand. He stumbles into the corridor. 

You need to hear the truth from him. Even if you no longer want it.

.

You sit on the edge of your bed with a half-mended shirt in your lap, needle in your fingers. The motions are familiar after years of practice, though it has been a while since you’ve needed to mend something. You’re surprised, considering the less than gentle treatment your clothing constantly endures. You’re glad, however, that your mother taught you how to sew. You think briefly that you should send her a letter soon. 

Then a knock comes. It’s so late in the night that you think you might have imagined it. You shake your head, dislodging the illusion, and return to your sewing. But then the knock comes again, more urgent. Your hands stop moving. Your stomach turns at the first thought that comes to your mind. But you know it’s not him. Why would it be? You sigh and set the shirt aside, then stand.

When you open the door, you’re immediately proven wrong. Levi is standing before you, one hand braced against the doorframe, his hair slightly messy, his cravat loose at the throat, his eyes too dazed. Levi is many things—controlled, scary enough to whip grown men into shape just by entering a room, but he’s never this. Never unsteady or vulnerable. Never looking at you like this as if he’s spent the entire night debating and fighting over the urge to go to your room, still not knowing whether he deserves to enter.

“Captain?” you say.

His face twists. He leans in slightly—not intentionally, but from a loss of balance. “Don’t call me that.”

Then you smell the liquor. You blink, taken aback. “Levi, are you drunk?”

His mouth pulls into a line that’s too bitter to be a smile. “Unfortunately.”

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do with him at your door in the middle of the night, drunk enough that he’s tipping over but sober enough that his eyes are still full of pain. You don’t know if you should let him in or tell him to screw off, whether to be worried or angry, whether to protect yourself or reach for him before he walls. And the worst part is that deep down, you still want to care for him.

“Why are you here?” you ask.

Levi looks at you, and his face breaks in a way you’ve never seen before. “I fucked up.”

The words come rough and raw. They’re not even surprising to you, because you’ve known that for weeks now, but hearing him say it is different. You peer down the hall and step aside before you can convince yourself not to.

“Come in before someone sees you like this.” He enters slowly. You close the door behind him, and when you turn around, he’s just standing there, his shoulders and hands tensed, looking at everything except your face. “You should sit down.”

“No.”

“Levi—”

“I wanted you.” You freeze. His eyes finally lift to yours. “I wanted you. Every damn time. Every time you said it, every time you smiled at me, every time you made those stupid jokes. I wanted to say yes. And I didn’t, because I’m a coward.”

You swear all of the air in the room escapes at that moment. You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest, shock and hurt and old longing colliding so violently that you almost feel sick. This is what you wanted once, isn’t it? This confession, this man standing in front of you and finally saying the thing you’ve been dying to hear. But it only came after he drank. After he’s made you feel stupid for offering what he now claims he wanted. You swallow hard.

“You’re drunk,” you say. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.”

“No,” Levi says, stepping closer, then stopping himself. “You’re going to hear it. You listened to every shitty thing I said. You can listen to this too.”

He’s not wrong. You did listen. Every time. You stood there and took every dismissal, every wound, and you kept making excuses for him because loving him was easier than admitting he had been hurting you on purpose.

Your eyes burn. “Fine,” you whisper. “Say it, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Levi says. He swallows, looks down, then forces himself to look at you again. “I’m sorry for all of it. For making you feel like you were stupid for caring. For treating you like dirt under my shoes. For taking every good thing you gave me and throwing it away because I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Your throat closes. You want to hate him. You think hatred would be far easier than this—the fact that you still love him while still remembering why you learned to retreat. “You made me feel pathetic.” Levi flinches at that. For a second, you’re happy, and then you hate yourself for thinking that.

“I know,” he says, his voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“You made me wish I hadn’t said any of it,” you continue. “I meant it every time, Levi. Even when I made it sound like a joke. Even when I smiled. Even when everyone laughed. I meant it, and you—” You pause. “You made me feel humiliated.”

Levi’s eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, they’re wet. “I know.”

“That doesn’t fix it.”

“I’m not trying to fix it.”

“Then what are you trying to do here?”

He looks at you so helplessly that it hurts you. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

His gaze drops to your hands, then returns to your face, and when he speaks, the words sound like they’ve been dragged out of the deepest, most guarded place in him. A place you have rarely, if ever, seen.

“Love someone.”

The room goes silent. The candle flickers across his face. Your heart twists. Levi takes a shaky breath. You match him.

“But I love you. I do. And I’m sorry it took me hurting you to stop lying about it.”

Part of you wants to reach for him. The other part of you wants to step back. You want to tell him you love him too, and you always have. You want to ask why love had to be dressed in apology. Instead, you look at the floor between you.

“Levi,” you say quietly. “I still love you. But I’m hurt.”

“I know,” he says.

“And I don’t forgive you yet.”

“Good.” That surprises you. You raise both eyebrows, and he gives a humorless little exhale. “You shouldn’t. Not just because I finally stopped lying to myself.”

“You need to sit down,” you say.

This time, he doesn’t argue. He lowers himself into the chair by your desk, elbows resting on his knees, head lowered. He looks so exhausted. You pour him some water from your pitcher and bring it to him. Both of you freeze momentarily when his fingers brush yours when he takes the cup. He withdraws first.

“I’ll say it again when I’m sober,” he says hoarsely. You look down at him. “If you’ll let me.”

Your fingers curl around the empty space where the cup had been. The answer should be simple, but it isn’t. You don’t know if you want to hear those words without the barrier of alcohol. They might just break your resolve.

After a moment, you nod. “Say it sober,” you whisper. “And then we’ll see.”

Levi nods and closes his eyes.

.

Morning breaks through the thin curtains, laying a strip of light across the floor and the half-mended shirt still folded at the end of your bed. Levi wakes in a chair—the same chair he was in last night. He’s no stranger to falling asleep in chairs. Where others would be aching, he feels fine, save for the headache pulsing behind his eyes.

He doesn’t remember where he is for a second. Then he looks around, and he remembers everything about last night. The drinking. Coming to your door. Your face when he said he wanted you. Him confessing his love.

Levi sighs. Across the room, you’re laying in bed, turned toward the wall, blanket pulled to your shoulder. You look peaceful, or close enough to peaceful that guilt moves through him with a force that nearly brings him to his feet to leave before you can wake up. Maybe that would be better. He could go back to his quarters and pretend this never happened.

He shifts carefully, trying not to make the chair creak, but the movement sends pain up his spine and a low sound leaves him before he can swallow it. You stir in your sleep and wake. Levi freezes. You open your eyes slowly and turn around to face him. Now that he looks at you, you don’t look like you’ve just woken up from sleep. You don’t have that grogginess most do, and your hair is neatly brushed.

He gets confirmation of this when you get out of bed and grab a teacup, filled with tea that you must have brewed before he woke up. You carry it over to him. He stares at it, then at you, and you hold it out.

“Well?” you say.

Levi takes the teacup, though his fingers shake around the porcelain. He doesn’t even bother to hide it this time. He looks at the caution in your eyes, the hurt still sitting behind it, the hope that lingers. His mouth dries and his throat closes up, but he forces the words out anyway.

“I love you,” he says.

Your lips part slightly. “You’re sure?”

Levi lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, though it’s not really a laugh, more like an exhale of exhaustion laced with a hint of relief. “I was sure before,” he says. “I was just an idiot.”

Your face crumples for a second. You never thought this day would come, that he could utter those words. You didn’t realize how badly you wanted this. How much it cost to hear it now.

He sets the tea aside and stands, keeping enough distance that you can choose whether to close it. You’re not sure if you want to yet, but the urge trembles between you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

You look down, blinking hard to force the tears back. “Please don’t hurt me every time you’re scared.”

Levi nods. “I won’t. I promise.”

The silence comes to rest between you. Then, carefully, you step forward and reach for his hand. Levi looks down as your fingers touch his, stunned by the gentleness of it, by the fact that after everything, you’re still willing to reach out. He grabs your hand and wraps his fingers around yours.

“I’ll do better,” he says.

You squeeze his fingers once and smile.

“You’d better.”

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divider by: diviniyae

It was more of a slip of a tongue than anything. 

It’s late in the night. The corridors have gone quiet. Everyone has finally surrendered to their sleep. Lanterns have either been snuffed or are running down to the end of the candle wicks. Branches of the trees drag across the glass, and somewhere beyond the courtyard, a horse whinnies, restless in the same way everyone seems restless these days, even where there’s nothing immediate to fear.

But you know as well as anyone, that there is always something to fear.

That’s the thing about the Scouts. You don’t carry fear with you. It follows you. It lives in your bones, beneath your fingernails, in your tight shoulders after a mission briefing, in silence that follows when someone says a name and no one answers because that person is already gone.

Maybe that’s why you’re so attracted to Levi. Because he never seems afraid. Not openly, anyway.

He sits at his desk with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, a stack of reports arranged neatly in front of him. His teacup is placed at the exact corner of the desk, where even one small shake of the desk could knock it over. His cravat is loosened slightly, but it’s not enough to make him look relaxed, because you believe Levi would rather be dragged through the streets tied by the hands than look relaxed where anyone can see him. But it’s enough that the sight catches you off guard every time you glance up from your own work.

You’re supposed to be copying casualty numbers into a ledger. You’re, instead, watching the flex of his fingers as he writes. It’s almost humiliating how attracted you are to them. It’s even worse because you realize that it’s humiliating, and yet you keep on doing it. You really should stop staring.

“You’re staring,” Levi says without looking up.

Your quill nearly slips from your fingers. Caught. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That must be new for you.”

Maybe you should be offended. Maybe you already are. Perhaps a part of you lifts its head, bares its teeth, and considers he’s awful and it’s about time you stop treating him like he’s royalty when all he’s done is insult your intelligence and correct your handwriting twice. But you simply smile over your ledger, because there’s obviously something wrong with you.

“I was thinking,” you say, dipping your quill again, “that you look nice like this.”

Levi’s hand stops. It’s tiny. So small. A momentary pause in gesture, a flicker of silence between one word and the next, and yet you notice it, as you always do. You always see the things you wish you didn’t, because your affection for him has made you perceptive to the point of self-injury. 

Then he resumes writing. “Get your eyes checked.”

You laugh tiredly. “I mean it,” you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to ignore every remaining sensible instinct you possess. “You always look nice, but especially when you’re not threatening to make someone scrub the latrines with a toothbrush.”

“I can still threaten you, if that helps.”

“It might,” you say, and when he finally lifts his gaze to you, one brow faintly lifted, you press your lips together to keep yourself from smiling too much. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Captain.”

You definitely did not plan on saying that out loud. 

The words are like a lit match dropped onto paper. You expect something to happen, though you’re not sure exactly what; maybe for Levi to look startled, maybe for your own heartbeat to become so loud that he hears it and tells you to quiet down, but there’s only the sound of his quill stopping and his eyes fixing on you with a disbelief that’s usually reserved for soldiers who have done something phenomenally stupid with live blades. You’ve seen Connie almost cut open his own hand at least a dozen times now.

“No, you’re not,” he says. It’s so blunt that, for a second, you almost laugh again.

“I think I know what I’m feeling.”

“You clearly don’t.”

“That’s a little presumptuous.”

“You’re exhausted. You’ve been copying death tolls for two hours, and your standards are slipping.”

You should probably retreat now, but the bruise of it is too new to hurt yet, and maybe you’re still brave because you haven’t learned your lesson on how this man can cut you without drawing steel.

“My standards are excellent,” you say. “That’s why I picked you.”

Levi stares at you. You stare back, fully aware of the heat gathering beneath your skin. You notice how he hasn’t looked back down yet.His face shifts—not much, because Levi’s expressions never move far enough to be generous, but enough that something flickers behind his eyes. You can’t tell what it is. 

Then he presses his lips together and scoffs. “Finish the ledger. And don’t say stupid things just because it’s late.”

The match goes out. You look down. “Right,” you say, your smile feeling much more fragile than it was one minute ago. “Yes, sir.”

After that, you decide that confession didn’t count. It was late. You were tired. He was rude, but Levi is always rude, and somehow that makes the rejection easier to deal with.

Except it does count.

Because the next time you say it, you’re not tired enough to pretend you don’t mean it.

The next time you flirt with him is after training, when the sun is high and cruel and every inch of your uniform is clinging to your skin. The sound of the training grounds is always loud. Someone groans dramatically near the water barrels. Sasha is arguing that dinner time should be two hours earlier than it is, to which Jean tells her that she’s going to get kicked out of the Scouts with her behavior. Eren is insisting to Mikasa that he could take down one of the veterans in hand-to-hand combat, which is not true and everyone knows is not true.

You’re bent forward with your hands braced on your knees, sweat dripping from your chin into the dust, lungs burning, thighs trembling with the intensity of being thrown onto your back three times by a man who has the emotional warmth of a snail. Levi stands several feet away, not even breathing hard. You hate him a little for it. You love him more. 

“You’re leaving your right side open,” he says, acting like that’s the main problem and not the fact that he’s driven your spine to the ground so many times that the two of them might as well get married. 

You straighten your back, wincing when your shoulders throb in pain. “I noticed.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m choosing to believe you’re only being this mean because you’re impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“Wounded,” you say, touching a hand to your chest. “And after I gave you such a good show.”

Levi’s eyes narrow as they fix on you. There’s dirt on your cheek, gritty beneath the sweat. Your hair is tousled, strands sticking to your face and neck. You know you probably look half-dead, which makes it even more ridiculous when you grin at him as though you’re the one with the upper hand.

“If I land a hit, you have to have tea with me,” you say, shifting your stance again, though your legs are already screaming in pain.

You feel the shift around you immediately, the tiny ripple of attention passing across the training grounds. People know by now. They know you admire him. They know you’re reckless enough to smile at him when most soldiers avert their eyes. They know Levi has never once softened for you in front of them. But they don’t know that you’ve already told him once. They don’t know that some small part of you is hoping the second time will land differently.

Levi looks at you for a long moment. “Good thing you won’t,” he finally says.

Then he attacks. It’s over quickly. You last longer than you did the first round, which you’ll cling to as a personal victory when your pride has stopped bleeding. But it’s not enough to make him sweat, and certainly not long enough to win yourself tea. He hooks your ankle and drops you onto the dirt with one hand gripping your sleeve and the other arm pressed against your throat.

He’s too close. Close enough that you can see the dark crescents beneath his eyes, the tiny nick near his jaw from shaving too quickly, the dust clinging to his hair. Close enough that his arm, still pressed against you, feels like the only solid point in the universe.

“You know,” you say breathlessly, “there are easier ways to get me on my back.”

Someone chokes in the distance. Jean, probably. Armin winces and covers his face. Levi’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers clench your sleeve before he releases you and stands up.

“Get up,” he says.

You push yourself onto your elbows. “No tea, then?”

“No.”

“Dinner?”

“No.”

“A walk?”

“No.”

“An emotionally honest conversation?”

“Are you always this annoying?” 

You laugh then. If you don’t laugh, you think you might cry a little. To anyone else, it would sound like he despises you, but you know deep down, he appreciates your presence. At least, you think he does. You hope.

Levi steps back, eyes already moving toward the others. “Again,” he says.

Your smile falters. “Again?”

“You wanted to land a hit.”

“I also want to retain the use of my spine.”

“Then move correctly.”

You groan, but you get up anyway. When he turns away to retrieve the training blade he had discarded near the fence, you miss how his gaze drops briefly to the place where his fingers had been on your sleeve. He didn’t mean to do that.

Levi hates this. Not you. This. This thing you keep doing. This reckless habit of saying what you feel for him as though feelings are not the most complex thing known to man, wanting someone has never been a mistake, and affection is something you can simply place in another person’s hands and expect them not to drop it. He has no use for it. He has no patience for it.

And yet, when you stand again with dirt on your uniform and that stubborn light in your eyes, Levi’s first though is not that you’re irritating like he says you are.

It’s that you’re still alive and with him.

His second thought is that he wants you to stay that way.

His third thought is so dangerous that he buries it before it finishes forming.

.

People start to make jokes about you and Levi. The Scouts have a talent for taking anything sensitive and turning it into humor. It begins—as it always does—in the mess hall. It’s loud. The long tables are crowded with soldiers leaning shoulder to shoulder, passing bread, stealing scraps, arguing over insignificant things (mostly Eren and Jean), laughing too loudly at stories that are shared between moments in the training yard. 

You sit with your squad, eating your soup as you try not to stare at the officers’ table. You naturally fail. Levi sits apart even among the other officers, a cup of tea held lightly in one hand. Erwin is talking beside him, and Hange is gesturing enthusiastically enough—probably about their latest experiments—to nearly knock over their own bowl. Levi appears to be listening, though his eyes flick briefly toward the table with Connie and Sasha when both of them laugh too loud.

Then he looks at you.

“You’re doing it again,” Petra says beside you. 

You look down at your soup immediately. “I’m eating.”

“You’re daydreaming.”

“I’m not!”

“You absolutely are,” Oluo says, leaning back with misplaced confidence. “It’s pathetic, really.”

“You bite your tongue every other sentence trying to imitate him. Don’t start throwing stones,” Eld says. Oluo sputters. You smile, grateful for the distraction and defense, but your eyes betray you by drifting toward Levi again; and this time Gunther catches it too.

“You could always confess again,” he says. You had told the squad about your confession a week or so ago, and naturally, they found it the funniest thing in the world. And then they called you the stupidest person in the world. “Maybe persistence will wear him down.”

“It works on doors,” Eld says.

“Levi isn’t a door,” Petra says.

“He’s got the personality of one,” you say. That earns a few laughs. 

Across the room, Levi’s eyes lift again. You know immediately that he heard that last part. The man could probably hear dust drifting in the air. For a moment, you consider looking away. Instead, because your pride is a stubborn creature, you lift your cup and toast it in his direction. His eyes narrow, but you smile anyway. He looks back to Erwin.

That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t. After dinner, when the mess hall begins to empty and soldiers drift toward their beds or their duties, you find yourself in the kitchen near the dedicated tea station—which you’re convinced was set up only for Levi—reaching for the kettle at the exact same time Levi does. Your fingers nearly brush, and it’s enough for your breath to hitch. Levi glances at your hand, then at you.

“Move,” he says.

“You could say please,” you mutter.

“I could also assign you stable duty.”

“You make romance very difficult, Captain.”

He frowns at the title, but you don’t really notice it too much since you’re trying to not pour hot water on yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you think. It’s only tea. He barely touched you. Levi is just standing this close—close enough that you can smell his soap—because he’s impatient and waiting for the kettle.

Behind you, someone snickers. You don’t turn, but Levi does. The snickering stops with impressive speed. “Problem?” he asks.

“No, sir,” several voices answer.

You press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing. Levi turns back to you. “You enjoy making yourself a spectacle?”

You don’t know why, but those words hit a tender spot in your nerves. Your smile falters. “I’m not trying to.”

“Aren’t you?”

That stings. Not badly, but enough for you to look down at the tea in your cup, watching the surface tremble with the tiny motion of your hand. “I just like you,” you say, quiet enough for only him to hear.

The silence that follows is almost deadly. Levi doesn’t move. You suddenly wish you’d said it louder, made it into a joke or dressed it up with such an unserious tone that he could brush it off as nothing. But it’s not nothing.

Levi’s face tenses. “Don’t,” he says.

One word. Not no. Not stop. Don’t. You’ve clearly reached for a wound without knowing it was there. Your throat tightens slightly. It’s stupid how much that single word hurts. The others have gone quiet behind you, though whether because they heard or because Levi’s silence has made things tense, you don’t know. You nod once.

“Sorry,” you say.

Levi’s jaw flexes. For the briefest moment, his eyes change, and a hint of regret moves through them, but then he reaches for his cup, turns away, and leaves you standing at the tea station with a teacup in your hand that suddenly feels too hot to hold.

You should probably stop. You tell yourself that while watching him disappear down the corridor. You tell yourself this while you stand there with the unbearable knowledge that you won’t.

.

Levi doesn’t sleep well that night, which isn’t unusual. Sleep has always been an issue for him. It’s something his body demands but his mind resents, a brief surrender that leaves too much room for memory to crawl in with its dirty hands. He’s accustomed to lying awake for hours. He’s accustomed to the silence of the night and his own thoughts circling until they get stripped down to their bones.

He’s not used to thinking about the way your voice sounded when you said, I just like you. Then he realizes that’s a lie. He is used to thinking about your voice. That’s the issue. 

Levi lies on his back in the dark, one arm folded behind his head. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. He knows this has gone on long enough. You’re careless with your affection. You throw it around like it costs nothing. Like you have so much of it that losing some wouldn’t hurt you.

Then he remembers your hand trembling around your cup. He realizes, no, you’re not careless. That would be easier. Careless people don’t look away so quickly when they’re hurt. Careless people don’t apologize for taking up too much space in someone else’s guarded life. Careless people don’t learn how someone takes their tea and remembers it without being asked. You’re not careless. You’re one of the few sincere people he knows. That’s worse to him.

Levi closes his eyes. Behind them, he sees you smiling at him across the training yard, flushed and breathless, daring him to be human for one second. He sees you in the mess hall, laughing because everyone else is laughing, even though your eyes keep searching for him. He sees you tonight, freezing around a single word.

Don’t.

He should have said something else. He should have said nothing. He should have made you stop sooner. If you stop, this ends. If this ends, no one gets hurt. Except he already hurt you. 

Levi opens his eyes. The ceiling offers no answers, no matter how hard he stares.

“Damn brat,” he mutters.

.

The confessions become a routine, almost. They’re never spoken in the same way, but they become woven into the strange fabric of your days. It’s as familiar as the bitter taste of weak coffee when tea runs low and the scent of soap after Levi has ordered an entire hallway scrubbed because someone left a single muddy footprint in it.

You tell him in fractions. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes because the feeling rises up in you with nowhere else to go, and the alternative is swallowing it until you choke. 

Levi rejects you every time. Sometimes you think he has a list of things to say prepared. Sometimes you think he makes them up on the spot. You’re not sure which scenario is worse.

The fourth time you confess comes in the stables, of all places. Rain has slicked the yard into a mess. The horses are restless tonight. You’re adjusting tack and cleaning hooves, your sleeves rolled up despite the cold because one of the mares keeps nudging your elbow and trying to chew the cuff.

Then Levi enters. “You’re doing that wrong,” he says.

You glance down at the stirrup strap in your hand. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Exactly.”

You sigh and step aside, letting him take over, because while there are many hills you’re willing to die on, arguing with Levi about equipment care isn’t one of them. He checks and adjusts the straps that you already did. Then he lifts the tack onto the assigned mare to make sure everything looks good. The horse calms beneath his touch, which is unfair, because Levi is as soft as a sword, yet animals seem to understand him. You watch him stroke one hand down the mare’s neck, murmuring something too low for you to catch. You feel a strange flutter in your stomach.

“You’re gentle with them,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Levi looks at you. “With horses.”

“Horses. Animals. Things that scare easily.”

His expression goes blank, and it tells you instantly that you’ve stepped too close to something he’s not willing to reveal yet. You should retreat, and yet, you don’t.

“I like that about you.”

His hand stops on the strap. Rain thunders on the roof. The mare huffs, her warm breath ghosting into the air. Levi stares at you for a long moment, then says, “You’re reading too much into basic competence.”

“Maybe,” you say. “Or maybe you’re more careful than you want people to know.”

Levi looks away before you can follow up, tightening the girth. “Stop romanticizing me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I’m just seeing you for who you are.”

He laughs humorlessly. “You should look somewhere else.”

You breathe in through your nose, the scent of hay and wet earth filling your nostrils. It should be comforting, but you feel foolish standing here with your heart spilling out of your chest like this.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” you say.

Levi hardens. “That’s your problem.”

You flinch. It’s tiny, but it’s there. You know it’s visible because Levi’s eyes move immediately to your face. You can tell he caught it. He seems to recoil, his brows drawing faintly together, but then he looks away.

“Finish checking the tack,” he says.

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

.

You don’t count the next time you confess because you’re half-delirious with exhaustion after an expedition that has left everyone hollow-eyed and covered with dirt and moving like ghosts through the building. You sit on a bench outside the infirmary with a bandage around your forearm and a bruise forming on your ribs, watching medics hurry past you. Levi is standing next to you with blood on his sleeve—blood that doesn’t belong to him—with a look in his eyes that tells you he’s not fully here.

You’re alive. He’s alive. Too many others are not. That kind of thing makes people act and speak recklessly. Which is why you think you say what you say.

Levi hasn’t spoken to you since returning through the gate except to ask if you were injured, and when you showed him your arm, he clicked his tongue and said, “Idiot,” with enough fury that you understood he had already been watching when that Titan came too close.

Now he stands in front of you, arms crossed, staring at the bandage. “You hesitated,” he says.

You look up at him. “What?”

“Out there. You hesitated.”

You’re far too tired to defend yourself quickly. You say, exhausted, “I was trying to pull Kessler back.”

“Kessler was already dead.”

You look away. You know that. You felt the moment that Kessler’s body relaxed and it started dragging you down. You felt the horrible slackness of his arm in your grip. You knew, even then, but knowing and letting go are not the same thing, and you’re too tired for Levi’s version of mercy.

“I know,” you say.

“Do you?”

Your head snaps back up, anger flaring. “Yes, Levi. I know.”

His eyes narrow at the use of his name. Good. Let him hate it. Let him feel something.

“I know he was dead,” you continue. “I know I almost got myself killed trying to save someone who was already gone. I know that was stupid. I know you’re going to tell me it was stupid. I know.”

Levi stares at you as you breathe too hard. Your ribs ache. Your eyes burn, though you refuse to let any tears fall, because crying in front of Levi after a mission feels like bleeding in front of a shark. His jaw works once.

“Then don’t do it again,” he says.

It’s still an order, but there’s a certain rawness underneath it that makes your anger falter. You look at him, at the dirt on his clothes, the blood on his sleeve, the exhausting plastered on his face. You look at the man everyone calls humanity’s strongest, standing there as though strength has ever saved him from grief.

The words come out before you can stop them. “I worry about you too, you know.” He tilts his head, expression hardening. You should probably stop, but you don’t. “I know you don’t want me to. I know you think it’s stupid, or useless, or whatever else you tell yourself when people care about you, but I do.” Your hands curl into fists against your thigh, nails biting into your palms. “I worry every time we leave the walls. I worry every time you go quiet after we come back. I worry because I—”

“Enough.”

You shut your mouth. Levi is no longer looking at you, but through you. You feel a shiver run down your spine. He can’t even look at you when turning you down? 

“Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”

You swallow. “And what is it?”

“A bad habit.”

You feel the color drain from your face. The whole world closes around you. You can only focus on the mud on the soles of your boots, the muffled sounds of suffering through the infirmary doors, Levi standing there with his hands clenched so tightly beneath his crossed arms that his knuckles have blanched.

A bad habit. That’s what your affection has become. An inconvenience. Something to correct. 

You nod once, though the movement feels fuzzy. “Right,” you say.

Levi eyes flick back to yours. You stand before you can fully lock your gazes. Pain flashes through your ribs, and you nearly sway, but you keep yourself upright because you can’t bear the thought of him seeing you so weak. 

“I should get this checked again,” you say.

Levi’s gaze drops to your arm. “You already did.”

“I know.”

He understands then. You see it happen, the moment he realizes you’re leaving because of him, not because of the wound. He doesn’t stop you. You walk away. 

Behind you, Levi remains still for a long time. Long after your footsteps disappear. Long after the rain begins again. Long after he realizes that the words he meant to use to keep you alive have found the most tender spot of your heart.

And still, you come back. You always come back. Even if it pains you to see him right now.

The next morning, you pass him in the corridor and give him a smile that’s smaller than usual. “Captain,” you say.

Levi nods once. He expects you to say something else. Some joke. Some reckless little comment. Some ridiculous remark about how he looks like he slept badly and should let you fix that by being charming towards him for ten minutes.

You say nothing, and you keep walking. Levi turns his head without thinking, watching you disappear around the corner. He has a strange feeling in his chest. Annoyance, he decides. That’s all it is.

That’s all it ever will be.

.

Days later, while you’re cleaning, you stand on a stool to reach for a stack of fresh rags on the highest shelf of the supply room. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with folded clothes, brushes, buckets, spare mopheads, bottles of polish, and enough cleaning solution to disinfect the entire world if Levi ever gets his way. The door opens behind you. 

“Careful,” Levi says.

You glance down. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed. With what, you’re not sure. He seems to be in a perpetual state of disappointment with the world. You can’t say you blame him.

“I am being careful,” you reply.

“Standing on that thing will make you crack your skull open.”

“It’s a stool. It’s meant to be stood on.”

“...It’s wobbling.”

“That’s because it fears you.”

“It should.”

You laugh. It surprises you. Maybe it surprises him too, because Levi’s eyes flick up to your face and stay there for half a second too long. There’s a dangerous pause, and both of you feel it. You ignore it and reach for the rags too quickly to escape it, your fingers brushing the edge of the stack. You can’t quite grab it. The stool shifts.

Your balance suddenly tips just enough for your stomach to drop. Before you can correct yourself or grab onto anything, one of Levi’s hands meets your waist, the other gripping your forearm. You feel your heart slam against your ribs. 

“Idiot,” he snaps.

You can’t focus on anything except for his fingers on your waist, warm through the fabric of your shirt. He’s standing so close behind you that when you inhale, you catch his scent. It’s always smelled of clean soap with an undercurrent of something almost like cedar.

You look down at his hand. He does too. Then he releases you as if you’ve burned him. “Get down,” he says.

You quickly grab the rags and climb off the stool, holding the items to your chest. “Thank you,” you say.

“Don’t thank me. Stop doing stupid things.”

“I was just trying to reach the—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I—I had it under control, Captain.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You pause, then you hesitantly say, “You worry about me.”

Levi’s eyes flash briefly before he restrains it. “No.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No.”

“Then what was that?”

“Reflex.”

“Your reflex was to grab my waist?”

His mouth tightens, which is how you know you’ve gotten under his skin. “My reflex was to stop a soldier from injuring themselves because they can’t manage basic balance.”

“That almost sounded affectionate.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

You smile then, because despite everything, despite the way he keeps pushing you away with both hands while somehow still catching you when you stumble, your heart keeps finding reasons to love him. 

“I think you care about me more than you want to admit,” you say.

Levi steps closer. Your smile fades as his shadow falls over you. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You hold his gaze, and for once, you don’t try to soften the moment with a joke or quip. There are moments you need to be serious, and this is one of them. “Maybe not, but I know what it feels like when you look at me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His answer comes far too fast. Levi seems to realize it at the same time you do, because he sighs and looks away toward the shelves. 

“I wish you’d let me care about you,” you say quietly. Levi’s head turns back, and suddenly, the room feels smaller than it did a moment ago.

“I don’t need that from you.”

It’s not the cruelest thing he’s said, but it still breaks a piece of you inside. You inhale slowly, gripping the rags a bit tighter. “Sorry.”

Frustration flickers across his face, but you can tell it’s directed inward this time, at himself, at you, at the entire existence of this thing neither of you seems to be willing to label.

“Just do your job,” he says, harsher now.

“Yes, Captain.”

You don’t see the small flinch he gives when you turn back to the shelves.

.

By now, Levi has recognized that there are stages to this. First, you say something reckless and stupid. Second, he rejects it. Third, you smile. Fourth, he says something. Fifth, your smile falters. Sixth, he feels like the worst kind of bastard for doing that. Seventh, he tells himself you brought it on yourself. Eighth, he thinks about it all night.

It’s a miserable system. He wishes to dismantle it. He’d like, more than that, to understand why he keeps waiting for it to happen again, because that’s the part he can’t excuse. He can excuse rejection. Rejection is clean and sets boundaries where your affection keeps trying to cross them. He can excuse harshness. Harshness is useful. Soldiers listen better to shouts than soft pleas. He can even excuse the anger that rises in him whenever you come too close, because anger is familiar, and familiarity makes things easier to handle.

But he can’t excuse the waiting. He can’t excuse his attention shifting when you enter a room. He can’t excuse the fact that he knows your footsteps by sound now. He can’t excuse how he notices when you don’t look at him. He definitely can’t excuse how guarded he feels when your voice comes gently, as if he’s bracing for impact from a hand that’s never struck him.

He hates it. He hates the anticipation. He hates the feeling that lingers. He hates that some part of him, buried deep beneath the discipline and the loss and blood, wants to hear you say it again. He wants to know if you still mean it. He wants to know how many times he can refuse you before you finally decide he’s not worth the trouble.

Part of him hopes the answer is infinite.

.

You find Levi in the corridor outside of Erwin’s office, standing with a stack of documents in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His expression is blank as always, lit by the dim afternoon light. The day has been mostly gray from morning onward. The entirety of headquarters feels submerged. You’re carrying reports from the supply division when you stop beside him.

He looks tired. Levi often looks tired, but there are different tiers to it, and you’ve learned them despite not trying to. This isn’t ordinary irritation or sleep deprivation. This is the kind that only comes after countless meetings and casualty estimates, after decisions that will ask other people to die in the name of maybe—someday—being free from the Titans.

“You should eat something,” you say.

His eyes slide to you. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I meant what I said. Leave me alone.”

“Not until you eat.”

He exhales through his nose. “Are you always this insistent?”

“With you? Usually.”

“Fantastic for me.”

You smile. “You make it very easy.” He looks away. Instead of walking away like you know you should, you shift the reports against your chest and say, “I brought extra bread.”

Levi’s gaze returns to you. “What?”

“For you.” You try to shrug it off, pretending like you haven’t been carrying it wrapped in cloth beneath the reports because you noticed he skipped lunch. “It’s in my pocket. Which sounds unsanitary, but I wrapped it. Mostly.”

He stares at you, then says, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

You wish he wouldn’t ask. You wish, sometimes, that Levi would allow kindness to come to him without dragging it into the spotlight and demanding to know whether it has teeth or not. But he’s looking at you now with a challenge in his eyes, but something else lingers. Something that tells you he doesn’t understand why anyone would go out of their way for him unless obligated or expecting something in return. Your heart hurts for him.

“Because I care,” you say.

Levi grips his documents a little more. “Stop it.”

“I’m not asking you for anything.”

“You are.”

You frown. “No, I’m not.”

“You say things like that because you want me to say them back.”

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, maybe because it’s partly true, and maybe because it’s not the whole truth, and he’s chosen the ugliest piece of it to hold up between you.

“I want you to eat something,” you say quietly. “That’s all this was.”

Levi says nothing. You reach into your pocket, pull out the wrapped bread, and place it carefully on top of the documents in his hand. His eyes drop to it, then lift to meet you. 

“You don’t have to make everything a battle,” you say.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say, the words coming out a little sadder than you intend. You see him hear it, and you see the shift in his eyes. But you don’t wait for him to respond. You walk away, reports held tightly against your torso, and you tell yourself that caring about someone shouldn’t feel this much like holding your hand over an open flame and pretending the burn is proof of devotion.

Behind you, Levi looks down at the bread. He stands there and stares at it for a long time. Then, with a quiet curse, he takes it with him into the office. He eats it later. Every bite tastes like guilt.

.

“You know,” Hange says one afternoon, leaning casually against the doorway of Levi’s office while he tries to read a report and pretend they’re not there, “most people enjoy being adored.”

“Most people are idiots,” Levi says.

“True, true. But still. It’s good for morale.”

Levi doesn’t look up from his papers. “If you’re here to waste my time, find a better hobby.”

“I have several. You hate all of them.”

“Because they’re obnoxious.”

“Everything is obnoxious to you.”

Levi’s quill pauses, and that makes Hange grin a little more. He resumes writing, shaking his head. This isn’t exactly new business—Hange always comes to annoy him for the most miniscule problems and to talk about the most insignificant topics. He’s learned how to block it out over the years.

“I’m serious,” Hange says. The shift in their tone catches Levi’s attention. “She cares about you.”

“No shit.”

“And you care about her.”

The quill stops again, and this time, it doesn’t resume. Levi lifts his eyes slowly, sharpened to a point. “Careful.”

Hange, to their credit or possibly their doom, doesn’t turn around and leave like any sensible human would after the tone Levi just used against them. “That sounded like a threat.”

“It was.”

“Mm.” Hange tilts their head, studying him in such an invasive way that it makes Levi want to shove them into the nearest supply closet and lock the door. “You get nastier after she talks to you.”

“I get nastier after you talk to me too.”

“Yes, but that’s because I’m charming in a way that overwhelms you.”

“You’re exhausting in a way that makes murder understandable.”

Hange waves his remark away. “With her, it’s different.”

Levi’s face goes blank. Is it different with you? He realizes now that while he blocks out Hange’s antics, he doesn’t block out yours. He realizes that all the times he’s kicked Hange out for uttering a single stupid sentence, he’s let you stay after uttering a dozen. Hange sees the realization and smiles softly.

“I’m not saying you have to return anything,” they say. “No one can make you feel something you don’t. But if you don’t, you should stop letting her bleed herself dry trying to reach you.”

“I’m not letting her do anything.”

“No,” Hange says, “you’re just standing there while it happens.” The room goes dangerously quiet. Levi looks down at the report, but the words have rearranged into nonsense. Hange sighs deeply. “For what it’s worth, I think she knows you’re not as indifferent as you act.”

Levi’s grip tightens around the quill. “She’s wrong.”

“Maybe.” He looks up at that. Hange gives him a sad little smile, which is worse than their normal grin, worse than their teasing, worse than anything else they could have done. “But if she’s wrong, then you should make that clear before it hurts her even more.”

Levi says nothing. Hange leaves.

That evening, you bring Levi tea. You didn’t plan on doing so. It just sort of happened. You told yourself several times that day that you’d stop doing things like this, acting like your kindness is water and he’s a dying flower that you can bring back to life. You pass the kitchen, see the kettle, and think of the tension in his face that morning.

So you make the tea. Because you’re weak and hopeful, and you’re beginning to suspect those are sometimes the same thing.

When you arrive at his office, the door is slightly ajar. You knock anyway. He calls for you to come in, and you step inside. Levi sits behind his desk, eyes on a report, the candlelight casting shadows across his face. The room is painfully neat, which you should have expected. Your presence feels immediately disruptive. You carry the cup carefully, both hands around the saucer.

“I made too much,” you say.

Levi looks at the tea, then at you. “You made too much tea?”

“Yes.”

“For yourself?”

“Yes.”

“In one cup?”

You blink at him. He stares back at you. Your face warms slightly. Not your best attempt, but it was worth it. “Fine. That was a terrible lie.”

“Embarassing.”

“Deeply.”

He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. “You here for a reason?”

The question should be harmless, but it’s not. You think of all the times Levi has made you feel childish for just wanting a connection. You think of the fact that your hand is already starting to ache from holding the saucer too tightly.

“No,” you say. “Not really.” You step closer and set the cup on his desk, exactly where he usually keeps it, because you’ve grown to know the exact spot by now. “I just thought you’d want some.”

“I can make my own tea.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then stop.”

You look at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are clear as day. There’s a tension and conflict there, anger held down so hard that you see it shaking. But you’re tired too. Tired of reading hope into every almost-soft thing he does. Tired of standing at the edge of him, calling out, and hearing only your own voice come back.

“Stop bringing you tea?” you ask.

“Stop acting like this means something.”

Your heart drops. “This?”

Levi looks at you. For once, you wish he wouldn’t. At the same time, you want him to.

“All of it,” he says. “I’ve told you no multiple times. What part of that are you too stupid to understand?”

All of it. The tea. The bread. The jokes. The concern. The confessions. The look you give him after missions. You remembering his preferences. The way you keep offering pieces of yourself and pretending it doesn’t matter when he refuses to take them. All of it.

You nod, though it feels like something has finally broken inside you. 

You’re too tired to keep doing this.

“I see,” you whisper.

Levi’s eyes gleam in the moonlight as he looks at you. He looks like he might say something else. Something better. Something worse. You don’t even give him the chance.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice calm enough to make yourself believe that you’re not hurt. “I didn’t realize I was making you uncomfortable.”

Levi makes a face, the most emotion you’ve seen from him in months. “That’s not—”

“I’ll stop.”

He goes silent. You give him a small smile because you can’t seem to help yourself. Even now, you’re trying to make things easier for him, because some habits are harder to kill than hope. Then you turn toward the door.

Behind you, Levi says your name. It stops you for a second, but only a second. You look back. His hand is resting near the cup, not touching it. He looks almost panicked, if Levi Ackerman were capable of such an honest expression.

“Yes?” you say. He says nothing, and there it is. The whole tragedy of him. You wait one second. Then two. Then you nod. “Goodnight, Captain.”

You leave. The door closes behind you. Levi sits very still. The tea cools untouched on his desk. And for the first time, the silence you leave behind feels less like peace and more like punishment.

.

You stop. 

You don’t stop in a manner that would give him the satisfaction of calling it dramatic, because the stubborn, wounded part of you refuses to let Levi Ackerman look at the ruin he’s made of your heart. 

You don’t avoid your duties. You don’t let your work slip. You don’t flinch when his name is mentioned, and you don’t turn your head too quickly when he speaks, and you don’t stand in the kitchen holding the kettle, telling yourself that tea is only tea and kindness is only kindness and that none of it has to mean anything unless he lets it.

You simply stop offering. That’s all.

Reports appear on his desk when they’re supposed to. Your handwriting is clean across the pages. Supplies are accounted for. Gear is cleaned, straps are checked, blades are sharpened, and when you pass him in the corridor, you step aside with the same respect you would give any superior officer. 

“Captain.”

Nothing more. No little smile curling around the title. No teasing lift to your brow. No, you look terrible, did you sleep at all? No, I saved you bread before Sasha could inhale the entire basket. No, if you keep glaring like that, your face will get stuck and then what will we do?

Just Captain.

The first time it happens, Levi tells himself he’s relieved.

He has paperwork in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. You walk down the hall with a crate of medical linens balanced against your hip, your sleeves rolled to your elbows. You see him, shift the crate higher, and move out of the way.

“Captain,” you say. Levi nods once. You keep walking. That’s all there is to your interaction.

He should be relieved. Instead, he grips his teacup a little tighter. Idiot, he thinks, though he’s not entirely sure whether he means you or himself.

By the second day, the relief has turned into irritation.

You’re everywhere, because the universe apparently has something against him and is trying to force you into his everyday life when he’s trying his hardest not to notice you. In the training yard, helping one of the newer recruits correct their stance with a voice soft enough that the soldier actually listens instead of stiffening under correction. In the mess hall, laughing at something Petra says, your face finally turned away from him. In the corridor outside Erwin’s office, handing over a stack of documents to Miche with a polite nod before disappearing around the corner before Levi can decide whether he wants to speak to you.

Not that he does. He doesn’t. There’s nothing to say, after all. He told you to stop, and you stopped. That’s how orders are supposed to work.

Levi’s spent his life surrounded by people who either don’t listen or listen too late, by soldiers who break formation, by fools who mistake hope for strategy, by men who die because they can’t follow one simple command when terror has sunk its teeth into them. He should appreciate obedience. He should appreciate silence. He should appreciate how you gave him exactly what he asked for.

Instead, every “Captain” feels like a door slamming shut in his face. And the worst part, the most aggravating, unforgivable part, is that you’re not even punishing him. Punishment would be easier. Punishment would give him something to push against. If you snapped at him, he could snap back. If you glared, he could meet it with his own colder stare. If you cried, if you accused him, if you said, how dare you, Levi, after all the chances I gave you, then at least he would know what to do.

But you do none of them. You’re kind. Professionally kind. You answer when spoken to. You follow orders without hesitation. You still look after the youngest soldiers, still trade your last piece of bread to Sasha, still smile when Armin asks a question and still help Connie adjust his gear that he should know how to adjust by now. You haven’t become colder in all aspects—you’ve merely taken your warmth away from him.

And Levi, who has survived hunger, blood, filth, loss, and the Underground’s endless ruthlessness, finds himself undone by the absence of things he once pretended not to want.

By the third day, Hange notices. They appear beside him in the training yard while he’s watching you across the dirt, though he’d rather be disemboweled with his own blades than admit that he’s watching you. You’re speaking to Eld near the fence, head tilted as you listen, one hand braced on your hip, the other gesturing toward the Titan dummies. Eld says something that makes you laugh.

Hange hums. “Interesting.”

“Walk away,” Levi says.

“I didn’t even say anything—”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say the weather’s nice.”

“It’s overcast.”

“Emotionally, then.”

Levi turns his head just enough to glare. Hange grins, but their expression softens too quickly, and that’s how he knows he’s in trouble. He can handle Hange’s manic curiosity, their teasing, their horrifying experiments, their complete lack of respect for personal space or peace. He can’t handle pity.

“She stopped,” Hange says.

Levi looks back toward the yard. “Good.”

Hange’s brows rise. “Very convincing.”

“Shut up.”

“You told her to?” Levi says nothing, and that’s answer enough. Hange exhales, not quite a sigh. “Well, congratulations. You won.”

Hange looks ahead at you. Across the yard, you take the training blade Eld offers you and shift into position. Levi looks back at you, and he sees how dirt has already lined your face. There’s no bright glance tossed in his direction, no grin, no silent invitation for him to notice you. It makes him furious. Not at you, though—that would be simpler. No, the fury coils inward, because there’s a place inside him that recognizes that this silence is something he made with his own hands.

“I did what needed to be done,” he says.

Hange tilts their head. “For who?”

Levi doesn’t answer, and instead, he watches you lunge, watches Eld parry, watches your foot slide back to correct your balance—something you learned from him. There are pieces of him in your movements now. Small ones. Things he taught you without meaning to leave any part of himself behind.

For who?

His mouth dries. For you, he wants to say, but even in his own head, the lie limps, because if this were for you, then why does your smile seem weaker when you think no one is looking?

.

That evening, you deliver papers to his office. You knock once. 

“Come in,” he says, and he hates that he knows it’s you just by the sound of your footsteps approaching. You step inside with the papers held to your torso. For some stupid reason, Levi expects tea. There’s none, only papers. You cross the room, set the stack on the corner of his desk, and take a half step back.

“Commander Erwin asked that these be reviewed before morning,” you say.

Your voice is perfectly calm. It’s built for distance, polished until nothing tender can catch onto it. Levi’s eyes shift from the reports, then to you.

“You can leave them,” he says.

You nod. “Yes, Captain.”

Levi swears his eye twitches from the title. “You don’t have to call me that every time,” he says.

You look at him then, and he almost wishes you hadn’t. Your eyes are not angry or pleading, but they’ve been extinguished of that hope you’ve been carrying with you for months now.

“I thought you preferred professionalism,” you say.

Levi grips the arm of his chair slightly. “I prefer people not putting words in my mouth.”

A flicker of hurt passes over your face, but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. “Understood.”

He should stop. He knows he should stop, but the silence after your answer feels unbearable, and Levi is not built for handling unbearable things he can’t kill. “That all?”

“Yes.”

You turn toward the door. He feels a spike of panic, the kind he’s only ever felt when he was galloping in the rain to return to Isabel and Furlan. His stomach sinks. “Wait.”

You stop. Your hand rests on the doorknob. Levi stares at your back, at the tension in your shoulders. You’re holding yourself with a carefulness that implies you’re waiting for something to split you open at any moment.

What does he want to say? Don’t go? No, ridiculous. I didn’t mean it? He did mean it. At least, he meant part of it. The part that wanted safety. The part that believes every relationship eventually ends in the ultimate heartbreak of the other person’s name carved into stone. I miss you? Absolutely not. The words rise to his tongue anyway, but Levi crushes them beneath the heel of his pride.

You wait. He says nothing, so you glance back at him. “Yes?” you say.

His throat works. The candlelight looks so soft against your face, and only then does he see how tired you are. Not physically, though perhaps that too, but tired emotionally. Tired of holding your hands to someone who keeps treating them like weapons.

Levi looks away first. “Nothing,” he says. The word tastes bitter in his mouth.

Your expression doesn’t change, and somehow that makes him feel worse. “Goodnight, Captain.”

You leave. Levi sits there for a long moment, staring at the place where you stood. The reports remain untouched. His tea, made by his own hand and brewed exactly the way he likes it, has gone cold beside him. He lifts the cup anyway, takes one sip, and slams it back down so hard that the porcelain almost cracks.

It tastes wrong.

Everything is wrong.

.

Levi sees you laughing with Eld in the training yard, and the feeling that moves him makes him so nauseous that he can only stand there with his hand still on his harness and hate everything about himself.

It’s not like he feels betrayal. He doesn’t overhear any confession and there’s no obvious intimacy that any reasonable man could point to and say “that’s the reason my blood is boiling.” You’re simply standing near the fence, one shoulder leaned against the post, your arms crossed as Eld speaks to you. His hair is messy from training, and his expression is unmistakably fond. Fond.

Levi’s eye twitches.

Eld says something too low for Levi to hear from across the yard, and you laugh. Not that small, polite laugh you’ve been giving Levi lately (at least before you started ignoring him weeks ago), the one that feels like a closed door and leaves him standing outside of it like an idiot. You laugh properly. Your head tips back and your face eases in a way that Levi hasn’t seen directed at him in days. Eld smiles, knowing he’s the reason you look a little less tired now.

Levi’s grip on his harness worsens until it creaks. He should look away, but he doesn’t. Eld steps closer, enough to reach past you and grab his coat hanging from the side of the training dummy, but from where Levi stands, the movement brings him into your space. Your shoulder brushes his. You don’t even flinch or step back. You only look down at what he’s doing, say something that makes his smile widen, and then you lift your hand to shove lightly at his shoulder.

It’s the same kind of touch you used to give Levi without thinking. A hand on his sleeve when you wanted his attention. Fingers brushing his hand when you set tea beside him. Your shoulder bumping his when you walked too close in a corridor and pretended it was accidental. The touch he had rejected so many times that you finally learned to control it.

Levi doesn’t know what he feels, but he convinces himself it’s not jealousy. Jealousy is for men who think they have a claim. Levi is without a claim. He made sure of that. In fact, he was the one who caused the distance with each cold reply, each command, and the times when you were vulnerable with him and he pushed it back as if tenderness was a weapon aimed at his throat.

So no, he has no right to feel anything when Eld leans closer to you. He has no right to hate the way you seem calmer beside him. He has no right to remember your face when you once told him that you wish he’d let you care about him, and how he had answered how he didn’t need that from you.

Eld says something else. You smile. Levi moves before he decides to.

By the time he crosses the yard, his expression has gone sharp enough to send three nearby soldiers into immediately pretending to be very busy with their gear. Eld notices him approaching first, straightening his posture the way a subordinate does when they realize their superior is walking toward them.

“Captain,” Eld says.

You turn. The smile fades from your face. Not entirely—you’re too composed for that now, too determined not to let Levi see where the pain still lives, but he sees the change anyway, the armor coming up to shield you.

“Captain,” you say.

Levi looks from you to Eld, then back to you. “You done wasting time?”  The words are even colder than he wants them to be. Or they might be just as cold as he means them to be, because quite often being cruel is more acceptable, in his mind, than standing there and confessing that he actually walked across the yard because another another man made you laugh and Levi wanted, with a sudden violence that disgusts him, to insert himself between you and that warmth.

Eld’s brows draw together. You freeze. “I’m not wasting time,” you say. “Eld was helping me with the new recruits’ drills.”

“Looked like a lot of laughing for drills.”

The silence that follows is thin and almost dangerous. Eld’s eyes move briefly between the two of you, and because he’s neither stupid nor cruel, he steps back. “I’ll go help Auvray’s squad. Captain.” He gives you one last look, almost protective, then leaves. 

Levi hates that too. He hates that Eld looks at you as if your feelings are something he knows how to handle gently. He hates more the fact that Eld might be better at it than he is. When the space between you clears, you face Levi fully.

“That was unnecessary,” you say.

“Excuse me?” Levi scoffs.

“You heard me.”

A month ago, the challenge in your voice would have come wrapped in humor. You probably would have tilted your head at that moment and smiled, softened the tone for him so you could pretend you were just teasing. This time, there’s no smile, nor softness offered for his comfort. He should be glad. He isn’t.

“You’re still on duty,” he says.

“So is Eld.”

“Eld isn’t the one I’m talking to.”

Your lips part slightly, half in surprise, half in disbelief. “No. I suppose not.”

Levi’s hands ball into fists at his sides. He wants to ask what that means. He wants to ask if there’s something between you two. He wants to ask if Eld has touched your hand, if you’ve brought Eld tea, if you smiled at Eld the way you used to smile at him. He wants to ask if you’re happy now that you’ve stopped talking to him. But he knows he has no right to ask any of it.

“You should be more careful,” Levi says instead, because his mouth has always known how to be the worst possible weapon. “People get the wrong idea when you throw yourself at every man who gives you attention.”

He did not mean to say that.

Your face goes blank. Completely, utterly blank. You don’t even look hurt or angry. It’s just blank. His stomach drops. Your fingers twitch once at your side, but your voice, when it comes, is surprisingly—painfully—eased.

“I see.”

You step back. Levi says your name. It leaves him before he can stop it, stripped of rank and anger and all the useless armor he keeps trying to force between himself and whatever the hell you’re doing to him.

“Don’t, Captain.” You turn away and leave without looking back.

The title hits harder than if you had slapped him. He honestly would have preferred if you slapped him. Levi just stands there, frozen, watching you leave while the recruits pretend not to stare, pretending that they didn’t just overhear the most emotionally charged conversation they’ve heard in their entire time in the military.

He thinks of following you at first. Then he thinks of what he would say. Nothing comes. Nothing that would undo it. Nothing that would explain why he keeps turning fear into a knife and then acting surprised when you bleed. So he stays where he is until your figure disappears amongst the crowd. Only then does he realize Eld has stopped near the fence and is looking at him with disappointment. Levi looks away first.

By the time he reaches his office, the anger has returned, boiling hotter than shame. He shuts the door harder than necessary, and the sound breaks through the silence of the room before it rushes back in, deeper than before. He looks at the teacup waiting on the corner of the desk, empty, because he’s not yet made tea and you no longer do.

It’s better this way, he tells himself. No more pointless kindness. No more interruptions. No more break snuck to him because you noticed he skipped a meal. No more stupid confessions. No more of you looking at him like he could be anything other than what he is. A soldier. A killer. A survivor by habit, not by virtue. A man who has spent his life learning the names of the people he couldn’t save.

Levi grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He remembers the exact words he said to you not two hours ago. The memory of your face after he said it hits him with such force that his breath hitches.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He pushes away from the desk, pacing once toward the window, then back again, restless energy crawling beneath his skin. He wants to clean something. He wants to tear something apart. He wants to go back in time into the yard and rip the words out of the air before they can reach you. If he could, he would slap himself before he could even get the words out.

Instead, he does nothing. His thoughts circle you first. Your hand in his field of vision as it places tea on his desk. Your melodic voice. Your laugh across the mess hall. Your eyes, now careful, guarded because he taught you to guard them.

Then Eld. Eld standing too close. Eld making you laugh. Eld smiling at you. Eld looking at you like he wouldn’t punish you for wanting to be wanted.

Levi’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. This isn’t about Eld. That’s the truth, and he hates it. Eld is a good soldier. Loyal. Kind without making a spectacle of it. He’s the kind of man who probably knows how to accept affection. The kind of man who might say yes if you chose him instead.

The thought makes Levi’s stomach turn. He braces both hands on the desk and lowers his head. He realizes now what he’s been avoiding. It isn’t jealousy; it isn’t irritation or discipline or concern with professionalism. It’s fear. Raw fear.

It’s been there from the start, waiting beneath every rejection, every insult, every cold turn of his shoulder. He sees it now. You were never the danger. Wanting you was. Wanting you means imagining you outside the walls and worrying you won’t return. Wanting you means knowing the exact sound of your laugh and then imagining a world where he never hears it again. Wanting you means letting your existence become a part of his own, and losing you would nearly kill him. No, it would kill him.

And Levi knows loss.

His mother. Kuchel, pale and motionless in a bed that he’d seen too much of. Her hand no longer able to reach for him. Her voice gone before he was old enough to understand all the ways the world could take from him.

Then Isabel. Loud, passionate Isabel, with her recklessness and her impossible faith that the world above could be something other than a nightmare. Isabel, who had called him big brother with such devotion that he’d pretended to hate it because pretending was safer than letting himself feel vulnerable. 

Furlan too. Furlan, who had trusted Levi’s judgement more than anyone had a right to, who followed him out of the Underground, who believed, who died because the world is merciless and Levi is never fast enough when it matters most.

His comrades. Countless comrades buried beneath banners and speeches and the rotten consolation that they died for humanity’s cause. Faces that once turned toward him in trust before the Titans took them. 

Connection, to Levi, has never been safe. To him, it’s a door opening into a room that will one day be empty. A hand reaching for his that will one day go cold. A voice saying his name that will one day stop answering. 

So he rejected you. Again and again and again. And some sick, righteous part of him had called it mercy. If he kept you away, you would be safer. If he made you stop loving him, you would stop standing too close to the blast radius of everything he loses. If he refused to want you, then losing you—if the world ever took you, when the world took you—would not destroy him.

Except you’re not gone. You’re alive. And he’s still managed to lose you.

Levi sits slowly in his chair, his legs suddenly feeling unsteady. He did this. Not titans. Not the Underground. Not fate, not duty, not the walls, not the endless bloody machinery of survival. Him. His fear. His hands pushing away the one person stubborn enough to keep reaching for him. To keep trusting him.

He doesn’t move for a while. The office grows darker around him, the last of the daylight fading behind the curtains. Somewhere outside, he hears footsteps. They’re not yours. He wishes he wasn’t so disappointed. He hears voices fall and rise. Life continues with an indifference that feels almost insulting.

Then comes a knock at the door. For a moment, he thinks foolishly that it’s you. Then the hope is snuffed by reality, and he doesn’t bother answering. The door opens anyway. Hange steps inside, takes one look at him sitting motionless behind his desk, and pauses. They already have a knowing look on their face.

“You know,” Hange says, closing the door behind them,” for someone so smart, you’re impressively stupid about feelings.”

Levi sighs deeply. “Fuck off, Four Eyes. Not in the mood.”

“No, I imagine you’re not.” Hange approaches without waiting for permission and leans against the edge of the desk. “I saw what happened. Eld looked like he wanted to hit you.”

“Eld knows better.”

“Mm. He does. That’s probably the only reason he didn’t.”

Levi looks away. The words should irritate him—and they do—but beneath the irritation is shame, and shame has sharper teeth. Hange studies him for a moment.

“What did you say to her?” they ask.

Levi’s eyelids flutter down briefly. It would be easy for him to lie. He could tell Hange to get out and leave him alone with the wreckage he caused. Instead, because some exhausted part of him is too tired to keep bleeding in secret, he says, “Something I shouldn’t have.”

“That bad?” Levi gives them a look, and it makes Hange wince. “Ouch. That bad.”

Silence settles between them. For once, Hange doesn’t rush to fill it. Levi stares at the teacup near his hand. He wonders if you still make tea for yourself. He hasn’t seen you near the tea station in a while—but then again, you could just be avoiding him that efficiently. Or perhaps you just avoid the places where he lingers.

“She stopped,” he says finally.

“You asked her to,” Hange says.

“I know.”

“Did you mean it?”

Levi’s throat tightens. That should be an easy question. He's built his entire life on making hard answers sound simple, but nothing about you has ever been simple, not from the first time you looked at him like he wasn’t nearly as scary as everyone was making him out to be.

“I thought I did,” he says.

“And now?” Hange asks.

Levi’s hand wraps around the teacup, though there’s nothing in it. He thinks of you laughing with Eld. He thinks of your face going blank. He thinks of how much easier it was when you loved him loudly enough that he could pretend your heart was the problem and not his own cowardice.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

Hange doesn’t ask what this means—they know. “Start by not hurting her every time she gets close.”

Levi bitterly laughs once under his breath. “Brilliant advice.”

“You’re ever so welcome.” His eyes lift to meet them, and Hange’s expression is painfully serious now. He hates when they look like this—it means they’re impossible to escape. “You’re allowed to be scared, Levi.”

He looks away instantly. “No.”

“Yes,” they say, firmer. “You are. After everything you’ve lost, you’d be insane not to be. But being scared doesn’t give you the right to make her feel disposable.”

Levi’s stomach churns. “I know,” he says. It sounds like defeat. Maybe it is.

Hange’s voice gentles. “Do you love her?”

Levi freezes. His first instinct is to refuse. His second is anger. His third is to remember your face. Your smile. Your voice that softens only for him. Your absence now, filling his office more than your presence ever dared. Levi lowers his gaze. There’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

He nods.

Hange doesn’t smile like they normally would. They only nod once, confirming what they already knew and had been kind enough to let him reach on his own. “Then you’d better figure out how to say that to her before someone else does.” Levi glares at them, and they lift both hands in defense. “Just being real. She’s a catch.”

Real. Levi has always hated that word, but this reality sits in front of him now, unavoidable. He loves you. He hurt you. You might not wait for him to become brave. The idea ought to make him stand, should send him out of his office, down the corridor, to your door with an apology and every wall inside him burning down behind it. Instead, he stays seated, because despite his love being genuine, the fear that was born first is still the one to rule.

Hange pushes away from the desk. “For what it’s worth,” they say at the door, “I think she loved you enough to listen.”

Loved. Past tense. Levi flinches at that. Hange notices, but they leave anyway, the door clicking shut behind them. Levi sits alone in the dark with the word still lodged in his chest.

Loved.

.

Levi didn’t plan on drinking. He doesn’t drink. Not normally. He definitely doesn’t drink because he enjoys it. Enjoyment has always been something he doesn’t trust easily. He drinks because the bottle has been sitting untouched in the bottom drawer of his desk ever since Erwin left it there three months ago after some late night visit that had run past midnight and into the hours of the morning. He drinks because the office is silent now. He drinks because Hange’s question won’t stop replaying in his mind.

Do you love her?

He grabs the glass and pours the amber liquid into the cup with a hint of anger and almost spite. He doesn’t lift the glass for a toast to the empty room. There’s nothing worth celebrating or honoring in this moment. No winning, no relief, no opening up of himself that could be considered noble or brave. There’s only the fact that he loves you. And because Levi is a man who’s lived by the rule of cutting off weakness before the world can get its hands on it, that very fact feels like a wound in his gut, and he has no idea how to bandage it. 

He drinks. The liquor burns down his throat and warms his chest. The heat gives him something physical to hate for a blessed second. He pours again. Outside his office, the headquarters eases into a slumber. Someone’s laughter echoes down the corridor before it’s hushed by another person. A door closes somewhere else. The fact that life continues is taunting him, acting like it doesn’t matter that his entire world has shifted because you finally stopped loving him.

Well, you didn’t stop. He doesn’t know if you stopped. He only knows you learned how to be silent about it. He taught it to you. The thought makes his heart skip a beat.

Levi leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, but the darkness behind them provides no mercy. It gives him the image of you instead, because his mind can’t go anywhere else. He imagines you in the supply room. You in the corridor, placing bread in his hand. You in the stables, admiring his connection to animals. You outside of the infirmary with both physical and emotional wounds. You in the courtyard today, your face going blank after he used your own affection against you.

“Damn it,” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow ridge. He’d just meant to protect himself. He’d looked at the recklessness of your devotion and saw every grave he’s stood over. His mother’s body. Isabel’s smile turned slack. Furlan’s trust, wasted on the impossible idea that Levi could let them all out alive.

Levi drinks again and again. The room begins to spin slightly. His reflection waits in the dark window as he turns to face it. Pale, blurred, a man with too much blood on his hands. A man who has no idea what to do with love except ruin it. He’s a coward.

If rejecting you had been mercy, then why had it only hurt you? If pushing you away had been kindness, then why had your voice gone so careful around him? If he had been protecting you, then why does the memory of your face make him feel like the danger was never the world outside the walls, but him?

He pours again, his hand shaking this time, and a small amount spills onto the desk. Normally, he would reach immediately for a cloth. Tonight, he only stares at the dark stain spreading over the polished wood. His mouth twists in both disgust and irritation.

“Great,” he says to no one.

Every time he raises the cup, it feels heavier. So does the truth. He loves you. He loves the way you say his name. He loves the stubborn tilt of your chin when you refuse to let his cruelty be the only thing between you. He loves you for noticing when he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, when he’s so angry that you know grief alone couldn’t cause it. He loves you, and it scares him so much that he’s tempted to seek refuge behind every locked door inside himself.

Instead, drunk and stripped bare by the quiet, Levi thinks of you. Your room is down the corridor, past the turn by the east stairwell, three doors from the end. He knows it by heart, despite not being there often.

For several long minutes, he sits motionless with the glass in his hand, raises to press against his forehead. He breathes deeply through the horrible desire of wanting to see you and the equally horrible knowledge that, deep down, he has no right to ask anything of you now.

Then he stands. His vision swims. Levi grips the desk, scowling at the fact that he can’t even balance himself. It’s pathetic, he thinks groggily, but he doesn’t sit back down. He leaves the bottle open on the desk. The spilled liquor dries beside his hand. He stumbles into the corridor. 

You need to hear the truth from him. Even if you no longer want it.

.

You sit on the edge of your bed with a half-mended shirt in your lap, needle in your fingers. The motions are familiar after years of practice, though it has been a while since you’ve needed to mend something. You’re surprised, considering the less than gentle treatment your clothing constantly endures. You’re glad, however, that your mother taught you how to sew. You think briefly that you should send her a letter soon. 

Then a knock comes. It’s so late in the night that you think you might have imagined it. You shake your head, dislodging the illusion, and return to your sewing. But then the knock comes again, more urgent. Your hands stop moving. Your stomach turns at the first thought that comes to your mind. But you know it’s not him. Why would it be? You sigh and set the shirt aside, then stand.

When you open the door, you’re immediately proven wrong. Levi is standing before you, one hand braced against the doorframe, his hair slightly messy, his cravat loose at the throat, his eyes too dazed. Levi is many things—controlled, scary enough to whip grown men into shape just by entering a room, but he’s never this. Never unsteady or vulnerable. Never looking at you like this as if he’s spent the entire night debating and fighting over the urge to go to your room, still not knowing whether he deserves to enter.

“Captain?” you say.

His face twists. He leans in slightly—not intentionally, but from a loss of balance. “Don’t call me that.”

Then you smell the liquor. You blink, taken aback. “Levi, are you drunk?”

His mouth pulls into a line that’s too bitter to be a smile. “Unfortunately.”

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do with him at your door in the middle of the night, drunk enough that he’s tipping over but sober enough that his eyes are still full of pain. You don’t know if you should let him in or tell him to screw off, whether to be worried or angry, whether to protect yourself or reach for him before he walls. And the worst part is that deep down, you still want to care for him.

“Why are you here?” you ask.

Levi looks at you, and his face breaks in a way you’ve never seen before. “I fucked up.”

The words come rough and raw. They’re not even surprising to you, because you’ve known that for weeks now, but hearing him say it is different. You peer down the hall and step aside before you can convince yourself not to.

“Come in before someone sees you like this.” He enters slowly. You close the door behind him, and when you turn around, he’s just standing there, his shoulders and hands tensed, looking at everything except your face. “You should sit down.”

“No.”

“Levi—”

“I wanted you.” You freeze. His eyes finally lift to yours. “I wanted you. Every damn time. Every time you said it, every time you smiled at me, every time you made those stupid jokes. I wanted to say yes. And I didn’t, because I’m a coward.”

You swear all of the air in the room escapes at that moment. You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest, shock and hurt and old longing colliding so violently that you almost feel sick. This is what you wanted once, isn’t it? This confession, this man standing in front of you and finally saying the thing you’ve been dying to hear. But it only came after he drank. After he’s made you feel stupid for offering what he now claims he wanted. You swallow hard.

“You’re drunk,” you say. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.”

“No,” Levi says, stepping closer, then stopping himself. “You’re going to hear it. You listened to every shitty thing I said. You can listen to this too.”

He’s not wrong. You did listen. Every time. You stood there and took every dismissal, every wound, and you kept making excuses for him because loving him was easier than admitting he had been hurting you on purpose.

Your eyes burn. “Fine,” you whisper. “Say it, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Levi says. He swallows, looks down, then forces himself to look at you again. “I’m sorry for all of it. For making you feel like you were stupid for caring. For treating you like dirt under my shoes. For taking every good thing you gave me and throwing it away because I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Your throat closes. You want to hate him. You think hatred would be far easier than this—the fact that you still love him while still remembering why you learned to retreat. “You made me feel pathetic.” Levi flinches at that. For a second, you’re happy, and then you hate yourself for thinking that.

“I know,” he says, his voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“You made me wish I hadn’t said any of it,” you continue. “I meant it every time, Levi. Even when I made it sound like a joke. Even when I smiled. Even when everyone laughed. I meant it, and you—” You pause. “You made me feel humiliated.”

Levi’s eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, they’re wet. “I know.”

“That doesn’t fix it.”

“I’m not trying to fix it.”

“Then what are you trying to do here?”

He looks at you so helplessly that it hurts you. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

His gaze drops to your hands, then returns to your face, and when he speaks, the words sound like they’ve been dragged out of the deepest, most guarded place in him. A place you have rarely, if ever, seen.

“Love someone.”

The room goes silent. The candle flickers across his face. Your heart twists. Levi takes a shaky breath. You match him.

“But I love you. I do. And I’m sorry it took me hurting you to stop lying about it.”

Part of you wants to reach for him. The other part of you wants to step back. You want to tell him you love him too, and you always have. You want to ask why love had to be dressed in apology. Instead, you look at the floor between you.

“Levi,” you say quietly. “I still love you. But I’m hurt.”

“I know,” he says.

“And I don’t forgive you yet.”

“Good.” That surprises you. You raise both eyebrows, and he gives a humorless little exhale. “You shouldn’t. Not just because I finally stopped lying to myself.”

“You need to sit down,” you say.

This time, he doesn’t argue. He lowers himself into the chair by your desk, elbows resting on his knees, head lowered. He looks so exhausted. You pour him some water from your pitcher and bring it to him. Both of you freeze momentarily when his fingers brush yours when he takes the cup. He withdraws first.

“I’ll say it again when I’m sober,” he says hoarsely. You look down at him. “If you’ll let me.”

Your fingers curl around the empty space where the cup had been. The answer should be simple, but it isn’t. You don’t know if you want to hear those words without the barrier of alcohol. They might just break your resolve.

After a moment, you nod. “Say it sober,” you whisper. “And then we’ll see.”

Levi nods and closes his eyes.

.

Morning breaks through the thin curtains, laying a strip of light across the floor and the half-mended shirt still folded at the end of your bed. Levi wakes in a chair—the same chair he was in last night. He’s no stranger to falling asleep in chairs. Where others would be aching, he feels fine, save for the headache pulsing behind his eyes.

He doesn’t remember where he is for a second. Then he looks around, and he remembers everything about last night. The drinking. Coming to your door. Your face when he said he wanted you. Him confessing his love.

Levi sighs. Across the room, you’re laying in bed, turned toward the wall, blanket pulled to your shoulder. You look peaceful, or close enough to peaceful that guilt moves through him with a force that nearly brings him to his feet to leave before you can wake up. Maybe that would be better. He could go back to his quarters and pretend this never happened.

He shifts carefully, trying not to make the chair creak, but the movement sends pain up his spine and a low sound leaves him before he can swallow it. You stir in your sleep and wake. Levi freezes. You open your eyes slowly and turn around to face him. Now that he looks at you, you don’t look like you’ve just woken up from sleep. You don’t have that grogginess most do, and your hair is neatly brushed.

He gets confirmation of this when you get out of bed and grab a teacup, filled with tea that you must have brewed before he woke up. You carry it over to him. He stares at it, then at you, and you hold it out.

“Well?” you say.

Levi takes the teacup, though his fingers shake around the porcelain. He doesn’t even bother to hide it this time. He looks at the caution in your eyes, the hurt still sitting behind it, the hope that lingers. His mouth dries and his throat closes up, but he forces the words out anyway.

“I love you,” he says.

Your lips part slightly. “You’re sure?”

Levi lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, though it’s not really a laugh, more like an exhale of exhaustion laced with a hint of relief. “I was sure before,” he says. “I was just an idiot.”

Your face crumples for a second. You never thought this day would come, that he could utter those words. You didn’t realize how badly you wanted this. How much it cost to hear it now.

He sets the tea aside and stands, keeping enough distance that you can choose whether to close it. You’re not sure if you want to yet, but the urge trembles between you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

You look down, blinking hard to force the tears back. “Please don’t hurt me every time you’re scared.”

Levi nods. “I won’t. I promise.”

The silence comes to rest between you. Then, carefully, you step forward and reach for his hand. Levi looks down as your fingers touch his, stunned by the gentleness of it, by the fact that after everything, you’re still willing to reach out. He grabs your hand and wraps his fingers around yours.

“I’ll do better,” he says.

You squeeze his fingers once and smile.

“You’d better.”

MASTERLIST ♡ JOIN THE TAGLIST ♡ AO3 ♡ WATTPAD ♡ KO-FI

tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @hoebuns @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @ddilfs4life @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita

divider by: diviniyae

“Ooh—! Yes, right thereee!”

You moan out loud, the constant drag of Erwin’s cock inside your walls making you clench tightly around him. His lips smash over yours hungrily, the mean thrust of his tip abusing your sensitive spot makes you whine keenly.

“Are you imagining taking him as well?” Erwin whispers in your ear, lifting your legs close to your chest as his thrusts become faster—rougher and deeper. “I can feel you tightening around me, sweetheart.”

You let out a breathless chuckle, “Are you mad, Erwin?” His hips do not stop rolling against yours, his delicious cock hitting the right spot inside you, making you see stars. Erwin’s husky voice blesses your ears, making the heat pooling in your lower stomach more intense.

“Of course not, you know how much I want him too,” Erwin whispers over your lips, making you grin out dazed. “I can imagine both of us fucking you until you pass out,” he blurts out his wild fantasies in your ear, making you groan in arousal—he knows very well how much of a pervert you are. “And his face when we both fuck him,”

The peak of your arousal heightens even more at the fantasies your commander is feeding you. You let out a whimper, already aching to sleep with the captain this instant.

“Just imagine his face when he cums,” you torment Erwin’s mind with another fantasy of your own against his lips, making his hips falter at a moment. He throws his head back and lets out a nasty groan before his lust fuels even brighter.

Fuck, both of you are such nasty freaks.

His pace becomes even faster, his breath picking up and his voice becoming more high-pitched. “Fuck, I’m so close, god—!” He imagines Levi’s desperate attempt to cum when he bullies his cock inside him—and when his own cock connects inside you.

The two of you agreed that you’ll immediately get that captain to warm your bed as soon as possible.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your lips interconnected with his as you take his cock deeper inside you. Tears prickling in your eyes, feeling the itch to relieve your highest peak. “Nngh—! Cum inside me, Erwin—yes, oh god!”

You scream out his name one last time before both of your reach your orgasm. Erwin pants heavily and rolls his eyes back in pleasure, his cock pouring every single drop of cum inside you—his lips soothing your collarbone, his cock still spurting lots of his seed.

Erwin turns his one last glance towards the door before he rests his whole body on top of you, fully aware of a certain captain watching the whole thing secretly in between the gaps of the door.

author’s note: long time no see! it’s our semestral break so i’m already taking this opportunity to write :) this may get another part, and already with levi ofc.

An intensity falls across Levi's features. Without saying a word, he tilts his head sideways, cocking it like he was assessing you. His hands fall on your waist. Before you know it, you're being whirled around, and the air is taken out of your lungs as you fall onto the bed. 

"What the devil are you—" you protest.   

But Levi interrupts you with a grunt. He bends down and grabs your chin, leveling your gaze with his own.  

"That isn't how this works, Princess. Tonight is about you. Tonight, your pleasure is ours." You gape a little. His eyes darken. "You wished for that, didn't you? To know what sodding pleasure is?"

The reminder of your earlier confession makes you feel warm all over. You gulp, the knot bobbing against Levi's thumb, and your eyes stray to Erwin.

"Typical, looking at him for reassurance." Levi slides away, kneeling on one knee. He begins to unlace your boots. "What did I tell you, Erwin?"

The mattress shifts. Erwin has found his spot close to you. His calloused fingers stroke the valley of your cheek, an offer of tenderness in the midst of all this tension. "Oh, I don't know, Levi. You didn't see the way she was looking at you just now. Properly besotted, I think." He leans closer, his breath fanning over the ridge of your nose. "Aren't you besotted, beloved?"

Erwin's newfound nickname for you, beloved, turns your insides to mush. You manage a nod well enough, but your brain blanks. 

"You'll let us treat you right, won't you?" Erwin asks. His cologne—musky and vibrant—are all you can smell. "To show you the meaning of pleasure?" 

Your eyes flutter, breath caught in the middle of your chest. "I..."

"And if there's something that displeases you, you need only say the word."

"Yes."

Your response comes out overeager, giddy, like a schoolgirl on the precipice of receiving sweets. Erwin pays it no mind. He takes to nuzzling your neck, murmuring against your skin, "Precious girl. What a precious girl you are."

This time, you do whine a little, your core blooming with heat. Intoxicating, the kind of warmth that makes you squeeze your tights together in fear of it escaping. It only deepens as Erwin's large hands drag over your belly, stabilizing you into a half-seated position that allows him full jurisdiction over your neck. There, he peppers out kisses that spark embers in their wake. 

"Erwin," you choke. 

In response, Erwin hums, the sound of which buzzes into your brain, as if telling you that yes, we want you and you push further against him, yes, please. 

Levi, done removing your shoes, moves to stroking your calves. You're wearing stockings that reach your knees, but Levi doesn't remove them; you feel his fingertips gently explore past them, making you gasp.  

"You're so sensitive," you hear him tease, his touches circling upwards. A shudder wracks through your spine. "Figures."

For once, you don’t come up with a clever reply.

Levi bunches your skirt, hitching it up to reveal bare skin. You feel blood rush across your body, all too aware just how exposed you are, how he’s this close to seeing all of you. Even Erwin's mouth on your neck—neither lacking in vigor or curiosity—isn't enough to distract you.  

What if you can't do this after all? 

Levi presses pecks across your inner thighs, his index hooking with your waistband and tugging it down. Your cunt is exposed, and your nerves wind tight. Instinctively, your free leg wraps around Levi's skull, twisting and squeezing to hide from him. 

"Ssh, beloved," Erwin's voice soothes your ear. He's paused in his exploration, massaging your nape with his broad touch instead. "Do you want us to stop?" 

"N-no. Just... just nervous. Ignore me."

"You need to relax." 

Erwin's right, of course. You're rigid as a tree, squeamish from all the new sensations and everything that lies ahead. You're surprised Levi hasn't told you off for squeezing his face.

"Just lean into me and let Levi show you just how much he's dreamed of this," Erwin ushers. Your thighs instinctively relax. You feel Levi press a scorching kiss on your inner thigh in response. "Levi's going to be gentle with you, I promise. You can do that for us, can't you?"

Still wound up, you manage a nod. Erwin hums, clearly content to see you so responsive to his words. He briefly breaks away as he grabs a pillow, tucking your head gently beneath it. He then finds his spot next to you again, his broad hand dragging over the expanse of your nightgown, his warm breath fluttering against your cheek.

By now, Levi's finger pads are almost on your cunt. He doesn't say anything, but you think you hear him inhale sharply, just as his eyes briefly flickers to meet yours. His pupils are blown black. Without saying a word, he bunches your nightgown further up, and when you tilt your head up to watch with bated breaths, the look in his eyes is that of a man in a trance.

You're bare for him—for them. 

"I... I do not know if it is adequate," you confess, throwing your head back and staring at the ceiling. "I didn't... I didn't think—"

"Shh." Erwin presses a kiss to your temple. "Don't even think about that. You're perfect." 

Erwin's words still aren't enough to completely appease you. You press your palms into your eyes, shifting nervously. What if Levi hates what he sees? What if he dislikes the hair and the sensation and—

Levi’s mouth falls on your sex.

You gasp—a sharp hiccup that tangles with Erwin’s ragged breath in your ear. 

This is... not what you expected. 

No, when Levi got on his knees, you expected fingers, similarly to the way you touch yourself at night. Instead, Levi has given you something more, and it makes your heart race.  

Before you know it, Levi parts you with his tongue, warm and deft, and your calves are thrown over his shoulders, where he steadies you for the onslaught of pleasure he gives unabated.

Erwin's hands, too, have wandered, removing your garment far enough to expose your collarbone. His large fingers subtly draw shapes over your skin, like he was using your flesh as a canvas. He starts from your shoulder blades, and draws ever closer to your right breast, while his mouth remains sewn to the tendon on her neck, devotion on his tongue. You feel your nipples harden, watching as Erwin briefly retracts and his gaze flickers towards you.

His fingers stop short. "May I touch you?" 

You can only nod, a buildup blooming at your core that's making it hard to think, both because of Levi's delicious licks and the way Erwin is staring at you right now. You squirm, your insides aching. Erwin's giant hand carefully slides under your chemise, tracing a path over the swell of your breast, then cupping it. A soft moan slips out of you, undeterred, and your fingers tangle with whatever fabric you find within reach until you find yourself pulling the fitted sheets loose.  

"You like that, beloved?" Erwin purrs. 

"Y-yes." 

As if fueled by your sweetness, Levi's tongue changes rhythm, a teasing motion that lights you up. Your whine comes out desperate in a series of hiccups. 

"Feel that, beloved?" Erwin murmurs. "How much Levi aims to please you? How long he's waited?"

The thought sends a new wave of pleasure over you. Against Levi, you arch back, surprised by the magnitude of your reaction, your breath catching in your throat like a bird in a cage. With delirium in your veins, your next movements are mechanical: you roll your hips, attempting to follow Levi's tongue and chase the spot you most crave. It only seems to ignite something in Levi, who licks and explores with a maddening sweep of his tongue, and grabs your thighs with a bruising grip.

"Er-w-win, I'm not sure how to-," you confess, the knot in your core growing tighter. There’s butterflies swimming at the front of your brain, and your hands feel clammy. "I've never, not in front of anyone..." 

With his free hand, Erwin brushes back your sweaty forehead, pressing a kiss on your cheek. "Just let it go, beloved. Focus on the sensation."

"B-but, I don't... I don't know that I... what if—"

The pleasure stops. You snap your attention to the edge of the bed. Levi has slipped away, his gray eyes boring straight into you. There's a layer of shine dripping down his lips and chin—remnants of you.

The world stops moving right at that moment. You want to grab Levi into a searing kiss; you want to get lost in this forever. 

Instead, you’re beckoned by Levi’s curt voice. "Princess, breathe." Prowling like a cat, Levi comes close, his slender fingers cupping your too-warm cheeks. "Between these walls, nothing else matters. Just us."

You clings to his hand, mulling those words over. The truth behind your short existence. 

For so long, life has felt like an ever-ending fight. A princess of the realm, destined to never be enough. Always running, always trying to catch up and meet the impossible standards placed on your shoulders. Proving to yourself—to your father and to all his subjects— that you deserved your position. That you were just as deserving as a man, that you deserved a seat at the table. Doing all of that... and somehow always failing. 

But this, right now... it is no failure. You are enough. Erwin and Levi have given you wings of your own, willing you to the sun, and you feel like you're all soaring through the sky together. Tasting the clouds, the air, the freedom. 

"Just us," you repeat, squeezing his hand tighter. 

Just you and Levi and Erwin. Your two loyal knights, your friends. 

Your lovers. 

Satisfied by your reassuring grip, Levi's stare flickers towards Erwin, whose fingers are laid on the bud of your breast like it was a flower amongst a field of green.

"Levi," Erwin's voice is sweet like honey, "come here."

In response, Levi's brows knit together, but he does as he is bid. With Erwin’s fingers still massaging your breast, Levi and Erwin exchange a brief kiss, quick and messy and wet. Your eyes flutter at the sight, warmth spreading through your torso. 

When Levi pulls away, it is to roll his eyes. "You're so obvious, you dolt."

Erwin's voice is husky, almost needy. "She does taste wonderful, doesn't she? Just as we always dreamed she would."

"Yeah."

Levi doesn’t look at you as he kneels back down at the edge of your world. Your eyes search for an answer in Erwin, but the latter only flashes you an easy smile that makes it quite clear you heard them correctly.

Just as they always dreamed?

"Erwin—"

But you're quickly silenced as Levi's mouth descends between your legs again, this time with added pressure, with increased reverence. He starts with the same circling motion with his tongue, only to move down.

Oh. 

Instead of lavishing your vulva as he had done before, Levi's tongue has plunged into you. Your mouth parts, and he shifts, edging in further in. A flash of white builds through your vision. 

Oh, indeed.

"There, do you feel how desperate Levi is to please you?" Erwin murmurs, the smell of his cologne enveloping you again. It makes your mouth water, makes your tongue pant in breathy huffs to taste it. "He loves nothing more than to show you." 

In response, you stifle a whimper, biting down on your knuckles, self-conscious on the lewd noises coming out of you. Your hips continue to chase gratification, rolling with clumsy movements, one desire stringing you along: more, more, more. Pleasure is guided by Levi's vice grip of your thighs, rocking his movements back and forth—between this and Erwin kissing your neck, you know you won't last long. 

"Don't silence yourself," Erwin says, no—pleads. "Not here, not with us." 

And then, Erwin pinches your nipple, hard, while his mouth sucks on the juncture between your neck and shoulder. At once, a shudder wracks down your spine, and you moan—long, hard, and loud. 

You think you call out to them then. 

You're abstractly aware of Erwin saying your name, but before you can say a thing, Levi's fingers slip into you, pumping into you and stretching you. The coil begins to tighten. Heat blooms everywhere—scorching white, erupting beneath every cell in your body, making you feel like the sun itself. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. You need more. More, more, more. Your blood seems to sing for those words— wanting them both closer, wanting them to consume you.

You never want to leave this room. 

Levi slips a second finger inside. Curls it. 

You gasp. 

"Are you close?" Erwin murmurs. 

"Y-yes, hah... I... just, I—"

"Need that last push?"

Toes curling behind Levi’s neck, you bite your lower lip, managing to puff out, "Uh-huh."

"Levi, you heard our princess."

Levi responds with a muffled groan. Your body trembles as his mouth falls to your cunt again, this time focusing on sucking the sensitive nub at the top. All the while, his fingers continue to slide in and out, rubbing against your pelvis. Your throat is dry like sand, the coil in your belly pressing against the edges of your mind. Levi’s ministrations are feverish and you are reduced to a babbling mess, rutting against him with desperation.  

Erwin is there to guide you through it all. "Let it go, beloved."

Just as Erwin gives his command, Levi's tongue flicks your clit and the flames take you.

Your vision blurs.  

At once, pleasure surges and claims its place between your bones. Your entire body shakes, your head flung back against the pillows, your fingers digging into the mattress, body writhing in the sheets. Levi’s grip tightens on you, his tongue soothing as your body spasms.

Holy Rose, Maria, Sina. 

As you navigate this newfound high, you're vaguely aware of Levi licking and tasting and devouring. He tugs at the hems of your dress, groaning against you, like he was licking every inch of you, making out with your sex. Meanwhile, Erwin... Erwin is palming himself through his breaches, transfixed on the painting in front of him—on Levi, on you. His two lovers.

You gasp, knowing this moment will be scorched into your brain for all the ages to come. 

When at last, Levi rises to his feet, the first thing you notice is that his cheeks are dusted pink. His lips are swollen and puffy…

Dark as a storm.

Levi wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sitting on your opposite side. "How was that?"

"I think I saw our Gods." 

"Which ones?"

"All of them."

"Dramatic."

"It’s a compliment, silly." You turn to Erwin. "Tell me, is it… is it truly always so wonderful?"

You don't care how much of an ingenue you come across; the hearts in your eyes must give away just what this means to you. 

"Sex is what you make it." Erwin chuckles, brushing a strand of hair out of your sweaty face. "It is not always about reaching your own end, or your partner’s. Ultimately, healthy communication is key, as is trust and enjoyment."

"I see." Your head slopes to the side, admiring Erwin’s aquiline nose, dotted with a constellation of freckles. His hand caresses below your belly button, and a shudder wracks through your spine. "I suppose this is what you were both so busy with during your training as squires, huh?" 

You get a mixture of reactions. Erwin laughs. Levi clicks his tongue.  

With renewed enthusiasm,  you push yourself up by your elbows, glancing between them. How long had you wanted them like this? Years. Now, both of their gazes are on you, and the night has only begun. 

"I know tonight is about me…" Your eyes briefly flicker to their groin areas, noticing the tent-like shape that has formed against the fabric of their clothes. Your mouth drools before you can help it; you quickly it down swallow and look back at them. "But what if I wish to please you too?"

They exchange a look, but it Levi who speaks up first. "Princess, we understand your want, but once you do this—"

"Virginity is a made-up construct, Levi. It is not real," you quickly interrupt. "When I am queen, I will make sure to change that. In the meantime, I will decide what I do with my body." A pause, one where you tilt your head uncertainly. "Of course, if you do not wish to do this, that is another matter entirely. I would understand."

"That's not what I meant," Levi says with clipped irritation.

"Your Highness, are you certain about this?" Erwin attempts to soften the blow. "Levi has a point—"

"I am perfectly certain of my own desires, yes."

Your conviction, or perhaps something in your stare, seems to convince them on your feelings on the matter. They go silent, look at each other one last time, and then Erwin chuckles softly. "Levi, why don't you lie next to her?"

"Yeah," Levi mutters, "she's gonna need me to guide her through it."

"Hey! I'm not some helpless damsel."

"Never said you were." Levi shoots you a look, sitting next to you. "Just put your stupid pride aside and take my help."

Behind him, Erwin is unbuckling his belt, the sound of leather drawn tight. You wish it would all go faster. 

You eye Levi. "But what are you going to do while he...?"

Levi answers by shifting closer to you. With a ragged breath, his slender finger reach for the buttons of your chemise. As he coaxes the last one to open, his eyes flicker to you. A silent question.

Heart stuttering, you nod. With his help, the garments come off. Now fully exposed to them, the reprieve you get of Levi briefly drawing back to fold your nightgown away is temporary; soon, you sense both their heated gazes on you. You cross your arms over your breasts, but Levi gently intertwines his hand with your own, moving to kiss your knuckles with added reassurance. 

"I'll watch," Levi finally states. 

You place a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat soaring away. Like fine marble, Levi's muscles would be worthy to be displayed in a museum.  "Then... can I see you, too?"

Levi's eyes flutter. Silently, he does as you ask, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, though he omits to remove his undergarment. 

Still, he's...

"Beautiful," you whisper, tentatively placing a hand over his chest bone.

Feeling your probing, curious stare, the knot on Levi’s throat bobs. You place a kiss on his right cheek.

"You are beautiful, you know that?" you say, saccharine sweet. 

Levi's lips curl. Pink graces his skin, flushing all the way to his neck. He folds his clothes to place them on the wardrobe nearby. It is only after he is back next to you, facial expression composed once more, that he speaks up, "What did I say? Corny."

The sound of Erwin’s laughter soothes your ears and beckons you both to stare at your second lover.

It is only then that you notice that Erwin is also entirely disrobed, save from his undergarment. His golden skin, a living tapestry of chiseled muscles and taut tendons, glows with a fierce vitality. A trail of golden hair that blazes a path from his navel downwards…

"So are you," you say to Erwin with a breathy tone, "beautiful."

"I'm glad you like what you see." Erwin runs a hand to the back of his head, grinning sweetly. "You are, well—"

From across the room, Levi's gaze locks onto you.

"Divine," Erwin finishes.

You feel yourself grow hot, feeling their eyes admire your every curve, your every facet.

"Fuck, I can’t take this," comes Levi’s voice, stomping back towards the bed. "You guys are nauseating to be around."

You snort. "Then why are you red as a lobster?"

"Shut up."

You and Erwin both burst into different fits of laughter, the feeling of which serves to soothe the nerves at pit of your stomach.

"What about you?" you ask Levi. "Don't you want him inside of you? Or the other way around?"

"No." Levi's lips draw thin. "We're not doing that today."

"Why not?"

"I told you already, didn't I? Tonight's about you, Princess."

The way Levi says the word Princess has always meant something to you, something more than when that title indicates. Now, it elicits delicious frissons all across your skin. How things have changed... 

Before you can say just as much, your peripheral catches a shift. Erwin has removed his underwear, and you turn. 

Your throat instantly goes dry.

He’s… big. 

Lacking these specific parts yourself, you lack a comparison. You've seen statues, of course, and caught accidental glances from salacious books left around by servant. Still, you're certain that Erwin is definitely above average.

No trifling matter, indeed.  

"Hey, lie down," Levi’s breath tickles your right ear. You can smell him—cotton and black tea, a scent that instantly grounds you. His eyes are heady and glazed when you look at him. "We’re gonna use your prayer oils to get you ready."

"The oils?" You raise a brow. "Sure the Royal Sage would be thrilled to hear that."

"Yeah, well. What that old geezer doesn't know won't hurt him.'"

The oils do end up being put to good use. You watch as Erwin slides it along the contraceptive sheath he’s unravelled on his length, something he carries around ("You never know when... erm, the opportunity will arise." You laugh. Levi calls him a pervert, blushing from head to toe.). His broad hand strokes himself up and down, the sight of his muscles rendering him into some timeliness statue.

Meanwhile, Levi’s dipped two fingers into you, oil and all. The sensation of his fingers, cold and slender, makes you gasp again. Now that they're separated from the feeling of his tongue, you realize that his strokes are different from your own. Definitely addictive.

Levi’s baritone is like a cello on your skin. "He's big, you see. So you need to ease into it."

"That so?" you ask, lids twitching as you concentrate on the friction Levi is so generously bestowing onto you. Your hips twitch as he alternates between rubbing against your labia and slipping inside. "Does he… does he do that to you?"

"Mm. Takes forever to prep."

Before you can say a thing, Levi’s fingers curl, wedged deep inside of you. Your moan slips out before you can control it. "Gods."

"Don’t call out to them," Levi mutters. "They're not the ones touching you."

"Hah, you call us corny? That was the cheesiest line in the books."

In response, Levi slips in a third finger, making you whine. By the time you try to protest, Levi simply curls his fingers, increasing the speed of his ministrations, and you’re reduced to nonsensical words and breathless groans.

"Thought as much," Levi’s satisfied tone bleeds in your ears.

You huff. Smug bastard.

"Look at you two," Erwin says, tone oozing with tenderness. "What a sight." 

When your gaze slides to Erwin once more, you feel your breath catch. He's still stroking himself, though his movements are more languid, slowed in urgency. His eyes are locked on you and Levi with an intensity that makes heat pool in your belly.

"What do you think?" Levi asks, his fingers still working inside you, stretching you with careful precision. The pool of warmth wracks through your body, all the way to your feet. "Think you're ready for him?"

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Levi withdraws his fingers, and you silently grieve the sudden emptiness.

You don't need to wait for too long, however, as Erwin soon approaches the bed, his powerful frame looming over you. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he positions himself between your legs. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing your lower lip.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Erwin asks you, voice feather-like.

"I am."

"I’m going to go slow, but it might hurt in the beginning."

"I'm ready."

He's kneeling between your legs now, his broad shoulders taking up so much space you feel almost overwhelmed by his presence. His blue eyes, usually so commanding in public, now look at you with such tenderness you feel like your heart might burst.

"May I?" Erwin asks, ever the gentleman even as his arousal stands proud between his legs.

"Yes," you breathe, reaching for him. "Please."

Levi shifts beside you, his hand finding yours and squeezing. "Breathe," he reminds you, voice uncharacteristically soft. "And remember, we stop whenever you say."

Erwin positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of him pressing against you. The oil makes everything slick, and you feel a momentary flutter of nervousness. But then Levi's lips are on your neck, and Erwin slowly enters you.

The stretch is immediate, a full sensation that edges on discomfort but never quite tips over. Erwin’s careful, painfully so, advancing the slightest then drawing back. You gasp at each new increment as he pushes further, feeling a kind of pressure that’s startling and strange yet strangely satisfying.

"You're doing so well," Erwin murmurs, pausing to let you adjust. His chest rises and falls with deep, controlled breaths.

Levi's thumb circles your palm, grounding you. "Halfway there," he whispers against your skin.

It doesn't hurt, not like you thought it might. There’s a moment where it pinches, but it’s brief. What you feel instead is an intense fullness—Erwin’s girth stretching you, filling you with more than you ever thought possible.

You turn towards your second companion, whose hard limb brushes against your hip as he kisses your collarbone. 

"Levi, at least let me touch you," you mutter. 

"Why?"

"I just really want to do that to you. Please."

Levi shifts back, his eyes glinting. At first, you're certain he will refuse you, but finally, he acquiesces. His underwear comes off, and you watch him with parted lips.

Levi's cock is different from Erwin's. It's not as big, but still thick. And in your hands now, he’s so... hard.

With patience, Levi takes your hand and guides you along his length, showing you how to move up and down, how much pressure to apply. The first time you manage to do it right, following a thick vein with your thumb, his body twitches. With fascination, you watch him squeeze his eyes shut, his cheeks aflame. It makes you smile, makes you feel powerful.

"So, this was the secret all along," you observe, movements going clumsy as you struggle to keep speech and action aligned. "All it took to shut you up was this?" 

Levi groans. "You’re ruining the moment." 

Erwin laughs, the sound of it vibrating all the way to your core. "How are you feeling?"

With impatience now getting the better hold of you, you turn to him. "You can move now, ‘Win."

"As you wish." 

And indeed, Erwin does as his princess says. He finally begins to slowly drag his cock along your walls, pushing further in. You gasp, feeling yourself being stretched, feeling the way his length reaches in.

"It’s all about rhythm, you see," Erwin explains as he pulls back, not enough to drag out completely, but enough to make you feel him. You whine, still adamant in maintaining a steady stroke on Levi, who shudders under your touch. "You want to start slow, then gradually build up. It takes a bit of practice, but"—he pushes back into you in one fluid motion, your body arches forward—"you catch on fast."

This new position allows him even deeper, even closer. Levi gasps as your hand matches Erwin's rhythm.

"Fuck," Levi says, sounding winded. "You’re so f-fucking... tight around him."

Another thrust and your eyes roll back. Levi grips your hand with his own, guiding you up and down his shaft, showing you how to increase the pressure. Before you can say a think, he seals his desire with a kiss.

Levi's tongue, Erwin's thrusts, are all you can feel. It feels incredible, feeling them like this, all the wet noises and groans and skin on skin. You feel triumphant surrounded by their bodies, knowing they are yours like you are theirs. The pleasure builds with each thrust, each stroke, until you think you might come apart at the seams.

"Look at you, Princess." Levi’s words are ragged, his voice a blend of reverence and astonishment. "Taking him so well." Your eyes flutter as Levi’s praise sends a rush of heat through you. "Fucking perfect." 

"Gods." 

As if caught in a delirium of his own, wanting to match his own vices, Levi places his free hand down, massaging your swollen clit. You gasp, scrabbling for desperation, the tight coil burning and bright.

"Levi," you whine. "S'too much, I can't, I-"

"You can take this." Levi's forehead is now pressed against yours, while he helps you stroke him, all the while revering your clit with his digits. "C'mon, Princess, I know you can." 

And maybe it's Levi's needy tone hidden behind praises, maybe it's Erwin's unforgiving thrusts, but you want to believe them. 

"There," Erwin gasps, sweat glistening on his brow. Erwin has sped up, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. His muscles tense above you, veins pronounced against his skin. "Yes. Just like that—there you go, beloved. You're so perfect."

"Ah—‘Win—Levi—I—"

"Let it go," Levi rasps. 

And then, you shudder around Erwin, the heat of your climax making you go boneless. Levi’s name tumbles from your lips as his head dips against your shoulder, your joined hands still working him, and when you hear him let out a delicate, lovely moan, you realize he’s the first to come undone.

But then, with Erwin still moving inside of you, that wave pleasure crashes over you, and you feel your walls clamp down on him as you find your release again. Erwin thrusts into you one last time, breath ragged, and you feel the warmth of his own desire as he spills into you—his entire body shuddering beneath him. 

You’re barely lucid, but you feel Levi collapsing on your right side, Erwin eventually doing the same on your left. You think you hear their voices, but everything is too bright and too blurry simultaneously, too many stars of white and gold dancing around you. Are you lucid right now? 

When you finally blink your way back to reality, you find them on your bed, tending to you.

Levi wipes your forehead with a damp cloth while Erwin cleans your thighs. 

"Drink this," Levi instructs, holding out a wooden cup. 

You oblige, though not before catching another kiss from him. Levi seems surprised, but kisses you back, one hand on your waist. When you turn towards Erwin, there's fondness in his gaze as he slides his tongue in your mouth, pressing a comforting touch on Levi's neck. Together, the three of you say huddled together, up until Levi breaks apart and forces you to drink the water. It's quickly followed by more orders to wash and get ready for bed.

When all is said and done, you find yourself in bed with them. The aftermath of your lovemaking has long since subsided, and your body aches from the pleasure and new sensation you just experienced. You're in the middle of them, all tangled limbs and sheet, and it is... yours. Erwin and Levi are glowing in the aftermath, and the lit candle on Erwin's side dust them both in specks of gold.

You feel like you're in a dream, flying—soaring—over the skies. 

"Is this what dying feels like?" you ask in the quiet of the night.

"More like living." Erwin smiles, brushing his hand through your hair. His touch is soft like butter. "How are you, beloved?"

"Mm... tired."

Levi clicks his tongue. "Too tired to be clever, clearly."

You jab his side with an elbow, but it's without any real force. He raises a brow, the corners of his mouth twitching. You bury your face in your pillow. 

Erwin chuckles. "Looks like we did a good job, Levi."

"Yeah," Levi agrees, his tone losing its edge. He pressing against the pillow next to you. "Guess we did."

As Erwin brushes safety into your scalp and you hug Levi from behind, curiosity gets the better of you.

"Are you all going to manage to fall asleep with me?"  

"Obviously not," Levi mutters. "You're practically choking me here."

"Pff." You roll your eyes, but soften your grip all the same. 

Levi's hand snakes to grip yours, pulling you back. "Who said you were allowed to stop?"

You snort, burying yourself into his back. "You're impossible." 

Behind you, Erwin chuckles, but his soft touch on your scalp doesn't stop. Blindly, you reach for his free hand, pulling him closer so that it encapsulates both you and Levi. You happily sigh, basked in their scents, in their warmth. 

It's glorious. 

"I wish we'd done this sooner," you confess, "I wish I had known how you all felt years ago." 

"So do we, beloved," Erwin says. 

"... Is it selfish that I never want this to end?"

For a moment, neither of them say anything. There's a shift in movements, but neither of them move positions. You wonder if you overstepped. 

"It's always been the three of us, hasn't it?" Erwin points out. "Ever since we were all young, dreaming and looking at the sun."

"Mm."

"I can't speak on Levi's behalf but... when it comes to you and him, I for one don't want to stop dreaming."

Erwin's words causes your breath to hitch. Somewhere along his speech, your heartbeat has increased its speed, pulsating against your ribs.

Through it all, Levi is strikingly silent.

Nervous he doesn't feel the same, you shift, stomach churning. "Levi, if that's not how you feel, I don't want-"

"No." Levi cuts off immediately. The sound of his tentative breath vibrating in the air is all you hear. He swallows it down with a sigh. "What Erwin said is... right. Just... just didn't know to say it." 

"Are you sure?"

There's another silence, where you feel the steady rise and fall of their chest against your body. You wait. 

"We're yours, Princess," Levi says at last. Strikingly quiet. "Always." 

Erwin squeezes Levi's hand, as if praising him for laying out his heart. "Always."

"Always..." you sigh, eyes fluttering shut, "sounds like a tale for the ages." 

Erwin laughs, pressing a kiss to your back of your head. "Maybe it will be."

That night, you sleep soundly. Entangled in the warmth and protection of their bodies, you feel safe. You feel loved. You feel free. 

It’s a wonderful place to be.

"Must you really go?"

With a pout on your face, you watch as Erwin and Levi simultaneously get dressed. Morning is in full bloom, and you can hear the sounds of the castle that signals servants are out and about. Soon, the rest of the royals and nobles will follow. Despite this, you sit up with no real urgency, clutching the sheets of your bed to your chest.

The dewy light filters into your chambers, painting the walls in soft, golden hues. For a moment, you simply watch as your guards move with quiet efficiency, Erwin fastening his cufflinks, Levi buckling his belt.

"We shouldn’t have stayed in the first place," Levi quips. "If anyone noticed we were missing from our stations, it'd be trouble."

"Levi’s right, beloved," Erwin concurs, "we don’t want to draw unwanted attention."

"I understand that, but…" You frown. "But couldn't you simply say I called you in for something? I don't want to see you go." 

"Hey." By now, Levi’s walked to you, looking at you. "We meant what we said last night; we're not going anywhere. We just need to keep up appearances." 

You look down, looking dejected.

"Princess." Erwin calls out to you. You look up; he's walked up to you as well and all you can see are his beautiful eyes. Cerulean blue. "What you said to your father, about ruling alone, being the Queen of the Realm..."

A knot forms in the middle of your chest. 

"If that is what you wish, we will do everything in our power to make it a reality." 

"But what about you?" 

Levi squeezes your hand.

"We’re your sworn swords, Princess," Levi says. "We’ll be there by your side."

You smile, fondness prickling beneath your skin. If history might have anything to say about the woman you become, you know you might not be looked at in the kindest light. Let them do as they please; you'd set your own path and modernize the monarchy once and for all.

"I have decided on the first words of our joined story, by the way." Your two knights look back at you. You make your way to stand close to them, kissing their cheeks before stepping back.  "Once upon a time, three friends fell in love." 

Levi scowls at your platitudes, muttering a bashful, "Corny," while Erwin just grins. "I like the sound of that," he says, adding his own twist to it, "The Once and Future Queen and Her Two Knights, a Tale for the Ages."

You smile sweetly. "Seems we have a title." 

As they exit the confines of your bedroom that day, you don't tell them the ending to your story—the ending you're determined to bring to life.

And the three of them lived happily ever after.

The air in the room was thick with the scent of rain and Earl Grey, but as Levi stepped inside, it was replaced by the sweet musk of your perfume. His body was a map of aches from the day's drills, his muscles screaming for rest, but the moment his grey eyes landed on you, every exhaustion vanished.

You were perched on his desk like a dark, lace-clad queen, the delicate lingerie contrasting sharply with the stacks of cold, hard military reports behind you. Levi didn't just close the door; he threw his weight against it, the bolt clicking with a finality that made his heart thunder against his ribs. He stood there for a heartbeat, his chest heaving, his gaze travelling over every inch of exposed skin until he felt lightheaded.

"Hi, Captain," you purred, your voice a silky lure in the quiet room. "Or should I call you my little kitty tonight?"

The Captain of the Survey Corps, the man who stared down Titans without blinking, let out a soft, broken sound. “Kitty," he rasped, his pride dissolving the moment he stepped into your orbit.

"Good boy." You crooked a finger, the motion slow and teasing. "Come here."

He moved with a frantic sort of grace, his boots clicking on the floor as he hurried to the edge of the desk. "You look incredible," he whispered, his hands hovering near your knees, trembling with the urge to touch but waiting for the command.

You ran your palms up his jacket, feeling the heat radiating off his powerful chest. "Oh, I know." Your fingers snagged the silk of his cravat, twisting it and yanking him down until his face was inches from yours. "Ready to lose control, Levi?"

"Yes, Miss," he choked out, his pupils dilating until his eyes were bottomless pools of black.

"Jacket and straps off. Now."

Levi moved with a speed that bordered on desperate. He shed the heavy leather jacket and the restrictive harness, the buckles hitting the floor with a metallic clatter. He looked raw, stripped of his rank and his armour, standing before you in nothing but his white shirt and trousers. "All done," he panted, his shoulders rising and falling with his jagged breaths.

You reached behind you, plucking a soft, silk tie from the desk and winding it slowly around your knuckles. A predatory smile touched your lips. "I have some ideas for you, Levi. Fun ones." You leaned in close, your breath hot against his cheek. "But if at any point you want things to end... the word is apple. That’s our safe word. Understood?"

He nodded with a feverish enthusiasm, his gaze locked on the silk in your hand. "Yes, Miss. Anything."

You hopped off the desk, the movement fluid and cat-like as you began to circle him. Levi stood rooted to the spot, his muscles coiling as he tracked your shadow. "You're so handsome," you whispered, trailing your fingernails over the dip of his spine. "Such a handsome kitty for me. Hands behind your back."

Levi obeyed instantly, his shoulder blades bunching together as he snapped his wrists behind him. He let out a low, guttural grunt as you looped the silk tie around his wrists, binding them with a firm, delicate precision. "That... that feels nice," he managed to say, his voice strained.

You stepped back around to face him, your fingers dancing over the buttons of his shirt, popping them one by one to reveal the pale, scarred muscle beneath. You reached out, playing with the ends of his cravat, tugging it just enough to make him stumble toward you.

"This is like your pretty collar," you murmured, your eyes flashing with a playful, dominant spark. "Maybe I should get my kitty a real one. Something with a bell, so I always know when you’re coming to find me."

Levi’s head fell back, a long, high-pitched whine vibrating in his throat. "Please," he sobbed, his bound hands twitching. "Do it. Mark me. Make me yours so I don't have to be anyone else's."

You ran your hands up the firm expanse of his chest, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt. With a sharp, sudden movement, you shoved the collar down, exposing the pale, corded muscles of his shoulders. "Mm mm," you hummed, your eyes dark with hunger. "What a view for me, Levi. So much clean space just waiting for me to claim it."

Levi’s head fell back, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "My body... it's your canvas," he rasped. "Paint whatever you want on me. Use your teeth, your nails... I don't care. Just don't stop."

You didn't. You ran your thumb over his nipple, catching the peak and pinching it sharply between your fingers. A strangled moan ripped from his throat, his bound arms jerking against the silk ties. "There's so much I can do to you," you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his ear.

Then, you bit him. You sank your teeth into the meat of his shoulder, hard enough to leave a deep, stinging mark that would surely be purple by morning.

"You wear my marks so well," you purred, sliding your hand down the front of his trousers. Even through the heavy fabric, he was rock hard, pulsing against your palm. "Already? You’re so eager to be handled, aren't you? Do you want me to touch you, Levi?"

He gulped, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned his forehead against your shoulder. "Y-Yes. Please... Miss."

"I suppose a good kitty deserves his pets," you mocked gently, your fingers working the buckle of his belt. You started biting his pecs, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin while your hand slid inside his underwear, finally wrapping around his heavy, throbbing length.

Levi let out a jagged, broken gasp, his hips instinctively bucking into your hand. "Ah, fuck..." He moaned your name.

"You're so thick," you nipped at his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. "Heavy and hot. And all mine."

"It's all yours," he sobbed, his knuckles turning white behind his back. "Everything I am... it’s yours."

You abruptly dragged your hand away, leaving him cold and aching. He let out a pathetic, high-pitched whine, his eyes snapping open in a silent plea.

"I know it is," you said, grabbing his cravat and tugging his face upward so he had to look at you. "But I need you to prove you’re a good boy. I need to see how much you want to please me." You nibbled your lower lip, your gaze dropping to his mouth. "Are you hungry, Levi?"

He knew exactly what you were asking. His gaze dropped to the lace covering your heat, his breath hitching. "Starving," he whispered, the word thick with a primal, desperate hunger.

"Kneel, then."

Without a second of hesitation, the Captain of the Survey Corps sank to his knees. The sound of his knees hitting the floorboards was the sound of total surrender. He looked up at you from below, his bound hands making his chest arch forward, presenting himself to you entirely. He licked his lips, his eyes fixed on his prize, the soft, scented silk between your thighs.

"Yes, Miss," he breathed, his voice trembling with the weight of his devotion.

You stood before him, the light of the dying fire casting a glow over your curves as you slid your panties off. You didn't just hand them to him; you teased the fabric through your fingers, letting the scent of your arousal fill the small space between you.

"I know just the place for these," you murmured, kneeling briefly.

Levi’s breath hitched as you leaned in, peppering his neck with soft, biting kisses that made his toes curl against the floorboards. You reached into his open boxers, pushing the warm silk down until it was wrapped snugly around his throbbing length, the fabric slick with the evidence of your day. You pumped him a few times, forcing the sensation of the silk to sear into his nerves. "Is that nice, Levi?"

"Yes, Miss," he hummed, a vibration of pure delight rattling his chest. "It's... incredible."

"Good." You pulled back, hopping onto the edge of the mahogany desk and parting your legs. The cool air hit your damp skin, but the heat radiating from Levi was enough to keep you burning. "You have to keep them right there while you eat. If you're a good boy, I might just let you loose so you can do whatever you want to me."

A low, predatory growl rumbled in Levi’s throat, his grey eyes darkening with a flash of the Captain's steel. "I have some ideas," he rasped.

"I’m looking forward to hearing them. Now, come here."

You placed your foot firmly on his shoulder, your heel pressing into the muscle. Levi shuffled closer on his knees, the friction of the silk against his cock making him wince with pleasure. He leaned in until his hot breath was ghosting over your inner thighs. "You look delicious," he whispered.

You reached down, your fingers tangling in the short, dark silk of his hair, guiding him. You didn't have to give him a single instruction; when it came to your body, Levi was a master tactician.

His mouth was on you in an instant, his tongue working with devastating precision. He was an expert at finding the exact pressure, the exact speed to make your toes clench. Pleasure burned through you like a wildfire as he alternated between long, slow licks and sharp, focused suction on your clit.

You purred, your head lolling back as he moaned against you. The deep, guttural vibration of his voice travelled through his lips and straight into your nerves, sending a violent shiver of delight through your entire frame. You gripped his head tightly, your nails digging into his scalp as the intensity built to a fever pitch.

It was staggering how much power he had without the use of his hands. He was a man possessed, his focus entirely on the slick, sweet heat of you.

"Good boy," you gasped, grinding yourself against his mouth, your hips moving in a frantic search for the peak. "Fuck, Levi... that's it. Right there."

Levi didn't slow down. If anything, he pressed closer, his bound arms making him lean into you with his full weight. He was drinking you in, his own pleasure secondary to the sound of your whimpers, proving with every flick of his tongue that he was, and would always be, yours to command.

The world narrowed down to the wet sounds of Levi’s devotion. As your climax finally tore through you, you tried to arch away, your muscles twitching with overstimulation, but Levi wouldn't let you go. He pressed closer, his tongue broad and demanding as he lapped up every drop of your release. He swallowed with a deep, vibrating hum, the sound of his satisfaction echoing against your thighs as you gasped his name into the quiet room.

When you finally managed to pull his head back, catching your breath in jagged hitches, you couldn't help but giggle. His dark hair was a mess, his lips were slick, and his grey eyes were unfocused and blown wide with a hazy, worshipful heat.

"You look like a kitty drunk on cream," you panted, smoothing a stray lock of hair from his damp forehead.

"Because I am," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He strained against his silken bonds, his chest heaving. "I want more. Give me more."

You shook your head slowly, a teasing glint in your eyes. "I have one last plan for you before you get to do whatever you want, Levi."

A small, frustrated pout touched the Captain’s lips, a sight so rare and vulnerable it made your heart skip. "Okay, Miss," he muttered, his tone borderline sulky.

"Sassy with me now?" you challenged, arching a brow.

The defiance vanished instantly. Levi gulped, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassed red. "No, Miss. Sorry, Miss. I'm just... I'm starving for you."

"Good. Prove it. Stand up."

You watched him rise, the muscular, scarred length of him towering over you once more. Even bound and dishevelled, he was an imposing force of nature. You reached out, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pulling them down just enough to free his heavy, pulsing length. It stood proud and aching, the silk of your panties still wrapped around the base, a shimmering reminder of who he belonged to.

"There it is," you whispered, your gaze travelling over him with possessiveness. "The most perfect view in the entire world."

Levi’s chest puffed out instinctively, a flicker of masculine pride shining through his haze of submission. "Thank you, Miss."

You guided him closer until the hot, sensitive tip of his cock brushed against your entrance. Instead of taking him in, you ran your fingers over yourself, gathering the slick evidence of your recent climax, and began to paint him with it. You moved your hand in a slow, agonisingly steady rhythm, ensuring he felt every slide of your skin while his tip remained close to the heat he was dying for.

Levi let out a shattered moan, his eyes rolling back as he watched your hand work him. "Please," he choked out, his hips twitching in a desperate, uncoordinated search for friction. "Please... let me in."

You looked up at him through your lashes, your expression ruthless and loving all at once. "Not yet. I’m going to touch you, bite you, and kiss you until you're trembling... but you’re not allowed to cum until I say so. Do you understand?"

He panted, his body vibrating with the effort of his restraint. "Y-Yes, Miss. Anything."

You leaned in, the scent of him filling your senses. You dragged your tongue up the centre of his torso, trailing a path of fire over his abs before sinking your teeth into the soft skin right between his plump, heaving pecs. You sucked a dark mark into the muscle, a brand that would sit right over his heart long after the sun came up.

"Good boy," you murmured against his skin, feeling his pulse thundering like a trapped bird.

You leaned in, your teeth sinking into the firm muscle of his pec, marking him once more. Your hand squeezed the strong curve of his waist, your nails digging into the skin. "Look at you," you whispered against his collarbone, your voice thick with a dark, satisfied pride. "Such a tasty man. Such a perfect, devoted soldier."

Levi let out a shattered moan, his eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the praise. "Thank... thank you," he gasped, his voice breaking under the weight of his arousal.

As you shifted, you felt a slick, hot smear of moisture right at your entrance. You let out a soft, feline mewl of surprise. "Did you pre-cum for me, Levi? Without my permission?"

"Forgive me," he rasped, his face flushing a deep, bruised crimson. He looked utterly undone, his body trembling with the effort of staying still.

You didn't pull away. Instead, you guided him, pushing just the very tip of his heavy length into your heat. "A little naughty, my kitty," you muttered with a playful smile. Levi let out a guttural sound, his hips instinctively bucking, trying to chase the friction, trying to bury himself deep within you. You held him back, your hand firm against his chest. "All of that cum belongs right here, remember? Every single drop is mine."

"Yes, Miss," he sobbed.

You cupped the back of his neck, forcing his grey eyes to snap to yours. They were wild, blown wide with a frantic, beautiful desperation. "You're being so good for me, Levi. So incredibly good."

He grunted, a harsh, pained sound as he fought back his release. "F-Fuck..."

"You've done so well." You stood up, closing the distance between you and capturing his lips in a deep, searing kiss. As you kissed him, your hands reached behind his back, your fingers working the silk knots of his restraints. "You've been such a good boy that I'm going to release you now."

With a final tug, the silk fell away.

Levi didn't move for a heartbeat, his arms hanging heavy at his sides, his wrists marked with the faint red lines of the fabric. He eyed you with a predatory intensity that made the hair on your arms stand up. "So," he whispered, his voice dropping into something dangerous. "I can have my reward now?"

You nodded slowly. "Yes."

The shift was instantaneous. The Kitty was gone, replaced by a man who had spent his life conquering monsters. Levi lunged for you like a beast let out of a cage, his powerful arms hooking under your thighs. He lifted you off your feet with a grunt of pure, masculine strength and slammed you back against the heavy mahogany desk.

The impact sent a stack of reports flying, but neither of you cared. With one swift, violent surge of his hips, he buried himself deep within you, bottoming out in a way that knocked the breath from your lungs.

Levi didn't hold back. He bucked into you with a hard, relentless pace, the force of his thrusts making the heavy desk scrape loudly across the wooden floorboards. He was a man possessed, his teeth bared and his eyes locked on yours. Your nails raked down his back, dragging over his beautiful, scarred skin and adding fresh red furrows to the marks you had already claimed.

He wasn't the Captain, and he wasn't a pet. He was a man finally claiming his prize with every shattering strike.

The sheer force of Levi’s hunger was overwhelming. You lost your grip on his shoulders for a moment, your spine arching off the desk as your head fell back. The pleasure was a physical weight, heavenly and heavy, and for a heartbeat, the Commander in you faltered. Your eyes rolled back, your thoughts dissolving into a blur of grey steel and white heat.

But then, you felt his hands, rough, scarred, and trembling, grip your hips, and you forced yourself back to the surface. You weren't done with him yet.

You reached down, your fingers finding your own heat right in front of his wide, blown-out eyes. "Good boy," you rasped. "Eyes on me, Levi. Don't you dare look away."

Levi let out a shattered grunt, his teeth bared as he watched your hand move. "You look... ungh... so fucking good," he managed to choke out, his pace becoming frantic, his muscles coiling like a spring about to snap.

"Are you going to do it?" you challenged, your hips meeting every one of his punishing thrusts. "Are you going to cum inside me? Pour every drop of your seed into me like a good boy?"

His fingers dug into your skin, surely leaving the marks he’d craved. "Y-Yes," he gasped. "Everything... it’s all for you."

You purred, the vibration of your own arousal building. "That's it. Keep going. Don't you stop until I tell you. I'm almost there, Levi... I’m right there."

He let out a guttural sound, his jaw locking as he fought the final urge to succumb. "A-Ah, I'm close... please..."

The tension snapped. Your walls clenched around him with a sudden, violent intensity as your orgasm finally claimed you. You cried out his name, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls of the base, your legs shaking uncontrollably as the pleasure consumed you.

"F-Fuck... now, Levi! Now!"

Levi didn't hesitate. With one final, devastating surge, he slammed his cock deep, bottoming out against you as he finally let go. He came with a low, primal moan, his body shuddering with the force of his release as he unloaded deep inside you, marking the inside of your body just as clearly as you had marked the outside of his.

He collapsed against you then, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his heart hammering frantically against your chest. 

The silence that followed was heavy and warm, broken only by the synchronised, ragged breathing of two people who had pushed each other to the very edge. You massaged your fingers through the short, dark silk of Levi’s hair, your touch a soothing contrast to the way you had just been commanding him.

"You did so well, Levi," you whispered, your voice still a little breathless.

He let out a low, contented mumble against the crook of your neck. "Thank you.”

"Are you hurt? Are your wrists okay?" You brushed your thumb over the faint red marks the silk ties had left behind.

He leaned up, bracing his weight on his forearms to look down at you. The sharp, cold Captain was nowhere to be seen; his expression was soft, his eyes clouded with an almost overwhelming adoration. "I'm good," he promised, his voice softening. "Really good. You... you were perfect."

You cupped his face, wiggling your hips slightly against him, enjoying the lingering friction. "I'm glad."

He turned his head, pressing a lingering kiss into the palm of your hand. "Do your hips hurt? Your back? I know I went a bit rough once you let me loose."

You let out a soft giggle, the sound bright in the quiet room. "I’m perfectly fine, Levi. I think I liked the rough part just as much as you did."

He offered a rare, genuine smirk before helping you sit up. He pulled back, the physical separation leaving a lingering chill, and began to tuck himself away with his usual meticulousness. Once he was decent, he looked back at you, a flicker of that vulnerable kitty returning to his gaze. "Was I a good boy?"

You hummed a laugh, reaching out to tweak his chin. "The best."

As you looked around the floor, your eyes caught on a small patch of silk near the desk leg. "You dropped my panties, Captain."

Levi leaned down, his muscular frame moving with practised grace as he scooped them up. "It was the heat of the moment," he admitted, his face flushing slightly. He stepped between your legs and, with surprising tenderness, slipped the silk back onto you. "What was I supposed to do? You let me do anything I wanted after teasing me for hours. I lost my focus."

You patted his chest, your fingers lingering over the fresh bite mark you’d left between his pecs. "Maybe next time," you purred, a devious glint returning to your eyes, "they should be a gag instead."

Levi’s eyes lit up instantly, a spark of electric anticipation firing in his grey irises. He didn't even hesitate. "Yes," he breathed, his voice dropped to a low, eager rumble. "I would like that very much, Miss."