a tumblr blog dedicated to all the fandoms I am into - mostly animanga but also shows and books and movies
FANDOMS:
attack on titan, chainsaw man, black butler, vinland saga, berserk, monster, death note, tokyo ghoul, gintama, evangelion, parasyte, death parade, alice in boderland, ajin: demi-human, heavenly delusion, jujutsu kaisen, moriarty the patriot, psycho pass, percy jackson, harry potter, omniscient reader's viewpoint, purple hyacinth, lookism, under the oak tree, batman, teen titans, squid game, classroom of the elite, kakeguri, another, mob psycho 100
++ I love Norse mythology, Stephen King, Jane Austen and Junji Ito
three jokers might have been trash, but jason todd was absolutely divine
(appreciate some jason and a lil bit of my rant about how dc has been treating him)
First of all, Jason Fabok, the artist of Three Jokers, is absolutely phenomenal, and that Jason Todd look is easily the best I've ever seen but despite the great art, Batman: Three Jokers is a story I just can't like at all.. The way Jason's character is portrayed especially towards the end is honestly pathetic. His attempt to guilt Barbara into becoming his girlfriend is just beyond ridiculous, it is such a bizarre reduction of his character that it completely undermines everything that makes Jason such a compelling character.
anyways the bigger issue is that DC has no bloody clue what to do with jason anymore. utrh is still the gold standard but rhato in new 52 was absolute character assassination. They butchered jason, they butchered starfire, they butchered roy harper (another of my favourite character).
After years of being away from DC Comics, I recently picked up some new stories and couldn't believe how far they've fallen in terms of handling Jason Todd. Bruce’s treatment of him is downright baffling. He drags Jason back to Ethiopia to relive his literal death, beats him senseless on a rooftop and breaks his helmet, and then hits him with fear toxin. In what universe is that remotely acceptable? like
what. the. fuck.
And this is what really pisses me off: Jason Todd was originally written as a good kid with potential, intelligence, heart, who slipped through the cracks of society. He is what happens when institutions fail children. Bruce taking him in was meant to be a gesture of faith, of recognition. Jason wasn’t a lost cause, he was someone worth saving.
You could even argue Jason’s death came because Bruce didn’t trust him enough.
Red Hood was never about some angsty, homicidal tantrum. Jason is what happens when a hopeful, heroic kid grows up and realises the world’s systems are fundamentally broken. He refuses to be passive. He refuses to sit still and hope the world fixes itself. Red Hood is a commentary on justice, on complicity, on how far you go when the structures meant to protect people are the ones doing the damage.
Yet lately, DC has decided Jason’s “character” is just:
angry
reckless
brute
utter bullshit.
Jason was never some “bad seed” who was just destined to be this angry, reckless brat. Jason was a good kid. He had a lot of potential, and he was smart, sarcastic, and a bit rough around the edges. He was someone who saw injustices, and when he couldn’t stop them by normal means, he went to extremes.
DC has turned him into a dumb, angry gun guy who just fights people for the sake of it. utrh!jason was cunning, agile, and strategic. He was able to outwit Batman and Nightwing, and that’s part of why he was so dangerous. He wasn’t some street-level brute, he was a master manipulator, and he used his intelligence just as much as his fighting skills. But over time, they’ve completely thrown that out the window in favour of a guy who just punches things and shoots guns, and it’s beyond frustrating.
DC needs to remember that he wasn’t just a carbon copy of bruce's anger issues. He had his own reasons for becoming who he was, and they are so much deeper than just "he got mad and started killing people." bla bla bla.
DC is treating him like just another emo batfam kid, and it’s beyond frustrating.
Jason Todd deserves so much more than this. Bring back the clever, strategic, morally grey Red Hood we all know and love, please.
You cross your arms. Shift your weight. Will yourself into some sense of normalcy. "I still can’t believe that worked."
Levi hums.
Just a simple sound. Barely even an acknowledgement.
You glance at him. "Do you actually practice being this insufferable, or does it come naturally?"
"Do you actually practice being this stupid, or -" he turns slightly, eyes flicking to you, unimpressed, "- never mind. That answers itself."
You exhale sharply. "You are a nightmare."
"And yet," he says, still looking at you, "you keep showing up in mine."
Your stomach twists.
Something shifts in the air between you.
You force out a scoff. "What, you want me to apologise for that?"
"Wouldn’t hate it," Levi murmurs, turning his attention back to the cadets.
A pause.
You watch them too, the way they move, the way they fumble and correct themselves, the way sweat beads at their brows. Some are slow, some are efficient, some are quite possibly two seconds away from dropping an entire crate onto their own foot.
Your arms tighten around yourself.
"And what would that sound like, exactly?" you ask.
Levi tilts his head slightly. "Try me."
You inhale. "I am sorry."
Levi snorts.
You roll your eyes. "No, really. I am sorry you have such a fragile little heart that one bad dream can ruin your entire week."
Levi huffs out something that might be amusement. Might be irritation. Might be the exact middle ground where he perpetually lives.
"You think highly of yourself," he says.
"You hate me," you reply, shrugging. "It only makes sense that my presence would haunt you in your sleep."
Levi says nothing.
You glance at him.
Something about the sharp cut of his profile, the way the last of the afternoon light casts long shadows against the sharp edges of his face. The way his lashes catch the light. The way his mouth -
(Stop. Stop that.)
He shifts his weight. "I don’t hate you." he says, so casually you almost miss it.
You blink.
You turn to him fully. "I am sorry, what?"
He does not look at you.
"You literally just -"
"You don’t listen," Levi interrupts, still calm, still composed. "That’s your problem."
You scoff. "Oh, and you do?"
He glances at you. "More than you."
You stare at him.
He holds your gaze.
And there it is again. That thing. That shift. That almost-moment.
Your stomach twists.
The crates thump. The cadets mutter.
You inhale.
"You called me disgusting," you say.
Levi blinks. "Did I?"
"Don’t act like you don’t remember."
He doesn’t answer.
And something in you, something bitter, something sharp, something that has been simmering too long, curls around itself and tightens.
"You don’t even know me," you say, quieter.
Levi tilts his head slightly. "Don’t I?"
Your jaw tenses.
A long, stretching silence.
Something in the air thickens.
And then -
One of the cadets drops a crate.
The sharp crack of wood splitting shatters the moment, sends both your heads snapping towards the sound, and suddenly, the spell is broken.
FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)
SYNOPSIS:
Levi hates you for your Mitrassian upbringing, you hate him because he took away your promotion
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"Your pride will be the death of you," Mike Zacharias says often enough that you could probably embroider it on a pillow.
Not that you would admit it, but the man has a point. Pride is the glue holding you together most days. Pride, and a well-earned reputation that keeps people from underestimating you, not that it stops them from trying. Lieutenant of the Survey Corps, the youngest officer right now, and still kicking after a decade of charging headfirst into death’s waiting arms. It is not a small thing.
The carriage sways gently, wheels crunching against gravel, and you feel it settle into your bones. One moment you are staring out at the endless expanse of trees, letting Erwin talk logistics at your side while Hange fiddles with some absurd contraption across from you.
Then, like clockwork, that strange enchantment of all moving vehicles sets in. Your body slackens, head tipping sideways like a marionette with its strings cut, and before you know it, you are gone.
Gone.
Gone against the shoulder of humanity’s most unshakable pillar, Erwin Smith, who tolerates your sleep-deprived nonsense with the patience of a saint. And he lets you, of course. Because Erwin has long since made peace with the fact that you are a better soldier than you are a functioning human.
And because, deep down, you suspect he finds it amusing that the infamously restless lieutenant can only find sleep in the most inconvenient places.
Hange does. She once proposed you sleep in carriages permanently, like some kind of nocturnal vampire with a travel-related curse. Said it straight to Erwin’s face too, barely stifling laughter.
The worst part?
He’d actually considered it for half a second before you’d practically fallen over yourself to protest.
But then there is Levi.
Levi, whose glare alone could kill men. Levi, who has not stopped glaring since you first sat down, and who now looks like he is considering a thousand and one ways to murder you with nothing but the force of his disdain. Not that this is new.
The man’s practically made a career out of hating your guts.
For reasons you can’t quite put your finger on, he’s always had it out for you. Maybe it is because you breathe too loudly. Maybe it is because you are from Mitras. Maybe it is because he just hates everyone by default and you have never been special enough to escape that.
Or… maybe it’s because you once corrected his grip on his blades during training and bruised his impossibly fragile ego. Who knows? What you do know is that every time you so much as exist in his general vicinity, he looks like he is biting back the urge to kick you into the nearest ditch.
And now this.
You, asleep against Erwin’s shoulder, a crime so heinous it could probably be used to justify your execution. Levi hasn’t said anything yet, but even in your sleep, you can feel the words brewing in him, a storm cloud ready to burst. You can practically hear it now. He is channelling them to your dreams.
Something snide and cutting, because Levi does not know how to speak without turning it into a weapon.
The carriage hits a bump, and your head bounces slightly before settling back into the warm, solid presence beside you. The sound of wheels against gravel is hypnotic, lulling, a rhythm that pulls you deeper into the kind of sleep you rarely find anywhere else.
You would call it embarrassing if you were awake enough to care.
But Levi cares.
His glare could probably stop the carriage dead in its tracks if he tried hard enough. And when he finally speaks, his voice low and razor-edged, in your dreams, you know whatever he is about to say will be just the kind of thing to haunt you for weeks.
The carriage jerks violently, throwing your head sideways and yanking you from the warm, hazy cocoon of half-consciousness into the cold, harsh light of the waking world. You blink, bleary-eyed, trying to piece together what just happened, why your heart is racing like you have been yanked out of a nightmare.
Then it hits you. Literally. Your face collides with something hard and unyielding, and you jerk upright with a wince, clutching your nose like it might have just been rearranged. Erwin’s shoulder, you realise.
Fantastic. You have been drooling on the commander of the Survey Corps like some wet-mouthed toddler, and now you are wide awake, head pounding, mouth dry as sandpaper.
Before you can even string a coherent thought together, you hear it. That voice. Low, gravelly, and just dripping with disdain.
“You know you sleep with your mouth open, right?”
Levi. Of course it is Levi. Because who else would it be?
You blink at him, trying to focus through the fog of sleep and confusion, only to find him staring at you like you are a piece of trash someone accidentally dragged into the carriage. His arms are crossed, his eyes narrowed, and his lips curl into this half-smirk, half-snarl that sets your teeth on edge.
“What?” you croak, voice scratchy and weak, and instantly regret it.
He leans back, eyes narrowing further like he is dissecting you with his gaze. “I said,” he repeats, slowly, “you sleep with your mouth open. Like a fucking fish gasping for air.”
You blink again, heat rushing to your face as the words sink in. “I do not.”
He scoffs. Actually scoffs, like the sound is physically dragged from his throat by the sheer weight of his disdain. “Oh, you don’t?” he says, and there is that smirk again, sharp enough to cut. “That’s interesting, because I just spent the last hour watching you drool all over Erwin’s shoulder like a goddamn baby.”
Your stomach drops. Drool? No. No, that can’t be right. You don’t drool. You ae too composed, too dignified, too… too not that .
“You are lying,” you snap, straightening up and glaring at him, because it is the only defence you have left. “I don’t drool.”
“Oh, you don’t?” He leans forward now, elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “So what’s this, then?” He gestures vaguely in your direction, and you instinctively swipe at your chin, only to freeze when your fingers come away damp.
Oh, fuck.
The heat in your face explodes, burning brighter than the sun, and Levi just sits there, watching you, his smirk widening into something that is almost predatory.
“ You are disgusting ,” he says flatly, leaning back again like the very sight of you is offensive to his existence. “Figures. A Mitrassian brat like you, born with a silver spoon shoved so far down your throat you probably think it is normal to have servants wipe your ass for you, of course you’d drool in your sleep. Can’t even manage basic fucking hygiene.”
Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” he drawls, tilting his head like he is genuinely curious. “Don’t tell me you are actually offended. What’s the matter? Did no one ever tell you the world does not revolve around your pampered little ass?”
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, mouth opening and closing like like a fucking fish. No. No, you will not let him win this.
“At least I don’t walk around with a stick up my ass,” you snap back, crossing your arms and glaring daggers at him. “Seriously, Levi, do you ever relax? Or do you just spend all your free time figuring out new ways to be an insufferable dick?”
His smirk vanishes in an instant, replaced by a glare so icy it could freeze fire. “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Coming from the spoiled little princess who can’t even take a nap without making a goddamn fool of herself.”
“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Just because you are miserable doesn’t mean you have to drag everyone else down with you.”
“Miserable?” He laughs, short and sharp and completely devoid of humour. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“And you don’t know the first thing about me,” you shoot back, leaning forward now, your heart pounding with something between anger and adrenaline. “So why don’t you stop acting like you are so much better than everyone else and just shut the fuck up for once?”
For a moment, the two of you just sit there, glaring at each other. Then, finally, Levi snorts and leans back, his arms crossing over his chest again.
“You are not worth it,” he mutters, turning his gaze to the window like the conversation never even happened.
The silence lasts all of thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of you staring at Levi like you might actually strangle him, and him pretending you don’t exist, his gaze locked on the scenery outside the window as though it is somehow the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Thirty seconds, and then, like clockwork, it starts again.
“You are such a fucking hypocrite,” you mutter, the words bubbling up from somewhere deep and unfiltered. “Always acting like you are above everyone else, but you are just a bitter little -”
“Careful,” he cuts in, his voice as sharp and cold as a whetted blade. He doesn’t even look at you, but the warning is clear enough.
“Or what?” you snap, leaning forward like you are daring him to say something worse. “You gonna scold me again, Captain Clean Freak? Tell me I am a disgrace to the Survey Corps because I had the audacity to sleep ? God forbid someone isn’t a perfect little soldier like you.”
That does it. His head whips around, eyes narrowing into slits of pure, undiluted annoyance. “Perfect?” he echoes, his voice low and venomous. “You think I’m perfect? You are even dumber than I thought.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” you bite back, throwing your hands up. “You walk around with that fucking holier-than-thou attitude, judging everyone else like it’s your job, and you expect me to believe you are not doing it on purpose? Please.”
Levi’s jaw tightens, the muscle there twitching dangerously. “Maybe if you didn’t act like a spoiled, self-important brat all the time, people wouldn’t fucking judge you.”
“And maybe if you pulled that stick out of your ass, people wouldn’t think you are a miserable asshole!”
“ Enough! ”
The word slices through the carriage like a whip crack, and both of you freeze, turning in unison to face its source. Erwin. Of course. The commander’s voice is calm, measured, but there is an unmistakable edge to it, a warning neither of you dares to ignore.
“Both of you,” he says, his blue eyes flicking between you and Levi with practised authority, “are acting like children. This is not the time or the place for petty arguments.”
You sink back into your seat, arms crossed tightly over your chest, and shoot Levi one last glare for good measure. He doesn’t even bother looking at you, his attention shifting back to the window like the argument never happened.
But Hange is not as easily deterred.
“Honestly,” she says, leaning forward with a grin that is far too wide for the current situation, “you two fight like an old married couple. It is kind of cute, in a dysfunctional, terrifying sort of way.”
“Shut it, Hange,” you and Levi say in unison, the words tumbling out so quickly they practically overlap.
Hange bursts out laughing. “See? That’s what I am talking about! Perfect synchronization.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands, and try to ignore the way Levi mutters something under his breath that is probably an insult aimed squarely at you. The carriage jolts again, and for a moment, you are tempted to throw open the door and hurl yourself out into the passing fields just to escape the suffocating tension.
Instead, you take a deep breath and close your eyes, willing yourself to stay calm. You have survived worse than this, you remind yourself. Much worse.
But the thought does not bring you any comfort. If anything, it only makes the knot in your chest tighten, memories clawing their way to the surface before you can shove them back down.
“Are you okay?” Hange’s voice cuts through the haze, startling you.
You open your eyes to find her watching you, her usual grin replaced by something softer, more cautious. You force a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“I am fine,” you say, the lie slipping out so easily it almost feels like the truth.
Levi snorts. “Yeah, sure. You are a real picture of fine, drooling all over the commander like some kind of stray dog.”
And just like that, the fragile moment of calm shatters.
“Fuck you, Levi,” you snap, the words coming out sharper than you intended.
“Not in your wildest dreams,” he fires back without missing a beat.
“Okay, enough! ” Erwin’s voice cuts through again, sharper this time, and both of you go quiet, though you are still glaring at Levi out of the corner of your eye.
The rest of the ride passes in strained silence. You don’t look at Levi again, and he doesn’t look at you, but the weight of his presence is impossible to ignore.
You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself he is just an asshole with a superiority complex and nothing he says actually matters. But the words linger anyway, burrowing under your skin and refusing to let go.
And when the carriage finally lurches to a stop, you are the first to step out, the cool air hitting your face like a slap as you take a deep, steadying breath.
You have survived worse, you remind yourself again. Much worse.
But somehow, Levi still manages to get under your skin like no one else ever has.
.
.
.
The suite is… nicer than you expected. Not that you expected it to be bad – this is Mitras, after all, where even the dingiest inns have marble-tiled lobbies and chandeliers - but it is almost unsettlingly polished. Too clean. Too organised. Like it is trying too hard to convince you it is a home away from home when all it really feels like is another cage.
At least Hange is here. You can deal with Hange, even when she is her usual chaotic, half-feral self, leaving books and gadgets strewn about like breadcrumbs leading to her next ill-fated experiment.
You’d take her over Levi’s constant scowling and Erwin’s omnipresent aura of I am thinking about something great and you will never guess what it is any day.
The moment you step into your shared bedroom, you peel off your overcoat, let it fall to the floor in a heap, and collapse half onto the bed, your legs still dangling off the edge. The mattress is firm, which is a shame, you were hoping for something soft enough to swallow you whole.
“I am so fucking tired, Hange,” you groan into the duvet, your voice muffled but no less pathetic for it.
“Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable, Letta,” she replies, already rummaging through the bags like she is looking for buried treasure. “Erwin wants us to change into casual clothes and meet him for dinner. He is got things to go over.”
“Of course he does,” you mutter, rolling over just enough to free your mouth from the fabric. “He always has things to go over. He lives to go over things. If he stopped going over things, I think he’d just… cease to exist.”
Hange snorts, tossing a bundle of clothes in your direction. They hit you square in the face. “Here. Get dressed, philosopher.”
You take your time peeling off your shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin. Hange, to her credit, turns her back, busying herself with something else.
It’s not like she has not seen you naked before - military life strips away a lot of modesty – but there is an unspoken agreement between the two of you. A quiet kind of respect. She knows what’s written across your body, and she does not look unless you let her.
The blouse she picked is blue. Soft, comfortable, but formal enough to pass Erwin’s silent inspection. You pair it with some loose pants, opting to keep your bra on because there is no way in hell you’re facing Levi without at least one layer of armour.
“I am done,” you announce, pulling your hair into a quick, messy ponytail.
Hange grins at you. “Looking sharp. Let’s go.”
The common room is as pristine as the rest of the suite, which only makes it feel more awkward when you step in to find Erwin and Levi already seated at the dining table. Erwin, of course, looks perfectly composed in a light blue shirt and gray pants, his posture so straight you’d think he was still in uniform. Levi, on the other hand, looks like he was dragged here against his will – which, to be fair, might actually be the case. He is wearing a grey shirt and black pants, sitting with his arms crossed like he’s already planning his escape.
Hange, ever the social butterfly, breezes into the room with a cheerful, exaggerated salute. “Evening, gentlemen! Ready for another riveting session of Erwin’s Dinner and Briefing Extravaganza ?”
Erwin raises an eyebrow, but there is a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good to see you are in high spirits, Hange.”
You slip into the seat next to her, offering a quick nod to Erwin and deliberately avoiding eye contact with Levi. He is already staring at you, judging, probably, but you are not in the mood to deal with his you are five minutes away from being court-martialled glare right now.
“The hotel management will deliver dinner shortly,” Erwin says, his tone as even and commanding as ever. “In the meantime, we will go over some of the logistics for tomorrow’s meeting.”
“Of course we will,” you mutter under your breath, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs from Hange.
Levi catches it, of course. “Something you want to share with the class?” he drawls, his voice dripping with disinterest, which only makes it more infuriating.
“Nope,” you reply, popping the p with a smile so forced it makes your cheeks ache. “Just marvelling at how thrilling this all sounds.”
Hange snickers, and Erwin shoots both of you a look that clearly says behave . You shrink slightly under his gaze, but Levi just sighs like he is the only adult in a room full of unruly children.
“Dinner can’t come soon enough,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t worry, Captain Sunshine,” you shoot back, leaning back in your chair. “I amsure your sparkling personality will keep us all entertained until then.”
Hange bursts into laughter, and even Erwin looks like he is trying not to smile. Levi, however, just glares at you, his lips pressing into a thin, unimpressed line.
The moment the food arrives, Erwin thanks the hotel staff with his signature calm authority. It is unsettling how the man manages to make a simple thank you sound like a strategic maneuver. Hange dives in immediately, while Levi sits with his arms crossed, barely glancing at the food. You follow suit with less enthusiasm, picking at a roll and wondering how long it will take before Erwin launches into the real reason you are all here.
And sure enough, just as the steam from the dishes starts to cloud the room and the clinking of silverware fades into the background, he clears his throat. That sound. The harbinger of impending strategy discussions. You brace yourself, fork hovering mid-air, and wait for the inevitable.
“We need to talk about Eren.”
You have been doing that for the past month, finalising and amending the plan again and again. But the thing is higher ups called you so suddenly.
“The fact that Eren is in the Survey Corps now doesn’t mean we are in the clear,” he begins, his eyes scanning the table like he is gauging each of your reactions. “The higher-ups still need convincing. They are skeptical, understandably so, but we need permission to use Eren’s titan abilities outside the walls.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, half-listening and half-lost in your own thoughts. The higher-ups (basically Zachary and MPs). Always watching from their cushy seats in Mitras, making decisions that cost lives while keeping their own hands spotless. They are probably already debating how much of a liability Eren is, how much of a threat. And here you are, halfway through a dinner roll, listening to Erwin plot out a way to spin it in your favor.
“It is not just about getting approval,” Erwin continues, his gaze sharp, almost piercing. “We need to demonstrate that we can control the situation. That includes convincing them Levi is capable of making decisions regarding Eren and his titan form.”
Your eyes flick to Levi instinctively. He is unreadable, as always, his expression carved out of stone. But there is a tension in the way he is sitting, his fingers twitching slightly against the table. You wonder if he is annoyed or if he is just tired of being the go-to name when it comes to proving competence.
“So, what’s the plan?” Hange asks, her voice muffled around a mouthful of potatoes. She waves her fork for emphasis, like this is just another one of her experiments and not a matter of life and death.
Erwin doesn’t miss a beat. “We need to present a united front. The four of us. We need to outline clear guidelines for how and when Eren’s abilities will be used, and we need to propose a system of oversight to reassure them. They need to believe that we are not just throwing him into the field recklessly.”
“Which we are,” you mutter under your breath, and Hange stifles a laugh. Levi’s eyes narrow slightly, but Erwin just keeps going, like he did not hear you, or chose not to.
“There are logistical concerns as well,” he says, his voice dipping into that meticulous, almost hypnotic cadence he uses when he is already five steps ahead of everyone else. “We will need to allocate resources for training, ensure we have the necessary equipment, and establish protocols for worst-case scenarios. The higher-ups will expect answers to all of these questions before they even consider granting approval.”
Levi finally speaks, “And if they don’t grant approval?”
Erwin does not hesitate. “Then we find another way.”
It is such a simple statement, but it carries so much weight. Erwin always has another way. Always another plan. But you can’t help wondering how far he is willing to go this time.
“Convincing them that you can handle Eren is key,” Erwin says, turning his attention to Levi. “You are the one they trust to keep him in check. If they believe you are in control, they are more likely to approve.”
“Eren’s abilities are a double-edged sword,” Erwin continues, “He could be the key to reclaiming territory outside the walls, but only if we use him strategically. Otherwise, he is a risk. A very visible, very dangerous risk.”
The conversation takes a turn the moment you suggest your idea. It was, admittedly, a bold one – deploy Eren without immediate oversight to let him fully utilize his titan abilities in a controlled but real combat scenario outside the walls. Of course under the supervision of higher ups, to show them Eren’s capacity.
Risky? Yes. But also practical. And yet, Levi, unsurprisingly, has other thoughts.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" His voice cuts through the room, sharp and cold, the kind of tone that makes you feel like he’s already dismissed you, stamped an invalid stamp across your forehead.
Your jaw tightens, heat rising to your face. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Levi snaps, leaning back in his chair with that infuriatingly calm demeanor that somehow only makes him seem more hostile. “You are suggesting we throw Eren into a battlefield with no leash. No oversight. No safety net. You really think that is going to end well?”
“It is not ‘no leash,’” you fire back, your voice louder now, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “It is a calculated risk. It is giving him the chance to show what he can do under pressure. Isn’t that what we need to prove to the higher-ups? That he is not just a liability but an actual asset?”
Levi’s eyes narrow, a flash of something like anger or disgust crossing his face. “Calculated risk,” he repeats mockingly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “More like calculated stupidity. You do realize if Eren loses control, people die, right? Or do you just not give a shit about that?”
Your blood boils. The audacity of him, sitting there with his holier-than-thou attitude, like he is the only one who’s ever considered the consequences. Like you are some naive idiot who doesn’t understand the stakes.
“Are you fucking with me right now?” you shout, slamming your hand on the table hard enough to rattle the plates.
“Why would I waste my time fucking with you?” Levi shoots back, his voice as sharp as a blade. “I am just pointing out the obvious. What you said didn’t make any sense. Not that that’s surprising.”
You bristle, fists clenching at your sides as the urge to lunge across the table and wipe that smug look off his face grows stronger by the second. Instead, you turn to Erwin, desperate for some semblance of backup. “Commander?”
Erwin, who has been silently observing the entire exchange with his usual stoic expression, finally looks up. His gaze flickers between you and Levi, his face betraying no emotion. “She is right, Levi. There is a way to critique an idea without dismissing it outright.” he says evenly, his tone calm but firm, the kind of voice that demands attention without ever raising in volume.
Levi shifts slightly in his seat, clearly not used to being called out, but his confidence remains unshaken. “Erwin, she just -”
“But,” Erwin cuts him off, his sharp blue eyes now fixed on you, “Levi is also right. Your proposal is risky. The higher-ups are not going to approve a plan that does not have contingencies in place. And neither will I. it is not something we can present to the higher-ups without significant modifications.”
You flinch, the weight of his words sinking in like stones in your chest. But before you can respond, Levi jumps back in, his voice colder now, more cutting.
“And when it all goes to shit,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his gaze boring into you, “it is not going to be you they blame. It is going to be me. Because I am the one who’s supposed to be keeping Eren in check. I am the one they are going to crucify when your calculated risk blows up in our faces.”
“That’s not –” you start, but he cuts you off.
“No, shut up. You don’t get to sit there and act like you are the one taking the risks here. You are not. You are just throwing out ideas like it is some fucking strategy game, and you don’t give a shit who has to deal with the fallout. As long as it is not you, right?”
“That’s not true!” you snap, the words coming out louder than you intended. Your chest feels tight, like there is a band constricting around your lungs. “I care about the fallout. I care about what happens to Eren, to all of us. But we can’t keep playing it safe. If we don’t take risks, we are never going to get anywhere.”
Levi snorts, the sound so derisive it makes your skin crawl. “Yeah, sure. And when the risks you are so eager to take get people killed, you will just shrug and move on, right? Must be nice, not having to clean up your own messes.”
Your vision blurs slightly, the room tilting as the sheer force of your anger threatens to overwhelm you. How can he say that? How can he sit there and twist your words, your intentions, into something so ugly, so far removed from what you are trying to do?
“Enough,” Erwin interjects, his voice sharp and commanding. The room falls silent instantly, the tension still crackling like static electricity but muted now under the weight of his authority.
Levi sits back, his expression unreadable but no less infuriating. You slump in your chair, your hands trembling slightly as you try to collect yourself, the words you want to say, need to say , lodged in your throat like shards of glass.
“Both of you have valid points,” Erwin says finally, his tone measured. “But this isn’t the time for infighting. We need solutions, not arguments. So let’s focus on that, shall we?”
Levi doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he stares at a point just above Erwin’s head. You nod reluctantly, the fire in your chest dimming but not extinguished.
The rest of the conversation is a blur, Erwin and Hange and Levi discussing and outlining contingency plans and alternative strategies while you sit in silence, your mind still spinning with everything Levi said. His words stick to you like tar, heavy and suffocating, and no matter how hard you try to shake them off, they won’t budge.
By the time the meeting ends, you are drained, physically and emotionally, the weight of everything pressing down on you like a storm cloud. But as you stand to leave, you catch Levi’s eye, and for a brief moment, you think you see something there, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual stoic mask.
You don’t say anything. You just walk away, the echoes of his words following you like shadows.
.
.
.
The door shuts with a soft click behind you, muffling the distant hum of voices from the hall. You exhale, long and shaky, the tension still knotted between your shoulders. Hange has not come back yet.
The quiet is better, safer. It wraps around you like a cloak, just enough to dull the sharp edges of your thoughts. You are grateful for the solitude, the temporary reprieve from Levi’s barbed words and Erwin’s even-keeled diplomacy.
Why does he always do this? Why does he make it so damn hard to exist in the same space as him without feeling like you are drowning in some invisible competition you never signed up for?
You sink onto the edge of your bed, boots scuffing the floor, and let your head fall into your hands. It is not the first time you have asked yourself these questions, and it won’t be the last. Levi is a riddle you have been trying, and failing, to solve for years.
Not that you have not tried. But every time you think you are getting close to understanding him, he says or does something that knocks you back to square one, leaving you tangled in a web of frustration and self-doubt.
Four years. That’s how long you’d been in the Survey Corps when he joined. You remember it vividly, though you’d rather forget. Back then, you were a corporal, climbing the ranks steadily, methodically. You were not flashy, but you were reliable, skilled, respected.
People noticed you. They talked about your potential, about how far you could go if you just kept your head down and stayed the course. And for a while, you believed them. You saw a future laid out in neat, linear steps: corporal to sergeant, sergeant to lieutenant, maybe even major someday, if you survived.
Then Levi happened.
He was just some Underground thug at first, a wildcard with a chip on his shoulder and a glare that could cut through steel. No one expected much from him. Hell, you didn’t expect much from him.
But then he picked up a set of ODM gear, and everything changed. He was not just good; he was terrifying. A natural. A prodigy.
Within two years, he was a captain, second only to Erwin, while you, six years deep into your service, were sitting pretty as a sergeant major. It stung. Of course it stung.
But you told yourself it didn’t matter. He deserved it. He earned it. And you? Well, you were still climbing, still proving yourself.
Now, ten years in, you are a lieutenant. A decent rank, nothing to scoff at. But compared to Levi? It feels like nothing. Less than nothing. Nill. Zero. Not that you don’t think he’s earned every ounce of praise he gets, he has.
He is a legend, for God’s sake. The strongest soldier humanity’s ever seen. But standing next to him, you are just... there. A shadow, a footnote.
And people aren’t shy about pointing it out. “Levi is better than you,” they will say, like it is some groundbreaking revelation, as if you have not already spent years internalizing that exact sentiment. They don’t even try to sugarcoat it. “You are good, but you ae not him. ”
No shit.
It is not just the comparisons, though. It is him. The way he looks at you, like he is trying to figure out how someone like you ended up here, in this miserable, blood-soaked corner of the world.
You are Mitrassian – that’s part of it. Born and raised in the glittering heart of the capital, with its marble streets and gilded spires and parties that last until dawn. You had every opportunity to stay there, to live a comfortable, privileged life, far removed from the hellscape of Titan-infested territory.
And yet, you chose this .
Levi hates you for it. You can see it in his eyes, in the sharpness of his words whenever he talks to you. To him, you are the embodiment of everything wrong with Mitras: entitled, hypocritical, blind to the suffering of the Underground.
And maybe he is not entirely wrong. The Underground is hell, and Mitras played no small part in making it that way.
But he doesn’t know your story. He doesn’t know what you have endured, the things you have lost, the reasons you left.
And you are not about to tell him. Not that he’d listen.
You kick off your boots, the thud against the floor breaking the heavy stillness of the room. Your thoughts churn, a chaotic swirl of resentment and regret and something dangerously close to self-pity. You hate feeling this way. Weak. Insecure. Like no matter how hard you try, you will never be the best. But most of all, you hate that Levi can still get under your skin like this, even after all these years.
.
.
.
The meeting with the higher-ups, against all odds, goes well. Suspiciously well. Suspicious in the way that makes you question if you have somehow stepped into an alternate reality where bureaucrats know how to agree on something without tearing each other apart.
But then you think about it, no, of course , it’s Erwin. It is always Erwin. His obsessive attention to detail, his ability to say exactly the right thing at the right time.
If he hadn’t agonized over every syllable of that plan, the whole room would probably still be arguing over whether to serve tea or coffee during the next meeting.
Still, it is a relief. A small win. One you’d like to savor, except...
There is the gala.
Premier Dhalis Zachary, in his infinite wisdom, has decreed that you all must attend. For appearances. For diplomacy. For whatever vague reason he’s decided to latch onto this time. You have tried to talk your way out of it, but apparently, “I’d rather gouge my own eyes out with a dessert fork” is not a compelling argument.
By the time you are back at the hotel, the weight of it is pressing down on you like a lead blanket. Mitras has that effect. Too many faces. Too many memories. The kind that creeps up on you when you least expect it, dragging you down into places you’d rather not revisit.
“I don’t want to go,” you announce, standing in the middle of the Erwin’s room like a defiant child. Your voice is flat, but the words carry a weight that you are sure he notices.
Erwin doesn’t even look up from the map spread out on the desk. “We have talked about this, Letta. You need to be there.”
“No, I don’t ,” you counter, crossing your arms. “It is pointless. Just another excuse for the Mitras elite to pat themselves on the back while the rest of us pretend to care.”
Erwin sighs, the kind of sigh that says he’s already rehearsed this argument in his head. “It is not about them. It is about us. About showing strength and unity.”
“Unity,” you snort. “Right. Because nothing says unity like being cornered by some pompous aristocrat who thinks I owe him a dance.”
“You will manage,” he says, finally looking up. His tone is steady, unyielding. “And we will be there. No one will touch you.”
You laugh, a sharp, bitter sound. “You can’t guarantee that.”
“Yes, I can.”
The way he says it, so calm, so absolute , sends a shiver down your spine. It is infuriating, the way he can make you feel both safe and trapped at the same time.
“Mitras makes me sick,” you mutter, dropping onto the couch like your body’s given up on holding you upright. “Physically. I feel sick, I can’t breathe here.”
Erwin’s expression softens, just a fraction. “I know,” he says quietly. “But staying away won’t help. It won’t change anything.”
You want to argue. To tell him that he doesn’t understand, that he will never understand, but the words catch in your throat. Because he is right, isn’t he? It won’t erase the past. It won’t make the nightmares go away.
“People will insist on dancing,” you say instead, staring at the ceiling. “And you know how well that will go. ‘Oh, look at Letta, how rude, how scandalous.’ Do you know how exhausting it is to be polite to people who’d stab you in the back the second you look away?”
“You will dance,” Erwin says simply, like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You will smile, you will endure it, and then it will be over. We will get through it together.”
You sit up, glaring at him. “And if I don’t?”
“Then it reflects poorly on all of us,” he says, meeting your gaze. “On the Survey Corps. On everything we have worked for.”
“I am not going,” you say leaning against Erwin’s desk with your arms crossed and your jaw set. Your voice is steady, but there is a storm brewing in your chest, heavy and restless. “There has to be another way. I will write a letter or something. A formal apology. Anything but that.”
“We have been over this, Letta. You are attending. End of discussion.”
You scoff, pushing off the desk and pacing the room, your boots scuffing against the polished wood floor. “You always say that, but it is never the end. Because you know what happens? I show up, and it is all polite smiles and veiled insults. And then someone –”
Before you can finish, the door swings open with a sharp creak, and in walks Levi, all sharp angles and perpetual scowl. He does not knock, of course. Why would he? Levi doesn’t ask for permission; he just is .
“Still whining about the gala?” he says, voice flat, unimpressed. He is leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, arms crossed over his chest. “You know, some of us don’t have the luxury of picking and choosing what we feel like doing.”
You glare at him, the storm in your chest now spilling over into your voice. “This has nothing to do with luxury, and you don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oh, I don’t?” He steps further into the room, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click. “Let me guess. Little Miss Mitras is too delicate for a night of dancing and small talk? God forbid you rub shoulders with the peasants .”
“Fuck you,” you snap, heat rising to your face. “This isn’t about me being from Mitras.”
“Isn’t it?” He takes another step closer, and you can feel the weight of his stare, cold and cutting. “You don’t want to go because you don’t want to be uncomfortable. Because for once, things aren’t going your way, and you can’t handle it.”
“That’s not true!” Your voice rises, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough,” he says, his tone colder now, like ice slicing through the air. “I know you have had everything handed to you on a silver fucking platter your whole life. I know you have never had to fight for anything real. And I know that if Erwin lets you skip this, then he’d better let me skip it too, because you are not special.”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms. “This isn’t about special treatment . I have my reasons –”
“Spare me the sob story,” he interrupts, his voice dripping with contempt. “You think you are the only one with shit to deal with? We all have our demons. You don’t get to use yours as an excuse to sit this one out.”
“I am not using anything as an excuse!” The words come out louder than you intended, your chest heaving as you try to keep your voice steady. “You wouldn’t understand, Levi. You don’t know what it is like –”
“Oh, here we go,” he cuts you off again, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “The ‘nobody understands me’ routine. Classic. You want to play the victim? Fine. But don’t expect me to give a shit.”
“Levi,” Erwin’s voice cuts through the tension, firm but calm. He’s been watching the exchange like a spectator at a chess match, waiting for the right moment to intervene. “That’s enough.”
“No, it is not,” Levi snaps, turning his glare on Erwin. “If she gets out of this, then so do I. Hell, let’s all stay behind and see how well that goes over.”
“Enough,” Erwin repeats, his tone sharper now.
Levi looks at you, his expression unreadable but no less cutting. “You are not special, Kim. Get over yourself.”
“You are impossible.” The words slip out before you can think better of it, sharp and venomous, aimed squarely at Levi. You are shaking, fists balled tight, nails biting crescents into your palms.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“ You heard me, ” you snap, stepping forward, even though every rational part of your brain screams at you to let it go. “You are impossible, Levi. You act like you know everything about everyone, like you are so goddamn superior...”
“Oh, but I know enough,” he fires back, stepping closer, his voice low and dangerous, the kind of tone that makes you shrink back. “You are a spoiled brat who thinks the world owes her something. Just because you have had a few hard days doesn’t mean you get to quit whenever it is inconvenient.”
“Hard days?” you spit, the words slicing through the air, your voice cracking with anger. “You arrogant, sanctimonious –”
“Enough!” Erwin’s voice is thunder, rolling through the room and crashing over both of you. He is standing now, his hands braced against the desk, his eyes sharp and cold. “Both of you, sit the hell down.”
“I am not sitting anywhere,” Levi mutters, crossing his arms, his jaw tight. “I am not the one throwing a tantrum because I don’t want to play dress-up for the gala.”
“And I am not the one acting like a fucking robot!” you shout, turning on him again. “Do you even have feelings, Levi? Or do you just look down on everyone who does?”
“Feelings don’t get the job done,” he snarls, his voice dripping with contempt. “You think I enjoy these galas? You think I don’t want to skip the bullshit and the politics and the ass-kissing? But I go. I show up because it’s my goddamn job. Because it is what’s expected of me.”
“And you think I don’t understand expectations?” you hiss, stepping closer, your voice shaking now, though not with fear. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to carry the weight of everyone’s eyes on you? To be judged for every word, every action, every fucking breath you take?”
“Please,” he sneers, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t pretend you are some tragic martyr. You have had everything handed to you—”
“ Enough! ” Erwin’s voice cuts through again, louder this time, his fists slamming onto the desk. “This ends now. Both of you.”
The room goes quiet, but the tension is still thick, suffocating. Your chest heaves, and your hands are trembling, but you refuse to back down, not in front of Levi, not after everything he is said.
And then, as if the universe knows you haven’t been humiliated enough, the door swings open again, and in walks Hange, her glasses slightly askew, her expression one of pure curiosity. “Well, well,” she says, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it, arms crossed. “What’s all the shouting about? Sounds like a goddamn soap opera in here.”
“Hange,” Erwin says, his voice tight, “this isn’t the time—”
“Oh, but it is always the time for a little drama,” she says with a grin, looking between you and Levi like a spectator at a boxing match. “What’s the issue? Let me guess. Levi being an asshole? Or Letta being... Letta?”
“Stay out of it, Hange,” Levi mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s none of your business.”
“Oh, it is definitely my business if I have to hear about it later from Erwin,” she says, walking over and plopping herself into the chair opposite his desk. “So, spill. What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” you say, your voice still sharp, though quieter now, “is that someone thinks they have the right to judge me.”
“Right, because it’s all about you,” Levi snaps, throwing his hands up. “God forbid someone else have an opinion.”
“It is not an opinion when you are just being cruel,” you shoot back, your voice rising again. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“And you don’t get to act like you are above everyone else,” he fires back, stepping closer again, his eyes blazing.
“ Enough! ” Erwin says for the third time, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Hange, help me out here.”
Hange sighs, leaning back in the chair and adjusting her glasses. “Look, Letta,” she says, her tone more serious now, though still with that edge of amusement she never seems to lose. “I get it. Galas suck. People suck. But Erwin’s right. You are not going to send the wrong message. And Levi –” She turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe try not being a total dick for five minutes?”
Levi scoffs but doesn’t respond, his jaw tight.
“And you,” Hange says, turning back to you. “I know it is hard. But you have got to trust us. No one is going to let anything happen to you. We have got your back.”
Everyone goes silent.
Hange leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, and the faint creak of the wood seems louder than it should, cutting through the strained silence that has settled over the room. She’s studying you now, head tilted slightly, a bemused half-smile playing on her lips, like she is trying to decide whether to take this seriously or turn it into a joke. You can’t tell which option terrifies you more.
“So,” she says finally, drawing out the word as though it is a thread she’s trying not to snap, “are we going to pretend that didn’t just happen, or are we going to talk about it like civilized adults?”
You don’t answer. Neither does Levi, who is standing stiffly by the window now, his arms crossed and his gaze fixed somewhere outside, probably wishing he could leap out of it and be anywhere but here.
Erwin sighs, and it is the kind of sigh that feels weighted, like he is physically holding the room together with the force of his exasperation. “Hange,” he says, his voice measured, “this isn’t helping.”
“Oh, but I think it is,” she replies, her grin widening. “See, the problem here isn’t just the gala, or Levi’s charming personality, or Letta’s stubbornness—though those are definitely contributing factors. The problem is that the two of them are about as communicative as a pair of angry cats hissing at each other from opposite sides of a fence.”
“I’m not a fucking cat,” Levi mutters, still not turning around.
“No, you’re a porcupine,” you snap, unable to resist, even though you know it is the wrong time for it. “All quills and no warmth.”
“And you are a spoiled princess who thinks -” Levi starts, but Erwin cuts him off with a sharp look, his hand raised like a general commanding silence on the battlefield.
“Enough,” Erwin says, his tone low but firm, and for once, both you and Levi actually listen. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and fixes you both with a gaze that could probably freeze molten lava. “You two are going to talk this out. Like adults. Without insults, without shouting, and without dragging anyone else into it.”
You open your mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand, silencing you before you even start. “I am not asking,” he says. “This is not optional. You are both part of this team, and if you can’t work together, then we have a problem. A big one.”
Levi finally turns around, his expression unreadable but his posture radiating irritation. “Fine,” he says, his voice clipped. “But don’t expect a group hug or some shit.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Erwin replies dryly, then turns to you. “Letta?”
You bite your lip, the taste of salt and frustration filling your mouth. Every instinct is screaming at you to refuse, to walk out, to let Levi stew in his own self-righteousness. But Erwin’s gaze is unrelenting, and the weight of it presses down on you until you find yourself nodding. “Fine,” you mutter. “But don’t expect me to apologise.”
“No one is asking you to,” Erwin says, though his tone suggests he is very much hoping for some kind of miracle resolution that involves less hostility and fewer four-letter words.
Hange claps her hands together, the sound startling in the heavy air. “Well, this should be fun,” she says, her eyes gleaming with something that looks suspiciously like mischief. “I can’t wait to hear how this little heart-to-heart goes.”
“It is not going to be a heart-to-heart,” you snap, glaring at her. “It is going to be a... conversation. That’s it.”
“Sure,” Hange says, clearly unconvinced, and you can feel your irritation bubbling up again, like a kettle about to boil over.
“I will go to the gala,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. It’s not entirely a lie. You will go—at least, that’s what they will think. But in your mind, you are already planning your escape. A sudden illness, perhaps. Or a conveniently timed emergency. Something to get you out of there before the night can swallow you whole.
“Good,” Erwin says, nodding. “That’s the right decision.”
Is it, though? The thought slithers through your mind, cold and unwelcome. Because the truth is, you don’t believe it. Not for a second.
Levi makes a sound that might be a scoff, and you turn to glare at him. “What now?”
“Nothing,” he says, though his tone is anything but innocent. “Just wondering how long you will actually last before you find an excuse to bail.”
“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, your temper flaring again. “Not everyone is a soulless automaton like you.”
“Better than being a drama queen,” he shoots back, his voice like a whip cracking through the air.
“Levi,” Erwin warns, his tone sharp, but Levi just shrugs, his expression settling into something that looks like passive-aggressive peace.
“I am done,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “She can do whatever the hell she wants. Just don’t come crying to me when it all goes to shit.”
You don’t respond, your jaw tight and your hands clenched at your sides. The room feels too small, the walls pressing in, the air heavy with tension and unspoken words.
Hange breaks the silence, her voice light but her eyes serious. “You know, Levi, maybe you could try being a little less of an asshole. Just for one night. For the team.”
He snorts. “Yeah, sure. And maybe Letta can try not being so goddamn fragile.”
“That’s enough,” Erwin says again, and this time, his voice is like steel, cutting through the noise. “Both of you. Enough.”
Hange leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, and the faint creak of the wood seems louder than it should, cutting through the strained silence that has settled over the room.
.
.
,
The memory hits Levi, unbidden and unwanted. Six years ago. When Furlan and Isabel were still breathing. When everything was different, yet somehow still the same. He does not want to think about it, but the past is insistent, tugging at the edges of his thoughts, pulling him under like quicksand.
He remembers the day Letta Kim, Corporal Kim, technically, first rubbed him the wrong way. The day he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was not someone he could trust. That she was not someone like them .
The first time he notices her accent, they are in the middle of a debriefing. Commander Shadis is droning on about protocol, something about formation adjustments, and Levi is only half-listening, tuning in and out of the monotony. Letta, standing at perfect attention, interrupts.
“Sir, I believe the rear guard should maintain proximity to the second echelon during this maneuver,” she says, her tone clipped and precise, her words curving in that distinctive Mitrassian lilt. The kind of accent that wraps itself in smug self-assurance, the kind that sounds like it grew up in libraries and ballrooms and places Levi has never been welcome.
Furlan, standing beside him, snickers quietly. “She sounds like she is auditioning for a play,” he mutters under his breath. Levi smirks but does not respond. He does not need to. The irritation is already settling in, coiling tight in his chest.
She talks like she is better than everyone else, like every syllable is measured and deliberate. He hates it. He hates that he notices it.
It isn’t just one thing. It never is. Hatred, Levi thinks, is like rust; it creeps in slowly, quietly, until one day you are holding something that is completely corroded, and you are not even sure when it started falling apart.
Letta Kim is that kind of rust. She is a collection of small irritations, of moments so grating that they stick to his memory like burrs. None of them on their own should matter.
But together? Together, they are unbearable.
It is early morning, the kind of morning where the sun barely filters through the gray haze hanging over the camp. Levi sits on a rickety bench outside the barracks, Furlan on one side of him, Isabel on the other. They are sharing a stale loaf of bread between the three of them, cracking jokes about the piss-poor conditions and pretending like none of it matters. Like this isn’t just another day in the endless shitshow that is their lives.
That’s when she walks by. Corporal Kim, pristine as ever, her uniform crisp and her boots clicking against the stone path with a precision that seems almost unnatural. She looks like she belongs somewhere else, somewhere cleaner, brighter, better. Not here. Not in this filth.
Levi doesn’t pay her much mind at first. Why would he? She is just another stuck-up soldier in a sea of stuck-up soldiers. But then she stops. Pauses just a few feet away from them, her eyes flicking over the three of them like she’s assessing an unpleasant stain.
“Levi,” she says, her voice clipped and formal. “A word.”
He does not move. “What?” he says flatly, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone.
Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, he thinks she is going to snap at him. But she does not. Instead, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, holding it out to him like it is some kind of sacred artifact.
“This is the supply list for your team,” she says. “You are responsible for collecting these items by the end of the day.”
Levi stares at the paper but doesn’t take it. Something about the way she is holding it, the precise distance she is keeping from him, the way her fingers barely touch the edge of the parchment, grates on his nerves. “You could have just left it on the table,” he says, his voice icy.
Her expression doesn’t change, but there is a flicker of something in her eyes—annoyance, maybe, or disdain. “This is your job,” she says, her tone sharper now. “I am doing you a courtesy by handing it to you personally.”
“Oh, a courtesy,” he says, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “How generous of you, Corporal.”
“Just take the damn list,” she snaps, and he does, grabbing it out of her hand with more force than necessary. Her fingers barely graze his, but it is enough to make her recoil, her face twisting into a look of barely concealed disgust.
And then she does it. She pulls out a handkerchief, pure white, of course, and wipes her hand with it. Twice. As though his touch has somehow contaminated her.
Levi’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. He wants to say something, to call her out for the stuck-up, self-righteous bitch that she is, but before he can, Isabel’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
The memory shifts, morphs, dragging him to another moment. Later that same week. Isabel’s voice, hurt, echoing in his mind like a ghost.
“She washed her hands,” Isabel says, her voice shaking with barely contained tears. “Right in front of me. I shook her hand, big bro. I was trying to be polite, and she… she washed her hands. Like I am some kind of disease.”
Levi doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? He feels the same anger, the same humiliation, burning in his chest like a wildfire, but no words come. He just clenches his fists and stares at the ground, his mind racing.
“She thinks we are trash,” Isabel continues, her voice breaking now. “That’s what she thinks. That we are not good enough to even touch her.”
“Forget her,” he says, but it sounds hollow, even to his own ears.
Isabel shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I can’t forget it.”
Neither can he.
The memory fades, but the anger lingers, simmering just beneath the surface. It always does. It’s been six years, and he still can’t look at Letta Kim without remembering that moment. Without feeling that same searing hatred.
And the worst part? She probably does not even remember. To her, it was nothing. Just another day, another insignificant interaction. But to him, to Isabel, it was everything. It was a reminder of who they were. Of how the world saw them.
Of how she saw them.
And then there is the way she dresses. Most of them, when not in uniform, look like what they are: tired, broke, and clinging to whatever scraps of dignity they can find in threadbare jackets and patched-up boots.
But Letta? Letta looks like she’s stepped out of some Mitrassian fashion catalog.
One time, they are in town for supplies, blending into the crowd as best they can. Letta shows up wearing a coat so perfectly tailored it makes Levi’s secondhand jacket feel like a sack. Her boots are spotless, polished to a mirror shine, and her gloves, actual leather, not the cheap knockoffs the rest of them wear, look like they have never seen a hard day’s work in their life.
“You are gonna get us all killed, dressed like that,” Levi mutters as she approaches.
She raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into that faint, condescending smile he hates so much. “I was not aware attire could be fatal,” she says, her tone as cold as the Mitrassian winters she probably grew up in.
“It can when it screams ‘rich brat,’” he snaps. “You look like a walking target.”
She does not respond. Just brushes past him, the scent of lavender and something faintly floral lingering in the air. It makes him sick.
And then there is Isabel. Sweet, reckless Isabel, who always tries to see the good in people. She tells Levi one day, in a voice so quiet he almost doesn’t hear her, that Letta makes her feel small. That every time Letta looks at her, it is like she is being measured and found wanting.
“She doesn’t say anything,” Isabel whispers, her eyes downcast. “But I can tell she is judging me. Like I am not good enough to be here. Like I am just some stupid kid.”
Levi doesn’t know how to respond. He hates Letta more in that moment than he ever has before. Because Isabel is not stupid. She is brave and loyal and everything Letta Kim will never understand.
It all piled up. The accent. The clothes. The attitude. The way she talks to them, like they are beneath her. The way she looks at them, like they are dirt under her pristine boots. Levi knows it is not fair to hate someone for being born into privilege, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier.
Letta Kim is everything he is not. Educated. Polished. Comfortable. She is from a world he’s never been part of, a world that is always looked down on people like him. And no matter what she does, no matter how many rules she enforces or orders she barks, he will always see her as the enemy.
The thing about hunger is, it doesn’t care how proud you are. It doesn’t care how long you have spent pretending that everything is fine, that you are above it, that you can muscle through without bending. When your stomach’s empty, it is a slow gnawing, a quiet, insidious thing that works its way into your bones and skin until it becomes the only thing that matters. You stop thinking about the rules. You stop thinking about pride, about shame, about what is right and wrong, and all that matters is food.
The Survey Corps is broke at that time and it's not just some passing inconvenience; it is a suffocating, omnipresent reality that hangs over everyone like a cloud of rot. It is not just the uniforms that are falling apart or the weapons that are barely usable, it is the food. They get just enough to keep their bodies from shutting down entirely, just enough to make it through the next day, but nothing more. Not enough to fill the hole in your stomach that’s gnawing at you.
He does not blame Isabel. She is young, impulsive, and starving like the rest of them. So when she sees the opportunity, a crate of supplies left unattended for just a moment too long, she takes it. Just an apple. Something fresh. Something real. Something that doesn’t taste like misery.
But, of course, Letta sees her. Letta, who always seems to be lurking in the background, her eyes catching every infraction, every tiny step out of line. Levi doesn’t know how she does it.
Maybe it is the Mitrassian upbringing, the endless training in etiquette and discipline. Or maybe she is just naturally insufferable. Either way, Isabel doesn’t stand a chance.
The scene unfolds in the dim light of the storage room, shadows stretching long and thin across the walls. Isabel freezes, the stolen apple clutched tightly in her hand, her face a mixture of guilt and defiance. Letta steps forward, her boots clicking against the wooden floor with a precision that makes Levi’s teeth grind.
“What do you think you are doing?” Letta’s voice is not loud, not yet, but there is a dangerous edge to it. The kind that promises a storm is coming.
Isabel stammers, her fingers curling around the apple as if she can somehow will it out of existence. “I… I was just…”
“Stealing,” Letta finishes for her, her tone as cold as the steel of. She crosses her arms, her posture impossibly straight, her expression unreadable. “From the Survey Corps. During a financial crisis. Do you have any idea how serious this is?”
Isabel’s eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape that is not there. Levi knows that look. It is the look of someone cornered, someone who’s already decided they’re going to lose no matter what they say.
“I was hungry,” Isabel mutters finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“And you think that excuses theft?” Letta snaps, her voice rising now, filling the room with its sharp, clipped cadence. “Do you think you are the only one who is hungry? The only one who is struggling? We are all starving, Isabel. Every single one of us. But you don’t see the rest of us breaking the rules, do you?”
Levi feels his fists clench at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He wants to step in, to tell Letta to back off, to leave Isabel alone. But he doesn’t. Not yet. Because he knows if he does, it will only make things worse.
Letta leans closer, her eyes narrowing. “Do you have any idea what could happen if I report this? Do you? Because I can. I can take this straight to Commander Shadis, and you will be out of here before you can even pack your things.”
Isabel flinches, her knuckles white against the apple’s smooth surface. Levi knows that flinch. It is not fear, it is humiliation. It is the sting of being caught, of being made to feel small and worthless. And he hates Letta for it.
“That’s enough,” Levi says finally, his voice low and steady, cutting through Letta’s tirade like a blade. He steps forward, placing himself between her and Isabel, his glare cold and unyielding.
Letta straightens, her expression unreadable again. “This is not your concern, Levi.”
“It is now,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “She is a kid. She made a mistake. Let it go.”
Letta’s eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, he thinks she is going to push back, to argue, to call him out in front of everyone. But then she steps back, her arms still crossed, her gaze still cold.
“Fine,” she says, her voice tight. “But if it happens again, I will report it. I won’t let this unit fall apart because of a lack of discipline.”
Levi does not respond. He doesn’t trust himself too. Instead, he turns to Isabel, who is still clutching the apple like it is her lifeline. “Go,” he says quietly. “Now.”
Isabel hesitates, her eyes darting between him and Letta, before nodding and slipping out of the room.
When she is gone, the silence is deafening. Levi turns back to Letta, his glare colder than the air outside.
“You don’t have to be such a bitch,” he says finally, his voice low but filled with venom.
“Discipline keeps us alive,” she says simply, her tone as detached as ever.
“Starving people don’t give a shit about discipline,” he snaps. “You think yelling at her is gonna make her forget she is hungry?”
Letta doesn’t respond. She just walks away, her boots clicking against the floor again, the sound fading into the distance.
Levi watches her go, his jaw tight, his fists still clenched. He knows it is not just about the apple. It is not just about the rules or the discipline or the hunger. It is about her. About the way she carries herself, like she is better than all of them. Like she is above the hunger and the desperation and the pain.
And maybe she is. Maybe she’s got some secret stash of food hidden away somewhere, eating her fill while the rest of them starve. It wouldn’t surprise him. People like her always have a way of looking out for themselves.
fandom: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)
ao3 link
synopsis:
Levi hates you for your Mitrassian upbringing, you hate him because he took away your promotion
OR
Levi hates you. It’s not like you ever wanted him to like you. Honestly, the way he looks at you makes your skin crawl, like you're nothing more than a mistake he can’t erase. But there’s this nagging part of you that wonders what did you ever do to make him hate you so much? Your background? Something in the way you exist, maybe. You're just trying to keep your head down, your secrets buried.
But the thing is… he’s hiding something too. The way he gets under your skin, how the quiet spaces between his words carry more weight than he’ll ever admit. But as much as he hates you, there’s something about him that shakes you awake, forces you to face things you have been trying to forget. Maybe that’s the worst part -- because the more you push each other away, the more you feel like you're being pulled closer to him.
Maybe he’s not the only one hiding from the truth.
tags: enemies to lovers, angst, rivalry, enemies with benefits/ rivals with benefits, hurt/comfort, non-consent/ rape, misunderstanding, ptsd, insomnia, toxic relationship, child marriage, hate sex, unhealthy coping mechanisms, child abuse, child neglect
non con/rape, child marriage and abuse is NOT from levi
table of contents:
chapter 1: you are filled with hatred and rage
chapter 2: but blessed with beauty and pain
notes:
The story starts at year 850, when Levi is 30 and reader is 24
I hate the use of y/n, so the reader will have a default name: Letta Kim.
military hierarchy i'll be using for ref:
Private
Corporal
Sergeant
Sergeant Major
Second Lieutenant
First Lieutenant
Major
Section Commander
Captain
Commander
*anyone from corporal or above can be a squad leader
FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)
CW: illness
SYNOPSIS:
You are Captain Levi's assistant, and you love for him is unrequited.ORYou remember stepping into Captain Levi’s world, thinking it would be simple -- a job for silver. But it quickly became more. Serving his tea, managing his clothes, his harsh word shaping you in ways you never expected. His coldness cut deep, but there were those rare moments when the ice cracked, and you glimpsed something softer, something human. You wanted to be more to him, to earn his affection, but now, looking back, you realize some distances were never meant to be crossed. And yet, you can’t help but feel that you’ll always be caught in his shadow, a fleeting memory in his vast, lonely world.
navigation
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The room is suffocating, not because of the air, though that’s questionable at best, with Adriana’s snores steadily depleting whatever precious oxygen remains, but because of the memory lodged in your mind.
You can still feel the cool, rough texture of the floor beneath your fingers, the mocking clink of paperclips dropping into your trembling palm. The indignity of it all burns hotter with each passing second, a quiet inferno that neither the scratchy blanket nor the icy night air can extinguish.
Your pride is in tatters, shredded by the very same man who commands legions, slays Titans, and wields silence like a weapon. Levi Ackerman. Humanity’s Strongest Soldier.
Or, as you have taken to calling him in your head (because muttering it aloud would be suicidal): Captain Asshole.
Who even keeps that many paperclips? You imagine him in his meticulously organized office, staring at a tiny drawer filled to the brim with those cruel little instruments of humiliation, debating which poor soul to torment next. Does he plan these things? Is there a schedule?
The thought almost makes you laugh, but the sound catches in your throat, strangled by the weight of reality. There is nothing funny about the way he looked at you, his grey eyes flat and sharp, like stones ground down to lethal edges.
And that stings more than you’d like to admit.
You roll onto your back, staring at the warped ceiling. The wood is old, splintered, and as uneven as your chances of getting through tomorrow without making an idiot of yourself again. Shadows stretch and writhe in the moonlight, morphing into shapes that could be monsters if you squint hard enough; not the kind you fight with blades, but the ones that live in the quiet spaces of your mind, feeding on your self-doubt and exhaustion.
“Did I tell you to pick them all up at once?”
The words loop endlessly, each repetition twisting deeper, like barbed wire. Of course he did not. Of course you knew better. But knowing and doing are worlds apart, and in the moment, all you’d wanted was to finish the task as quickly as possible, to prove yourself efficient, capable, worthy.
Instead, you would prove yourself reckless. Thoughtless. Maybe even stupid.
You groan, dragging your hands down your face, the calluses on your palms scraping against your skin. Perfection. As if that’s a reasonable expectation for anyone, let alone someone who spent the better part of their youth daydreaming instead of learning how to wield a blade.
The moon has shifted now, its light carving harsher angles into the room. Adriana lets out a violent snort, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in her pillow. Lucky her, drowning in oblivion while you are left to wrestle with your own inadequacies.
That small, nagging sense of determination that whispers, soft but insistent, Fix it. Fix it now.
Adriana’s snoring is still there, of course, a feral, saw-like rasp that rises and falls with the cadence of a sadistic lullaby, but it barely registers anymore, drowned beneath the pounding need to do something. To be better.
You shove the blanket off like it has personally offended you, sitting up in the dim light of the barracks. Your journal sits on the rickety desk in the corner, its worn leather cover glowing faintly in the moonlight. You grab it with a sense of purpose that borders on desperation
Tea. Bloody tea. That’s what’s broken you tonight.
The scene replays again. The way his eyes had flicked, the tiniest tightening of his jaw, the exhale through his nose, like you weren’t even worth a proper sigh. “This isn’t tea,” he’d said, words clipped and perfectly calibrated to sting, the barest upward quirk of his brow delivering the killing blow.
And now, because apparently your coping mechanism is to throw yourself into the fire again, here you are, planning a midnight raid on Hange’s chaotic lab. If anyone knows how to brew the perfect cup of tea, or at least how not to screw it up entirely, it should be Hange.
You shove your feet into socks. The floor is cold against your toes, but you barely notice as you creep down the hallway, every creak of the ancient wooden planks beneath your weight feeling like a personal betrayal. The darkness is thick, permeated only by slivers of moonlight seeping through the narrow windows, and the air smells faintly of damp stone and worn leather, the scent of a place that houses too many people with too little ventilation.
When you pass the watchguard, he doesn’t even blink. He’s seen too much to question your wild-eyed determination at this hour, simply nodding as you mutter something about “emergency research.” You could’ve said “urgent mission to overthrow the moon” and he probably would’ve waved you through with the same half-hearted indifference.
The door to Hange’s lab looms ahead, and you hesitate for the briefest moment, your hand hovering over the latch. You imagine her inside, bent over some incomprehensible contraption, wearing that look of manic glee that simultaneously unnerves and reassures you. You push the door open.
Hange has goggles perched crookedly on her head, her hair a wild halo of disarray, scribbling furiously in a notebook as though the fate of humanity itself hinges on whatever madness she is currently concocting.
She looks up when the door creaks, blinking at you like you have just materialized out of thin air. Her expression shifts quickly, confusion melting into delight, her grin widening with the kind of unhinged enthusiasm that makes you wonder if she’s slept at all this week.
You don’t even give her the chance to speak. “How,” you say, the words tumbling out in a rush, “do I make the perfect tea?”
She jumps.
“Oh, I don’t have the foggiest idea! But Moblit; Moblit is your man. He’s made the short stuff’s tea before, probably just to keep him from leaving the lab in disgust. Moblit, come here!" she calls, gesturing grandly toward her assistant, who is hunched over a clipboard, dutifully transcribing some godforsaken detail that only Hange could find interesting at this hour.
Moblit sighs, with that resigned patience he has perfected over years in Hange’s orbit, and approaches, lifting his head to meet your eyes with a look of exhausted amusement mixed with a touch of sympathy. “Yes,” he says simply, almost as if this is part of some nightly ritual, “I know how Captain Levi takes his tea. No sugar, a very particular temperature, and brewed in a way that preserves just the right amount of bitterness. Come on, I will show you.”
So off you go, practically escorted by Moblit, who takes his duty to assist you very seriously, although he eyes you now and then with a sort of bemused curiosity, perhaps wondering what sins brought you to Hange’s door at such a strange hour, asking for a clandestine tea lesson.
You slip down the corridors together, his footsteps soft but assured, yours a little more hesitant, filled with that strange mix of trepidation and determination as the implications of this tiny, all-important detail— the perfect tea —settle firmly in your mind.
.
.
.
The sharp scent of the tea leaves fills the dimly lit kitchen, earthy and faintly smoky, curling up like the remnants of some long-forgotten fire.
You hold the tin in your hands, turning it over as though the answers to life’s unrelenting absurdities might be printed somewhere on its battered label.
They aren’t, of course.
Moblit, bless his quietly suffering soul, is meticulously cleaning up, his movements precise and deliberate. It is the kind of energy you envy — calm, methodical, entirely unfazed by the chaos that seems to cling to you. Meanwhile, you are hovering awkwardly by the stove, clutching the teapot as though it holds the secret to all your inadequacies.
“So,” Moblit says, his tone that careful mix of polite curiosity and mild exasperation, “what exactly did you do to earn this particular mission?”
You hesitate, the words tangling in your throat like a net of brambles. How do you explain it? That this isn’t just about tea. It is about the way Levi’s eyes had narrowed, dissecting you with a precision that left you feeling more exposed than a raw nerve. That it is about the way your stomach had twisted at his disappointment, sharp and gnawing, carving out an emptiness you can’t seem to fill.
“I… served him something ,” you begin, picking your words carefully, “that, in hindsight, might have resembled ditch water. With incompetence for flavor.”
Moblit snorts softly, and you glance up to see him smirking, a rare expression that softens the lines of exhaustion carved into his face. “And you thought the solution was to raid buntaichou's lab at midnight?”
“Well, yes.” You gesture vaguely, as though that explains everything. “Desperate times. Desperate measures.”
He shakes his head but does not argue, instead gesturing for you to focus as he moves to the kettle. “The water,” he says, his voice calm but sure, “is not something you can rush. You don’t just boil it into submission. You coax it, like you would a wild animal, gentle and patient. You give it time to trust you, to settle into the right rhythm. Push too hard, too fast, and it will resist. But if you are patient, if you understand it, it will follow your lead.”
The comparison strikes you as oddly poetic, though you are not sure if it is the tea or Levi himself who is the wild animal in this scenario.
As the water begins to stir, its surface trembling with the first hints of steam, you find your gaze drifting, caught by the flickering shadows that dance across the walls. The kitchen is quiet in a way that feels rare — no distant shouts, no clatter of boots, just the soft hum of the stove and the rhythmic ticking of some unseen clock.
It is almost peaceful. Or it would be, if not for the persistent knot of anxiety lodged beneath your ribs.
You watch Moblit measure the tea leaves with the kind of precision that borders on reverence. His hands are steady, his movements deliberate, and you wonder, not for the first time, how he ended up tethered to Hange’s whirlwind of chaos. “You are good at this,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
He glances at you, brow quirking in mild surprise. “At making tea?”
“At… handling things .” You wave a hand vaguely, struggling to articulate the thought. “You are calm. Reliable. You make it look easy.”
Moblit pauses, his expression thoughtful. “It is not always easy,” he admits, his voice low. “But someone has to keep things grounded. Otherwise, this place would fall apart.”
There is something in his tone, a quiet resignation, a steadfastness that feels both comforting and achingly familiar. You wonder if he ever feels the weight of it, the constant effort to be the anchor in a storm that never quite ends.
“Here,” he says, breaking the silence as he hands you the tea leaves. “Your turn.”
You take them with a sense of reverence, suddenly hyper aware of the gravity of this moment. It is absurd, really, how much importance you are placing on a simple cup of tea, but it does not feel simple. Not when it’s Levi. Not when his approval, or lack thereof, has the power to reduce you to a quivering mess of self-doubt.
You add the leaves to the water with trembling hands, watching as they unfurl, releasing their essence in slow, spiraling tendrils. The aroma deepens, rich and smoky, curling into the air like a promise.
Moblit watches you with a faint smile, his arms crossed as though he is grading your performance. “Not bad,” he says. “But remember, timing is everything. Too long, and it will be bitter. Too short, and it won’t have enough depth.”
Depth. There is a metaphor in there somewhere too, but you are too focused on the task at hand to untangle it. You count the seconds in your head, each one stretching out like an eternity, until Moblit nods and motions for you to pour.
The liquid flows smoothly, its color a perfect, golden amber, and for a moment, you allow yourself to feel a flicker of pride. You have done it. You have made tea. Proper tea. Levi-worthy tea.
Moblit hands you the cup, and as you cradle it carefully, you feel a strange sense of accomplishment, as though you have conquered some insurmountable obstacle. It us ridiculous, of course, but you will take what you can get.
“Now,” Moblit says, his tone both encouraging and faintly amused, “go deliver it. And good luck.”
You nod, clutching the cup like it is a holy relic, and as you step back into the corridor, the warmth radiating through your palms feels like a small, stubborn victory.
This is it, you think, as you make your way toward Levi’s quarters, each step measured and deliberate. This is the moment you prove yourself. Not just to him, but to yourself.
And if he doesn’t like it?
Well. There is always the option of becoming a hermit in the mountains.
You pause just outside the door, the faint golden light spilling out from the thin gap at the bottom a beacon in the darkness of the hallway. It is strange, how something so small, a sliver of light, a muted hum of life in an otherwise dormant space, can feel monumental, like the axis around which the entire night tilts.
The rest of the building has surrendered to the quiet of early morning, but here, this single room persists, defiant. As if it refuses to give in to the stillness. As if the man inside simply does not know how.
Captain Levi.
The name alone has weight. Heavy and sharp, a blade resting against the pulse of your neck, always threatening, always poised. You can feel your heart stutter as you raise your hand to knock, hesitant and unsure, like a child about to confess some grave misstep. And maybe that is exactly what you are, a child playing at something far bigger than yourself, hoping desperately to avoid the inevitable scolding. The first rap of your knuckles against the wood is soft, almost apologetic, and yet, his voice cuts through the air like a whip.
“Come in.”
Two words, flat and unwelcoming, as though the very act of speaking them is an inconvenience. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, a moment so brief it hardly exists, before pushing the door open. The creak of the hinges feels louder than it should, like a scream in the silence, and you step inside, the warmth of the room, just slightly above the chill of the hallway, wrapping around you like a thin embrace.
And there he is.
He does not look up at first, too engrossed in whatever mountainous stack of papers lies before him. His hand moves with clinical precision, ink-stained fingers holding a pen that scratches across the parchment in a steady, relentless rhythm.
His candle casts a pale circle of light around him, illuminating the lines of his face, the faint shadows under his eyes that betray the late hour, the tension coiled so tightly in his shoulders it is a wonder he does not snap in two.
You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.
“Did I fucking invite you to stand there gawking?” he snaps, his tone carrying that razor’s edge of disdain that always manages to flay you raw. He doesn’t even bother straightening in his chair, one elbow propped on the desk, fingers resting against his temple as if the very sight of you has given him a migraine. “Spit it out, or get out. I don’t have time to deal with your bullshit.”
You inhale, steadying yourself, the weight of the cup in your hands grounding you as you step forward. “I brought you tea, sir,” you say, the words sounding more confident than you feel, though your grip tightens slightly, fingers pressing against the warm ceramic like a lifeline.
His pen stills. For the first time, he looks up, and you are caught in the full weight of his gaze. It is not an easy thing, meeting Captain Levi’s eyes. They are like polished steel, sharp and unyielding, and they see too much. You feel exposed under that scrutiny, as though every thought you have ever had is laid bare before him, every weakness catalogued and filed away for later use.
For a long moment, he simply stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with a soft huff that borders on derisive, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tea,” he repeats, as though the word itself is an affront. “And why, exactly, should I trust you not to have fucked it up?”
You bite back the immediate retort that springs to your lips, something about how you would not blame him for being paranoid, given his apparent distrust of everyone and everything, and instead, you step closer, holding out the cup. The steam curls lazily upward, carrying with it the faint, smoky aroma of the leaves, and you wonder, briefly, if he can hear the tremor in your breathing.
He takes the cup without a word, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments, a fleeting, electric contact that leaves you momentarily frozen. He lifts it to his lips, his movements slow and deliberate, and takes a careful sip.
You watch him, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat, and for a moment, you think you see it, a flicker of something that might almost be approval, or at the very least, the absence of outright disdain. It is so quick, so fleeting, you cannot be entirely sure it even happened, but it is enough to make your pulse quicken.
Finally, he sets the cup down, his movements measured, as though even the simple act of placing the cup on the desk must adhere to some unspoken standard of perfection. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and steeples his fingers, fixing you with a look that is equal parts curiosity and exasperation.
“You took your sweet time,” he says, the sharpness in his tone softened just barely by the edge of exhaustion weighing it down. “And you think just because you made one half decent cup, you are suddenly qualified to stay in this office at all hours, bothering me?”
“No, sir,” you reply, your tone carefully measured, “I thought, perhaps, I could take over some of the smaller tasks. Free up your time for the more important work.”
He snorts, a low, derisive sound that feels heavier than the silence it breaks. “And let you mess up the basics so I have even more to fix later? Don’t kid yourself. You’d probably file half of these in the wrong order and call it a job well done.”
The words sting more than you care to admit, each syllable biting and unrelenting, wrapping around your chest like a vice, but you force yourself to meet his gaze, your expression steady, even as his words chip away at your composure. “I wouldn’t touch anything without your approval,” you counter, your voice quieter now, softer but no less determined. “I’d just… try to help.”
His eyes narrow further, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before his lip curls into the faintest semblance of a smirk, though there is no humor in it, only skepticism. “Help?” he repeats, as if the word itself is some foreign concept. “You are not here to ‘help.’ You are here because someone, somewhere, decided you were just capable enough to not get yourself killed. Beyond that, I don’t have time for your delusions of usefulness.”
Ouch. The words hit harder than they should, though by now you are half-used to his particular brand of cutting remarks by now. Still, the bluntness of it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
You glance at the papers spread before him, the ink smudges creeping along the edges like evidence of some silent war waged long into the night. His handwriting— meticulous, and just a little too perfect — is scrawled across every page. And yet, for all his sharpness, all his biting remarks, there is an exhaustion about him that he can’t quite hide.
“Do you ever take a break, sir?” The question slips out before you can stop it, unbidden and unwise, and the second it’s in the air, you regret it.
He doesn’t even look up, his pen continuing its steady path across the page. “Do I look like someone with time for breaks?” he mutters, his tone clipped, impatient. “Unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury of sitting around asking pointless questions.”
Fair enough. You should let it go, retreat while you still can, but something about the rigidity of his posture, the way his hand hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, before resuming its work, keeps you rooted in place.
“Maybe you should, though,” you venture, treading carefully now, your voice quieter. “Even just for a few minutes. It’s… well, it is not exactly a secret that you are carrying more than your fair share around here.”
He sets the pen down with a deliberate slowness that sends a prickle of unease down your spine, his gaze finally snapping to yours, sharp and unforgiving. “Let me make one thing clear,” he says, his voice low, dangerously calm. “I don’t need your opinions on how I manage my time. If I wanted advice, I would ask someone competent enough to give it. Not—” he gestures vaguely in your direction, his expression darkening— “whatever this is.”
It sounds like your very presence is some mild inconvenience he tolerates only because he has no choice.
And despite everything, the scorn, the dismissal, the razor-edged remarks, you find yourself wanting, inexplicably, to ease that burden. To prove that you are not just another distraction, another thing he has to manage or correct.
So you pick up a stack of papers from the edge of the desk, careful not to disturb the precise arrangement of everything else, and begin sorting through them in silence. You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and unrelenting, but you don’t look up, don’t flinch.
For a long moment, he says nothing, the silence broken only by the faint scratch of his pen and the soft rustle of paper. And then, finally, he speaks, his voice quieter now, though no less cutting.
“If you screw this up,” he says, without looking at you, “you will wish you’d never set foot in this office.”
The candlelight flickers, not quite steady but not entirely chaotic either, casting him in a surreal half-light that feels more like something out of a dream than reality. Shadows cling to the sharp angles of his face, slipping into the hollows of his cheeks and the faint creases that carve lines of perpetual tension along his brow. He’s all edges, clean, defined, unrelenting and yet somehow softened by the golden warmth of the flame, as if even the universe cannot bear to let him remain so severe.
You tell yourself you are just looking , that it’s nothing more than an idle glance born of boredom, but the truth, uncomfortably loud in the back of your mind, is that you have been staring. Your eyes trace the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the way his throat shifts when he swallows, and it is entirely unfair how effortlessly he commands attention. Even now, hunched over his papers with that perpetual scowl etched into his features, there is something magnetic about him.
Like gravity, only crueler, sharper, more deliberate.
And the collar of his shirt — damn it, why is it unbuttoned like that? Just two undone, nothing scandalous, nothing overt, but enough to reveal a sliver of skin that feels illicit in its simplicity.
You catch yourself following the faint line of his collarbones, the dip at the base of his neck where shadows pool like secrets. It is stupid, really, the way your pulse quickens over something so insignificant.
Pathetic, even.
He doesn’t look up, doesn’t so much as twitch in your direction, but his voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. “If you’ve got time to sit there gawking, you’ve got time to do something useful.”
Your head snaps up, or down, technically, since you were not even pretending to look at your own work. “I wasn't gawking,” you mutter, too defensive, too fast, and you wince inwardly at how unconvincing you sound. Great. Just great.
He finally lifts his gaze, and you immediately regret every life choice that’s led to this moment. His eyes are like twin storms, cold and unyielding, pinning you in place with a look so withering you can practically feel yourself shrinking under its weight. “Oh, really? Then what do you call that ridiculous expression you’ve been wearing for the past five minutes? Because it sure as hell wasn’t concentration.”
You open your mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. What could you possibly say?
“I was contemplating the poetic injustice of your collarbones, sir.”
That you were mentally composing odes to the way the light kisses his stupidly perfect face?
Yeah, no. That would go over well.
“I -- uh -- I was just thinking, sir” you manage, though it comes out more as a squeak than an actual sentence.
His brows arch, a slow, deliberate movement that somehow manages to convey both disdain and mild amusement. “Thinking,” he echoes, dragging the word out as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “And here I thought you were incapable of multitasking.”
Your cheeks burn, the heat crawling up your neck in a humiliating display of your inability to stay composed under his scrutiny. “I can multitask just fine,” you snap, though the tremor in your voice does little to sell the confidence you are aiming for. “I just -- never mind.”
He snorts, a low, derisive sound that makes your chest tighten with equal parts anger and something uncomfortably close to shame. “Never mind is right,” he says, turning back to his papers with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The last thing I need is more incompetence slowing me down.”
The sting of his words is immediate, but there is something in the way he says it, too harsh, too cutting, that makes you wonder if he is trying to push you away on purpose.
Not that it matters. You are not about to back down. Not now. Not when he’s looking at you like you are nothing more than a waste of space.
“Maybe if you didn’t insist on doing everything yourself, you wouldn’t be so overwhelmed, sir” you counter, your tone sharper than you intended, but the words are out before you can stop them. “It’s not incompetence to offer help, you know.”
He stills, his pen pausing mid-scratch against the paper, and for a moment, you think you have crossed some invisible line. When he looks at you again, his expression is unreadable, his voice low and steady in a way that feels more dangerous than his earlier mockery. “You think you are helping?” he asks, each word deliberate, measured, like the slow pull of a trigger. “Do you even know what half of these documents are for? What they mean? Or are you just here to waste my time with your ‘well-meaning’ incompetence?”
You flinch, though you try to hide it, and the silence that follows is heavy enough to crush you. He doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t even give you the chance to respond, and somehow that’s worse than his biting remarks. He’s already decided you’re not worth his time.
But you are stubborn. Or maybe just stupid. Either way, you force yourself to speak, to meet his icy gaze even as your stomach twists into knots. “No, I don’t know what all of it means, sir” you admit, hating the vulnerability in your own voice. “But I can learn. And if you’d let me, I could actually make things easier for you. Unless you’d rather keep working yourself to death just to prove a point.”
.
.
.
The task is simple, or at least it’s supposed to be. Organize the documents. That’s it.
A stack of weathered papers sits before you, their corners yellowed and curling, smudged ink bleeding into faintly lined margins. Levi wants them arranged by date, oldest to newest, and labeled in neat block letters at the top of each sheet, a task so straightforward it feels like an insult to your intelligence.
Why does he even need this done now, at this ungodly hour, under candlelight that’s doing its best impression of a dying star? But you bite your tongue and get to it, determined to prove that you are at least capable of this one mundane thing.
The pen is awkward in your hand, the wooden grip slightly too large for your fingers, but you focus on the rhythmic scratch of the nib against the rough paper, your neat letters forming words that seem both important and meaningless at once.
11th Month, Day 3.Report on Interior Supply Routes.By Captain Reinhardt.
Levi hovers nearby, the scent of tea leaves and faint soap drifting from him, mingling with the waxy tang of the candles. The faint creak of his chair as he shifts is unnervingly loud in the silence, a constant reminder of his scrutiny.
Is he watching you? Probably not. But what if he is? Your hands feel clumsy suddenly, the pen slipping slightly, the ink pooling for a fraction of a second before you steady yourself.
Calm down. It’s fine. Just papers. Just dates.
Just his stupidly perfect presence making you feel like a raw nerve stretched too thin.
You are making good progress. Pages are stacking neatly in their assigned spots, and you are mentally congratulating yourself on not screwing it all up when it happens.
A stupid, tiny mistake. Barely a mistake, really. A smudge.
The ink of 11th Month, Day 6 smears into 7th Month, Day 12 because you have stacked them too soon, the wet ink blending like some amateur painter’s accident.
You stare at the paper for half a second too long, and that’s when you hear it: the sharp intake of breath, the warning creak of his boots against the floorboards as he rises, his presence suddenly bearing down on you like a storm about to break.
“What the fuck is this?” His voice is low, cutting, and the calmness in it is somehow worse than if he’d just shouted.
You flinch, instinctively pulling back as if you’ve been physically struck. “It’s just -- just a smudge. I can fix it --”
“A smudge ?” he repeats, the word loaded with so much venom it might as well be a slur. He snatches the offending paper from the stack, holding it up like it’s evidence of some unforgivable sin. “Are you blind, or are you just stupid ? You can’t even handle this ?”
“It’s not that big of a deal --” you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp gesture that feels like a knife slicing the air.
“Not that big of a deal?” He is pacing now, the paper still clenched in his hand, his movements taut with barely restrained fury. “This is a report from six months ago, and you just ruined the dates. Do you know how much time I am wasting because of your sloppy, half-assed—”
He breaks off, running a hand through his hair, the action so frustrated it seems like even his scalp is offended by your existence.
“I can rewrite it,” you offer weakly, your voice smaller than you want it to be, your hands trembling slightly as you reach for the stack.
“Oh, you will rewrite it, all right,” he snaps, slamming the paper down in front of you with enough force to make the candlelight flicker. “But don’t think for a second that fixes the fact that you are a fucking liability. What part of ‘don’t screw this up’ was unclear to you?”
The heat rising to your cheeks is unbearable, your humiliation a heavy, choking thing.
Liability? Really? It was one smudge. One tiny, fixable mistake.
But he is looking at you like you have personally offended every principle he’s ever held dear, his sharp features twisting into an expression that feels like a hundred tiny daggers aimed directly at your soul.
“I am sorry, Heichou” you mumble, hating the way your voice shakes, hating the way his words sink into you like barbs, each one dragging you deeper into the quicksand of your own inadequacy.
“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” he says, his voice a whip crack that leaves no room for argument. “Do it again. And this time, pay attention. ”
He turns sharply on his heel, his back to you now and you are left staring at the mess you have made, the smudge on the paper looking far worse now under the weight of his disdain.
You pick up the pen again, your grip tighter this time, your movements deliberate as you start rewriting the header.
You barely get the first word rewritten before his voice cuts through the air again, sharp and final, like the snap of a guillotine.
"Stop."
You freeze, the pen hovering mid-scratch, a thin bead of ink blooming on the paper like blood pooling from a fresh wound. It is a simple command, but it carries the weight of something irreversible, a door slamming shut in a way that echoes long after the sound fades.
Your stomach twists as you look up, cautiously, stupidly hopeful that maybe — maybe — he is going to say something else. Something softer. Something that does not make you feel like the ground beneath you is crumbling into dust. But no. His face is a mask of irritation, eyes sharp enough to flay whatever pathetic excuse you were about to offer.
“I don’t need this,” he says, gesturing at the desk like it’s covered in garbage instead of carefully rewritten headers and painstakingly sorted piles. His voice is low, venomous, and it feels like a slap. “I don’t need you. ”
You blink. Once. Twice. Did he really just—?
“I—” The words stick in your throat, a half-formed protest that dies before it even begins because what’s the point? He’s already decided. He’s made up his mind, and you are not part of it.
“Did I stutter?” His tone is pure ice, jagged and merciless, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms, the very picture of someone who can’t be bothered to waste another second on you. “Get the fuck out of here.”
It’s like the air has been punched out of your lungs. For a moment, you just sit there, your hands still clutching the pen and the half-ruined paper, because what else are you supposed to do? Stand up? Walk out? Pretend that this doesn’t feel like the most humiliating moment of your life?
But then he sighs, loud and exasperated, and the sound is enough to jar you into motion. You push back your chair — fast, loud, the scrape of wood on wood grating in the otherwise silent room — and stand, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical force.
You want to say something. Anything. A sharp retort, a desperate apology, maybe even a sarcastic quip to break the tension. But all that comes out is a strangled, “Okay,” your voice barely above a whisper, pathetic and small.
Your hands tremble as you gather the papers you’ve been working on, the edges crinkling under your grip. Should you take them? Leave them? Does it even matter? He doesn’t want them. He doesn’t want you.
“Leave it,” he snaps, and the papers drop from your hands like dead weight, scattering across the desk in a disorganized mess.
You don’t look at him as you turn toward the door, your face burning, your chest tight. The floorboards creak beneath your feet as you walk away, every step echoing in your ears like a countdown to something awful. You can feel his eyes on your back, cold and unrelenting, and you wonder if he’s already forgotten you, if he’s already moved on to the next thing, the next person, the next task that won’t screw up a simple header.
Your hand is on the doorknob when his voice cuts through the silence one last time, low and clipped, like he can’t resist twisting the knife.
“Don’t come back until you’ve learned how to be useful.”
You don’t flinch. Not on the outside, at least.
The door swings open, the cold hallway air brushing against your skin. You step through, your legs moving automatically, your mind a storm of fragmented thoughts and half-formed emotions.
How did it go so wrong so fast? It was one mistake. One stupid, insignificant smudge. And now you’re here, alone in the dim corridor, the heavy silence pressing in around you like a weight you can’t shake off.
You try to tell yourself that it doesn’t matter. That it’s just Levi being Levi, harsh and exacting and impossible to please. But the words feel hollow, empty, like a mantra you don’t really believe. Because the truth is, it does matter. It matters too much, and the sting of his rejection lingers, sharp and unrelenting, a wound that refuses to scab over.
.
.
.
Levi swears under his breath, not that it is audible over the infernal pounding in his head. His body feels like a battlefield: skin burning and peeling under phantom flames, muscles tied in knots that pull tighter with every shallow breath. His throat, raw and sandpaper-dry, protests even the smallest swallow, and the fever turns everything into a surreal haze.
Why does his bed feel like it’s made of gravel? Surely humanity’s strongest deserves better than this lump of straw masquerading as a mattress.
His arms are heavy, like they have been dipped in lead, but he drags one over his face anyway, the crook of his elbow blotting out the dim light streaming through the window.
Light that feels far too bright, by the way.
Did the sun always stab like that? Feels vindictive.
And then there is Hange.
Hange, with her big, clumsy heart and bigger, clumsier boots. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know she is hovering by the door. He can hear her fidgeting, little shuffles of fabric, the soft creak of leather as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Hange, who can face down titans without blinking but can’t stand still for two damn seconds.
He doesn’t look at her.
Can’t.
Doesn’t need to, anyway. He knows exactly how she is standing: shoulders squared but slightly hunched, the way she always does when she’s anxious. Hands twitching at her sides, resisting the urge to reach out because, for all her eccentricity, she does occasionally listen when he tells her to stay the hell away.
Occasionally.
“Levi,” she says, her voice quieter than usual, like she is trying not to spook him. It’s almost gentle, which only pisses him off more. He doesn’t need gentle. Doesn’t need coddling or pity. What he needs is for her to leave him the hell alone.
“Don’t,” he rasps, the word scraping its way out of his throat like broken glass. His voice, already low, is hoarse and gravelly, like it’s been dragged through the mud and left to dry. “Don’t come near me.”
She doesn’t move. Of course, she doesn’t move. Because when has Hange ever done what she’s told? He swears he can feel her hesitation, the way the air grows heavier with her indecision. It presses down on him, suffocating.
“Levi,” she tries again, and he hates how soft her voice is. Like she is speaking to a wounded animal. He is not some stray dog she found in the rain. He doesn’t need saving. “Let me check on you, okay? Please?”
“Stay the hell away,” he snaps, putting as much venom as he can muster into the words. Not much, admittedly. They come out brittle and weak, cracking under the weight of his fever. He shifts, curling further into himself, like folding his body in half will somehow keep her at bay.
There is a pause. Brief. But long enough for him to hope, foolishly, that she might actually listen.
“I’m fine,” he adds, though the violent shiver that wracks his frame immediately after sort of undermines the statement.
“You are not fine,” she says, her tone sharpening. There’s the Hange he knows. Relentless. Stubborn. A goddamn force of nature. “With the plague spreading, you can’t just—”
“If you’re so desperate to play doctor, wear that stupid bird thing,” he interrupts, waving a hand vaguely in her direction without opening his eyes. The effort costs him. His arm drops back to the mattress like a dead weight, and the world spins dangerously for a few seconds before settling into a dull, nauseating sway.
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Fine,” she says at last, and there is something unsettlingly chipper about her tone. Too chipper. He does not trust it. Her boots creak again as she turns, the sound fading as she retreats down the hall.
Good. She is gone. He lets out a slow, shuddering breath, willing his body to relax, though every nerve is screaming in protest. His skin is too hot, his muscles too tight, and the blanket, thin and scratchy, does nothing to stave off the chills that claw at him like icy fingers.
But of course, she is back.
When she reenters, the swish of her coat is the first thing he hears. Then the unmistakable clink of glass lenses and the soft clatter of gloves. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know she’s wearing the plague doctor ensemble. Long coat. Beaked mask. She probably thinks she looks professional. She looks ridiculous.
“Better now?” she asks, her voice muffled but infuriatingly smug.
“No,” he mutters, but it’s half-hearted at best. He does not have the energy for full-blown exasperation.
She holds up a thermometer like it’s some kind of trophy. “Open up,” she says cheerfully, as if this is all some grand adventure and not an exercise in driving him insane.
He glares at her, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that he’s still cocooned in a blanket, trembling like a leaf. He opens his mouth anyway, because fighting her is just… exhausting.
“Good,” she says, her tone annoyingly chipper. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Hard, no. Infuriating, yes. He closes his eyes again, tuning her out as best he can while she busies herself with her absurdly thorough examination.
“Forty degrees Celsius,” she announces after what feels like an eternity. There is a note of worry in her voice now, which does absolutely nothing to improve his mood.
“Fantastic,” he croaks. “You can leave now.”
“Not so fast,” she counters, and the way her voice sharpens makes his stomach sink.
He cracks one eye open, just enough to glare at her. “I swear to God, Hange—”
“I still need to check your armpits and groin,” she says, deadpans, like it is the most normal thing in the world.
His other eye snaps open too, and he glares at her with what little strength he can muster. “Over my dead body.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she says, waving him off. “It’s just a precaution.”
“Find someone else to harass,” he growls, though it is more of a croak at this point.
She ignores him entirely, focusing instead on the thermometer. “Forty degrees Celsius,” she repeats, her voice tinged with worry. “Levi, you are burning up.”
“I’d burn less if you weren’t hovering like a goddamn vulture,” he snaps, his voice cracking.
She straightens, crossing her arms over her chest. Even with the mask obscuring her face, he can feel her glare. “You are impossible,” she says, her tone sharp. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You are trying to drive me insane,” he shoots back. “Congrats. Mission accomplished.”
“Well, someone’s grumpy,” she says, her voice dripping with mock cheerfulness.
“And someone’s a lunatic with a bird fetish,” he fires back, curling tighter into himself.
“Bird fetish and titan fetish, thank you very much,” she quips, a hint of her usual madness creeping into her tone. “I need to take off your shirt,”
He groans, because of course she does. Never mind that the idea of moving, of lifting his arms, of doing anything beyond existing right now feels like climbing a mountain with a hundred-pound pack strapped to his back. No, Hange’s whims must always be indulged, no matter how ridiculous, invasive, or poorly timed.
“Sit up, Levi,” she presses, her tone teetering on the edge of bossy and coaxing, like she’s trying to convince a titan to follow her lead. “If you cooperate, I’ll leave. Promise.”
The promise dangles before him, tantalizing and cruel, because he knows better. Hange doesn’t leave. She circles, she pokes, she prods, she lingers . Still, the lure of solitude is enough to make him grit his teeth and force his body into motion.
“Fine,” he snaps. His arms tremble as he pushes himself upright, every muscle protesting the effort with a sharp, searing ache that threatens to knock him back down. His vision blurs, the room tilting dangerously, but he catches himself with a hand braced against the bed frame.
“Faster, Hange,” he mutters, his patience worn thinner than threadbare cloth. “Before I pass out.”
She doesn’t even blink at his tone, her focus entirely on the task at hand. Her gloved fingers work deftly at the buttons of his shirt, the fabric sticking to his fevered skin as she peels it away with slow, deliberate movements. The damp sound it makes turns his stomach.
“Almost there,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, tinged with something he doesn’t want to name. One hand slides behind his neck, steadying him as she gently pulls the shirt free. “Just a little longer, Levi. Try to hold on.”
Her touch is infuriatingly tender. Like she is handling a porcelain doll instead of a grown man. He hates it. Hates the way it makes him feel fragile, exposed, vulnerable. Hates the way his body betrays him with shivers that wrack his frame, uncontrollable and humiliating.
“Lift your arms,” she says, crouching beside him. “I need to check your lymph nodes.”
He exhales sharply, the sound more surrender than defiance, and raises his arms slowly. The movement is agonizing, every joint stiff and uncooperative, every muscle straining against the simple task. His arms tremble, his breaths coming faster now, shallow and uneven. And then he notices it.
The way her hands freeze mid-air, suspended in hesitation. The faint hitch in her breath, barely audible but unmistakable.
“What?” he demands, his voice sharper than it has any right to be given his condition. His arms drop immediately, but she catches one of his wrists, her grip firm and unrelenting. “What is it, Hange?”
She doesn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, she leans closer, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she is afraid of what she might find. Her gloved fingers press against his underarm, the touch cool and clinical. And then, barely above a whisper, she mutters, “Oh, shit.”
His stomach twists violently, a nauseating churn of dread and disbelief. “Hange,” he says again, his tone rising in urgency. “What did you see?”
Her silence is unbearable. She doesn’t meet his eyes, doesn’t offer the reassurance he so desperately needs. Instead, she starts threading his arms back through the sleeves of his shirt, buttoning it up with quick, efficient movements that feel far too practiced.
“Hange.” His patience snaps like a brittle twig.
“I think,” she begins, her voice steady but grim, “you might have the bubonic plague.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer, shattering the fragile calm he’s been clinging to. For a moment, the room tilts, the air grows heavier, and his breath catches in his throat.
“No,” he says, the word barely more than a whisper. “No, you’re wrong. You—”
“There’s a swollen lymph node under your arm,” she interrupts, her tone soft but unyielding. “A bubo. It’s one of the hallmark symptoms.”
He shakes his head, the movement small and frantic, like a child refusing to believe what they’ve just been told. “I told you,” he rasps, his voice cracking under the weight of his panic. “I told you I had it. And you didn’t listen. Now leave, Hange. Get out. Before you—”
“Before I get infected?” she snaps, her voice slicing through his like a whip. “Levi, calm down. The plague spreads through fleas, not through air. As long as I am covered—”
“You don’t know that!” he roars, or tries to. His vision begins to blur. The sound comes out as more of a croak, weak and desperate. “You don’t know anything!”
Her eyes narrow behind the mask, her body radiating the kind of intensity that could crush a lesser man. “I know enough,” she says, her words sharp and deliberate. “Enough to help you. Enough to save your life if you’d just stop fighting me at every turn.”
He closes his eyes. There is darkness.
Her words hang heavy in the air, a challenge he doesn’t have the strength to meet. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the shallow rasp of his breathing, the distant hum of his fevered pulse.
“Please,” he mutters incoherently at last, his voice barely audible, and Hange wonders if he is unconscious. “Just leave.”
And for the first time in her life, Hange doesn’t know what to say.
The mosquito net hangs around his bed, secured by the ropes. Levi can barely keep his eyes open long enough to watch Hange flit around the room, her movements quick and sharp, like a bird darting from branch to branch.
She is muttering to herself again, words spilling from her lips like water through cupped hands, too fast and too low for him to catch more than fragments. Something about airflow. Vectors. Rodents.
He closes his eyes again.
The heat in his body ebbs and flows in waves, each crest dragging him deeper into exhaustion, each trough leaving him cold and shivering under the too-thin blanket. His skin feels too tight, too sensitive, every inch of him raw and exposed. The pillow beneath his head is damp with sweat, the fabric rough against his cheek. He hates it. Hates the feeling of being so utterly powerless, of being tethered to this bed like an invalid while Hange fusses over him.
Her voice cuts through the haze, louder now, deliberate. “Erwin already knows.”
Knows? About the fever? The plague? Him? His mind scrambles to make sense of the words, but the effort feels monumental, like trying to claw his way out of quicksand.
And then she keeps talking, and the pieces start falling into place.
“Letta is coming tomorrow,” she says, her voice soft but resolute. “Erwin’s orders.”
Levi doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even open his eyes. But the faint tightening of his jaw tells her everything she needs to know.
She leans back, exhaling slowly. “I tried to argue,” she continues, her words more to herself now than to him. “But you know Erwin. Once he’s made up his mind, there is no changing it. Also, you won’t be able to see me for a while.”
The room falls silent again, save for the rhythmic rustle of the net and the faint sound of Levi’s breathing. Hange lets her head drop into her hands, her fingers pressing against her temples.
“What a mess,” she whispers.
.
.
.
“I can’t have you taking care of him, Hange,” Erwin says, his tone clipped, the way it always is when he’s already made up his mind. He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression carved from stone. “It is too risky. We’ll assign a doctor, someone discreet, someone who can ensure absolute confidentiality. And no one else can know.”
Hange snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. Confidentiality? As if whispers don’t slither through the barracks faster than rats in a granary. “Sure,” she says, “a doctor can treat him. But who’s going to take care of him? Who is going to feed him, make sure he does not keel over while trying to crawl to the bathroom?”
Erwin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. His gaze stays fixed on hers, unyielding, impenetrable. “I have already thought of that,” he says, his words precise, measured, like he’s rehearsed this conversation in his head a hundred times.
“Of course you have.” Hange rolls her eyes, throwing her hands in the air. “Because you think of everything, don’t you? Well, go on, enlighten me. What’s your grand plan?”
“We’ll ask the assistant,” he says, his voice so calm, so matter-of-fact, it takes her a second to process the words.
She blinks. “The assistant?”
“Yes,” he replies, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped now, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Kim. She is supposed to look after him, after all.”
Hange laughs. “Are you serious? He fired her, Erwin. You know how Levi is about the whole assistant thing. He thinks it undermines his capabilities, makes him look weak. Like we’re sending someone in to babysit him because we don’t trust him to handle things on his own. It’s a blow to his ego, his pride. He will never go for it again.”
Erwin doesn’t miss a beat. “He doesn’t have to go for it,” he says, his tone sharper now, more decisive. “She will act as his caregiver. It’s her job.”
“And if she refuses?” Hange counters, her brows furrowing as she steps closer to his desk. “What then? She has the right to say no, Erwin. And if you force her, she has the right to complain. You can’t just—”
“She won’t refuse.” His voice cuts through hers, firm and unyielding. “I have seen her resolve. She wants to prove herself. She wants to make up for what she sees as a failure, to rectify the humiliation she felt when he dismissed her. She’s determined, Hange. She won’t say no.”
Hange stares at him, her expression a mix of disbelief. She doesn’t doubt his assessment of Letta; Erwin’s always been eerily good at reading people, at finding their strengths and weaknesses and turning them into tools for his plans. But still--
“Her life isn’t worth as much, is that it?” she says quietly, her tone laced with bitterness. “She is expendable, more expendable than me, so it’s fine to throw her into the fire? Is that what you are saying?”
Erwin doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flickers, just for a moment, but it is enough to give her a glimpse of the man beneath the strategist, the man who carries the weight of too many sacrifices, too many compromises.
“It’s not about worth,” he says finally, his voice softer now, though no less resolute. “It’s about necessity. She’s the most feasible option we have.”
Hange exhales sharply, shaking her head. “Whatever you think is right, Erwin,” she mutters, turning away. “But don’t lose your humanity in the process.”
The summons comes early in the morning, just as you are beginning to believe you might make it through another day without incident. It is not much — just a sharp knock on the door and Moblit's half-apologetic, half-fidgety, “Buntaichou needs you. Now.” but it’s enough to unravel the peace you’ve been clinging to for the past two days.
Your heart drops. Of course, it’s about Levi.
Not that you have seen him. Not since that last, catastrophic encounter, where his words cut through you like the sharp edge of a blade, leaving you raw and bleeding and entirely too aware of your inadequacies.
You’d been dismissed, no, discarded , with all the care of someone sweeping dust from a windowsill.
And since then, the memory has been a relentless weight, dragging you down every waking second, haunting you in the quiet moments when you think you can breathe.
Hange is waiting for you in her office, and her expression stops you cold. There is none of the usual manic energy, no scatterbrained commentary about titans or questionable experiments. Instead, her face is grim, her mouth pressed into a thin, uncompromising line.
“What I am about to tell you,” she starts, voice low, “can’t leave this room. Do you understand?”
“Yes, buntaichou,” you say, because what else is there to say? Maybe this is it. Maybe she is about to tell you that Levi doesn’t want to see your face ever again, that you have been reassigned to latrine duty in some godforsaken outpost.
The thought twists in your stomach. But before you can spiral too far, she sighs and steps closer, leaning against the desk like the weight of what she is carrying is too much for her to stand upright.
“Levi is sick,” she says, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut. “He’s caught the plague.”
You blink. Once, twice. “The… plague?” The word feels alien on your tongue, too surreal to belong in the same sentence as Levi , the unshakable, unyielding Captain who seems more force of nature than man.
“Yes,” she says, and there is a bitterness in her tone that you’ve never heard before. “I confirmed it myself. The physician, too. There’s no doubt.”
The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your knees buckling slightly, the air rushing out of your lungs like someone’s opened a trapdoor beneath you. Levi. The plague. No.
“As you understand,” Hange continues, her voice carefully measured, “this is a serious matter. The commander has decided that the situation must remain confidential. Absolutely no one outside of this room and the medical staff can know.”
You nod, though it is an automatic gesture, more reflex than understanding. Your brain is still stuck on plague and Levi and the horrible, dizzying realization that the two words now belong in the same sentence.
“Which brings me to the next point,” she says, and her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place. “Levi needs a caregiver. Someone to ensure that he is fed, that his condition doesn’t worsen, that he…” She trails off, but you know what she’s trying to say. That he survives.
It’s suddenly hard to breathe.
“And the commander…” Hange hesitates, and the pause is almost worse than her words. “The commander believes you should take on that role.”
For a second, you think you have misheard. Or maybe you have finally cracked, your sleep-deprived brain conjuring up cruel hallucinations. You? Care for Levi? The same Levi who dismissed you with all the warmth of a block of ice? The same Levi who--
“Of course, I understand if you don’t want to,” she adds quickly, and the words are soft, almost kind. “No one would blame you for saying no. It is a dangerous role. And given the circumstances…”
But you don’t let her finish.
“I will do it.”
The words spill out before you’ve even had a chance to think them through, and they sound desperate, even to your own ears.
Hange blinks, clearly taken aback. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you say, and the conviction in your voice surprises even you. “I will do it, buntaichou.”
For a moment, she just stares at you, her expression unreadable. Then she sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly, as if she’s carrying some invisible weight. “You don’t have to prove anything, you know,” she says softly.
But you do.
Because even now, with the bitter taste of humiliation still fresh in your mouth, you can’t shake the need to fix things. To prove that you’re not as useless, as inadequate, as Levi seemed to think. To prove that you’re not just a failure with a fancy uniform.
“I am certain,” you say, and your voice doesn’t waver. Not even a little.
Hange nods, though there’s something in her eyes that makes your chest ache. Pity, maybe. Or understanding.
“All right,” she says finally. “I will let the commander know.”
You leave the room feeling like the ground has shifted beneath you, like you have just signed a contract with terms you don’t fully understand. But beneath the fear, beneath the doubt, there is something else.
Hope. Or maybe just the faint, stubborn belief that this is your chance. Your chance to prove — to Levi, to Hange, to yourself — that you are more than what they see.
FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)
SYNOPSIS:
You are Captain Levi's assistant, and you love for him is unrequited.ORYou remember stepping into Captain Levi’s world, thinking it would be simple -- a job for silver. But it quickly became more. Serving his tea, managing his clothes, his harsh word shaping you in ways you never expected. His coldness cut deep, but there were those rare moments when the ice cracked, and you glimpsed something softer, something human. You wanted to be more to him, to earn his affection, but now, looking back, you realize some distances were never meant to be crossed. And yet, you can’t help but feel that you’ll always be caught in his shadow, a fleeting memory in his vast, lonely world.
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You believe yourself to be an opportunist, though it is hardly an elegant word, isn’t it?
Opportunist. Sounds so... unseemly.
But who cares about elegance when survival is at stake, especially when survival is already balancing on a knife’s edge — one foot in the muck and the other barely toeing the line between existence and whatever twisted version of peace this world allows.
After all, opportunities are not frequent, they are as rare as roses in winter, and those that do come around are hardly wrapped in silver ribbons but in hard work and desperation, all the more reason, you think, to seize this one, seventeen silver coins worth of opportunity, seventeen beautiful silver coins that, when counted with the near pride that fills your calloused palms, becomes almost enough to live on, a little more than you earn as a Private, and with this invaluable little bump, maybe you can start collecting things that matter , like charcoals and sketchbooks, perhaps even a book or two from the market instead of just staring longingly at them like some pathetic ghost longing for a past life it can’t have.
Yes, seventeen silver coins — a seemingly inconsequential sum to those without any appreciation for fun, for the beauty of an inked page, or for that sip of tea that transforms any dreary morning into a small sanctuary of peace, allowing you, for a precious few minutes, to pretend that you are anything but one of these expendable soldiers with expiration dates stitched right into your uniform.
The Survey Corps, well, they are more family to you now than anything else, as sad as that may seem, because after a year and four months, you have learned that family here means an assortment of faces that might very well vanish tomorrow, like smoke in the chill morning air, leaving you wondering why you even bother to remember the names, only to recall, bitterly, that they have already started slipping from memory — a foggy blur of friends, mentors, and rivals that the Corps itself seems to erase without so much as a second thought.
Survival, you have come to realise, means ignoring what is unnecessary and holding on to what you can, which is why you do not care much for memories — wasteful little trinkets that can not be bought, eaten, or bartered for an extra blanket on a cold night.
They are utterly pointless when the past itself is just a landmine of things that could have gone differently. And as for the future? Well, what is the point of thinking about a future that will most likely see you feeding the worms before any kind of real glory is ever achieved?
No, it is only the present that matters , the moment that is tangible, and if that moment involves you, a Private with a passion for tea and art supplies, filling out a form that might, just might , offer you the smallest chance to escape this wretched grind and get a step closer to something remotely resembling stability, then so be it.
The form is drab, all too neat with its tiny, unforgiving lines, as if to say they will not tolerate your messy handwriting or your wandering thoughts, demanding structure where, honestly, there is little to be found, but you force your hand to steady, to pen in a neatness that does not fit you.
Each word, each carefully crafted letter feels like one more step toward the goal, your seventeen silver coins (the delightful little sum), and the possibility of small pleasures, an almost respectable private library, your own meagre sanctuary in this grey, brutal world.
You find yourself seated between Section Commander Hange and Commander Erwin, an intimidating position, to say the least, in this room that feels much too formal, much too stifling for something as simple as a job interview, and yet here you are, the last of the three unfortunate souls left to endure this small, suffocating space under Commander Erwin's watchful gaze, his deceptively kind smile doing nothing to soften the overwhelming tension.
It is a smile that feels almost too pleasant, too disarming, as though it is trying to lull you into a false sense of security, but you know better. The smile may be there, but the man behind it is far from innocent, his eyes calculating, reading into every twitch, every flicker of hesitation that passes over your face, and you can not help but wonder if he has already made up his mind before you have even spoken a word.
And then there is Section Commander Hange, of course — always eccentric, always unpredictable — perched beside you with that grin, practically radiating energy in a way that is somehow more unnerving than calming. It is hard to tell whether she is enjoying your discomfort or just eager to see how this all plays out, but either way, her presence only adds to the precariousness of the situation.
Erwin leans forward slightly, his hands folded neatly on the desk in front of him as though this is nothing more than a casual conversation, like you are discussing the weather or tea preferences rather than your potential fate as Captain Levi's assistant, a role that, to be perfectly honest, you are still not entirely sure you want — though those seventeen silver coins are quite persuasive.
"May I confirm, Private Kim, that you joined the Training Corps at the age of seventeen, graduated at twenty, and are currently twenty-one years of age?" Commander Erwin’s voice is smooth, calm, almost gentle, but there is something sharp beneath it, a blade hidden in the velvet, and you feel it, the subtle pressure of it pressing against your back, urging you to tread carefully.
"Yes, sir," you answer, your voice weak, barely a whisper. You clear your throat, trying to sound more confident, more sure of yourself, though the words taste like ash in your mouth. It is not that you are afraid , per se — no, fear would be too simple an emotion for what is swirling inside you. It is more of a quiet dread, the kind that gnaws at the edges of your thoughts, reminding you of the stakes without ever fully announcing itself.
"One might consider it somewhat delayed in comparison to your peers, would you not agree?" Erwin’s eyebrow arches ever so slightly, his tone not unkind but pointed, cutting through the thin layer of confidence you’d been trying to build.
It is a rhetorical question, of course, because he is already aware of the answer, but he lets it hang in the air, daring you to address it.
"Yes, sir," you manage again, your nerves fraying just a little bit more. "But—"
But he cuts you off with a smile, so serene, so composed, it is almost infuriating. "It is certainly not a matter of concern," he says, dismissing your protest with a casual wave of his hand, as though your late enlistment is of no consequence whatsoever. "The military is proud to extend its welcoming arms to individuals of all ages and backgrounds. It is essential to understand that what is truly required for success in this esteemed institution is unwavering dedication and commitment to duty, rather than an emphasis on the chronological passage of time or the specific age at which one chooses to embark on this honourable path."
You blink, unsure whether to feel relieved or more anxious. This man — this impossibly calm, frighteningly composed man — seems to hold your entire future in his hands, and he is making it sound as though your past decisions, your tardiness in joining the ranks, is but a minor inconvenience.
Hange, meanwhile, leans in slightly, her eyes bright with curiosity, her grin stretching wider as though she is enjoying the spectacle of it all, waiting for whatever clever justification you are about to offer. You can practically feel the weight of their combined gazes on you, their expectations, their silent judgements, all pressing down, and suddenly, you feel the need to prove yourself , not just to them, but to yourself, to justify why you, of all people, deserve to be sitting in this chair.
Erwin’s smile has not faltered, but his next question feels like a trap, or perhaps a test, though you can not quite tell which. "Now," he says, his voice still dangerously soft, "may I inquire what specific qualifications or experiences lead you to believe that you are suitably prepared to undertake this esteemed position?"
You almost laugh at the absurdity of it all, at how simple the question is and yet how impossibly complex the answer feels. Because what makes you qualified?
The seventeen silver coins?
The desperate need for something, anything , to make this miserable existence feel worthwhile?
The fact that you have somehow survived a year and four months in the Survey Corps, watching people die, watching hope flicker out like a candle in the wind?
Or is it something more banal, more mundane — like the fact that you are probably the only candidate who has not completely lost their mind at the prospect of working under Captain Levi, despite knowing full well that this job will most likely chew you up and spit you out before you have even gotten used to the idea of it?
But of course, you can not say any of that. No, you need to be eloquent, composed, rational — everything you are not feeling right now.
"Well, sir," you begin, your mind racing to form a coherent sentence that won’t sound like the ramblings of someone teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, "I believe that my experience in the Corps, along with my dedication to the cause, has prepared me for the challenges this position entails." You pause, gauging their reactions. Hange looks amused, naturally. Erwin’s expression remains unreadable. "I understand the demands that come with assisting Captain Levi, and I am confident that my skills in organisation, efficiency, and adaptability will allow me to meet those demands."
There. That sounded reasonable enough, didn’t it?
Erwin does not respond immediately, of course — no, that would be far too easy, too predictable, and Erwin Smith is neither of those things.
Instead, he sits there, perfectly still, perfectly composed, as if carved from marble, a living statue whose eyes seem to pierce right through you, weighing your every word, every flicker of emotion on your face, and it takes everything in you not to squirm under the scrutiny.
The silence stretches on just long enough to make you wonder if you have somehow said something wrong, if maybe you have already failed this unspoken test, though the smile never leaves his face, which somehow makes it worse. It is like waiting for the axe to fall, only the executioner has decided to toy with you for just a little longer, to draw out the anticipation until your nerves are frayed down to threads.
But then, just as your anxiety is about to reach its breaking point, Erwin leans back in his chair ever so slightly, his hands still folded neatly on the desk in front of him as though this is all nothing more than a leisurely conversation over afternoon tea. His voice, when he finally speaks, is as smooth and calm as ever, but there is a new edge to it now, a subtle shift in tone that tells you he is about to press a little harder, to dig a little deeper, to see just how well you can hold your own under pressure.
"And do you truly believe," he begins, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, "that your experience — a mere year and four months in the Corps — has adequately prepared you for the... unique challenges that come with working directly under Captain Levi? After all, it is one thing to survive out in the field, but it is another thing entirely to survive under Levi’s command. Not everyone is cut out for it, you know."
Ah, there it is. The real test. He wants to see if you will falter, if you will buckle under the weight of the unspoken implications — that Levi is a man who demands perfection, who tolerates no weakness, no mistakes. It is a challenge, plain and simple, and Erwin is watching closely to see how you will handle it, if you will crack under the pressure.
But you won’t. Oh no, not today.
You force a smile — one that is just a little too sharp, a little too knowing, because if Erwin thinks he can rattle you with vague allusions to Levi’s infamously high standards, well, he clearly does not know who he is dealing with.
You have spent your entire life navigating situations far more treacherous than this, and if there is one thing you have learned, it is how to think on your feet, how to turn a disadvantage into an opportunity — how to twist the knife just enough to keep them on their toes.
"With all due respect, sir," you begin, your voice steady, "I am not under any illusions about the difficulty of the position. I am well aware that Captain Levi’s... expectations are high, to say the least. But I have found that high expectations often come with high rewards, and I am not one to shy away from a challenge just because it is difficult." You pause, just for a moment, to let your words sink in before continuing, your tone light but your meaning clear. "Besides, I have always been good at surviving impossible situations. It’s practically a skill at this point."
Erwin’s eyes flicker, just for a second, with something like amusement, though it is gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced once again by that maddeningly neutral expression. Hange, on the other hand, lets out a quiet chuckle, clearly enjoying the little back-and-forth you have managed to get going, and you can feel the tension in the room shift ever so slightly, as if you have passed the first test, but there is still more to come.
"And what makes you so sure," Erwin asks, his tone still calm but with an edge now, sharper, more direct, "that you will not end up like the others? You must have heard the stories. Levi is not exactly known for his patience. What makes you different?"
Ah, the inevitable question. The one that is designed to make you second guess yourself, to force you to acknowledge the brutal reality of what you are getting yourself into. But you have already considered this — of course you have — and while the idea of working under Levi does not exactly fill you with joy, the alternative is far worse.
Because, truth be told, you would rather take your chances with Levi’s infamous temper than spend another minute wallowing in the monotony of your current duties, where every day feels like a slow, inevitable march toward mediocrity. No, this is your opportunity to escape that, to carve out something for yourself that’s worth the struggle, worth the risk.
"I do not deny that working under Captain Levi will be... challenging," you say, careful to keep your tone respectful but firm, "but I have never been one to back down from a challenge. If anything, I thrive under pressure. And as for the stories—" You allow yourself a small, knowing smile. "Well, I have found that people often exaggerate. I am sure Heichou has his... quirks, but I have dealt with worse."
Hange snorts at that, and Erwin, for the first time, allows his smile to widen ever so slightly, a barely perceptible shift in his expression that feels like a victory, however small.
"You are confident, I will give you that," Erwin says, and there is a glint of something like approval in his eyes now, though it is still tempered with caution. "But confidence only gets you so far. Tell me, Private Kim, what do you think is the most important quality for someone in your position to have?"
Ah, a classic trick question. You can practically hear the gears turning in Erwin’s head as he waits for you to fall into the trap, to give some textbook answer about loyalty or dedication or some other nonsense that everyone says but no one really means. But you are not here to give the safe answer. You are here to win.
"Cleverness," you say, without missing a beat. "Anyone can be loyal. Anyone can work hard. But not everyone can think on their feet, adapt to a situation when things go sideways. Captain Levi needs someone who can keep up with him, someone who can anticipate problems before they become problems. And I am good at that. I always have been."
Erwin’s expression remains carefully neutral, but you can tell from the slight narrowing of his eyes, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture, that he is not quite finished with you yet. Of course not.
He would not make this decision based on a single round of questions—no, that would be far too simple, far too predictable for a man like Erwin Smith, whose every move is a carefully calculated step in some grand chess game you are barely even aware of.
No, he is going to push you a little harder, make you sweat just a bit more, see if you will crack under the weight of it all. And maybe that is why there is a glimmer of something almost like amusement flickering in his gaze now, like he is enjoying this, like he is waiting to see just how far you will go before you falter.
"So," he begins, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers in that way that is probably meant to make him look thoughtful but just comes across as mildly intimidating, "out of all the candidates, why should I choose you? What makes you think you are more qualified than the others?"
Ah, the inevitable question—the one designed to test your arrogance, to see if you will trip yourself up with overconfidence or humility, to gauge whether you truly believe you are as exceptional as you seem to think you are. But this, you have prepared for. This, you can handle.
You allow yourself a slow breath, just long enough to make it seem like you are genuinely considering the weight of the question, even though you have already crafted the answer in your head.
It is all part of the performance, after all, and if Erwin wants a show, then you will give him one.
"Why me?" you begin, your tone even, but with just enough edge to show that you are not about to play coy. "Because, unlike most, I am not here to survive Heichou. I am here to thrive under him." You pause, letting the words hang in the air for a moment, then continue, more slowly, more deliberately. "I am not deluded into thinking this is some cushy job with endless tea breaks and long strolls through the barracks. I know exactly what I am walking into—and I am still walking in . I have lived through worse situations than this, and every time, I have come out on top, not because I am stronger, not because I am faster, but because I know how to adapt. The others might be good, hell, they might even be great, but I am clever—and that is what Heichou needs. Not someone to follow orders blindly, not someone to run errands without question, but someone who can see two steps ahead, who knows when to act without being told."
You can see the flicker of approval in Erwin’s eyes, but he is not about to let you off the hook just yet. No, there is another test coming, another trap laid out just beneath your feet, and if you are not careful, you will walk right into it.
"I see," he says, his voice still calm, still measured, but there is a slight shift in the air now, a tension building as he prepares his next question. "And you are aware, of course, that the job is not all strategy and quick thinking. There is a... practical side to it, as well. Captain Levi’s assistant is not just responsible for helping him plan missions and coordinate with other officers. You will also be expected to handle more... mundane tasks. Cleaning, for example. Making tea. Ensuring that his quarters are always in order, that his equipment is properly maintained. It is not glamorous work. Are you prepared for that?"
Ah, there it is—the jab at your pride, the insinuation that maybe, just maybe, you are too good for the grunt work, that you will baulk at the idea of scrubbing floors or brewing endless cups of tea. But Erwin underestimates you if he thinks this is where you will stumble.
"Cleaning?" you echo, and this time, you let a hint of amusement slip into your voice, a slight raise of your brow as if to say, Is that all? "I would be lying if I said I looked forward to it, but I am not exactly in this for the joy of dusting Heichou’s boots. I have survived worse than a bit of dirt, and if cleaning is what is required, then cleaning is what I will do. Besides," you add, with a sly smile that you can not quite keep from curling at the corners of your lips, "if the stories are true, and Levi Heichou is as particular about cleanliness as they say, I doubt I will ever have to worry about things getting too filthy in the first place."
"Good," Erwin says, though the word is more of a thoughtful hum than a true affirmation, as if he is still weighing your response, turning it over in his mind like a puzzle piece he is not quite sure where to fit. And then, just when you think the worst of it is over, he hits you with the next bombshell.
"And you understand, of course, that looking after Levi does not end at the workplace," he says, his tone deceptively casual, as if this is all just part of the normal job description. "You will be responsible for his personal well-being as well. That means ensuring he eats, that he sleeps, that his health is taken care of. It is not just about following orders on the battlefield— it is about managing the man behind the title. Are you prepared for that level of responsibility?"
Now this is the real test. Not the cleaning, not the tea-making—this is where Erwin wants to see if you will falter, if you will shrink away from the enormity of the task he has laid before you. Because looking after Humanity’s Strongest is not just about following orders. It is about navigating the storm of a man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, a man who has seen too much, lost too much, and built walls so high that most do not even bother trying to climb them.
But you, you are different. You are not afraid of those walls. Hell, you have built a few of your own in your time.
"I understand," you say, your voice steady, unwavering, because you do. You understand the weight of what Erwin is asking, and you are not about to back down. "Levi may be a captain, but he is also human. He needs someone who can anticipate his needs before he even knows them himself, someone who can handle the little things so he can focus on the bigger picture. And if that means making sure he sleeps, making sure he eats, making sure he takes care of himself when he is too stubborn to do it on his own, then that is what I will do. I am not just here to follow orders— I am here to support him, in whatever way he needs."
There is a long silence after that, and for a moment, you wonder if you have said too much, if maybe you have overplayed your hand. But then Erwin nods, slow and deliberate, and for the first time since the interview began, he looks... satisfied.
Erwin’s voice is a deep rumble of finality, a single nod to Hange enough to seal the choice in stone, though it feels like more than that—a heavy weight settling into place, a quiet acknowledgment that from this moment forward, there is no turning back.
And when he turns his sharp blue gaze on you, a look of such calm certainty that it’s almost unnerving, he offers only a simple, “Congratulations, Private Kim. Hange will brief you on your new responsibilities,” as though it is not a monumental shift in your entire life trajectory, as though it is just another everyday order in a string of countless orders you are expected to obey without question.
But it is the weight of Erwin Smith’s belief in you that echoes, following you as you rise from your chair, feeling the monumental significance of it all, a thousand unspoken expectations settling on your shoulders like a cloak, as Hange gestures for you to follow with a grin that somehow manages to be both warm and mischievous.
.
.
.
Out in the corridor, the door barely shut behind you, Hange turns, clapping you on the back with such unexpected force that you stagger forward, a half-laugh, half-yelp escaping your lips, and she is grinning, a wild, joyful grin that lights up her face in a way that is entirely hers, a way that makes you feel— however fleetingly —that perhaps this was not all some joke at your expense. “Well, look at you, Miss Big Shot Assistant!” Hange practically crows, eyes glinting with that boundless enthusiasm that is as infectious as it is bewildering. “You went in there like a baby deer caught in headlights, and you came out a wolf— no, no, better than that, a panther, sleek and deadly and sharp,” she gushes, her words tumbling out faster than you can process them, her energy a torrent that sweeps you along whether you are ready or not.
Your face flushes under the praise, and you shift awkwardly on your feet, feeling that strange discomfort that comes with being the subject of genuine admiration, something you are unaccustomed to, something you are not entirely sure you deserve. “I... I would not say that,” you manage, your voice quiet, almost meek, trying to downplay the situation, to brush off the uncomfortable sense of importance pressing down on you, as though if you deny it hard enough, it might vanish altogether. “I just... answered the questions, that is all.”
But Hange won’t have it, oh no, she is practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on her heels like some overgrown child who has just been given the world’s largest bag of candy. “Just answered the questions?” she repeats, incredulous, a laugh bubbling up from her chest, bright and unabashed and entirely unrestrained. “Just answered the questions, she says! Oh, honey, you did not just answer them—you nailed them! You walked in there and took that interview by the horns, twisted it into a pretzel, and then presented it back to Erwin like it was some kind of gift. The way you handled his questions—cleaning? Tea making? Ha! You did not just survive that; you thrived in it. I thought he would stump you, but no, you kept right up with him, smooth as silk!”
Your cheeks burn hotter, and you can not help but duck your head, a mix of pride and embarrassment swirling within you, warring for dominance as Hange’s words sink in, every one of them carrying a weight you hadn’t expected. “I... I just tried to be honest,” you murmur, feeling small under the intensity of her gaze, her enthusiasm a blazing fire that threatens to consume you if you are not careful. “Did not think I would ... impress anyone.”
“Oh, please!” Hange waves a dismissive hand, like she can swat away your insecurities as easily as a fly. “You did not just impress us—you blew us away! I was watching the whole time, you know, and I could see it in Erwin’s face, that little flicker in his eyes, that tiny, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his mouth. That is how you know yo have got him—when he starts showing even the slightest hint of emotion, that is when you know he is hooked. And you—” she points at you, her finger almost accusatory, but there is a gleam of pride in her eyes that softens the gesture, “—you hooked him, alright.”
A nervous laugh slips out, and you glance down at your boots, unsure of what to say, what to do with yourself under this barrage of praise, this overwhelming sense that maybe, just maybe, you are actually capable of more than you ever gave yourself credit for. It is a strange, disorienting feeling, one that leaves you floundering, like you are standing on the edge of some vast precipice, looking down into a future that is both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.
“And listen,” Hange says, her voice suddenly softer, more serious, as she places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm, understanding in a way that makes your chest ache. “I know this job is not going to be easy. Hell, working with Levi is a whole different kind of battlefield—he is a tough one, a hard ass, no doubt about it. But I can see it in you, Letta. You have got the grit, the backbone, the intelligence to handle him, to take whatever he throws at you and turn it into something amazing. And don’t worry,” she adds with a wink, her grin returning, “if he gets too grumpy, you have got me in your corner. We will keep him in line together, yeah?”
You manage a nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite the lingering nervousness curling in your stomach, the quiet fear that maybe you are in over your head, that maybe you have bitten off more than you can chew. But with Hange’s infectious optimism and her unwavering belief in you, it is hard not to feel, even if only for a moment, that maybe you are exactly where you are meant to be, that maybe you really are capable of handling whatever challenges lie ahead.
"Now, now, Letta, Letta, Letta, you brilliant, brave soul—congratulations, you have now landed yourself the kind of job that is part butler, part personal assistant, part... well, let’s be honest, babysitter, and if that sounds glamorous, allow me to swiftly disillusion you, because what you have actually signed up for is a daily juggling act where the balls in question are Levi’s endless demands, a seemingly infinite stack of paperwork, and oh yes, a healthy dose of barely concealed disdain. But hey, you are ready for it, right? I mean, how hard could it be to keep up with the whims of humanity’s strongest soldier who, incidentally, treats a cup of tea like it is some sacred, ancient ritual handed down through generations. Welcome to the life of tea-making where, if you thought throwing some leaves into hot water was all it took, you are about to discover an entirely new realm of exactitude, where the temperature of the water, the steeping time, and even the angle at which you pour the tea all contribute to either a harmonious morning or the unleashing of Levi’s grumpiest scowl —which, by the way, is only slightly less terrifying than a full-on Titan rampage. No pressure.”
Hange is grinning as she rattles off this barrage of words, her eyes sparkling with that mad scientist gleam that seems to always hover just beneath the surface, and you can not help but wonder if she is enjoying this a little too much —if there is a hint of glee in her voice at the prospect of watching you flounder under Levi’s notoriously high standards.
But you do not have time to dwell on that, because she is already moving on, her voice picking up speed, practically dragging you along with it. “Oh, and the paperwork — let us talk about that for a moment, shall we? You are going to be swimming in it. No, drowning. No, buried alive in a veritable avalanche of bureaucratic nonsense. You will be sitting there, trying to decipher the most mind numbingly dull reports imaginable, and if you are lucky, Levi might let out a little grunt of approval. If you are unlucky —well, you will know it, because that man can glare in ways that feel like he is about to flay you alive, even if all you did was misplace a decimal. Don’t even get me started on the letters. Oh no, I have to get you started on the letters. They are special, you see. Bureaucratic diplomacy at its finest. You will need to take the most dry, lifeless subject and somehow make it sound like an elegant waltz of polite refusal or grudging acceptance. You know, the kind of thing that makes the phrase ‘Dear Sir or Madam’ feel like the opening line to a love ballad. Best of luck there!”
You blink at her, half-stunned, half-trying to wrap your mind around the sheer breadth of tasks you are apparently going to be saddled with, but Hange does not stop to breathe— does not even slow down. She is a whirlwind of motion, of words, of ideas, her hands gesturing wildly as she describes each new horror with the enthusiasm of someone who really shouldn’t be this enthusiastic about what sounds like a death sentence.
“And the cleaning, oh, you sweet summer child, the cleaning! Look, I know you are probably thinking, ‘How bad can it be? It is just tidying up, right?’ Wrong. So wrong. Imagine an entire fortress of cleanliness standards, and Levi is standing at the top, reigning like some kind of overlord. You will be running your fingers over every surface, inspecting for dust like a detective, except instead of finding clues to solve a murder, you are just trying to avoid causing one—because if Levi finds so much as a single speck of dust, you will feel like you are the one on trial. You ever watch him clean his blades after a mission? That intensity? Yeah, that is what you are up against. Every. Single. Day.”
You manage a weak smile, the weight of the responsibilities settling over you like a suffocating blanket. But Hange is on a roll, her grin never faltering, as if this entire ordeal is the most entertaining thing she has witnessed in months.
“And speaking of trials, how do you feel about horses? Because yes, Letta, you are going to be spending a lot of time with Levi’s horse. Oh yes, our stoic, cold, and unflappable captain? Turns out the only living thing he shows any sort of tenderness to is that damn horse of his. You will be brushing it, feeding it, maybe even giving it a pep talk if it is in a particularly bad mood. Think of it as your equestrian debut. If you do not know how to muck out a stable, do not worry, you will learn. Fast. Oh, and you might want to bring some carrots with you, because horses are like giant toddlers— they expect snacks, and they will make your life miserable if you forget.”
You can not help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, the way Hange paints this picture of a job that seems to grow more ridiculous with every passing second, and yet, there’s a strange sort of charm to it, a weird, twisted allure in the challenge, in the idea of matching wits with Levi Ackerman, of surviving his quirks and demands, of earning his respect— though if you are being honest, that last one feels more like a pipe dream than an actual possibility. Still, there’s something about Hange’s boundless energy, her reckless optimism, that makes you think that maybe, just maybe, you can do this.
“Oh, and Letta—one last thing,” Hange says, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, her grin widening into something almost devilish. “If Levi gives you too much of a hard time—and trust me, he will —you just come straight to me. We will have a little chat, brew some tea (and by then, you will be a tea brewing expert, obviously), and I will help you come up with the best comebacks. The kind that will make him stop in his tracks and wonder if he has met his match. After all, you do not just survive Levi—you outwit him. That is the real trick.”
Hange winks, clapping you on the shoulder again, and you can not help but feel a little better, a little more prepared, even as the reality of your new job looms large and daunting in the back of your mind. You have stepped into a new world, a chaotic one, full of challenges you never could have anticipated, but with Hange in your corner, you are starting to think that maybe—just maybe— you have got a fighting chance.
"Now, go forth and conquer the chaos!” she cheers, with a flourish, and you can not help but laugh—because if there is one thing you are going to need in the days ahead, it is the ability to laugh at the madness.
.
.
.
The corridors leading to Captain Levi’s office feel like the narrowing throat of a funnel, each step you take behind Hange bringing you closer to what suddenly feels like a sacrificial altar rather than the dim, cluttered little room where humanity’s most terrifying soldier—who also happens to possess the single most breathtaking face you have ever encountered— sits hunched over stacks of paperwork, his brow furrowed in the kind of silent irritation that promises no good will come of any interaction with him.
Your heart pounds uncomfortably, each beat reverberating louder in your chest the closer you get, and despite Hange’s endless barrage of manic enthusiasm, her reassurances that Levi is just "a big ol’ softie under all that gruffness" sound increasingly like lies, not to mention her barely contained glee at the fact that you are about to be the one shouldering the responsibility of this... volatile, high strung, impossibly demanding man. A man who, as the door swings open, lifts his eyes from the tower of reports in front of him with a look so sharp, so piercing, you half expect it to slice the air between you into neat little ribbons.
He does not speak at first.
He just stares.
And in that infinitesimal moment—where time stretches unbearably long, your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your lungs—you feel the weight of those steel grey eyes like a physical force. You have never been good at reading people (or so you have been told, usually right after you have misjudged someone’s mood spectacularly), but Captain Levi is a different beast entirely, because his face gives away nothing, absolutely nothing, except for the faintest shadow of agitation flickering across his otherwise perfect, porcelain features.
Of course, perfect is an understatement. If beauty were some divine punishment, then Levi’s face would be its cruellest executioner. There is something impossibly sculpted about him, as if the gods themselves had taken a chisel and carved out each line with meticulous precision— a jawline so sharp it could probably cut glass, lips that seem perpetually set in a straight line but somehow manage to exude an understated elegance, and those eyes, dear Walls, those eyes that practically demand your attention, with their cool, tempestuous depth, the kind that make you want to drown in them even as they terrify you. You feel like you are staring into the eye of a storm—silent, but promising devastation if you dare to get too close.
Hange, ever the whirlwind, waltzes right into the room like it is her personal playground, seemingly oblivious to the tension (or perhaps she is feeding off of it, the way she thrives in chaos), and she claps her hands together as if this moment is the culmination of some grand joke only she understands.
“Levi! Meet your new assistant!” she declares with a kind of gleeful triumph, gesturing toward you with a flourish, as if you are some prize she is presenting to him on a silver platter. “Private Letta Kim, at your service!”
Levi’s reaction is immediate and, as you expected, not particularly warm. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, his lips press into a thinner line (you hadn’t thought that was possible), and his entire body tenses as though the very idea of someone invading his space— his work space, no less— is a grievous offence that he can barely tolerate. He does not even bother looking at Hange; his gaze locks onto you instead, pinning you in place with the kind of disdain usually reserved for something particularly unpleasant stuck to the bottom of one’s shoe.
“An assistant,” he mutters, his voice low and clipped, like he is chewing on the word, finding it distasteful. “Great. Because what I really need right now is someone getting in my way while I am trying to work.”
Your stomach does a somersault, and it is all you can do to keep from visibly flinching. He has not even raised his voice, has not even directed a full sentence of anger toward you yet, but somehow his tone, laced with dry irritation, manages to make you feel like the most unwanted presence in the entire room. You instinctively shrink back, mentally kicking yourself for thinking that this was a good idea, for ever daring to believe that you could survive Captain Levi's scrutiny, let alone serve him in any meaningful capacity.
You are not just nervous now— you are terrified.
But Hange— oh, Hange, the oblivious lunatic—seems utterly unfazed by the palpable hostility radiating from Levi’s side of the room. If anything, she seems to find it amusing, like a well staged comedy. “Oh, come on, Levi, don’t be so grouchy! Letta is here to help, and trust me, you are going to need her. With all the paperwork piling up, not to mention the fact that you have been skipping meals again— yes, don’t even try to deny it—I think it is about time you had someone to keep you in line.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Levi snaps, finally shifting his gaze from you to Hange, and there is an edge in his voice now, the irritation that has been simmering beneath the surface bubbling up to the top. “And I am sure as hell I don't need someone fumbling around my office, messing up my work.”
Your heart plummets into your stomach. Fumbling around? Messing up his work? You have not even started yet, and already he is convinced you are going to fail. This is going to be a disaster. An absolute, unmitigated disaster.
Hange, for her part, merely shrugs, completely unbothered by Levi’s sharp words. “Well, like it or not, she is your new assistant. So you might as well get used to it. Besides, I have already briefed her on the basics— tea-making, paperwork, horse-tending, all the fun stuff. She is fully prepared to keep you from turning into a grumpy, overworked mess.”
Levi sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he is dealing with the most exhausting, infuriating situation imaginable, and you can not help but wonder if he is actually considering just throwing you out right now, if that is even an option for him. But then, after what feels like an eternity, he drops his hand and looks at you again, his expression unreadable, his tone flat.
“Just stay out of my way,” he says, as if that is the only instruction that really matters. And then, without another word, he turns back to his paperwork, effectively dismissing you from his mind like you are nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a barely noticeable blot on his radar.
Hange leans in toward you, whispering conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, he will warm up to you. Eventually. Probably. Maybe.” She gives you a little nudge toward the desk, her grin never faltering. “Go on, Letta. Say something. He might actually listen.”
You swallow hard, your mouth dry, your mind racing. What the hell are you supposed to say? How do you impress someone who’s already written you off as a nuisance before you have even had the chance to prove yourself?
And yet, despite the fear twisting in your gut, despite the overwhelming pressure of Levi’s cold, scrutinising gaze, you find your voice. You force yourself to speak, because if you don’t, you are going to sink, and sinking is not an option. Not here. Not now.
“I... I will do my best to help, sir,” you manage, though the words feel small and fragile in the face of his indifference. “I won’t get in your way.”
Levi does not even look up.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence that follows is thick, practically humming with all the unspoken words you are too scared to say, and all the things Levi clearly has no interest in sharing. He does not even glance up from his paperwork, his pen scratching furiously across the page with an intensity that speaks volumes, as if the mere act of looking in your direction might waste his precious time, as though you are some speck of dust that’s infiltrated his sanctuary, one he is determined to ignore until it disappears on its own.
You linger in the doorway for a long, painful moment, watching him work with all the attentiveness of someone hoping to absorb instructions through sheer observation. He does not acknowledge you— no welcome, no “get comfortable,” no glance to reassure you that he is even aware of your existence.
He just keeps writing, flipping through documents, occasionally pausing to tap his pen in a way that implies irritation rather than contemplation. The silence stretches like a rubber band pulled far past its limits, and finally, against every instinct screaming at you to stay silent, to just melt into the wallpaper, you gather what little courage you have left and speak.
“Uh... Heichou?” Your voice comes out softer than you intended, and you curse yourself for sounding so timid, so apologetic, like you are already pleading for forgiveness for the audacity of daring to interrupt his precious silence. “Is there... um, anything you would like me to do?”
For a moment, it seems as though he has not heard you, or perhaps he has chosen not to, a possibility that seems all too likely. But then, slowly, with an exaggerated sigh, he sets his pen down, his eyes lifting to meet yours with a look so flat, so devoid of even the faintest hint of amusement or warmth, that it sends a shiver down your spine.
“You want something to do?” His voice is low, calm, but there is a blade thin edge to it, a simmering disdain barely concealed beneath the words. “How about standing there and not bothering me? Think you can manage that?”
Your face flushes, heat prickling up the back of your neck, and you swallow, your mouth suddenly dry as dust. You’d expected him to be cold, even a bit dismissive, but this... this is different, this feels like being dissected under a microscope, every bit of your insecurity laid bare for him to see, to prod at with clinical detachment.
“I... I thought I was here to help, sir,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper, and you hate the way it wavers, hate the way you sound so small, so utterly at his mercy. “Erwin Danchou said—”
“Erwin Danchou,” he interrupts, his tone mocking as he leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and regarding you with a look of faint amusement, as though he is enjoying watching you squirm, “might think it is a great idea to saddle me with a... fukcing ‘helper,’ but I don’t need one. I don’t need someone stumbling around, asking what they can do every five seconds. If you are that desperate to be useful, maybe you should find someone else to hover around.”
The words hit you like a slap, and you feel a prickle of frustration beneath the embarrassment, a tiny spark of indignation that you don’t dare voice. He has not even given you a chance, has not even bothered to find out if you might actually be able to contribute something. Instead, he’s written you off with a few short, cutting remarks, as if your worth is something he’s already calculated and found wanting.
You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to keep calm, to keep the tremble out of your voice as you respond, trying your best to sound... confident, or at least not like a scared little rabbit caught in the headlights. “I... I can do more than just stand here, Captain,” you say, surprising yourself with the steadiness of your tone, though it sounds meek to your own ears, barely a shadow of defiance. “If there is something specific you need, I will do it. Just... let me know.”
He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something that might be surprise crossing his face, though it is gone as quickly as it appeared. For a moment, he just watches you, those sharp grey eyes scrutinizing, calculating, as if weighing the value of every word you have just said, and then, finally, he leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled as he regards you with a look that is halfway between impatience and reluctant amusement.
“Fine,” he says, his tone laced with the faintest hint of a sneer. “You want to be useful? Go and fetch me the files from the east wing records room. They are on the top shelf, probably buried under a mountain of other useless junk, so don’t take all day finding them. And try not to trip over anything on your way back. I don’t have time to deal with whatever mess you might make.”
There is a challenge in his eyes, a silent dare, as though he is waiting for you to falter, to shrink back, to give him some excuse to dismiss you entirely. And for a moment, the temptation to just leave, to turn around and let him deal with his precious paperwork on his own, is almost overwhelming. But instead, you nod, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, to hold that cool, calculating stare without flinching.
“Yes, sir,” you say, keeping your voice steady, even as your heart pounds painfully in your chest. “I will be back soon.”
You turn on your heel, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze on your back as you leave the room, each step echoing loudly in the silence. You can practically feel his eyes on you, dissecting every movement, every breath, and despite the tension, despite the humiliation, a small, stubborn part of you feels... determined. Determined to prove him wrong, to show him that you are not just some useless extra dragging down his precious efficiency.
And as you make your way down the empty corridors, a small, bitter smile tugs at the corners of your lips, the words echoing in your mind like a quiet, defiant mantra: Fine, Heichou. You don’t want me here? Too bad. You are stuck with me.
.
.
.
The return journey to Levi’s office feels oddly triumphant, the file clutched tightly to your chest like a trophy, your heart fluttering with the thrill of having actually accomplished something without tripping over your own feet, and it is a small victory, sure, but after the way he had treated you moments ago, a victory nonetheless, like being allowed to bask in the warm glow of a fleeting ray of sunshine cutting through a dense storm cloud, a welcome reprieve from the otherwise gloomy atmosphere that constantly looms over the Survey Corps.
You stride back into the office with your head held high, feeling the faint stirrings of confidence bubble up within you, a feeling that quickly dissipates when you find Levi still hunched over his desk, immersed in a sea of papers, his focus so absolute that you almost wonder if he has forgotten your presence altogether, which might be preferable, really, considering how the earlier interaction had left you feeling as small and insignificant as a speck of dust caught in the harsh light filtering through the grimy window. You clear your throat, the sound breaking through the thick silence like a pebble tossed into a still pond, and Levi’s gaze finally lifts to meet yours, those sharp grey eyes narrowing slightly as he assesses the file in your grasp.
“You took long enough,” he mutters, the words sliding off his tongue with a edge that almost makes you flinch, but there is an undertone of begrudging acknowledgment in his tone that you cling to like a lifeline. “Did you get lost along the way, or did you stop to chat with every cadet in the hall?”
“No, sir,” you reply, striving for a semblance of calm as you offer him the file, your hand trembling slightly. “I found it... easily.” The words tumble out, slightly breathless, but they barely graze the surface of the truth, the whole journey back having felt like navigating a treacherous maze while blindfolded, with your heart racing in your chest like a caged bird, desperate to escape.
He takes the file from you, flipping through the pages with the deftness of someone who is used to sifting through piles of paperwork, and for a moment, the silence stretches between you, uncomfortable, until he breaks it with a request that makes your stomach twist in a strange mix of excitement and dread.
“Make me some tea,” he instructs, and just like that, the weight of the world settles back onto your shoulders, the flicker of triumph snuffed out by a sudden rush of anxiety. You nod, heart racing anew, the gears in your mind churning as you turn to leave, your brain already racing through the myriad of possibilities that lay before you, a veritable buffet of potential disasters waiting to happen.
What kind of tea does he like? The question echoes in your mind like a relentless drumbeat, the uncertainty gnawing at you as you step into the kitchen, a sterile, utilitarian space that feels more like a punishment room than a place meant for culinary creativity. Green tea? Earl Grey? Black? You can almost hear the sarcastic echo of Levi’s voice in your head, taunting you, the thought igniting a fresh wave of embarrassment. What if he hates green tea? What if he is one of those people who prefers herbal infusions or something ridiculously obscure?
You push the door shut behind you, forcing yourself to take a deep breath, the sharp, clean scent of the kitchen doing little to quell the rising tide of uncertainty that threatens to drown you. It is just tea, you remind yourself, even as your heart pounds like a war drum in your chest, how complicated can it be? The answer seems to hover in the air, mocking you, teasing you with the overwhelming complexity of something as deceptively simple as brewing a cup of tea for the most irritable man you have ever met, one who could probably turn boiling water into a weapon of mass chaos with a mere flick of his wrist.
You pull out the kettle, your fingers trembling as you set it on the stove, the metallic surface cool against your skin, and you fill it with water, watching it slosh around, the fluid motion echoing the chaos in your mind. Once it is set to boil, you retrieve the green tea leaves, cringing at the thought of all the steps that lie ahead, each one fraught with potential peril. How much tea should you use? Is it one spoon or two? And what about sugar? Do you even dare to ask him, or would that lead to a lecture on how “the addition of sugar ruins the integrity of the tea?”
The uncertainty churns in your stomach, and you feel a flush creeping up your neck, the heat of embarrassment radiating through your cheeks as you reach for a small, unassuming container, one meant for carrying sugar, and hesitate, your fingers hovering over it, torn between wanting to make it perfect and the stark fear of angering Levi with your ignorance. After a moment of agonized deliberation, you decide against adding any sugar, figuring it might be better to err on the side of caution, to present him with an unadulterated brew, untouched by the cloying sweetness that might render it unworthy of his discerning palate.
As the kettle begins to whistle, the sound sharp and piercing, you pour the steaming water over the leaves, the fragrant steam rising up in gentle tendrils that swirl around you like the ghosts of all your insecurities, teasing you with promises of perfection that feel entirely out of reach. You can almost imagine Levi standing there, arms crossed, his expression a blend of exasperation and mild amusement as he watches you struggle to create something so deceptively simple, and the thought sends a wave of humiliation crashing over you, leaving you breathless.
With the tea brewing, you grab the sugar container, your palms clammy against its smooth surface as you contemplate your next move.
If you take it with you, what if he asks for sugar, and you have to admit you don’t know how much he likes?
If you don’t take it, what if he insists?
You groan inwardly, feeling like a complete fool caught in a web of your own making, knowing full well that this was supposed to be simple, yet here you are, making it impossibly complicated.
Finally, you settle on a compromise: you will take the sugar in the small container, just in case he decides he wants it after all. You can almost hear his laugh echoing in your ears as you prepare to face him once more, and the thought sends a fresh wave of humiliation flooding through you. The kettle clicks off, the steam curling around you like an invasive vine, and you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the moment ahead, bracing for the storm of his irritation or worse, indifference.
With a shaky hand, you carry the tray to Levi’s office, the small can of sugar feeling like a lead weight as you mentally rehearse all the ways this could go wrong—what if he sneers at your choice of tea? What if he scowls at the sugar can, dismissing it as unnecessary?
As you step inside, your heart pounds like a war drum, and you present the tea to him, trying desperately to muster the courage to meet his gaze. “I made tea,” you announce, your voice barely above a whisper, the words tasting like ash in your mouth as you fight the urge to retreat and disappear back into the kitchen, hoping against hope that this small act won’t lead to the cataclysm of judgement you dread.
Levi looks up, his expression unreadable, and you brace yourself for whatever comes next, the weight of his gaze holding you captive as you stand there, trapped in a moment that feels like an eternity, the world outside forgotten as you await the verdict on your humble offering.
Levi takes the cup of green tea from your outstretched hand, his fingers brushing against yours—a fleeting connection, a moment that might have felt electrifying under different circumstances, but now only serves to heighten the tension that crackles in the air like static before a storm. You watch, heart pounding like a wild creature trying to escape a trap, as he raises the cup to his lips, his expression a mask of indifference that does little to quell the storm of anxiety brewing within you.
And then, with a casualness that belies the significance of the moment, he takes a sip, his eyes narrowing slightly as the liquid meets his tongue, and you swear the world holds its breath, the very air around you thickening as if the universe itself is waiting to see how this delicate dance of expectations and reality will unfold. Time seems to slow, each tick of the clock echoing in your ears like a drumroll leading up to a catastrophe, and you cannot help but brace yourself for impact, the fear of what comes next clawing at the edges of your sanity as Levi's expression shifts from mild curiosity to a scathing disdain that slices through the air like a razor sharp blade, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
“What the hell is this?” he snaps, the words dripping with venom, and you feel your stomach drop as if you have just plummeted from a great height, the sense of dread pooling at your feet like an icy puddle. “Are you trying to poison me with this pathetic excuse for tea? Is this your idea of a joke, Private? Because if it is, it is about as funny as a funeral.”
His voice rises, each word punctuated with a sharp edge, the cruel inflection curling around you like a serpent, squeezing tighter and tighter until it feels as though the very air has been sucked from your lungs, leaving you gasping for breath, floundering in the wake of his disdain. You stand there, utterly paralyzed, every instinct in your body screaming for you to retreat, to hide away from this moment of absolute humiliation that feels as though it’s being etched into the very fabric of your being, your cheeks burning with a flush of embarrassment that creeps down your neck, warming your skin in the most mortifying way possible.
“Did you even bother to taste this before you brought it to me? Or are your taste buds as useless as your capacity for common sense?” His voice is a low growl, laced with a bitterness that cuts deeper than any blade, and you find yourself unable to form a coherent response, your mind racing to process the onslaught of his harsh words, each syllable hitting you like a punch to the gut, leaving you winded and reeling as he continues, relentless in his critique.
“Are you really this incompetent?” he continues, his eyes narrowing into slits that seem to pierce through your very soul, his disappointment palpable in the air, heavy and suffocating. “How do you expect to assist me if you can’t even manage to make a decent cup of tea? What good are you if you can’t handle something so simple? It is like you are determined to prove just how useless you can be, and let me tell you, you are doing an exceptional job.”
Every word feels like a sharpened dagger, each insult imbued with a raw, unfiltered truth that sends your heart plummeting deeper into the abyss of self doubt, and you can barely muster the strength to respond, your voice trapped somewhere deep within you, locked away by the weight of his accusations. You want to explain, to defend yourself, to assure him that this was a simple mistake, a miscalculation born out of fear and anxiety, but the words elude you, fluttering away like frightened birds, leaving you standing there, a mere shadow of yourself, utterly exposed to his scorn.
“Honestly, what did you think was going to happen?” Levi sneers, “You thought you could waltz in here and impress me with your culinary skills? You are about as impressive as a wilted flower. I would be better off with a cup of mud than this travesty you call tea.”
The humiliation crashes over you in waves, a tide of mortification that threatens to drown you, the world around you blurring as your vision narrows, the edges darkening as if the very room is closing in, suffocating you under the weight of his disappointment. You feel the sting of tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall, biting down hard on your lip to keep the tide of emotion at bay, willing yourself to remain strong, to endure this moment of reckoning with whatever dignity you have left.
“Do you understand what you need to do to fix this?” he snaps, his voice suddenly cold and demanding, cutting through the fog of humiliation that envelops you. “You need to learn, and you need to learn fast, because I don’t have time for your incompetence. This is your punishment for wasting my time—clean this entire office. I want it spotless by the end of the day, and if I see even a single speck of dust, I will make sure you regret ever stepping foot in here.”
You nod, the motion mechanical and lifeless, your heart sinking further into despair as you grapple with the enormity of his words, the punishment looming over you like a dark cloud. There is no escape, no reprieve, and all you can do is bow your head, accepting the weight of his scorn, the burden of your mistakes as you turn to face the chaos of his office, feeling smaller than ever, your confidence shattered like fragile glass beneath the crushing weight of his expectations.
As you set to work, the quiet humiliation burns like a brand on your soul, every item you touch a reminder of your failure, a reminder of how quickly the tide can turn, how swiftly a moment of triumph can dissolve into a sea of scorn, and all you can do is hope that perhaps one day, you will find a way to rise above this moment, to prove yourself worthy of standing beside someone as formidable as Captain Levi, but for now, you bury yourself in the task ahead, the only thing left to do as the storm of his anger rages on around you.
As you diligently scrub at the desk, every swipe of your cloth a frantic attempt to wipe away the remnants of your shame, you can't help but steal glances at Levi, who stands in stark contrast to the chaos of the office—the epitome of precision amidst the disorder, his movements deliberate and efficient as he prepares his own cup of tea, the very act a beautiful ballet of authority and disdain.
There he is, the Captain, his silhouette famed by the dim light filtering through the window, casting an ethereal glow around him, and even in his irritation, there is a haunting beauty to him, a dark elegance that wraps around your heart like a vice, tightening and pulling with an unyielding grip. He operates as though choreographed by some unseen hand, every motion deliberate, each flick of his wrist exuding an undeniable confidence that leaves you both in awe and filled with a gut wrenching sense of inadequacy.
You watch, entranced, as he retrieves a small kettle from a corner of his desk, its surface gleaming like an artefact pulled from the annals of history, the teapot an extension of his meticulous nature; it speaks to the unyielding standards he maintains, a vessel that promises perfection in its contents, while the wretched cup you had offered him merely exemplified your glaring failure.
As he sets it on the stove, the low hum of heat rising beneath it seems to match the tension thrumming through the air, an unspoken understanding that this moment is pivotal— every second that passes feels like a slow march towards inevitable doom, your pulse quickening in response to the chaotic rhythm of uncertainty thrumming within you, urging you to flee, to escape this purgatory of your own making.
He fills the kettle with water, the sound a crisp, sharp splash that echoes throughout the room like a herald of your doom, and you swallow hard, fighting the knot forming in your throat as you try to concentrate on the task at hand, but your thoughts refuse to align, scattering like autumn leaves in the wind, each one a reminder of the humiliation you have just endured at his hands.
Levi watches the kettle as it reaches a boil, the steam rising like ethereal wisps of smoke, curling and twisting in the air before dissipating into nothingness, and in that moment, you can’t help but feel a connection to the vapour— fleeting, insubstantial, and utterly destined to vanish, much like your own dignity in the wake of his criticisms. You catch his gaze briefly, those piercing grey eyes locking onto yours with a look that makes your heart race, a potent mixture of disdain and something else—perhaps curiosity, or maybe just the sheer determination to obliterate any sense of confidence that might have dared to bloom within you.
As he expertly measures out the tea leaves, there is a finesse to his actions, a mastery that speaks volumes about his meticulous nature, and for a moment, you allow yourself to fantasise about the tea he will brew— the fragrant notes swirling together like a symphony in a glass— only to be brought crashing back to reality as he pours the steaming water over the leaves, the steam rising in swirling eddies, a sight that makes your stomach twist in envy, the delicate dance of it all starkly juxtaposed against the brutality of your recent experience.
With each careful stir of the spoon, you imagine a world where you might be capable of such elegance, a realm where you could escape the chains of your own incompetence, and yet, as he lifts the cup to his lips, you feel the cold fingers of dread curling around your heart once more, the memory of his earlier words echoing like a haunting melody, reminding you of the reality you must face.
He takes a sip, and a moment later, the look of pure satisfaction on his face sends a fresh wave of despair crashing over you, the contrast between his unyielding confidence and your quivering self doubt palpable in the air.
“Do you see how it is done?” he asks, his voice smooth yet laced with that unmistakable edge, the question rhetorical yet pointed. You lower your gaze to the floor, unable to meet his eyes, feeling the shame wash over you like a suffocating wave, drowning out any remaining traces of self-worth, and you nod meekly, wishing for nothing more than the ground to swallow you whole.
“It is really not that hard, is it?” Levi continues, his tone dripping with sarcasm, each syllable punctuated by the weight of his expectations, the air of superiority wrapping around you like a noose, tightening with every passing second. “Yet somehow, you managed to make it look like a monumental task, something so incredibly simple transformed into a nightmare of incompetence. Do you realise how pathetic that is?”
The words slice through you, raw and unfiltered, each syllable embedding itself in your mind like a brand, and you can only stand there, frozen, the humiliation rendering you speechless as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, an imperious figure of disdain that seems to loom larger with each insult. It is as though he revels in your discomfort, and the realisation stings like the sharpest of thorns, a cruel reminder that in this moment, you are nothing but a plaything in his hands, a source of entertainment as he indulges in the pleasure of tearing you down.
“Do you understand the repercussions of your actions?” he continues, and you can hear the barely restrained frustration in his voice, the simmering anger barely hidden beneath layers of icy calmness. “This is not a game, Kim. You are here to assist me, and if you can’t even manage the basics, then perhaps you need to reconsider your position in the Survey Corps altogether.”
With each word, your heart sinks further, despair flooding your veins as you fight the urge to shrink away, to disappear into the shadows where you can no longer feel the sharp sting of his words, the weight of his judgement pressing down upon you like a relentless storm, battering you until all you can do is submit to the chaos. He is punishing you, and in this cruel dance of humiliation, you realise that it’s not just about the tea anymore; it is about proving yourself worthy of being in his presence, of showing him that you are more than just a mistake, more than just a failure.
“From now on, you will clean this office until it shines, and while you are at it, try to figure out what it means to be competent,” he instructs, his voice cold and detached, the words cutting through the tension in the air, sealing your fate with a finality that feels like a death knell. “Every single item in this room needs to be in its proper place. If I see anything out of order, anything at all, I will make sure you regret it. You’ve had your chance to impress me, and you have failed spectacularly. Now it is time to face the consequences of your incompetence.”
And as you stand there, the harsh reality of his punishment settling around you like a suffocating shroud, you realise that this moment—this brutal encounter with your own shortcomings—will be etched into your memory forever, a reminder of the razor thin line between success and failure, and the painful journey that lies ahead as you strive to prove to him, and to yourself, that you are worthy of standing by his side.
As the heavy door to Levi’s office swings shut behind you, the finality of the moment washes over you like a cold wave, chilling your bones, and you stand frozen in place, a solitary figure adrift in a sea of anxiety and embarrassment, the weight of Levi's merciless words still echoing in your ears, reverberating like the distant sound of thunder that foretells an impending storm.
You can almost feel the air itself shift, thickening around you, each second stretching out into eternity, the atmosphere a suffocating reminder of your utter failure to meet his unforgiving expectations, the taste of humiliation lingering on your tongue like a bitter afterthought, one you can't wash away no matter how desperately you try.
With every breath, you can sense it, the atmosphere alive with the unspoken judgement that hangs in the air, swirling like an ominous cloud ready to unleash its fury, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow turned into a caricature of incompetence, an unintentional jester in the grand court of Levi’s meticulous kingdom, where precision reigns supreme and even the slightest misstep can result in a catastrophic downfall.
And yet, despite this suffocating awareness of your shortcomings, you find yourself clinging to a flicker of stubborn hope, a dim light that urges you to prove him wrong, to claw your way back from the depths of despair and show him that you are more than just a series of unfortunate mistakes wrapped in a pathetic package.
But alas, this hope is as fragile as glass, and when Levi finally comes back and looks at you, his expression a blend of annoyance and disbelief, it shatters into a thousand pieces, each shard embedding itself in your heart, sharp and unforgiving.
“You seriously think this is acceptable?” he demands, his voice cutting through the stillnes, every syllable drenched in disdain, dripping with the kind of contempt that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
His words slice through the remnants of your confidence, leaving you standing there, an unwilling participant in your own humiliation, feeling more exposed than you ever thought possible, and you open your mouth to defend yourself, to articulate some kind of excuse, some desperate plea for understanding, but all that escapes is a feeble whisper, barely audible, lost in the overwhelming tide of his scrutiny. It is as though every time you attempt to speak, the air thickens around your throat, constricting your voice until you are rendered mute, a shadow of your former self, a reflection of failure that flickers in the harsh light of his judgement.
“You are supposed to be my assistant, Kim, not my personal comedy act,” he continues, and you feel yourself sinking deeper into a pit of despair, each taunt from him a weight dragging you further down, where hope feels like a distant memory. “The least you could do is pay attention and make an effort. But it seems that even that is beyond your capabilities, doesn’t it?”
The harshness of his reprimand wraps around you like a vise, squeezing the air from your lungs, and you can feel the heat of shame rising in your cheeks, a flame that threatens to consume you entirely, and all you want is to hide away, to retreat into the shadows where his piercing gaze can not reach you, where you can nurse your wounds in solitude.
“Because you have so brilliantly managed to fail at your every tasks, we are going to have to rectify this,” he declares, his voice steady, devoid of any sympathy, and you feel your heart plummet as he approaches you, the space between you shrinking until it feels as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you, the walls closing in, the air thickening with tension. “I think it is only fair that you face the consequences of your actions. After all, we ca n not have you thinking that incompetence goes unpunished.”
With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards a corner of the office, the movement sharp and precise, exuding an air of authority that makes your skin crawl, and you watch helplessly as he retrieves a small, ornate box from a nearby shelf, its surface gleaming ominously under the dim light, and your mind races, frantic thoughts colliding in a cacophony of dread and disbelief. What could possibly be in that box? An arsenal of office supplies? A collection of insults ready to be unleashed? You can only wonder as he opens it, the lid creaking ominously as it reveals an assortment of items that seem to shimmer with a malicious intent.
“Consider this your punishment,” he says, and your heart races in response, the sound thundering in your ears, drowning out the rational part of your brain that desperately tries to convince you that this is all just a nightmare, that you will wake up any moment now to find yourself safe in your own bed, far away from this merciless reality.
What emerges from the box are the tiniest paperclips you have ever seen, each one gleaming with a sheen that reflects the light like miniature harbingers of doom, and he holds them up as if they are the most fearsome of weapons, the ultimate tool of punishment, and you can feel your mouth go dry, as you stand there, frozen in horror. “You will pick these up, one by one, until you have managed to retrieve every single last one of them from the floor,” he instructs, his tone crisp and unwavering, as if this is a perfectly reasonable request, a casual task in the grand scheme of things.
“And while you are doing that, I want you to reflect on your performance today,” he adds, his voice dangerously calm, the smile still lingering, a predatory glint in his eye that promises no mercy, and you can hardly breathe as you drop to your knees, the cold, unforgiving floor pressing against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of your embarrassment. Each paperclip feels like a reminder of your failure, a painful reminder of how utterly inadequate you are, and you can feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as you reach for the first one, your fingers trembling as you grasp it, the metal cool and hard against your palm.
“I will be watching,” Levi states simply, and the weight of his gaze settles on you like a shroud, suffocating and relentless, a constant reminder that this is not merely a punishment; it is a lesson, an exercise in humility designed to strip away any remnants of pride you may have clung to, forcing you to confront the truth of your situation. With each paperclip you retrieve, you can feel the sting of his words echoing in your mind, a cruel mantra of inadequacy that threatens to unravel your already fragile composure, and you swallow hard, willing yourself to push through the embarrassment, to endure this humiliation in the hopes that somehow, you can emerge stronger, wiser, and perhaps even a little more competent in his eyes.
But the longer you kneel there, the more the shame swells within you, a tide of regret and humiliation that threatens to engulf you entirely, and with each clinking sound of metal against metal as you gather the remnants of your dignity, you realise just how far you have to go before you can truly stand beside him as an equal, how much work lies ahead if you ever hope to earn his respect. Each retrieved paperclip feels like a tiny victory, yet a reminder of how low you have fallen, and as you glance up at Levi, his expression a mixture of impatience and something resembling satisfaction, you understand that this moment is merely the beginning of a long and arduous journey—a journey that will demand every ounce of strength and resilience you possess, pushing you to the very limits of your endurance as you strive to prove that you are indeed worthy of being his assistant, no matter how humiliating the path may be.
fandom: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)
ao3 link
synopsis:
You are Captain Levi's assistant, and you love for him is unrequited.ORYou remember stepping into Captain Levi’s world, thinking it would be simple -- a job for silver. But it quickly became more. Serving his tea, managing his clothes, his harsh word shaping you in ways you never expected. His coldness cut deep, but there were those rare moments when the ice cracked, and you glimpsed something softer, something human. You wanted to be more to him, to earn his affection, but now, looking back, you realize some distances were never meant to be crossed. And yet, you can’t help but feel that you’ll always be caught in his shadow, a fleeting memory in his vast, lonely world.
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, smut, unrequited love, mutual, romance, self harm, suicide attempts, eating disorders, insecurity, jealousy, love triangle ptsd, panic attacks, insomnia, mental health issues, slow burn, war, healing, eventual fluff, enemies to lovers, illness
table of contents:
chapter 1: pride and worth
chapter 2: there was never an angel
notes:
The story starts at year 847, when Levi is 27 and reader is 21
I hate the use of y/n, so the reader will have a default name: Letta Kim.
military hierarchy i'll be using for ref:
Private Corporal Sergeant Sergeant Major Second Lieutenant First Lieutenant Major Section Commander Captain Commander
*anyone from corporal or above can be a squad leader
FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)
SYNOPSIS:
The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child.
CW: invasive medical procedure, mentions of miscarriage
navigation
previous chapter - next chapter
The sterile white walls of the infirmary mocks you with their clinical cleanliness. Disinfectant stings your nose, a sickly sweet perfume that clashes horribly with the metallic tang of fear clinging to your throat.
You grip the scratchy sheet bunched around you, knuckles turning white as your knuckles used to when disassembling a very stubborn bolt action rifle.
Twenty three years you have walked this life, and the most invasive procedure you have ever endured was scrubbing the grime off a well used barrel.
Now, here you are, splayed like a gutted fish on this damn examination table, exposed and violated in a way that makes you fantasize about Titans ripping you limb from limb – at least then, the indignity would be over quickly.
"Alright, Ms. Reader," a voice grates out, shattering the silence that feels heavy enough to suffocate.
You glance sideways to see Dr. Miller, a man whose perpetually furrowed brow seems sculpted onto his skull.
Even his name is an insult – Miller, the name of a dime a dozen grunt, not the esteemed doctor entrusted with… well, with whatever barbaric procedure they have planned for you today.
He gestures towards the doorway with a jerky movement. "Commander in Chief Zachary is here to observe."
Ah, yes. Observe. As if you are some exotic lab rat being prepped for dissection.
You crane your neck, wincing at the way the scratchy sheet abrades your skin, to see Dhalis Zachary – the man who apparently holds the fate of humanity in his manicured hands – materialize beside the doctor.
The man tasked with saving the world would not dare get a speck of dust on his precious uniform while overseeing the violation of a perfectly good (former) soldier.
Commander in Chief Zachary, bless his heart, takes a seat in the plush armchair across the room, looking about as comfortable as a fish out of water.
His gaze, however, remains glued to you with an intensity that rivals a hungry Titan eyeing a juicy morsel.
You almost laugh – the irony of it all. You, a woman who has spent years training for military, and have provided security and services to the (fake) king (though they probably will not care to admit it), reduced to nothing more than a vessel, a brood mare for their precious Ackerman project.
"At ease," he says, his voice as crisp and polished as his uniform.
At ease? You want ease?
You want ease, try spending years trying to balance in Omni directional mobility gear, learn to use rifles, design new, modifications for military gears, knowing each perfectly balanced blade could mean the difference between life and death for some terrified soldier facing a ten meter monstrosity.
This, this sterile room, this forced vulnerability – this is anything but ease.
You force a smile, a thin, humorless thing that probably resembles a grimace more than anything.
"As easy as one can be," you rasp, your voice unused to conversation. "After all, it is not every day you get the esteemed Commander in Chief of Three Regiments Dhalis Zachary to witness your… well, let me just say my internal workings."
The doctor shoots you a withering look, but Commander Zachary, to your surprise, cracks a ghost of a smile. A flicker of something – amusement? Recognition? – sparks in his eyes for a fleeting moment before he schools his features back into their usual stoicism.
"Indeed," he replies, his voice barely a murmur. "Let us just say your 'internal workings' hold the key to humanity's future, Ms. Reader."
The key? You scoff internally. More like the glorified wrench they are about to shove into the gears of that future.
You clench your jaw, the metallic tang of fear intensifying.
They can shove their grand plans and glorious futures.
You are Letta Reader, the one who designed the Anti Personnel omni directional mobility gear, they have reduced you to this – a pawn in their twisted game.
Let's just hope this little "procedure" does not dull your edge permanently. Humanity might just regret it when the next Titan comes knocking.
You lock eyes with them both, daring them to look away. A spark ignites in your chest, a defiant ember flickering amidst the suffocating dread.
It earns a reaction – a smirk from Dr. Miller that creases his perpetually furrowed brow and a glint of steely appraisal in Zachary's gaze.
You, a convicted criminal, sculptor of death – your creations has silenced countless screams, both human and Titan. Now, here you are, reduced to a pawn in their twisted game of genetic chess.
"Let us get this over with," you rasp, your voice sandpaper rough from disuse. The words tumble out with a bite, a desperate attempt to reclaim a sliver of control.
Dr. Miller sighs, the sound a defeated whoosh that ruffles his already unkempt hair. "As you wish, Ms. Reader," he mutters, shoulders slumping like a defeated soldier. "Blood tests first."
Blood tests. Compatibility with the Ackerman bloodline, they say. A lineage shrouded in secrecy, whispered about in hushed tones, rumored to possess superhuman strength and an uncanny fighting prowess.
You, a mere mortal, are about to be entangled with something far beyond your comprehension.
A morbid fascination battles with the rising tide of unease in your gut. You watch with detached curiosity as Dr. Miller approaches, his touch surprisingly gentle considering his gruff demeanor.
He flexes your exposed right arm, searching for a suitable vein, his calloused thumb momentarily stopping your lifeblood with a firm press.
A sharp, medicinal sting assaults your senses as he unwraps a tourniquet. It is a thin elastic band, more suited for catching a rogue strand of hair than constricting a limb.
He wraps it around your upper arm, two fingers above the chosen vein, and the pressure makes your pulse throb a frantic tattoo against your skin.
Then comes the cotton swab, soaked in a cool, stinging alcohol solution. It wipes across the chosen spot, leaving a cool, sterile patch amidst the growing map of goosebumps crawling across your skin.
Dr. Miller releases the pressure slightly, just enough for a trickle of blood to return to the vein. He raises a syringe aloft, the glass glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. The plunger is pulled back, creating a vacuum within the barrel.
It is a familiar sight – a tool you have used countless times to clean the delicate mechanisms of your weapons, ensuring their deadly precision.
Now, the instrument is aimed at you, a cold reminder of your vulnerability.
With practiced efficiency, honed by countless similar procedures, Dr. Miller inserts the needle into your vein.
A prick, a sharp jab of pain, and the world seems to narrow down to that single point of contact. You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a flinch or a whimper.
The metallic tang of fear floods your mouth, a constant reminder of the indignity you are forced to endure.
He pushes the plunger down slowly, drawing crimson life into the syringe. The red liquid creeps up the chamber, its color a stark contrast to the sterile white walls.
He withdraws the needle with a practiced flick, a fresh cotton swab immediately pressed against the puncture site. The metallic clink of the vial being deposited on the tray echoes in the tense silence.
He repeats the process two more times, each vial a silent trophy filled with your essence. The metallic clink becomes a mocking rhythm, a reminder of your objectification.
Finally, Dr. Miller applies a band aid, his touch a fleeting reprieve from the constant violation.
You glance down at the three vials of blood, a sense of detachment settling over you. This crimson liquid, the very essence of your being, will now play a part in a scheme you have no control over.
Dr. Miller's flat question hangs heavy in the sterile air. "Have you ever been pregnant?"
You scoff. "Once," you murmur, the memory a bitter pill lodged uncomfortably in your throat. It is not exactly a stroll through a rose garden, this "pregnancy" of yours.
More like a forced march through a minefield, blindfolded and with a detonator strapped to your chest.
Zachary leans forward, his gaze as sharp as a freshly sharpened blade. "Miscarriage?" he probes, his voice devoid of sympathy. You meet his gaze unflinchingly.
"Yes," you reply curtly, offering no further details.
There is no point in elaborating. They will not understand the intricacies of the job, the cold calculations, the detached efficiency required.
They will not understand the irony of a soldier and a weapon designer being forced to carry a weapon of a different kind.
Dr. Miller raises an eyebrow, a gesture that seems almost comical in his perpetually furrowed browed expression.
"And how did you feel about losing the child?" The question catches you off guard, a sucker punch to your carefully constructed emotional wall.
The memory floods back – the nausea, the fatigue, the constant, gnawing unease. It was not a life you nurtured, not something you embraced. It was a necessary evil to complete the contract.
But then, the miscarriage. A physical ordeal you had not anticipated, a sharp, searing pain that ripped through your body, mirroring the emotional emptiness you felt.
It was over quickly, thankfully, but the memory lingers – a stark reminder of your own mortality, a vulnerability you rarely acknowledge.
You pause, the silence stretching between you like a taut bowstring. "It was not planned," you finally say, your voice a monotone that barely conceals the storm of emotions churning beneath the surface. "Collateral damage, you could say."
"Collateral damage?" Zachary echoes, a flicker of something – curiosity? Disbelief? – sparking in his eyes. "Explain."
There is a challenge in his voice, a dare you can not resist. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Let them squirm in their pristine chairs, let them get a taste of the grime that exists beyond the sterile walls of their ivory tower.
"The target," you begin, your voice taking on a measured cadence, "was a high ranking official, a man whose influence was like a cancer spreading through the government. Discreet assassination was impossible. So, the plan was… unorthodox." You pause, letting the anticipation build in the oppressive silence.
"I was… persuaded," you continue, "to become… friendly with the target. To gain his trust, his affection, whatever it took. And a well timed pregnancy," you add with a bitter chuckle, "was the ultimate act of… commitment." You see a muscle twitch in Zachary's jaw, a flicker of something akin to disgust crossing his features.
Good.
"The miscarriage," you continue, relishing the discomfort in the room, "was… unfortunate. But ultimately, a blessing in disguise. It provided a convenient excuse, an out from the… arrangement."
You see Dr. Miller flinch at the word, as if you have uttered a profanity.
Let him. Let them all squirm.
"So, Commander Zachary," you finish, meeting his gaze head on, "when you ask about my feelings on losing the child, the answer is… complicated. Relief, yes. Regret, perhaps a sliver. But mostly, indifference. It was a job, and like any other job, it had its… complications."
You lean back against the scratchy sheet, a sense of satisfaction washing over you.
You have exposed a chink in their armor, forced them to confront the brutal reality of the world beyond their sterile walls. And for a brief moment, at least, you have held the power.
Dr. Miller's gaze finally meets yours. It is a cold, reptilian stare that dissects you like a butcher eyeing a side of prime beef.
It lingers a beat too long, making you feel like a lab rat under scrutiny. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away with a sigh that could deflate a blimp.
You almost expect him to mutter something about "hopeless cases" under his breath.
He disappears behind a towering metal cabinet, the sterile clinking of instruments echoing in the tense silence.
A moment later, he reappears, a set of gleaming metal instruments glinting ominously in his hand.
They look more like torture tools than medical equipment, and the way Dr. Miller holds them – with a practiced ease that sends a jolt of apprehension through you – do not exactly inspire confidence.
He stands beside the bed, his expression a stormy landscape of conflicting emotions. You can not decipher it, but you know one thing for sure – it does not bode well for you.
Then, with a brusqueness that could snap a twig, he reaches for the sheet you cling to, the flimsy fabric a pathetic shield against the sterile indignity of this whole situation.
You flinch, a primal reaction to the unexpected touch. The sheet tugs against your already raw skin, a fresh wave of discomfort adding to the storm brewing inside you.
He pauses, the metallic instruments glinting like malevolent eyes in his hand. His gaze flickers to your face for a fleeting moment, a silent question hanging in the air.
"This is necessary," he finally says, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth. "For the sake of the child."
The words land like lead weights in your stomach.
Necessary?
For the sake of the child?
Since when did your comfort, your dignity, become secondary to the well being of a potential fetus forced upon you?
You clench your fists, digging your nails into your calloused palms until crescent moons of white form beneath the grime.
This whole situation is a violation, a grotesque parody of nature, and Dr. Miller's words feel like salt being rubbed into a fresh wound.
With a practiced efficiency honed by years of dissecting weapons and tinkering with intricate mechanisms, Dr. Miller pulls the sheet down, leaving you exposed and vulnerable on the examination table.
You have not felt this raw, this exposed, since the beatings in prison – a constant reminder that even the most skilled soldier, weapon artisan and assassin can be broken.
You clench your jaw, willing yourself to disappear, to melt into the sterile white walls and become one with the cold, impersonal environment.
Dr. Miller's gaze sweeps over your bare body, a clinical assessment that makes you feel like a piece of meat on a butcher's block.
His eyes linger for a moment on the angry red welts marring your skin – a testament to the brutality you have endured – before flicking back up to meet yours. His expression remains unreadable, a mask that conceals whatever thoughts churn within him.
Dr. Miller's gaze descends, a clinical scan that lingers for a moment too long on the valley between your exposed breasts.
You clench your jaw, willing your body to turn to stone, an unyielding statue impervious to his clinical examination.
Then, his gloved hand reaches out, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a jolt of electricity straight through your core.
Impersonal, clinical – that is the mantra you repeat in your head, a desperate attempt to deflect the unwelcome heat that pools in your stomach.
His touch is a feather light graze, cupping your right breast with a detached professionalism that somehow manages to feel intimate in the sterile silence of the room.
You squeeze your eyes shut, the rhythmic thud of your heart a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the sterile silence.
He palpates with practiced precision, his fingers moving with a methodical efficiency that grates on your nerves. Every inch is scrutinized, prodded with a gentle yet firm pressure that feels more like an interrogation than a medical examination.
He is searching for imperfections, weaknesses – anything that might derail their grand plan of turning you into a glorified incubator.
The indignity of it all burns a hot coal in your gut.
The humiliation intensifies as he repeats the process on the left side. The metal instruments he then employs are cold and sterile against your skin, a further reminder of your violation.
Each prod and poke sends a tremor through you, a cocktail of shame and a strange, unsettling awareness that you can not quite define.
You force yourself to breathe, shallow gasps that barely fill your lungs.
Focus, you tell yourself. Focus on anything but the feel of his hands roaming your body, a stark contrast to the rough calluses that usually grip the smooth metal of your tools.
You clench your jaw, a silent vow not to give them the satisfaction of a whimper, a flicker of weakness. This is a battle, and while you are stripped of your weapons, your pride remains, a sharp, unyielding edge that you refuse to have dulled.
The examination stretches on, each second an excruciating eternity. You fight back the urge to scream, to lash out and reclaim some semblance of control.
But you know better. Here, in this sterile prison, they hold all the cards. You are just a pawn in their twisted game, a pawn they intend to manipulate, exploit, and ultimately use.
Finally, mercifully, Dr. Miller steps back. His gloved hands disappear into the folds of his white coat, a stark contrast to the flush blooming on your exposed skin. "Everything seems normal," he mutters, his voice barely audible.
Relief washes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you momentarily breathless. It is a hollow victory, a reprieve more than a triumph. The humiliation lingers, a bitter aftertaste that coats your tongue.
You force your eyes open, blinking away the tears that sting your vision. The physical examination may be over, but the psychological violation has just begun.
They have seen your body, prodded and assessed it like a piece of machinery.
Dr. Miller reaches for your arm, his face etched with a seriousness that seems more like a poorly practiced mask. It does not quite conceal the underlying apprehension that flickers in his eyes.
His touch, surprisingly gentle for a man whose face resembles a perpetually furrowed landscape, is muffled by the fresh latex gloves he has donned.
He guides your leg with a nudge that is supposed to be subtle but comes across as patronizing. "Spread your legs wider, please," he instructs, his voice dropping to a low, neutral monotone.
Shame burns in your cheeks, a fiery counterpoint to the harsh bright lights overhead. It threatens to consume you, this violation of your most private space.
You clench your jaw, a silent vow not to give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble. Your body complies, a slow, agonizing spread that makes you feel like a dissected insect pinned to a display board.
The vulnerability of the position grates on your nerves – exposed, defenseless, like a target waiting to be hit.
Dr. Miller waits patiently, or at least that is what he wants you to believe. You can practically see the stopwatch ticking in his mind, counting down the precious seconds he has to spend in this uncomfortable situation.
His gaze flickers to your face for a fleeting moment, a spark of something – unease? Discomfort? – flickering in his eyes before he quickly averts them, dropping his gaze down to his instruments.
He selects a cold, gleaming speculum. The metal surface catches the harsh light like a cruel mirror reflecting your exposed state.
It gleams with an accusatory stare, mocking your helplessness. With a practiced efficiency born of countless examinations on countless women who likely were not forced to endure this indignity under the threat of the world's fate, he maneuvers the speculum towards you.
The metallic chill against your skin sends a jolt through you, a stark reminder of the intrusion about to occur. It is more than just physical – it is a violation of your very being.
You squeeze your eyes shut, a silent protest against the indignity.
The breath catches in your throat, a strangled gasp trapped in the prison of your clenched jaw. You want to scream, to lash out, to reclaim some semblance of control. But you know better.
You force yourself to take a shallow breath, the air rasping in your lungs. You may not be able to control the situation, but you can control your reaction.
Let them poke and prod. Let them analyze and scrutinize. You have stared death in the face countless times, crafted tools to defy its inevitable embrace. This is just another challenge, another obstacle to overcome.
They may have your body spread eagle on this scratchy examination table, but they will never break your spirit.
Dr. Miller hesitates, the pause barely a blip in the oppressive silence, but it is enough to make you wonder if even he is questioning the sheer absurdity of this situation.
Then, with a sigh that could rival the wind whistling through a broken window, he inserts the instrument.
A gasp rips from your throat, a sound that echoes in the sterile room like a gunshot.
The speculum pries open a part of you that has always been a closely guarded secret, a territory familiar only to a select few – and none of them were burly doctors with permanently furrowed brows.
The feeling is an unwelcome combination of foreign and invasive, like an enthusiastic Titan has decided to take a peek inside your most private chambers. You are pretty aware that the comparison is disgusting, but if anyone asked you to describe the sensation, that is the one that fits perfectly because it is disgusting.
The metallic scrape against metal grates on your nerves, a sound that would not be out of place accompanying the torture of some unfortunate soul in a particularly low budget horror flick.
A low hum escapes his lips as he examines the interior walls, his brow furrowing in what you can only hope is genuine confusion.
Maybe, just maybe, he is stumbled upon something unexpected down there – a hidden compartment filled with miniature grenades or a self destruct mechanism triggered by excessive prodding.
Every probing touch, every whispered technical term that sounds suspiciously like plumbing jargon, feels like a violation of the highest order.
You clench your jaw so hard your teeth might actually shatter, forcing yourself to remain still. Giving him the satisfaction of a whimper or a flinch would be akin to surrendering your weapon before a life and death fight – a sign of weakness you refuse to display.
Minutes crawl by, each one an eternity measured in the excruciating silence punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of your own terrified heart.
Finally, Dr. Miller lets out a sigh that could rival the exhale of an extremely disgruntled Titan. Relief washes over him, palpable enough to practically condense in the air.
He withdraws the speculum slowly, the pressure easing with each inch.
The coolness fades, replaced by a dull ache that throbs in protest, a constant reminder of the intrusion you have just endured.
He disposes of the speculum with a metallic clink that seems to echo through the room.
Then, turning his attention to his gloved hands, he wipes them down with a theatrical flourish, the crinkling of the paper loud enough to be mistaken for applause.
"Seems everything is normal down there too," he mutters finally, his voice as devoid of inflection as the sterile walls themselves.
Normal? You want to laugh, a harsh, humorless bark that would shatter the sterile silence.
Normal for a woman about to be turned into a incubator for a government experiment?
Normal for someone who is traded the thrill of crafting weapons that could cleave a human in two for the indignity of having her most private parts prodded and examined like a malfunctioning machine?
There is nothing normal about this situation, and Dr. Miller, with his detached demeanor and bureaucratic pronouncements, is about as normal as a three headed deer waltzing through the streets.
The internal examination is over, leaving you feeling like a disassembled weapon haphazardly thrown back together, missing a few crucial screws and leaking a suspicious amount of… well, everything.
Dr. Miller, bless his detached heart, busies himself cleaning his instruments, the metallic clinking echoing in the tense silence like a morbid symphony.
You watch him with a sardonic glint in your eye, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic clang and the occasional muttered curse word (hopefully directed at the malfunctioning speculum, not your… delicate state).
Just as you begin to entertain the fleeting notion that this ordeal might actually be over, a fresh wave of dread washes over you like a rogue tsunami.
Dr. Miller reaches for a new set of sterile swabs, the crinkled plastic packaging a telltale sign of further indignities to come.
You clench your fists, the rough fabric of the sheet digging into your palms.
You know exactly what is coming – another round of poking, prodding, and sample collecting, all in the name of "compatibility."
"Alright," Dr. Miller announces, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth, "We need to collect some additional samples."
Additional samples? You want to scream, to hurl obscenities at the sterile white walls, to remind them that you are a human being, not a Petri dish waiting to be cultured.
But logic, that pesky intruder, rears its ugly head. Screaming will not get you anywhere, and throwing a tantrum would only solidify their image of you as an uncooperative breeding mare.
He must sense your apprehension, because he adds, with a tone that could be mistaken for apologetic (but you are not buying it for a second), "It is a routine part of the procedure to ensure compatibility."
Compatibility. Right. Because clearly, the fate of humanity rests on your ability to swap spit with a glorified lab rat in a fancy uniform.
You nod tightly, a single, jerky movement that speaks volumes about your inner turmoil. Can you trust his words? Does it even matter? Here, in this sterile prison, trust is a luxury you can not afford.
Shame burns like a hot coal in your throat, a stark contrast to the cold sweat prickling your skin.
Dr. Miller holds up a small, cotton tipped swab – the instrument of your further violation. "First," he announces, his voice devoid of any drama, "a saliva sample."
He leans in, his breath surprisingly stale for a man who probably gargles mouthwash on the hourly. You clench your jaw for a moment, a silent rebellion against this further intrusion.
But logic, that persistent voice in your head, wins over defiance. Compliance now, rebellion later. You open your mouth slightly, the smallest concession you can muster, allowing him to insert the swab and gently scrape the inside of your cheek.
The feeling is surprisingly intimate, the foreign object brushing against your tongue, sending a shiver down your spine.
You close your eyes, willing yourself to become a ghost in the sterile room, invisible to his probing gaze.
He twirls the swab a few times, the motion slow and deliberate, before carefully extracting it from your mouth. The used swab is deposited into a labeled vial, the plastic snapping shut with a definitive click – another notch on their scientific belt, another piece of you catalogued and filed away.
The next sample. The dreaded one. You recognize it by the way Dr. Miller's gaze lingers on you a beat too long, a hesitant flicker of something akin to… sympathy? In his perpetually furrowed brow? Do not make you laugh.
"It will only take a second," he mumbles, his voice softer than you have heard him speak all damn day. "Try to relax."
Relax? In this sterile cattle prod of a room, with your dignity scattered like spent bullet casings on the floor?
The word feels like a slap in the face. But you nod curtly, the defeat a bitter pill lodged in your throat.
The cold touch of a gloved finger pries your legs open further, the sensation a stark contrast to the rough callouses that usually grip the smooth metal of your tools.
A dreaded scene catches your eye – the dreaded swab, held in his hand like a tiny, mocking trophy. Shame burns in your gut, a white hot fire that threatens to consume you.
This is the ultimate violation, the final frontier they need to conquer. They have poked and prodded, scanned and scrutinized, and now they want the key to the vault, the blueprint to the weapon they intend to forge.
You clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the humiliation.
The probing is mercifully brief, a fleeting violation compared to the mental torment you have endured.
Dr. Miller removes the swab with a soft rustle, the sound almost inaudible in the tense silence. He deposits it in the vial with a metallic clink, a punctuation mark to your ordeal.
Relief washes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you breathless. It is a hollow victory, a reprieve more than a triumph. But for now, at least, you have held your ground. You have endured their examination, their violation, and emerged (somewhat) unbroken.
He steps back, his expression a carefully constructed mask that reveals nothing. "There you go," he finally mutters, his voice devoid of any triumph. No celebration, no fanfare – just a sterile statement of fact.
Across the room, Zachary, your supposed savior (gag), remains a stoic statue. His face is a mask that could rival the emotionless sterility of this damn room.
The only hint of anything remotely human is the barely perceptible twitch in his jaw, a microscopic tremor that speaks volumes about the tension he is trying so desperately to hide.
You, on the other hand, are anything but stoic. You remain sprawled on the bed, a human pretzel contorted into a position that would make even the most flexible weapon malfunction.
Your eyes are squeezed shut, a futile attempt to block out the sterile white ceiling and the searing images burned into your memory.
Every prod, every humiliating scrape – a fresh scar etched onto the landscape of your pride.
Your body trembles, not from the cold, but from the aftermath of the ordeal. It is a primal reaction, a caged animal finally released but still reeling from the bars that once held it captive.
They leave the room, the click of the door a punctuation mark to the violation you have just endured.
The silence that descends is almost worse – a heavy, suffocating blanket that amplifies the pounding of your heart and the choked sobs that finally escape your throat.
Tears sting your eyes, blurring the sterile white of the ceiling into a watery mess. This sterile prison, this cattle prod of a medical examination – this is not supposed to be your life.
You scoff, a humorless sound that echoes in the empty room. You, a weapon artisan whose touch could turn a hunk of scrap metal into a thing of lethal beauty, are reduced to this – a specimen under a microscope, a pawn in their twisted game of genetic roulette.
Fury, hot and potent, surges through you, momentarily eclipsing the despair. They may have violated your body, prodded and poked at your most private parts, but they have not broken your spirit. No, not by a long shot. This may be their game, their sterile little experiment, but you refuse to be a passive participant.
Three days. Seventy two excruciatingly silent hours have crawled by since the medical examinations, each one a slow, agonizing torture worse than any interrogation you have ever endured.
The sterile horror of it all clings to you like a cheap perfume on a desperate social climber – inescapable, suffocating, and leaving a lingering headache in its wake.
You, the self proclaimed queen of solitude, the monster who could happily spend weeks alone with nothing but a good blueprint and a malfunctioning weapon for company, are starting to understand the concept of "cabin fever.
The once blissful quiet of your cell now feels like a sensory deprivation chamber on fast forward.
The rhythmic dripping from the leaky faucet down the hall, a sound you previously tuned out with the practiced ease of a seasoned sniper ignoring the whine of distant bullets, now echoes through the sterile emptiness like a maddening metronome counting down the seconds to your inevitable mental breakdown.
The stark white walls, once a source of comfort in their unadorned simplicity, now seem to mock you with their clinical coldness. They are like blank canvases, each imperfection a glaring reminder of the perfect life you have been ripped away from.
No more meticulously organized toolboxes, gleaming with the promise of creation and destruction. No more meticulously folded clothes, each crease a testament to your control. No more swords, to practice with your comrades... No more...
Here, everything is tossed haphazardly, a crumpled metaphor for your lost autonomy.
But the real torment, the constant itch you can not quite scratch, resides within your own violated body. The memory of those gloved hands, the cold, metallic instruments, the intrusion into your most private spaces sends a fresh wave of anger and shame crashing over you like a rogue wave.
You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, the only outlet for the silent scream trapped in your throat.
The biggest betrayal, though, cuts deeper than any physical violation. It is the sudden, sickening awareness of your own vulnerability.
You, the lone wolf, the creature who thrived on self reliance, have been stripped bare, reduced to a vessel in their twisted experiment.
They have poked and prodded, analyzed and assessed, and all they see is a damn breeding machine.
The cell, once your sanctuary, a haven from the idiocy of the human herd, now feels like a gilded cage.
The bars are not metal this time, but humiliation, a cage built from the violation of your body and the desecration of your privacy.
The urge to scrub your skin raw, to somehow cleanse yourself of their touch, is overwhelming.
But even that small act of defiance is denied you. The single, institutional bar of soap they grudgingly provide feels like an insult – a far cry from the luxurious bath products you once indulged in, a daily ritual as essential as oiling your favorite weapon.
Another betrayal. You, the woman who could identify the brand of hand soap used in a government interrogation room based on the faintest lavender aroma, is forced to exist in a state of near filth.
The coarse prison linens, once tolerable in their utilitarian simplicity, now feel like sandpaper against your skin. You wince, remembering the meticulous way you used to fold your clothes back in your old life, each item arranged with military precision. Here, the clothes are tossed on a metal bunk, a crumpled testament to your lost control.
But the worst part, the insidious rot that is slowly eating away at your sanity, is the mind numbing boredom.
Solitary confinement, once a welcome respite from the cacophony of human interaction, now feels like a sensory deprivation chamber designed by a particularly sadistic psychologist.
The lack of good literature, a cornerstone of your existence, is a constant ache. The prison library offers a paltry selection of dog eared paperbacks, the stories predictable and devoid of the intellectual stimulation you crave.
Where are the complex philosophical treatises? The gritty war memoirs you devoured in a single sitting?
And the erotic stories? A distant memory, a guilty pleasure you now yearn for with a desperation that surprises even you. The human touch, once something you actively avoided, now seems a distant dream, a phantom limb aching in its absence.
You sink down onto the hard cot, the metallic clang echoing in the silence. The once welcomed solitude now feels like a suffocating shroud, a constant reminder of your predicament.
A single tear traces a path down your cheek, a silent testament to the despair that has taken root within you. But beneath the despair, a flicker of defiance ignites.
The harsh clang of your cell door being yanked open shatters the silence like a brick through a cathedral window.
Two goons in guard uniforms, shadows obscuring their Neanderthal features, fill the doorway. They reek of stale sweat and something vaguely institutional – cafeteria mystery meat, maybe?
You would put it past this glorified cattle prod of a facility.
"Up," barks one of them, his voice like nails scraping concrete.
You rise slowly, stretching your deliberately stiff muscles.
They expect a reaction, a flinch, a whimper for your mommy.
But you have learned the hard way that showing weakness here is like offering a particularly juicy steak to a pack of starving wolves. You will not last a minute.
One of them ambles over, all predatory grace of a drunken hippo. He snatches a blindfold the size of a flour sack and, with the finesse of a toddler trying on a tutu, yanks your head back. The world dissolves into a suffocating darkness.
"Hold still," he growls, his voice hot and Neanderthal esque against your ear. The other one circles behind you, his meaty hands working with practiced efficiency that speaks of countless similar cattle proddings.
Metal clicks against metal as handcuffs are slapped on your wrists, binding them tighter than a politician's promise.
The rough hands then migrate south, yanking your legs apart with a jerk that would make a contortionist wince.
Thick ropes appear from out of nowhere, the scratchy fibers binding your ankles together like a poorly wrapped birthday present.
You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a whimper or a flinch.
They want a reaction?
They will get the cold shoulder, and maybe a particularly venomous glare if they ever decide to unblindfold you.
They manhandle you out of the cell, their movements all elbows and knees, their bodies brushing against yours in a way that feels about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
Not a word escapes their Neanderthal lips, the silence thick with unspoken threats and the faint scent of stale deodorant (or is that fear?).
You navigate the sterile hallway with the grace of a drunken giraffe, relying on their grunts and occasional shoves for guidance.
Finally, they stop and shove you roughly through something, their hands digging into your bound arms like overzealous secret agents.
They guide you towards something, their movements forceful, their grip tight enough to leave bruises that would make a badge of honor back in your workshop.
With the practiced ease of seasoned guards (or maybe just bouncers), they secure you to the chair.
Ropes bite into your flesh as they bind your wrists to the armrests, pulling your arms taut and uncomfortable.
Another rope circles your chest, pinning you to the back of the chair and restricting your movement like a particularly enthusiastic python.
Throughout the ordeal, you remain silent, a statue carved from defiance amidst the storm. They search for a reaction, a flicker of fear in your blindfolded eyes.
But you give them
nothing.
You have learned the art of becoming a wall, an unyielding barrier against their cruelty.
They finish their little rope rodeo, the ropes digging into your flesh like a particularly enthusiastic critic. One of the guards leans in close, his breath hot and stale against your ear – a bouquet of cafeteria mystery meat and stale sweat, truly a sensory delight. "Do not think this will be easy," he says, his voice laced with a sadistic pleasure that would make a horror story villain blush.
You offer no reply. Silence is your weapon, your only defense in this hostile environment. They may bind your body, but they cannot break your spirit.
The rough scrape of boots fades into a distant silence, thick enough to choke on. Each tick of the unseen clock stretches into an eternity as you strain your ears, the only remaining sense that offers a glimpse into the world beyond the suffocating darkness of the blindfold.
Minutes bleed into what feels like hours, and you contemplate the existential dread of becoming best friends with a particularly enthusiastic spider when a new set of footsteps finally breaks the silence.
This is not the lumbering gait of your previous escorts, all elbows and knees and the grace of a drunken hippo.
These steps are lighter, quicker, a rhythmic thud that speaks of purpose, efficiency, and possibly a shared appreciation for decent footwear.
You count at least five sets, their weight distributed unevenly, some heavier, some lighter, they collectively sounds like a dysfunctional bowling team on their way to a disastrous match.
The sound circles the room before coming to a stop somewhere directly in front of you. Then, a touch.
Gentle, cool fingertips brush against your cheek, a stark contrast to the rough hands that manhandled you earlier.
It sends a jolt through you, not of fear, but of surprise. This touch is different, devoid of aggression, laced with a hint of… curiosity?
Almost hesitant, like a child reaching out to a potentially dangerous butterfly.
The blindfold is carefully removed, peeling away the darkness to reveal the harsh fluorescent reality of the room.
You blink rapidly, adjusting your eyes to the unforgiving light. A woman stands before you, adorned in the uniform of the Survey Corps – a pair of stylized wings a mocking reminder of the freedom you have lost.
Her face, framed by a mess of dark brown hair, holds a fascinating mix of amusement and seriousness. Her eyes, bright and intelligent, sparkle with a hint of unsettling mania that sends a shiver down your spine.
This must be Hange Zoe, the infamous Section Commander they whisper about in the prison yard. The one with a reputation for being a genius… and slightly unhinged.
Before you can fully process the sight of her, Hange speaks. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, a soothing balm compared to the harsh barks you've been subjected to.
"Do not worry," she murmurs, her words conspiratorial, meant for your ears only. "We will nog hurt you… much."
She winks, a fleeting gesture that seems utterly at odds with the weight of the situation.
It is like watching a playful puppy frolicking in a warzone.
Hange steps back, taking a seat at a nearby table. You now see the table clearly, a simple wooden surface scarred with countless meetings and tense negotiations.
The realization dawns on you – you are no longer in the sterile cell, but in a room designed for… interrogation?
Or perhaps a particularly sadistic game of poker, considering the company.
You glance down at yourself, noting with a detached amusement that you are still restrained in the chair, your body a marionette waiting for its strings to be pulled.
Across from you sits Dhalis Zachary, his face a stoic mask as always. To your left sits Nile Dawk, the Commander of the Military Police.
On your right, a single chair sits occupied by the man himself – Levi Ackerman. He seems shorter than you expected, but his posture radiates an aura of quiet power that makes the chair seem two sizes too small. His face is a mask of indifference, but a flicker of something – annoyance, perhaps? – crosses his features as his gaze meets yours.
He looks like a man would rather be cleaning his precious blades than babysitting a captured (former) soldier with a criminal history.
Flanking Levi is Hange Zoe, her manic grin a stark contrast to the serious expressions of the others. On the other side of the table, opposite Nile Dawk, sits Erwin Smith. The very sight of him fills you with a surge of cold fury.
There he sits, the Commander of the Survey Corps, the architect of your capture and the orchestrator of this entire charade.
His face is calm, composed, almost bored, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within you. He is, after all, the one responsible for your current predicament, the one who ripped you from your life and turned you into a pawn in his twisted game.
"Erwin Smith," you hiss, your voice a low, controlled one, laced with a dangerous amount of venom. "What is the meaning of this charade?"
Erwin clears his throat, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence. "Now, Ms. Reader," he begins, his voice clipped and dripping with misplaced authority, "the tests have revealed an interesting development." He pauses for dramatic effect, his gaze sweeping across the room like a spotlight searching for an audience.
Nile Dawk snorts, a harsh sound that cuts through the pretense like a rusty knife. "Interesting?" he barks, his gruff voice devoid of any amusement. "More like damned inconvenient!"
Erwin ignores him, his steely gaze boring into yours. "You see," he continues, his voice low and measured like a predator sizing up its prey, "you and Captain Levi Ackerman here..." he trails off, gesturing towards Levi who sits rigid in his chair, expression as unreadable as a poorly lit cave. "...possess a rare genetic compatibility."
The air in the room thickens, the unspoken implications hanging heavy like the stench of stale sweat and desperation.
You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Let them squirm in their expensive chairs, wondering what goes on behind the steely glint in your eyes.
"What does that mean?" you finally manage, your voice tight with a barely contained fury that threatens to boil over.
Erwin leans forward, a predatory glint flickering in his eyes. "It means," he explains, his voice low and measured like a serpent offering a poisoned apple, "that you are one of the most viable and genetically compatible women to carry a child for the Survey Corps."
"Also the Ackerman clan, and also the future of humanity." Dhalis Zachary adds.
Your breath hitches. Carry a child? For them? The anger that has simmered beneath the surface explodes into a white hot inferno.
"Carry a child? Like some damn brood mare?" you roar, your voice shaking with barely contained rage.
The veins in your neck throb in protest, and for a moment, you imagine yourself ripping the table in half just to see the looks on their faces.
Dhalis Zachary, however, seems unfazed by your outburst. He leans back in his chair, a predatory smile playing on his lips that wouldn't look out of place on a particularly lecherous weasel.
His gaze roams over your body with an unwanted familiarity, lingering on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips in a way that makes your skin crawl.
"Now, now, Letta," he coos, his voice dripping with a sickening sweetness that makes you want to vomit. "Do not be so modest. Think of it as a chance to contribute to humanity's survival... in a very intimate way."
His words hang heavy in the air, laced with a lewd undertone that makes you want to scrub your skin raw with bleach and then some.
Levi shoots him a withering glare that could curdle lava, but Dhalis remains unfazed, his smile widening into a leer that belongs on a back alley deviant.
Hange sighs dramatically, slumping back in her chair like a deflated balloon. "Are you sure about this?" she mutters, her voice laced with exasperation. "This is a person, not a breeding sow!"
Erwin's gaze hardens. "Calm down, Hange. She has a choice, of course." He turns back to you, his voice taking on a softer tone that sounds about as genuine as a politician's smile. "If you agree to carry Captain Levi Ackerman's child, Letta Reader, you will be granted a full pardon for your crimes. You will be free to return to your previous life, no questions asked."
A flicker of hope sparks in your chest, a fragile flame that flickers and dies as quickly as it ignited.
Be Levi Ackerman's incubator? The very thought fills you with a strange, unsettling fear. You steal a glance at him, his face a stoic mask that speaks volumes. He does not want this any more than you do, that much is clear.
Dhalis leans forward again, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine for all the wrong reasons. "Letta," he whispers, always using your first name, his eyes gleaming with a depraved hunger that would make a ghoul blush. "Think of the possibilities. Imagine the strength a child of yours and Captain Ackerman's could possess. A warrior born from a rebellious spirit and humanity's strongest soldier... the possibilities are truly... arousing."
His words are a grotesque caricature of seduction, a perversion of intimacy that makes your stomach churn. Levi Ackerman finally speaks, his voice so low yet powerful that sends a tremor through the room. "Shut your damn mouth, Zachary. Nobody asked for your perverted input."
"Alright, I will do it!" you snap, cutting through their bickering like a knife through week old stew.
Let them celebrate their 'victory' while you savor the silent satisfaction of watching Erwin's triumph falter for a split second at the sight of his missing limb – a delightful reminder of his own mortality, courtesy of some well placed titan.
The air crackles with the unspoken tension of your reluctant agreement. Erwin's smile returns, this time stretched wide and unconvincing, like a toddler who is just been told he can not have another lollipop.
"Excellent," he declares with all the forced enthusiasm of a car salesman hawking a lemon. "Now, let us discuss the legalities of this… arrangement."
He gestures towards a stack of documents on the table, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone that clashes horribly with the absurdity of the situation.
"Since this situation is, well, unprecedented," he continues, dragging out the words like molasses, "we need to iron out a few details regarding parental rights."
You clench your jaw, a flicker of defiance sparking in your eyes. This may be their game, but you will not be a mindless pawn.
"Custody," you state firmly, your voice surprisingly steady considering the urge to launch yourself across the table and throttle Erwin with the nearest piece of parchment. "I will have the custody of the child."
This is the first time Levi addresses you...
Levi scoffs, a sharp, derisive sound that cuts through the air like a well aimed blade. "Like hell it will," he sneers. "I would not trust you to raise a fucking goldfish, let alone a child."
His voice is laced with undisguised contempt that makes you want to wipe that smug look off his face with your bare fists.
A cold anger flares within you, momentarily eclipsing the despair that has settled in your gut.
"And what makes you think you would be any better?" you retort, your voice rising a notch despite your best efforts to remain calm. "You have not exactly shown any paternal instinct throughout the whole meeting."
Nile slams his fist on the table again, but Erwin holds up a hand, silencing him with a sharp look that would not be out of place on a particularly irritated drill sergeant.
"Perhaps," Erwin begins, his voice smooth and conciliatory like honey laced with arsenic, "a co parenting arrangement would be best. Both of you can have an equal say in the child's upbringing."
The idea of co parenting with Levi makes you want to roll your eyes so hard they disappear into your skull.
You can barely tolerate being in the same room with the grumpy excuse for a human, let alone navigate the trials and tribulations of raising a child together.
But the alternative – him having sole custody and subjecting your offspring to his brand of stoic indifference – is even less appealing.
You nod curtly, a silent acceptance of Erwin's suggestion. Levi, however, remains unconvinced. He steeples his fingers in front of him, his gaze fixed on Erwin with an intensity that could bore holes through concrete.
"Fine," he mutters finally, the word dripping with concession, "co parenting. But I want certain things in writing."
"Of course, Levi," Erwin says, "Please outline your terms."
Levi's expression hardens further, his scowl deepening into a masterpiece of grumpy disapproval.
"First," he states, his voice leaving no room for argument, a dictator laying down the law to a particularly troublesome colony, "all medical expenses related to the pregnancy and childbirth will be covered by me. I will not have some… government hack butchering you on my dime. You will survive the experience, and frankly, the paperwork for a malpractice suit would be a bigger pain in the ass than dealing with you right now."
The blatant distrust in his words stings like a particularly well placed paper cut, but you force yourself to remain still.
This is a small price to pay for a modicum of control, a sliver of autonomy in this twisted game of forced motherhood.
Erwin jots down the point, his brow furrowing slightly at Levi's bluntness, the man clearly more accustomed to flowery speeches than blunt pronouncements.
Levi continues, his voice as cold and emotionless as a winter. "Second, childcare. I will provide for the best possible care available. No cutting corners on nannies, no questionable daycares run by chain smoking grandmas with questionable hygiene standards."
He throws a pointed glance in your direction, the implication clear as day – he does not trust you to make sound decisions regarding the child's well being, which, considering the circumstances, is a fair point.
You grit your teeth, forcing yourself not to react.
This is not the time for a witty retort, no matter how tempting it might be to remind him that his idea of 'good childcare' probably involves drill sergeants and obstacle courses.
Erwin adds this point to the list as well, a flicker of sympathy, genuine or otherwise, crossing his features as he observes your silent struggle.
Finally, Levi leans back in his chair, his gaze locking with yours with an intensity that could melt steel. "Most importantly," he states, his voice low and intense, "I will be involved in every aspect of this child's life. I will not be some weekend dad who shows up for birthday parties and complains about the noise. This is my child too, and I will have a say in their upbringing."
There is a steely determination in his eyes that brooks no argument. You understand his position, even if you despise his methods.
He may despise you with the burning passion of a thousand suns, but there's an undeniable protectiveness in his gaze, a flicker of something that might resemble… concern? Perhaps?
You nod curtly, a silent acceptance of his final term. This agreement may not be ideal, but it offers a semblance of control within this bizarre situation.
Co parenting with Levi will be a challenge akin to wrangling a particularly grumpy titan with nothing but a rusty spork, but perhaps, just perhaps, it could work.
After all, you both share a common goal – the well being of the hypothetical child you will be forced to conceive.
Dhalis leans back in his chair, a predatory glint in his eyes that makes you want to reach across the table and gouge them out with your bare thumbs.
He steeples his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips like a particularly unwelcome house guest refusing to leave. "Now, onto the nitty gritty," he purrs, his voice dripping with a sickening level of amusement that would make a sewer rat blush. "Since time is of the essence, we propose two insemination attempts per day."
Two attempts? Every day? The air itself seems to curdle at the bluntness of his statement.
It feels barbaric, a violation of your body disguised as a medical procedure performed by glorified prodding monkeys. But you know you have no real choice in this twisted game of procreation roulette.
A silent plea flickers in your eyes, directed at Erwin, but his face remains as impassive as a freshly carved headstone. He seems content to let Dhalis take the lead in this grotesque negotiation, happy to play puppet master while you and Levi become his unwilling marionettes in a perverse play.
You force yourself to nod, a single, jerky movement that speaks volumes of your simmering rage and barely contained disgust.
This is not about procreation, it is about control, about reducing you to a mere vessel, a human incubator for their grand experiment. The very thought makes your skin crawl.
The next point of discussion is even more fraught with tension. Levi, who has been brooding in silence like a grumpy gargoyle come to life, finally speaks up.
His voice is low, devoid of any warmth or humor, like nails scraping down a chalkboard. "Boundaries," he states curtly, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that could bore holes through steel. "We need to establish some ground rules."
You meet his gaze unflinchingly. There is no point in sugarcoating this, no use in pretending there will be hearts and flowers along the way.
"Fine," you reply, your voice flat and emotionless, a stark contrast to the churning chaos within you.
There is no point in arguing about pleasantries or pretending this will be anything resembling a normal relationship.
This is a transaction, a forced sex that neither of you truly desires.
Dhalis throws his head back and lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that grates on your nerves like a rusty cheese grater scraping against bone.
"Boundaries? In the middle of fucking? Come now, Levi, loosen up a bit!" he exclaims, his voice dripping with a vulgarity that would make a drunken sailor blush. "This is not some romantic rendezvous, it is for the good of humanity! Besides," he continues, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing glint, "who knows, you might even enjoy it. It could be… stimulating."
The sheer audacity of the man makes you want to retort with a witty remark so scathing it would leave him speechless, but you hold your tongue.
Engaging with him on this level would only sink you deeper into the swamp of his depravity.
Instead, you turn your gaze towards Erwin, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest.
Surely, even he can not be shameless enough to endorse such a ludicrous suggestion.
Erwin shoots Dhalis a withering look. It effectively silences the man, though the suggestive smirk still lingers on his face like a particularly unwelcome house guest who refuses to take a hint.
Erwin clears his throat, the sound scratchy and awkward, like a rusty hinge protesting its existence. "Perhaps," he suggests, gesturing towards the door with all the grace of a drunken toddler attempting to stack building blocks, "they could discuss this privately? Spare us all the unnecessary… imagery."
Nile scoffs, the sound erupting from him like a particularly disgruntled bullfrog. "Do not be ridiculous, Erwin," he barks. "This concerns the success of the operation! Transparency is the key!" His voice booms through the room, a stark contrast to the tense silence that has settled between you and Levi, thick enough to choke a titan.
You clench your jaw so hard you swear you hear your dentist wince in sympathy, refusing to give Dhalis or Nile the satisfaction of seeing your discomfort.
Levi, however, seems to reach a similar conclusion, his face a mask of stoic indifference that would make a statue look expressive.
He stands abruptly from his chair, the movement stiff and controlled, like a predator preparing to pounce.
"Fine," he mutters, He gestures towards the door with a curt flick of his hand, an unspoken invitation that speaks volumes. "Let us get this over with."
You rise from your chair as well, your movements stiff and mechanical, like a marionette with its strings yanked by an invisible hand.
Together, you walk towards the door, leaving behind the roomful of voyeurs who seem strangely invested in the mechanics of your forced procreation.
The sterile hallway stretches before you, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within you. Levi walks ahead, his footsteps echoing in the silence like a grim countdown.
You follow a few paces behind, a tense distance mirroring the emotional chasm that separates you.
The lights overhead hum with an oppressive energy, casting long, distorted shadows that dance on the sterile white walls.
The air itself feels heavy, thick with unspoken animosity and the weight of your predicament. You steal a glance at Levi, your eyes narrowed.
He does not even acknowledge you, his gaze fixed stoically ahead, his jaw clenched tight.
The man looks about as thrilled about this prospect as you are, which is to say, not at all.
In fact, if his expression were any grumpier, it would sprout moss.
You contemplate making a snarky remark, just to break the suffocating silence, but decide against it.
There is no point in expending the energy. Besides, you can practically taste his disapproval, and frankly, you do not need him to verbalize it.
He reaches the end of the hallway and stops abruptly. He does not turn around, but you can feel his icy gaze burning into your back like a death stare delivered by a particularly judgmental penguin.
Finally, he speaks, "Boundaries," he repeats, the word dripping with undisguised disgust, like a gourmet chef forced to cook with week old rotten vegetables.
You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze when he finally turns around.
His face is a mask of stoic indifference, like a particularly grumpy statue come to life. "Look," you say, your voice surprisingly steady considering the urge to deck him right across that smug face, "neither of us wanted this. But we are stuck in this situation, so let us make it as… efficient as possible. Think of it as a necessary evil, like a root canal performed by a drunken dentist."
Levi raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something akin to amusement crossing his features for a fleeting moment, like a brief flash of sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. "Efficient? This is hardly the word I would use to describe rutting with a criminal." The words are a barb, a reminder of the contempt he holds for you, a verbal jab delivered with all the precision of a veteran gloomy pretty boy.
You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. Engaging in a war of words with him is about as productive as trying to herd cats while wearing roller skates – a spectacular recipe for disaster.
"Fine," you reply tightly, forcing a sardonic smile. "Just tell me what your definition of 'efficient' entails, Captain Grumpy."
He stares at you for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask that could rival the Sphinx for sheer inscrutability. Then, he sighs, a sharp exhale that speaks volumes about his frustration. "Minimal contact," he finally mutters, the words clipped and curt, like orders barked on a battlefield. "Get it over with as quickly as possible. In and out, that is all."
His words are blunt, devoid of any tenderness, but they are strangely… practical.
You nod curtly, a silent agreement forming between the two of you, a reluctant truce in this bizarre war of forced procreation. "There will be no foreplay, no emotional connection," he continues, his voice leaving no room for argument, "just the bare minimum required for the procedure. Think of it as a business transaction, a necessary exchange of bodily fluids to fulfill our… obligations."
"And," he adds, his voice dropping to a low, "do not expect me to be gentle." The implication is clear – this will not be a picnic in the park, more like a prodding session with a very sadistic veterinarian.
You meet his gaze unflinchingly. "Believe me," you reply coolly, your voice laced with a steely defiance that surprises even you, "gentleness is the last thing I expect from you. If anything, a little roughhousing might be a welcome distraction from the absurdity of this entire situation." There is a spark of defiance in your voice, a flicker of something that surprises even you.
"You could have rejected the proposition but you did not," Levi suddenly says. "Do not you dare pretend this is okay!"
You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to turn and meet his glare head on. "Look, Captain Ackerman," you say, your voice laced with a steely calm that surprises even you, "neither of us wanted this little vacation to Conception Island. We are both pawns in their twisted game of baby bingo. But unlike you, Captain Morality, I am not going to waste my breath whining about ethics. This is my ticket out of here, a chance to claw my way back to a semblance of normalcy. You can play your righteous soldier act all you want, but frankly, it is getting old faster than last week's bread."
Levi scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound that grates on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "Freedom? You call this freedom? You are nothing but a incubator, a baby making machine for the government!" He throws his hands up in exasperation, his posture rigid with disapproval. "This is not some noble sacrifice, Reader, it is a violation of your body, your rights! Do you not get it?"
The anger in his voice is palpable, a stark contrast to your own detached indifference. You almost feel a flicker of pity for him, burdened by his misplaced sense of honor in a world that thrives on pragmatism.
"Listen closely, Captain Ackerman," you counter, your voice dropping, "I may be a criminal in their eyes, but at least I am not afraid to take control of the situation. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a mere attack dog, following orders without question."
A muscle twitches in Levi's jaw, a sign of his barely contained fury. He steps closer, invading your personal space, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss.
"You call yourself a human? Willing to sell your body, your future, for a shot at freedom? You are pathetic." The word hangs in the air, a cruel insult dripping with contempt.
You stare back at him, completely unfazed. "Pathetic?" you echo, your voice laced with a dangerous edge that could cut diamonds. "At least I am not a self righteous hypocrite, preaching morality while following orders like a mindless dog."
You hold his gaze for a beat longer, relishing the flicker of surprise that crosses his features, a tiny crack in his facade of stoic disapproval.
Levi opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off with a sharp gesture. "We are done here, Captain Levi," you say, your voice cold and final. "We both know what needs to be done. Let us just get this over with, like ripping off a stubborn bandage."
The sooner this gets done, the sooner you can be on your way back to a life that is not dictated by government officials and brooding soldiers.
This is not about morality, you tell yourself.
Morality went out the window the day they branded you a criminal and locked you in this fucking cage.
This is about survival, about playing the hand you have been dealt and coming out on top, even if the top looks suspiciously like a damp prison cell with a slightly better view.
And in this twisted game of procreation roulette, you are playing to win. Even if the prize comes at a heavy price, like a lifetime supply of government issued baby food and endless lullabies sung by a tone deaf beyblade.
The sterile hallway stretches out before you like a never ending white void, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps trapped in a fluorescent cage.
The air itself feels thick with unspoken tension, a pressure that could make a lesser person crack. Levi throws you one last scathing glare that could curdle lukewarm milk on a hot day, his lips moving in a silent tirade you can only imagine is filled with colorful insults and dire pronouncements about the downfall of humanity (all because you dared to choose a sliver of freedom over a lifetime of titan fodder duty).
He storms off in the direction of the conference room with the grace of a particularly grumpy badger, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence.
You take a deep breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a rogue titan misplaced in a tea party.
This whole conversation, the heated exchange with Levi, has done little to shake your resolve.
Freedom, however illusory, is within your grasp, a ticket out of this bureaucratic nightmare and back to a semblance of normalcy (assuming "normal" includes dodging rogue titans and scavenging for scraps).
You will not let him – or your own doubts – derail you. This may not be the life you envisioned, but it is a hell of a lot better than the alternative – which, judging by the perpetually grumpy expression on Levi's face, involves a lifetime of cleaning up humanity's messes.
Minutes tick by, each one an eternity in the sterile silence. Finally, the door to the conference room swings open with a groan, and the group emerges, blinking into the harsh fluorescent light.
Erwin is at the forefront, a smile plastered on his face that does not quite reach his eyes. It looks more like a grimace plastered over a grimace, like he just swallowed a sour lemon while simultaneously stubbing his toe on a rogue pebble.
Nile Dawk follows, his face a stoic mask that reveals none of his thoughts, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes that could be interpreted as… annoyance? Maybe?
Hange trails behind them, a mischievous glint in her eyes that promises future experiments involving questionable concoctions and dubious safety protocols.
Levi brings up the rear, his face an unreadable mask, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, like a soldier marching towards a particularly unpleasant battle (which, considering the circumstances, is not entirely inaccurate).
Nile Dawk clears his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the hallway. "Alright, convict 6913 Letta Reader" he booms, his voice a stark contrast to the surrounding silence. "The agreement has been finalized. Captain Levi Ackerman has already signed off. Just a formality now."
He thrusts a stack of papers towards you, his gruff demeanor doing little to disguise the undercurrent of unease in his eyes. Maybe even he has a sliver of conscience buried somewhere beneath that gruff exterior.
You take the documents, your gaze scanning the legalese quickly. It is all there, the terms of your agreement, the obligations, the limitations of your freedom (which, let's be honest, were about as existent as a happy ending in this world).
You clench your jaw, the injustice of it all burning in your throat. This piece of paper is a contract, a binding agreement that ties you to a life you never chose, but it is also a ticket, a one way trip to a future that might not be ideal, but is undeniably better than rotting away in this concrete cage.
With a sigh that speaks volumes, you pick up a pen and sign the papers, your signature a final, irrevocable step towards this bizarre future.
The ink dries on the page, sealing your fate.
Hange steps forward, a playful smile plastered on her face that could rival a circus clown on a particularly sugary high.
"Here," she chirps, holding out two brightly colored candies that look like they could double as miniature concussion grenades. "For courage. You are going to need it. Especially if Levi decides to take 'minimal contact' a little too literally." Her voice is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the bureaucratic hell you have just slogged through.
You stare at the proffered candy with a raised eyebrow. Courage, huh? More like a desperate attempt to sugarcoat a situation that is about as sweet as a week old titan carcass.
But beggars can not be choosers, especially when said beggars are facing a future filled with forced insemination and the dubious pleasure of Levi Ackerman's company (or lack thereof).
With a sigh, you take the candies, the artificial colors staining your fingers a sickly shade of pink and orange. "Thank you, Section Commander Hange," you murmur, a flicker of something akin to gratitude warming your heart.
It is a small gesture, but in this world of power plays and political maneuvering, even a single candy feels like a rebellious act.
Erwin, ever the master of the forced smile, throws you a curt nod, his expression as comforting as a bowl of lukewarm gruel. "We will be in touch, Ms. Reader," he says, his voice dripping with a forced cheer that would not fool a particularly dim witted titan. "The doctors will brief you on the next steps shortly. Expect… extensive testing."
Right, because that is what you really need right now – a detailed medical lecture on the inner workings of forced procreation. You nod your head in acknowledgment, more to shut him up than anything else.
Levi remains silent, his back turned towards you like a particularly grumpy statue come to life.
He does not even grace you with a single glare, a dismissal that speaks volumes. Honestly, his disapproval is as refreshing as a cool breeze on a scorching summer day.
His approval, his disapproval, matters little in the grand scheme of things.
Suddenly, a slimy hand clamps onto your shoulder with the enthusiasm of an enthusiastic barnacle.
You whirl around, your heart leaping into your throat like a startled frog, to find Dhalis leering at you with the predatory grace of a weasel eyeing a particularly plump pigeon.
His eyes gleam with a disturbing hunger, "Well, well," he purrs, his breath reeking vaguely of last week's cafeteria mystery meat, "the breeding stock is all signed up. Ready for your… examination, shall we say?"
The man's words slither across your skin like a particularly unwelcome insect. You try to pry his hand off your shoulder, but his grip tightens painfully, like a particularly enthusiastic barnacle fused to your shoulder blade.
"Please do not be shy, Letta," he croons, his voice laced with a sickening sweetness that could curdle milk at fifty paces. "This is just the beginning of a beautiful… partnership. Think of it as your patriotic duty… with a few… extra benefits."
He winks at you, a gesture that solidifies your suspicion that the man has not seen the inside of a shower stall in a good long while.
The combined effect makes a wave of nausea roll through your stomach that threatens to erupt in a spectacular display of projectile vomiting.
Before you can even formulate a witty retort that would make him question his life choices, two burly guards materialize at Dhalis's side like particularly unwelcome sleep paralysis demons.
Their faces are as emotionless as a brick wall, their grip on your arms like iron clamps. Struggling against them is about as effective as trying to herd cats while wearing roller skates – a guaranteed recipe for disaster.
They manhandle you down the hallway, their rough hands leaving angry red marks on your skin.
You steal a glance back at Erwin and Hange, hoping for some shred of support, some sign of understanding in their eyes.
Their expressions, however, are as unreadable as a Rorschach inkblot test – a frustrating mix of what could be pity, amusement, or maybe just boredom.
But it is Dhalis's parting words that send a shiver down your spine, a cold dread settling in your gut like a particularly unwelcome dinner guest. "Enjoy your new home, Letta," he calls out, his voice dripping with a sickening delight that would make a corpse blush. "We will be seeing you soon… for the insemination. Consider it a… welcome gift."
Omg im so happy and glad this seed of discontent has showed up again! Please dont be too hard on yourself, everything u wrote and the story was just perfect and different from everything else ive read it was literally a breath of fresh air! please dont be so hard on yourself your writing is truly amazing ✨
hey keyboard warrior,
Well, "breath of fresh air" might be a generous way to put it considering the apocalypse I wrote about! Thanks though, glad you enjoyed the chaos. Don't worry, my self-loathing is a well-oiled machine, a compliment or two won't derail it completely. In all seriousness, super happy you dug it, that's what keeps the writer in me going. Now go forth and spread the word...or don't, the world might already be doomed. (But seriously, share it if you liked it!)
FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)
SYNOPSIS:
The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child.
cw of the chapter: none
navigation
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Heavy air, thick enough to chew on. It sits on Levi lungs like a stale loaf of Dhalis' smug superiority.
Tick tock, tick tock. Clock mocks them all, counting down the precious minutes wasted in this shitty staring contest.
Polished table, a mirror reflecting the distorted faces of these pompous windbags. Zachary, the "General," a walking monument to paperwork erosion. His beard – a tragic map of battles fought with red tape, not Titans. His eyes, like a bloodhound sniffing out dissent, but too slow to catch the real monsters in this room.
Erwin Smith. The almighty, the strategic genius, the commander of the Survey Corps.
He sits there puffed up like a pigeon on a flagpole. Levi can practically hear his ribs creaking under the weight of his own titan sized ambitions and eyebrows. All bluster and dreams, that one.
He does not understand the grime under your fingernails, the blood that seeps into your soul after every mission. He talks about the "greater good," about humanity's "salvation."
Levi's fingers itch for the familiar weight of his blades. They would feel more comfortable here than this damn chair.
Erwin's icy blue eyes are probably doing calculus right now, strategizing the most soul crushing paperwork avalanche to unleash on Levi after this bureaucratic circus. Wonderful.
Just what Levi needs – another mountain of paper stacks to wade through, each one a monument to the utter cluelessness of these so called leaders.
Nile Dawk, perpetually looking like an offended toddler – ever the picture of simmering discontent. Tapping a rhythm on the table like a bored child, scowl permanently etched on his face. Military Police Brigade must be a real snooze fest if this qualifies as entertainment for him.
Dot Pixis. The Garrison commander with a smile sweeter than rotten fruit. Just the kind of saccharine charm that could probably disarm an abnormal Titan with a sugar high.
All sunshine and lollipops, that one. Probably thinks the biggest danger he faces is a paper cut.
And then there is Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Levi Ackerman. Years spent dodging death by Titan and defying gravity have turned his posture into a weapon itself.
His eyes, a stormy gray reflecting horrors most would not dare dream of, are a mask. A stoic facade forged in the fires of countless battles. Iron will, they call it. Yeah, well, sometimes even iron feels like it is about to snap under the weight of this never ending hell.
The air hangs thick, its intellectual density barely surpassing a sluggish potato. Dhalis slurs out his opening remarks, the weight of his words attempting, and failing, to mimic a momentous thunderclap.
"Esteemed Commanders and Captain," he declares, "we convene today on a matter of utmost importance." A dramatic pause follows, his pronouncement lingering in the air like an unwelcome houseguest. "The Ackerman bloodline."
The General utters the words with the gravitas one might reserve for announcing the cure for Titanism, a cure that would undoubtedly be more newsworthy than this current charade.
Here, in this room choked by the stench of bureaucratic ineptitude, the only true concern should be the ever present threat of humanity becoming Titan chum.
A tremor of unease ripples through the assembled commanders, a collective shiver down the spine of the room. Erwin, ever the opportunist, leans forward, transforming into the very image of rapt attention.
Nile, on the other hand, can not contain a scoff, a harsh sound that would likely send chills down the ever nervous Armin Arlert's spine.
His voice, dripping with disdain like a neglected mop, barks out, "The attack dogs utilized for combat by the Survey Corps and kept under their control - what bearing, if any, does this topic have on the current discourse?"
Dhalis counters Nile's scoff with a clipped retort, his tone as sharp as a drill sergeant addressing a trainee with the intellectual capacity of a sluggish spud. "With all due respect, Commander Dawk,," he emphasizes. "the Ackerman bloodline exhibits demonstrably abnormal combat capabilities. These capabilities demonstrably exceed even those of our most elite soldiers, if such a designation can be ascribed to the current standard."
Nile slams his fist down on the polished mahogany table, the resulting impact sending a tremor through the crystal glassware that evokes a startled flock of pigeons.
"The Ackermans are nothing more than volatile instruments of war! Their allegiances are fluid and dictated by whomever holds the reins of power! They are Smith's sword perpetually hanging over our heads, a festering danger to the very foundations of the Wall's Military!" He puffs out his chest, the very image of an outraged toddler whose favorite stuffed animal has been snatched away.
Predictably, the very mention of the Ackerman bloodline ignites a cacophony of idiocy within the room. Nile, bless his perpetually furrowed brow, predictably launches into a tirade about "the potential dangers," his voice laced with the kind of bluster one might expect from a petulant child.
Pixis drawls out a response, doing little to quell the simmering tension in the room. "While your concerns, Commander Dawk, are duly noted, perhaps a more measured approach is warranted.," he says, his voice dripping with a nonchalance that borders on mockery. "Captain Levi, appears content to fulfill his designated role. One might even argue he demonstrates a certain efficiency in battlefields And surely, their demonstrable utility in such endeavors cannot be entirely dismissed."
Dhalis clears his throat with a theatrical flourish, the universal signal for the assembled commanders to shut their yaps.
"Indeed, Commander Pixis," he concedes. "While I acknowledge Captain Levi's utility, Commander Pixis." He continues, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, as if he is about to drop a bombshell more explosive than a Titan spotting a juicy human morsel. "we must consider the entirety of the Ackerman bloodline. The private known as Mikasa Ackerman also warrants our attention in this discussion."
Nile growls, a bulldog with a stubborn bone lodged in its throat. "Private Mikasa Ackerman presents a potential complication," he spits out. "Her emotional attachment to the impulsive and reckless Private Eren Yeager, Humanity's Hope, could be a detriment to her objectivity. The military requires unwavering focus and strategic acumen, qualities potentially compromised by such sentimental entanglements."
Dhalis offers a curt nod, the gesture of a teacher indulging a slow student. "To be perfectly clear, Commander Dawk" he clarifies. "while Private Mikasa Ackerman's emotional attachments warrant observation, they are not the immediate cause for concern. Our primary focus must remain fixed upon Captain Levi, Humanity's Strongest Soldier. It is imperative that we establish, with absolute certainty, the nature of his allegiance. The military requires unwavering loyalty, a commitment that must be secured on a permanent basis"
They want to clip Levi's wings, transform him into a government sanctioned attack dog, a good little soldier following their every beck and call.
The irony is so thick, so suffocating, it could be slathered on burnt toast and passed off as a gourmet meal. Levi's loyalty, if they could even begin to understand it, lies solely with the singular objective of ending this bloody war.
And achieving that requires a hell of a lot more than empty promises and a patronizing pat on the head.
They dangle the Ackerman bloodline before him like a juicy carrot, all the while preparing to yank him in with a leash. Because, apparently, a goddamn Titan slaying machine, a man who has stared into the abyss and emerged unbroken, is a threat to their precious little power structure.
These self proclaimed leaders could not fight their way out of a paper bag, let alone navigate the treacherous political labyrinth they have constructed within these damned Walls.
The only true anomaly associated with the Ackerman bloodline is their complete and utter lack of tolerance for bureaucratic idiocy.
This s whole damn meeting is a pointless exercise in futility, a waste of valuable time that could be spent slicing Titans, not listening to them spout nonsense.
The only entertainment comes from watching these self important wind bags trip over their own inflated egos.
Maybe Levi should start a mental betting pool – Nile, with his perpetually constipated expression, or Pixis, with that oily salesman grin he can not seem to wipe off? Knowing their track record, it will be a nail biter of a finish.
Jaw clenches tighter, frustration a rising tide threatening to spill over. They have been droning on for an eternity, and not a single one of them has offered a decent cup of tea.
The lack of proper tea is a war crime in itself, and frankly, Levi is about to reach his breaking point.
Levi cuts through the tense air with his voice, a low monotone as sharp as a carving knife slicing through butter. "Loyalty," he declares, "is something that is earned, not something you bully into someone like a conscript force fed expired rations" His steely gaze sweeps across the room, taking each face in turn, a silent challenge. "If my lineage is such a delectable dish for your paranoid ruminations," he continues, leaning back slightly in his chair, "then by all means, let me demonstrate my value on the battlefield. It seems a far more productive use of time than this childish charade of bureaucratic musical chairs you've orchestrated here today."
A flicker of surprise, as fleeting as a gnat caught in a hurricane, crosses Dhalis' weathered face. Erwin, however, can not quite suppress a smirk playing on his lips.
The man understands Levi better than most, recognizes the unwavering dedication that burns within him like superheated Titan blood.
Pixis, the oily eel of a Garrison commander, leans back with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Perhaps, esteemed General," he drawls, his voice dripping with a false sincerity. "the Captain raises a salient observation. Indeed, why not allow him to take to the field? Let him spill his own crimson ichor in defense of humanity. In the crucible of combat, his loyalty can be forged anew, not through empty pronouncements, but through actions etched in the very blood he sheds for our collective survival."
Dhalis releases a sigh that ruffles the papers scattered across the table, the sound betraying the frustration simmering beneath his carefully constructed facade.
Dhalis reaches up to stroke his beard, an unhealthy habit that likely yanks out more hair than a pack of hungry Titans swarming a buffet. "Very well, Captain Levi," he concedes, his voice laced with a begrudging acceptance that strains to mask his underlying apprehension. "You have been granted this… opportunity to demonstrate your fealty. Consider this a reprieve, a chance to redeem the inherent suspicion that clings to your bloodline like a persistent miasma." he leans forward, his gaze hardening into steely glint, "But make no mistake, Captain" he adds, a cruel edge creeping into his voice, "the moment even the slightest tremor of disloyalty betrays your actions, the repercussions will be as swift and merciless as the blade you wield so effectively. And let me assure you swiftness will be a forgotten luxury in the face of your transgression. The full weight of the military will come crashing down upon you, a juggernaut of retribution that will leave you yearning for the sweet embrace of oblivion.
Levi meets his gaze head on, his expression an unreadable mask. "Understood, sir," he replies, his voice betraying none of the storm brewing within him.
"However," Dhalis continues, his voice taking on a sly tone, "as Commander Pixis eloquently articulated, mere pronouncements hold little sway in this esteemed chamber. Deeds, Captain Levi, deeds are what we demand. As alluded to in our prior deliberations, the undeniable admiration Private Eren Yeager, Humanity's Hope holds for you, Humanity's Strongest Soldier, is a matter of public record. His unyielding trust in your capabilities borders on the fanatical, would you not agree? The boy would not hesitate to follow you into the very maw of a Titan itself. Therefore, we require a… proof, shall we say? A public spectacle that unequivocally demonstrates that Humanity's Strongest Soldier is, without question, prepared to adhere to our directives, regardless of their perceived absurdity or apparent pointlessness. We require absolute, unwavering certainty that your allegiance remains firmly tethered to the military. Any hint of wavering, of a potential defection that could see you and Eren Yeager stray from the designated path, will not be tolerated. The consequences of such a betrayal would reverberate throughout humanity's fragile existence. Imagine the chaos, the erosion of trust that would follow in the wake of your disobedience. Think of the fragile hope you would shatter, the blood that would stain the ground due to your misplaced loyalties. No, Captain Levi, we cannot, will not, accept such a catastrophic scenario. Therefore, a public display of your obedience is paramount. We need the world, and more importantly, Eren Yeager himself, to witness your unwavering commitment to this cause. Only then can we move forward with a semblance of confidence, knowing that our strongest soldier stands firmly beside us, not against us."
Levi's voice cuts through the veiled threats, cold and sharp as a discarded blade. "How exactly do I prove this loyalty you are so desperate for?"
Dhalis leans forward, his belly straining against his uniform like a sausage casing about to burst. If Levi squinted real hard, maybe he could pretend it was sincerity wrinkling his brow.
"Ah, Captain," Dhalis Zachary drawls, a sickeningly theatrical tone creeping into his voice, "there in lies the crux of the matter, would you not concur? It would be a most unfortunate turn of events, a veritable tragedy of epic proportions, if…" Tragedy? More like a comedy act gone horribly wrong. "…something unforeseen… were to befall our invaluable asset…" Unfortunate for who, exactly? "…Humanity's Strongest Soldier, Levi Ackerman. The potential loss of such a potent genealogical lineage, the Ackerman bloodline, brimming with unparalleled combat prowess - an unconscionable waste, would you not agree? A crying shame that would echo through the annals of humanity's struggle for survival. Fear not, Captain, would never dream of placing you in an untenable situation. However, a strategically orchestrated public display of obedience, one that showcases your unwavering commitment to this very institution, would be most… reassuring. Think of it as a necessary formality, a safeguard against the unforeseen. After all, who amongst us can predict the capricious hand of fate? Imagine the public outcry, the despair that would grip humanity, if some… mishap… were to befall our most prized weapon in the fight against the Titan menace. Surely, Captain, a man of your esteemed stature would not want to be the cause of such widespread devastation, would you?" His gaze fixes on Levi, "The task I propose, Captain, is a mere formality, a carefully choreographed performance designed to quell any lingering anxieties. Think of it as an investment in the future, a testament to the enduring unity between yourself and the very military of the Walls. After all, the potential consequences of your… disobedience, shall we say, are a prospect that would leave us all trembling in the face of an uncertain future."
Unease flickers across Nile's face, a fly caught in a spiderweb. The man is a walking bad mood on a good day, but even he seems to recoil at the thought. Turning soldiers into government breeding stock? The very idea is enough to make a Titan reconsider its lunch options.
Nile growls, "Are you implying, General," he spits, disgusted "that we revisit that proposition tabled earlier, the one concocted in hushed tones between yourself, Commander Smith, Commander Pixis, and myself? The utterly repugnant notion of Captain Ackerman being transformed into some… government sanctioned stallion?" The word hangs in the air, vulgar and obscene, shattering any remaining pretense of decorum in the room. "The very notion is not only abhorrent but strategically unsound!"
Government sanctioned stud? Levi's blood runs cold, a primal fury clawing its way up his throat. The audacity of these men! Do they think Levi is some mindless beast to be bred in captivity? A weapon to be passed down through generations?
The General might acknowledge the validity of Nile's point, but government sanctioned stud? Even these pompous windbags have a limit on their tact, apparently.
Dhalis clears his throat, the sound like a clogged drain trying to cough up a hairball. "Commander Dawk, while your concerns regarding the… unorthodox proposition previously discussed are duly noted, perhaps a more nuanced approach might be warranted. We must consider the long game, do you not agree? Who can say what unforeseen threats lurk beyond the Walls, what monstrous adversaries may rise to challenge humanity's very existence? Therefore, would it not be prudent, some might even say a matter of humanity's security, to ensure the… continuation of the Ackerman bloodline? After all," he wheezes, strained like a man trying to swallow a rotten potato whole. "their demonstrably superior combat prowess is an asset too valuable to squander. Perhaps, a more… conventional arrangement could be facilitated. A suitable female candidate, carefully vetted for loyalty and robust health, could be identified. A union, orchestrated with the utmost discretion, could see the Ackerman lineage flourish, a safeguard against the potential horrors that the future may hold." He continues, the word dripping with self serving righteousness, "There is much to consider, do you not agree? But surely, the potential benefits outweigh any initial discomfort such a course of action might engender."
This attempt to sugarcoat their barbaric proposition with necessity is about as transparent as a window.
Erwin stays silent, a mask hiding any flicker of internal debate. Maybe he is strategizing, formulating an escape plan for this bureaucratic nightmare.
Who knows what goes on behind that calculating mind of his?
"Are you suggesting, that I become a government sanctioned sperm bank for the Walls?" Levi's voice cuts through the obfuscation, a blade slicing through their web of lies.
Dhalis, the oblivious buffoon, throws his head back and lets out a laugh that grates on Levi's nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. The amusement in his eyes is a stark contrast to the thundercloud that has formed above Nile's perpetually grumpy face.
Does this man find humor in reducing a soldier to nothing more than a stud?
Levi's urge to wipe that smug grin off his face with his bare fists is overwhelming.
"Now, now, Captain Levi," Dhalis wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes brought on by his amusement. "There is no need for such modesty! Consider this a paramount contribution to the very survival of humanity, your ultimate patriotic duty! Imagine the glorious possibilities! Why, with a little," He leans forward, his eyes gleaming with a manic glint that sends shivers down spines more accustomed to Titan chills. "Imagine the possibilities!" he crows. "… selective breeding, we could cultivate an entire goddamn army of Ackermans! An unstoppable legion, bred for war and impervious to Titan threats! Think of it, Captain Levi," he trails off, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we could engineer the ultimate weapon, humanity's salvation forged from your genes! Generations of Ackerman prodigies, each one a genetic marvel honed for combat! The very future of humanity rests upon your… cooperation, Captain." he continues, "Refusal to cooperate with this endeavor, however distasteful it may seem, could be misconstrued as… disloyalty. And disloyalty, Captain, as we have already established, has a very unpleasant cost. So Captain, what say you? Will you embrace your patriotic duty and become the progenitor of a Titan slaying army, or will you force us to consider… alternative solutions?"
Is he reading out some twisted fairytale? These are not puppies you can breed for good looks and tricks, these are lives, lives he has ready to gamble on like chips in a rigged game.
The sheer audacity of these self important buffoons leaves Levi momentarily speechless. An army of mindless Ackerman babies, bred like cattle to fight their battles?
The very notion is so ludicrous it borders on comical. Almost. Levi forces down the urge to laugh, instead opting for a slow, deliberate blink.
The icy glint in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent challenge that hangs heavy in the air.
Nile's question cuts through the idiocy like a blade through overcooked cabbage. "And who, pray tell, General, who would be the lucky lady tasked with… producing this Ackerman army of yours?" He drawls the words.
An army of Ackermans, bred like some twisted livestock? The image that flashes in Levi's mind is enough to make him clench his fists so hard his nails dig into his palms.
Who would be the sacrificial lamb in this grotesque breeding program?
Nile's question is seemingly ignored.
A flicker of interest crosses Erwin's face, a spark of intrigue igniting in his blue eyes. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on General Dhalis with a healthy dose of skepticism. "Intriguing," he finally concedes, his voice measured and devoid of emotion. "The potential for such a military force… an army specifically bred and trained to combat the Titan menace… it is a concept that warrants serious consideration. The Ackerman bloodline, with its demonstrably superior martial prowess, could indeed be the cornerstone of such a revolutionary endeavor." He leans back in his chair, his voice dropping to a low growl. "However," he continues, his gaze turning laser focused on Dhalis, "one must approach such a proposition with utmost caution. The ramifications of failure, of a genetic experiment gone awry, could be catastrophic. And frankly, General," he adds with a sardonic edge, "your sudden and fervent advocacy for Captain Ackerman's… reproductive contributions leaves much to be desired. I wonder what ulterior motives might lurk beneath the surface of your zealous enthusiasm." He fixes Dhalis with a stare that could crack stone. "Nevertheless," he concedes with a sigh, "the potential benefits are undeniable. Therefore, I am willing to entertain this proposition, on a trial basis. Captain Ackerman will be… monitored closely. The success or failure of this venture will hinge entirely upon his cooperation, and upon the viability of replicating the Ackerman lineage. Only time will tell," he concludes, his voice laced with a hint of grim determination, "if this gamble will reap the rewards we so desperately seek, or usher in a new era of unforeseen horrors."
Nile, bless his perpetually grumpy soul, erupts like a volcano spewing common sense. "Insane!" he bellows, a bulldog who has not only had his bone snatched, but stomped into oblivion by Dhalis' twisted amusement. "We can not trust these Ackermans!" He throws his hands up in exasperation. "Who knows what kind of pint sized killing machines they will churn out?
The image that explodes in my Levi's mind is terrifying – miniature versions of himself, miniature Levi's running amok, tearing through the streets with a bloodthirsty gleam in their tiny eyes.
"Indeed," Dhalis concedes, "there are intricate details that necessitate further refinement before we can proceed. However," he continues, his voice taking on a forceful tone, "the potential benefits for humanity's survival are undeniable. Captain Levi," he leans forward, his gaze turning into a predatory glint, "the choice before you is stark. Are you prepared to… contribute" – he emphasizes the word with a distasteful flourish – "to this endeavor, for the supposed good of humanity? Your compliance, of course, would be viewed most favorably." He pauses for a beat, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "However," he continues, his voice hardening into a dangerous growl, "should you choose the path of dissent, the consequences for your disloyalty will be swift and severe. We will not hesitate to leverage Private Mikasa Ackerman as a… necessary participant in this, ahem, breeding program. Furthermore," he adds with a cruel twist of his lips, "the currently planned operation to reclaim territory from the Titans, an operation you hold rather dear, Captain, if whispers are to be believed, would be indefinitely postponed. Let us be perfectly clear," he leans forward, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "this is not a negotiation. This is a decree. The future of humanity hangs in the balance, Captain. Do you truly wish to be the one who stands in its way? Does such an outcome, fraught with personal sacrifice and the potential to doom mankind, truly appeal to you?" He leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, waiting for Levi's response, the air thick with unspoken threats and a palpable sense of distrust.
Punishment or breeding program? He may as well be asking Levi to choose between getting devoured by a Titan or becoming one himself. The veiled threat about Mikasa, about the mission – a desperate attempt to yank on his leash, a leash he never agreed to wear.
Now Levi understands Erwin's … acquiescence to this farce. The mission dangled in front of him, a carrot to a desperate horse, all to get his grubby little hands on Grisha Yeager's basement and whatever secrets lie buried there.
The audacity of these self serving buffoons is breathtaking. Do they truly believe Humanity's Strongest Soldier can be reduced to a mindless beast to be controlled, a cog in their eugenics scheme? Levi meets Dhalis' gaze head on, his own eyes as cold and unforgiving as a Titan's stare. His posture remains rigid, a silent testament to his unwavering defiance.
Dhalis, sensing Levi;s resistance, does something unexpected. A barely perceptible smile, devoid of warmth or humor, tugs at the corner of his lips.
It is not a smile of camaraderie, but something far more unsettling - a predator sizing up its prey.
Let them stew in their own uncertainty. The real question is, when the time comes, will they be the ones holding the leash, or will Levi be the one snapping it in half?
"We acknowledge, Captain Levi," General Dhalis begins, his voice dripping with a false sincerity, "your unwavering dedication to the Survey Corps. Indeed, such loyalty is a beacon of hope in these perilous times. However," he continues, his tone subtly shifting, "loyalty, much like any well forged bond, demands reciprocity. Can we, in good conscience," he asks, his voice laden with veiled doubt, "extend our trust to a man with your… unconventional background? A past shrouded in the criminal underbelly, a stain on your otherwise exemplary record." He leans forward, his gaze turning into a predatory glint. "If you choose to defy this directive, Captain," he warns, his voice hardening with barely concealed menace, "we will be compelled to revisit those unsavory legal entanglements that dogged your past existence in the Underground. Those little indiscretions, conveniently swept under the rug upon your enlistment with the Survey Corps, will be resurrected with ruthless efficiency. The pact of silence, a tacit agreement reliant upon your continued obedience, will be null and void." He throws his hands out in a theatrical gesture. "Disobeying an order, Captain," he continues, his voice laced with a chilling finality, "is tantamount to disobeying the very military that has shielded you from the consequences of your past transgressions. The consequences, I assure you, would be swift and merciless. You will find yourself stripped of your rank, stripped of your freedom, and cast back into the very depths you so desperately clawed your way out of. The Underground beckons, Captain, its cold embrace a fitting punishment for disobedience." He leans back in his chair, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "The choice is yours, Captain. Will you honor the unspoken pact that binds you to this institution, or will you risk a return to the abyss?"
Nile Dawk, that perpetually grumpy bulldog of a Garrison commander, can not quite suppress a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
"My past, has absolutely no bearing on my current abilities." Levi's face is a blank slate, an unreadable mask that would not crack under a Titan's roar. Let them stew in their ignorance. Levi's past, those scrapes and scuffles in the Underground, those were like pebbles on a dirt road compared to the mountains he hass climbed since joining the Survey Corps.
Who cares about a few youthful indiscretions, or for that matter, overthrowing a corrupt monarchy? Water under the bridge, ancient history best left buried.
Dhalis lets out a chuckle, a dry, humorless sound that sends shivers skittering down Hange's spine despite the summer heat radiating from Pixis' ever present belly.
"Ah, Captain Levi," General Dhalis purrs, leaning forward in his chair with a predatory glint in his eye. "It appears you harbor a fundamental misunderstanding," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that could curdle the blood of a seasoned Titan researcher. "Your past, Captain," he emphasizes each word with deliberate weight, "is far more… nuanced than you might believe. It is a tapestry woven with threads of rebellion, a penchant for violence that borders on the barbaric, and a rather lengthy, shall we say, apprenticeship in the notoriously brutal underbelly known as the Underground." He leans back, a hint of a cruel smile playing on his lips. "A most… colorful background, do you not agree? One that raises a multitude of questions regarding your suitability for the critical role we envision for you." His gaze narrows, scrutinizing Levi with an intensity that could bore holes through steel. "The question, Captain, is not whether you are loyal to the Survey Corps – your dedication is undeniable. The true question lies in the depths of your allegiance. Can we, in good conscience, entrust the future of humanity to a man whose past reeks of defiance and whose very existence is steeped in the savagery of the Underground? Loyalty, Captain, is a double edged sword. It demands not only obedience but also unwavering trust. And in your case, Captain," he concludes with a chilling finality, "that trust is a most precarious commodity." The air in the room hangs heavy with suspicion, a silent battle of wills waged between a man haunted by his past and a ruthless leader determined to exploit it.
A flicker of something - annoyance, perhaps, or maybe a tightly leashed fury - crosses Levi's features for a fleeting moment before he slap it back down under the mask.
These self important buffoons would not know a colorful picture if it bit them in their oiled ass.
"Those… youthful transgressions," General Dhalis continues, drawing out the silence with practiced ease, like a skilled interrogator milking a suspect for information. "By the benevolence of the military, these incidents have been relegated to the dustbin of history… for the time being. Consider them a dark stain on an otherwise pristine record, Captain, a lapse in judgment shrouded in the merciful cloak of the military's discretion." He leans back in his chair, a predator savoring the discomfort of its prey. "However," he continues, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "let us not mince words, Captain. This amnesty, this act of extraordinary leniency, is a weapon. While it shields you from the harshest repercussions of your past, it also binds you to the military in a way most soldiers can only dream of. Your freedom, Captain," he emphasizes the word with a cruel twist of his lips, "is a conditional privilege, a gift bestowed with the expectation of unwavering loyalty." He fixes Levi with a cold stare.
This is about control.
They want to shackle Humanity's Strongest Soldier, a weapon of unparalleled skill honed in the fires of the Underground, to their will. Turn him into a loyal attack dog who only answers to their whistle.
The only thing they are overlooking is the fact that leashes can be chewed through, snapped, or used to strangle the very hand holding them.
'Well, General, you may think you have got me backed into a corner, but let me tell you something - corners have a nasty habit of disappearing when you know how to fight dirty. You do not even how much "former" criminal I can be.'
Levi's fists clench at his sides, the only outward sign of the tempest brewing within.
Years of meticulously crafting a life within the Survey Corps, the grudging respect he has earned through rivers of blood and mountains of Titan corpses, all teetering on the precipice of collapse at the whim of this power hungry peacock of a General.
Dhalis' self satisfied visage makes Levi want to wipe it off his face with the back of his hand, but the glint in his eyes, cold and calculating, warns against such impulsive actions.
Nile Dawk, that bulldog of a Military Police commander who perpetually looks like he is one bad nap away from spontaneous combustion, can not contain himself any longer.
A low, guttural chuckle erupts from him, the sound as pleasant as a Titan gnawing on a stubborn bone.
Dhalis leans back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction. The predatory glint in his eyes intensifies, and for a moment, Levi almost expects him to unsheathe a pair of claws from beneath his manicured fingernails.
"So, Captain Ackerman," he purrs, the word dripping with false sincerity, "are we in agreement? Do you continue to serve humanity, conveniently forgetting your little… indiscretions, under the banner of the Survey Corps, or do we take a stroll down memory lane and revisit those… misplaced documents?"
The seconds tick by, each one an agonizing hammer blow against the already suffocating atmosphere. Levi's jaw remains clenched, his face an impassive mask that would not crack even if a Titan decided to use it for target practice.
A battle rages behind Levi's icy gaze, a war between self preservation and the gnawing sense of being played like a cheap fiddle.
The weight of the decision presses down on him with the crushing force of a Titan's fist.
"You leave me with no options, General."
It is not an agreement, not truly. It is a surrender, a forced compliance in the face of an impossible situation.
"A wise decision, Captain Levi," General Dhalis purrs, his voice oozing with a cloying satisfaction that sends a shiver down spines in the room. "We had every confidence that reason would ultimately prevail." He directs a dismissive gesture towards Erwin Smith. "The details of this… accord," he continues, his voice laced with a subtle emphasis on the word, "will be meticulously overseen by Commander Erwin Smith, with myself, of course, maintaining a watchful eye on proceedings. He," he adds with a pointed look in Erwin's direction, "will ensure your… contribution to the perpetuation of humanity is both optimized and meticulously documented." The veiled threat hangs heavy in the air – cooperation will be rigorously monitored, any misstep scrutinized.
Contribution. Right. As if Levi has any say in the matter. More like ensure his continued usefulness as their personal Titan slaying attack dog.
The rhythmic tap tap tap of Levi's boots echoes through the sterile hallway, a chilling counterpoint to the silent scream building in his chest. This is not walking, it is a war march towards an enemy he can not quite punch.
Each step is a beat in the symphony of his simmering fury, punctuated only by the silence that hangs heavy in the air. This silence is a tangible entity, thick with the absurdity of the mission he has been strong armed into accepting.
Erwin's office door looms ahead, a stark slab of wood mocking Levi with its finality. The nameplate, "Erwin Smith, Commander, Survey Corps", bold and brassy, screams "authority" – the very thing they are trying to assert over Levi.
Levi takes deep breath, not to calm the inferno, but to fan it into a roaring blaze. This is not about calming down, it is about channeling the anger, using it as a weapon. Fist meets wood in a resounding boom, the impact echoing like a challenge through the hallway. The windows rattles, a surprised gasp from within the office the only response I crave.
A startled yell of "Come in!" pierces through the wood. Levi throws the door open with a flourish that would make a Titan flinch, entering Erwin's office in a whirlwind of barely contained rage. The room itself is a spartan reflection of its perpetually calculating occupant. Maps and battle plans dominate the walls, a grim tapestry chronicling humanity's losing struggle against the Titans. These plans, however, seem sterile and lifeless compared to the raw, simmering anger radiating off Levi.
Paperwork teeters like a drunken soldier on Erwin's desk, the only sign of life in this sterile office besides the furious scribbling of his quill. The quill looks like it wrestled an enthusiastic rodent for ink. Erwin glances up, that glint of amusement in his sapphire eyes like a taunting dare.
The door slams shut behind Levi, the sound a physical manifestation of the rage choking him. Each step towards the Commander's desk is a calculated move, a predator stalking its prey. Levi stops just a hair's breadth away, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, and lock eyes with him.
Levi's gaze is a thousand suns focused into a single, icy point, a silent scream before the real roar begins. The air itself seems to crackle under the pressure, a tangible tension that hangs heavy in the air like a storm about to break.
This "arrangement," this leash they have forced around Levi's neck – it twists with every beat of his heart, a constant reminder of the simmering fury boiling beneath the surface.
"Levi," Erwin greets, a hint of amusement flickering in the depths of his blue iris. "What brings you here in such a… dramatic state?"
"Let us talk about the little… surprise Dhalis dropped on me today," Levi demands, his voice laced with barely contained fury. The very notion of Dhalis' "surprise" leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
Surprise? More like a thinly veiled threat masquerading as bureaucratic hell.
"Levi," Erwin begins, his voice even and steady, a stark contrast to the raw emotions swirling around the Captain. "About the Ackerman proposition," he inquires, his tone more curious than accusatory. "Yes, I was aware of it. In fact," he continues with a wry smile, "I spent the weeks leading up to this meeting locked in a rather tedious exchange of letters with Dhalis, arguing the finer points until I thought my head might explode."
Erwin lets out a sigh that sounds like the air escaping a punctured Titan tire. He leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically block out the sheer absurdity of the situation. The image paints a clear picture: Erwin, the brilliant strategist, forced to waste his time arguing with Dhalis, the buffoonish general, over a ludicrous proposition.
"Dhalis," Erwin mutters, the word dripping with contempt, "would clutch at any straw to keep the Survey Corps on a leash. Any leverage, no matter how ludicrous, seems fair game in his twisted little power grab."
"And that straw," Levi counters, his voice laced with enough bitterness to curdle milk, "happens to be my… reproductive system?"
The very concept is so absurd it takes Levi a moment to process it, and even then, the words come out sounding like he is choking on gravel. The image of him, humanity's strongest soldier reduced to glorified diaper duty, is enough to make him want to disinfect his brain with industrial grade disinfectant.
Erwin's sigh morphs into a long, weary groan that speaks volumes about the weight of his command. The man looks ten years older after his little meeting with Dhalis.
"Believe me, Levi," he says, his voice heavy with a sincerity that almost sounds genuine, "let me assure you, the last thing I want is to see you reduced to some stud for the military's benefit. And the thought of your hypothetical offspring being mere pawns in this twisted game? Frankly, it revolts me." he continues, leaning forward and locking eyes with Levi, "The Survey Corps, would never stand for such a blatant violation of your autonomy. We fight for humanity's freedom, not to become some twisted eugenics project. Besides" he adds, "the whole proposition is ridiculous on a practical level. Imagine the logistics involved! The paperwork alone would be a nightmare."
Levi's eyes narrow into slits, skepticism radiating off him like heat waves. "So why do you not shut this whole charade down, Commander Erwin?" he challenges. "Is that not your job, Commander? Making the tough calls, navigating the political labyrinth, and steering this damn ship through the storm? Or are you content to just shuffle paperwork while they dangle my balls over a fire?"
Erwin meets Levi's gaze head on, his blue eyes unwavering. "In an ideal world, Levi," he says, his voice firm, "of course I would put a stop to this nonsense. But the reality is far from ideal. Dhalis recognizes our potential, the potential of the Survey Corps, and he craves control. He wants to leash us, turn us into his own personal attack dogs."
Levi scoffs, a harsh rasp that echoes in the confines of the office. "Entrap our potential? You make it sound like some noble pursuit. They want a goddamn weapon, Erwin. An army of genetically modified super soldiers, all stamped with the convenient 'Ackerman' brand name."
The image that pops into his head again - miniature, murderous Levi Ackermans tearing through the streets - is both horrifying and oddly adorable.
Erwin shakes his head resolutely. "No, Levi. That is not what I want. And," he continues, his voice dropping, "I assure you, I will not allow them to use your children, or any potential offspring for that matter, as pawns in their twisted game."
A flicker of doubt dances in Levi's eyes, battling with the anger that still simmers beneath the surface. "What makes you think you have any say in the matter?" I ask, his voice laced with a challenge.
Erwin may be the Commander, but that does not mean he has complete control over Levi or his … superior reproductive capabilities.
"Levi," Erwin leans forward, his voice laced with a seriousness that brooks no argument, "let me get one thing perfectly clear. You, Levi Ackerman, are an indispensable asset to the Survey Corps. Perhaps our most indispensable, if I am being honest. Your skills, your unwavering dedication to purging the Titans from this world – these are qualities that cannot be easily replicated. We need you on the front lines, your blades flashing like a storm as you cut a bloody swathe through those grotesque monstrosities. The thought of you being relegated to some… government sanctioned breeding program," he lets out a snort of derision, "is frankly ludicrous." He fixes Levi with a steady gaze. "However," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we need a concession, Levi. Dhalis, that pompous windbag, requires a certain… optics play to secure approval for the operation we have been discussing. The idea of a potential Ackerman bloodline legacy, a new generation of Titan-slaying prodigies – it is a narrative they find palatable. So, yes," he acknowledges with a sigh, "fathering children may be a technical requirement to appease the bean counters. But there is the thing, Levi," he places a hand on the Captain's shoulder, his voice firm but friendly, "those children, your children, will not become pawns in this game. Their future is their own. The Survey Corps will ensure their safety and well being, but any choices they make, any paths they choose to walk, will be theirs alone. This is a necessary deception, Levi, a strategic maneuver to secure the resources we desperately need to achieve our true objective: to eradicate the Titans once and for all. We need you on the battlefield, Levi, and I assure you, I will fight tooth and nail to ensure your freedom and that of your future progeny. We are in this together, Captain. Now, let us go carve a bloody path through those Titan hordes and show the world what humanity is truly capable of." Erwin leans back in his chair, a determined glint in his eyes.
Levi's gaze drifts to the map plastered on the wall, a tangled web of humanity's despair. Walls that confines them, Titans that devour them – it is a suffocating cage. The weight of the situation, the impossible choices Erwin faces, presses down on Levi like a physical force.
Erwin may not be the enemy here, but he is certainly not the one calling all the shots.
"Alright, Levi," Erwin begins, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, "let's dissect this whole charade, shall we? Dhalis, bless his ambitious heart, has undoubtedly already identified a woman deemed genetically and physically suitable receptacles for your, ahem, Ackerman seed." He pauses for a moment, a twinkle of amusement dancing in his eyes. "But fear not," he continues, his voice laced with a dash of humor, "I have every confidence that this… candidate will not resemble… farm equipment." Erwin throws his head back and lets out a short, humorless laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "The good General may have a rather… agricultural approach to this whole thing," he adds with a wink, "but rest assured, Levi, I will not subject you to such a crass charade."
Levi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Just keep the wide eyed, hero worshipping brats fresh out of the womb away from me," he retorts. The mere thought of babysitting some hormonal, hero worshipping brat is enough to make him yearn for the sweet embrace of a Titan's maw (Hange would find that amusing, to say the least). At least a Titan would not judge his social skills (or lack thereof).
Erwin throws his head back and lets out a genuine laugh, a full bodied sound that fills the office with an unexpected warmth. "The entire concept of this breeding program is absurd! Ludicrous, even," Erwin exclaims, his voice laced with a frustration that Levi clearly shares. "It is more ludicrous than the idea of a Titan trying to waltz in a tutu."
The mental image that springs to mind - a lumbering, naked Titan clumsily pirouetting in a ballet skirt - is enough to almost make Levi gag.
Levi raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in Levi's icy gaze despite the tense situation. "Ludicrous?" He echoes. "Erwin, we are talking about manipulating human genetics here. This is not some barnyard breeding experiment gone wrong. These buffoons are talking about creating a super soldier factory, and they want me as the star breeding stallion."
"Exactly my point, Levi, think of the logistical nightmare! Compatibility testing, mountains of paperwork, not to mention the potential for some truly… nightmarish sexually transmitted… anomalies." He shudders dramatically, the image clearly repugnant to him. "The whole thing is a bureaucratic minefield waiting to explode in Dhalis's face."
A grimace curls Levi's lip. Erwin's words conjure a mental image of some grotesque, Titan sized sexually transmitted diseases that will make even the most hardened Wall cultist reconsider their life choices.
"Now that is a horror story I would not want to read," he says.
"Indeed," Erwin agrees, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "Let me introduce you to the candidate selected."
"Now, to the specifics of this… arrangement," Erwin continues, his voice adopting a dryly official tone. "Dhalis has selected a candidate, a young woman named Letta Reader. She is, as of this year, twenty four years of age. Her background includes a stint with the Interior Military Police's Anti Personnel Control Squad." He pauses for a moment, consulting a document in his hand. "However," he adds, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "recent events have cast a shadow over Ms. Reader's otherwise exemplary record. Apparently, she expressed… misplaced loyalty towards a certain Kenny Ackerman, an individual whose activities have been deemed detrimental to public safety." Erwin sighs, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "This lapse in judgment has resulted in her incarceration. The General proposes a… unique solution. If Ms. Reader agrees to participate in this endeavor, to contribute to the continuation of the Ackerman bloodline, as it were, her release from custody can be facilitated, with the full endorsement of the Survey Corps."
He leans forward, his gaze fixed on Levi. "It is important to note, Captain," he continues, "that Ms. Reader hails from Trost District, a region well within Wall Rose. She chose to dedicate herself to serving humanity by joining the military, and her record, prior to this unfortunate entanglement, was indeed unblemished. Furthermore," he adds, a hint of intrigue flickering in his eyes, "her ingenuity extends beyond the battlefield. Ms. Reader is credited with the design of the Anti-Personnel Vertical Maneuvering Gear, a significant contribution to the Military Police's arsenal." He steeples his fingers, his expression thoughtful. "Letta Reader, Captain, is a complex individual. A woman of unquestionable talent, but one whose judgment has been demonstrably flawed." Erwin sits back in his chair, leaving the weight of this unexpected information to settle upon Levi. The fate of a woman, the potential future of the Ackerman bloodline, all hinged on Levi's next move.
Kenny. The name explodes in Levi's head, a grenade lobbed into the fragile peace. Supporting Kenny Ackerman? Stupid girl. They are using you as a leverage, dangling you freedom in front of you. Carry Levi's child, support the Survey Corps, and maybe, just maybe, you walk free. Erwin continues, his voice monotone as he reads from the file, a litany of facts that blur together in Levi's anger. Trost born, military history, even designed the new ODM gear.
Levi's face remains an impassive mask, but a flicker of fury dances in his icy blue eyes. He keeps his voice low, controlled, but the anger is palpable. "What makes you think I'd even consider breeding with a criminal branded by Kenny's actions? This entire thing reeks of Dhalis' amusement, does it not?"
Erwin lets out a sigh, a weary sound that speaks volumes. "Amusement? For Dhalis, it is more than that. You know how twisted his mind is."
Levi clenches his fists, his jaw set tight. "Kenny is s still alive," he mutters, more to himself than to Erwin. "Out there somewhere…"
Erwin steeples his fingers and leans forward, consulting the document in his hand. "Now, Levi," he begins, his voice adopting a more neutral tone, "it appears there is more to Ms. Reader's profile. According to her records, she graduated with distinction from the 95th Cadet Corps, achieving the esteemed honor of ranking top of her class. Her instructors noted a tendency towards introversion and a reserved demeanor, with a social circle on the smaller side." He pauses for a moment, a hint of curiosity flickering in his gaze. "They further describe her as a staunch adherent to regulations, a 'by the book' individual who takes her duties with utmost seriousness. However," he continues, "these observations are counterbalanced by exceptional physical prowess. Her trainers consistently lauded her remarkable speed and fast reflexes. While raw strength may not be her most pronounced attribute," he acknowledges, "she possesses great level of stamina, allowing her to sustain peak performance during extended engagements. Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of Ms. Reader's profile," he continues, his voice dropping to a murmur, "is a certain… philosophical detachment. Her instructors noted a distinct apathy towards life and a somewhat unsettling acceptance of the ever present threat of death. This, coupled with her relentless pursuit of objectives, keen observational skills, and unwavering focus, are also nited." He takes a deep breath, his gaze meeting Levi's with unwavering intensity. "However," he adds, his voice hardening slightly, "the report also mentions a certain… inflated sense of self worth. While not overtly arrogant, Ms. Reader appears to possess a healthy dose of pride, perhaps even bordering on egotism. This, Captain, is a trait that may require careful management." A wry smile tugs at the corner of Erwin's lips as he continues, his voice regaining its formal tone. "The report concludes with a rather… unexpected observation. While Ms. Reader presents a demure and innocent facade, it appears her instructors harbored suspicions of a more… unconventional private life. Apparently, rumors circulated amongst her peers regarding a surprising number of casual sexual encounters. These suspicions, however, remain unsubstantiated." He leans back in his chair, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.
Levi lets out a frustrated groan, his arm rising to shield his eyes as he leans back in the chair. "That last bit of information was entirely unnecessary," he mutters, the irritation evident in his voice. The woman's sexual history is the least of his concerns. The idea of being reduced to a mere breeding stallion, especially with a woman seemingly chosen for her 'reproductive capabilities', is enough to make him clench his fists in silent fury.
Erwin flips open a file, revealing a stark portrait. Charcoal against faded paper, it captures a woman Levi does recognize. Her features are fine, delicate even, but her eyes hold a story the sketch can not quite tell.
Short, dark hair frames a face devoid of the hero worship he expected. No doe eyed wonder, no simpering smile. Instead, a quiet resignation stares back at him, a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like… despair.
Levi studies the portrait. This woman is not what he pictured. None of this is. No wide eyed cadets, no government sanctioned brood mares.
Just this quiet woman, a portrait of quiet indifference that edges dangerously close to… despair.
"This is her?" He finally manages, hua voice low and even.
More like meet your… procreation partner, courtesy of Dhalis' twisted machinations.
Levi's gaze remains fixed on the portrait, dissecting her features line by line. Soft cheeks contrasted by a defined jawline, a hint of defiance beneath the resignation. There is an undeniable beauty there, a quiet strength that seems at odds with the defeat in her eyes.
The thought of being strong armed into this… procreative charade with her leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. A branded criminal, no less. Especially when the whole charade seems orchestrated by the ever manipulative Dhalis. This feels like a cage, another way to leash him and control the strongest soldier humanity has.
But a different kind of cage. This one does not feel like bars and locks, but like obligations and expectations.
A different kind of burden, but a burden nonetheless.
Maybe Dhalis is not the only one playing games here. Erwin, with his secrets and desperation – is he the warden of this particular cage, or another prisoner himself?
"You'll be meeting with this… (F/N) (L/N) tomorrow," Erwin announces, flipping the file shut. "Dhalis will be there, of course, along with Pixis, Dawk, and myself. I'll also inform Hange, if you have no objections."
Levi scoffs, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "A meeting? This whole charade just keeps getting more bizarre with each passing minute. Are we expected to discuss baby names and nursery decor in front of a room full of overstuffed, lecherous swine?"
"The meeting is crucial," Erwin explains, a hint of exasperation tinging his voice. "You and (F/N) will have the opportunity to discuss boundaries, parental rights, and expectations. There will also be a contract to sign, outlining the terms of this… arrangement."
Clearly, the fate of humanity hinges on Levi's ability to… procreate according to a government sanctioned contract.
Contract. The word hangs heavy in the air, a physical manifestation of the absurdity of the situation. Being issued an official order to impregnate a woman feels like a new low, even for the Survey Corps.
The whole notion is barbaric, a far cry from the strategic brilliance and deadly maneuvers Levi is accustomed to employing.
Levi's whole life, his entire being, has been poured into this damn Survey Corps.
Even after Farlan and Isabel, even after that gaping wound in his soul, he kept pushing forward.
Grief, a relentless tide, he channeled it all into this fight, this desperate struggle for humanity's survival. Erwin, the embodiment of that fight, became his guiding star.
Backing down now, kowtowing to these bureaucratic leeches, would be the ultimate betrayal. A slap in the face to every fallen comrade who entrusted Levi with their sacrifice, their shredded dreams woven into the fabric of this cause.
This… breeding program. A sickening joke, a perversion of everything he stands for. But the alternative? Letting Erwin down, letting the ghosts of his squad haunt the halls with their unfulfilled futures – that is a path he refuses to walk.
This is just another indignity, another hurdle to clear, another grotesque Titan to slay. Fine.
This is about more than him. This is about honoring the fallen, their sacrifices a flickering torch he holds aloft in this suffocating world. They died believing in a dream, a dream he refuses to let die with them. So he will clench my teeth, swallow his disgust, and play this hand they have dealt him.
fandom: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)
synopsis:
The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child. You are a former member of Kenny Ackerman's Anti-Personnel Control Squad of Interior Military Police, and Levi hates you.
cw: pregnancy, dad!levi, breeding, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, unrequited love, mutual, medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, forced pregnancy, parenthood, past child abuse, romance, enemies to lovers, slow burn, sexual abuse, sexual assault, explicit sexual content, dubious consent, angry sex, hate sex, love/hate
THE YEAGERS AND THE ACKERMANS II: The Similarities and the Contrasts
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3
This post contains:
The foundation of Eren and Zeke's relationship
The foundation of Levi and Mikasa's relationship
The similarities between Eren and Zeke AND Mikasa and Levi's relationship
The contrasts between Eren and Zeke AND Mikasa and Levi's relationship
What their relationship signifies in the story
Attack on Titan is a story driven by the complex relationships between characters. Two families, in particular, hold immense weight: Yeager family and the Ackerman clan.
While each member possesses their own unique personality and goals, the relationships between Eren, Mikasa, Levi, and Zeke become a fascinating dance that reflects individual growth and major themes throughout the series.
Levi and Mikasa are presented not only as parallels to Zeke and Eren, but also as stark contrasts. By examining these contrasting relationships, we gain a richer understanding of each character's journey
Eren Yeager and Mikasa Ackerman, the series' central characters, are joined by their significant counterparts, Zeke Yeager and Levi Ackerman. These characters, along with Grisha Yeager and Kenny Ackerman, serve as crucial connecting points across various arcs and plotlines.
What truly sets these families apart is the influence that transcends simply sharing a last name. Shared traits, genetics, and a complex history bind Levi, Mikasa, Zeke, and Eren (with Grisha and Kenny serving as bridges to previous generations). This shared lineage becomes a driving force, shaping their motivations and influencing the major plot points of the story.
The Yeagers and Ackermans, despite their differences, play complementary roles in the narrative. The Yeagers, with their drive for change, are the catalysts for action. They push the story forward, even if their methods are destructive. The Ackermans, with their unwavering loyalty and exceptional skills, are the forces that react and try to maintain order.
Similarities:
1. Late beginnings:
- Eren and Zeke have no prior connection. They meet when Eren is already 15 years old, completely unaware of their shared lineage.
- Mikasa and Levi are revealed to be relatives, but they meet when Mikasa is 15. None of them has proper knowledge of their Ackerman heritage. Mikasa doesn't grasp the significance of her name, and Levi is initially oblivious to his own Ackerman lineage.
2. Unsteady Introductions:
- Eren views Zeke with suspicion and hostility, due to Zeke attacking Survey Corps.
- Mikasa's fierce protectiveness of Eren clashes with Levi's stoic authority, leading to immediate dislike on her part.
3. Understanding of Each Other:
- Zeke believes Eren is another victim of their father's presumed manipulation, feels a sense of responsibility and tries to protect him.
- Levi, recognizing Mikasa's emotional attachment to Eren, chooses to overlook her insubordination and becomes a silent guardian, even expressing concern for her well-being.
Contrasts:
The relationship between Eren and Zeke is built on a foundation of manipulation and self-interest. Zeke seeks a connection with Eren, projecting his own experiences onto him. He craves a "brother" who understands his past and validates his plan. Eren, on the other hand, sees Zeke as a tool. He plays into Zeke's assumptions about their shared history to activate the Rumbling and achieve his own goals.
Levi and Mikasa's path to understanding starts with shared battles. Witnessing Levi's unwavering dedication to protecting Eren, even in the face of danger, earns Mikasa's initial trust. This respect deepens as they fight alongside each other, facing life-or-death situations that forge a bond.
Beyond battles, their time within the Survey Corps fosters a sense of camaraderie. Levi, recognizing the value of his team, demonstrates loyalty and support to those around him. Mikasa, in turn, observes this leadership quality and aligns herself with his dedication to the cause.
The shared experiences of the Uprising arc and the aftermath of the Return to Shiganshina only strengthen their trust.
The divergent paths of these relationships highlight a crucial theme in Attack on Titan. Trust and genuine connection are essential for forming meaningful bonds, while manipulation and self-interest ultimately lead to emptiness and betrayal. Unlike Eren and Zeke, who attempt to build a relationship based solely on shared ancestry, Mikasa and Levi's trust thrives on shared goals and mutual will to achieve those goals.
They never rely on their last name to define their relationship.
So basically:
- Blinded by the false assumption, Zeke fails to recognize Eren's true motivations. This lack of understanding becomes a catalyst for disaster, as Zeke unwittingly empowers Eren to unleash his horrific plan.
- Levi recognizes the intensity of Mikasa's emotions, allowing him to relate to her and guide her. Levi doesn't simply fulfill her wishes; he pushes her to consider the bigger picture, facilitating her potential by guiding her towards the mission at hand.
Zeke's path is one of disillusionment. Having grappled with childhood trauma, he initially values the Eldian race's sterilization as a way to end suffering. However, witnessing Eren's true intentions shatters his idealized vision. As he confronts the horrific reality of Eren's plan, Zeke is forced to confront the value of life itself, leading him to oppose his own brother.
Eren, on the other hand, becomes increasingly hardened and isolated. His experiences fuel a desire for total freedom, overshadowing the possibility of forming genuine bonds. He views Zeke solely as a tool to achieve his goals, prioritizing his own agenda over any potential connection
Levi's willingness to open up emotionally allows him to connect with Mikasa on a deeper level. They find common ground in their unwavering dedication to the cause and a growing respect for each other's skills. The more they see of each other, the stronger their trust becomes, solidifying their position on the same side of the final conflict.
Which leads to this:
- Zeke and Eren goes separate ways. Zeke's confrontation with his trauma leads him to seek redemption. Eren, however, becomes consumed by it.
- Levi and Mikasa comes to follow the same goal: to stop the Rumbling.
Other analyses by me:
Levi Ackerman: Why he is Humanity's Strongest Soldier
Levi and Kenny
How Levi utilizes his intellect in fighting and decision making and his leadership in final battle
Levi Ackerman (an overall analysis? One of my first one so it's not that good ig)
THE YEAGERS AND THE ACKERMANS I: Their motivations and dynamic
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3
This post explores:
The dynamic between the Ackermans and the Yeagers
What it actually means to be an Ackerman and a Yeager
What separates and drives them forward
Why Yeagers are the ones lacking "power"
Duty and Desire:
The Ackermans stand apart as elite warriors, their exceptional skills honed for a singular purpose – to protect.
Isayama, compares them to knights, forever bound by a sense of duty. Levi and Mikasa embody this perfectly. Their unwavering loyalty becomes a defining trait.
Levi protects humanity's cause, while Mikasa fiercely guards Eren. Their strength lies not in ambition, but in their unwavering commitment to their chosen mission.
This sense of duty often leads them to serve the dreams of others. They become extensions of a greater cause, their exceptional abilities employed to fulfill someone else's vision.
Levi dedicates himself to the Survey Corps, his unwavering dedication serving humanity's fight for survival. Similarly, Mikasa's exceptional skills revolve around protecting Eren, her actions fueled by her unwavering loyalty.
This selflessness, this willingness to prioritize the well-being of others, becomes a cornerstone of the Ackerman identity.
In stark contrast, the Yeagers are driven by powerful desires. They are the plot-movers, the characters who actively seek to reshape the world around them.
Grisha's dream of restoring Eldia fuels his rebellion, Zeke's Eldian euthanasia plan and Eren's unwavering desire for freedom becomes the catalyst for the story's central conflict.
Their ambition often leads them to inspire a cult-like following. Zeke's ideology attracts followers like Yelena, while Eren's passionate speeches rally the Yeagerists.
This relentless pursuit of their goals defines the Yeager legacy. They are not protectors, but active agents of change. They strive to achieve their vision, even if it means defying authority or sacrificing others. This relentless pursuit, however, can lead to devastating consequences.
Grisha's actions set the stage for Eren's destructive path, highlighting the potential for ambition to spiral out of control.
The Ackermans, with their unwavering duty, strive to maintain order and stability. They act as a counterpoint to the Yeagers, whose desires for change can disrupt the fragile world. This dynamic underpins many of the story's central conflicts. Levi's duty to humanity clashes with Eren's desire for freedom. Mikasa's loyalty to Eren strains against the greater good.
The Ackermans, fueled by a sense of duty, embody a selfless kind of heroism. Their actions are not driven by personal gain, but by a dedication to protecting something greater than themselves. The Yeagers, on the other hand, represent a more ambiguous form of heroism. Their pursuit of change can inspire others, but their methods can be brutal and their goals destructive.
Power and Circumstances:
The Yeagers are marked by circumstance. Their power, the Titan shifting ability, is bestowed upon them by external forces.
Grisha Yeager, inherits the Founding Titan from Eren Kruger. His sons, Eren and Zeke, are similarly thrust into extraordinary situations. Eren inherits the Attack Titan unknowingly from his father, while Zeke is forced to become a Beast Titan shifter as a child, a pawn in a grand scheme.
This external influence creates a sense of powerlessness within the Yeager family. They are constantly at the mercy of forces beyond their control, their destinies intertwined with the will of the Founding Titan and the burdens of their Titan powers.
In stark contrast, the Ackermans are a family defined by innate ability. Unlike the Yeagers, their power is not something given, but rather an inherent part of their genetics.
They are immune to the Founding Titan's control, a unique resistance that sets them apart.
The Yeagers, burdened by the uncontrollable forces shaping their lives, often become agents of chaos. Eren's actions, fueled by a desire for freedom from the Titans, ironically lead him to unleash the devastating Rumbling, fulfilling a twisted interpretation of the Founding Titan's will.
Conversely, the Ackermans, with their inherent freedom and exceptional skills, act as forces of stability. Levi dedicates his life to protecting humanity from the Titan threat, utilizing his abilities to combat the very forces that control the Yeagers.
The contrasting legacies of these families also influence the way they view control. The Yeagers, constantly grappling with external influences, are often obsessed with the concept of freedom. They yearn to break free from the shackles of fate and the power dynamics imposed by the Titans.
For Example , Eren desires to control his own destiny and shape the world in his image, even if it means unleashing unimaginable destruction. In contrast, the Ackermans, with their inherent autonomy, have a more complex relationship with control. They understand the necessity of order and are willing to wield their power to protect those they care about.
Levi's willingness to make tough decisions, even against his personal feelings, reflects this pragmatism. He recognizes that controlling others is seldom the answer, and focuses on maintaining order within the chaos.
Ultimately, the Yeager and Ackerman families represent two fundamental human struggles: the yearning for freedom from external forces and the need to carve one's own path, versus the responsibility to maintain order and fight for a greater good.
Other analyses by me:
Levi Ackerman: Why he is Humanity's Strongest Soldier
Levi and Kenny
How Levi utilizes his intellect in fighting and decision making and his leadership in final battle
Levi Ackerman (an overall analysis? One of my first one so it's not that good ig)
That poll you posted had like 200 votes lmfao and thats just from Japan. Eren and Mikasa are more popular worldwide. Plus eremika tag has the most views on tiktok. More than flop Levi. So let me say again, Eren and Mikasa are more popular. Levi has been dethroned by a genocider. Levi is nothing
The only thing more predictable than your daily Levi hate mails is the sunrise.
Seriously, why the Levi obsession? Is it because those cleaning wipes just can't scrub away the fact that deep down, you secretly admire his sparkling dedication?
Constantly spamming me with these anonymous messages about Levi? It's getting creepy. Maybe put that devotion towards, I don't know, actual productive works?
And seriously, "Levi is no popular"? "Levi is flop"? Those insults are so weak. The only thing flopping here is your attempt to start a fan war.
You think spewing nonsense about his popularity will somehow magically convert everyone into Levi loathers? Dream on.
And your "evidence", TikTok tag with the most views? Wow, groundbreaking. Popularity on a platform notorious for fleeting trends and fabricated challenges? Deep.
And your evidence is last ask, a random tweet with someone's opinion on "iconic" anime characters? That's your counter-argument to a poll that gathered actual votes, even if limited to Japan. The internet is a vast ocean, and you're throwing a pebble at it and declaring it a tsunami.
Do you even know how the internet works? Levi fan art floods every corner, cosplay conventions are crawling with him, and Attack on Titan fanfiction?
Let's just say Ereri is a genre all on its own, and it dwarfs any Eremika scribbles. And Levi has the largest base of fanfictions in Attack on Titan.
Levi doesn't need your validation. Your opinion is about as relevant as a pebble.
Then, if you must message me again, at least have the courage to do it without hiding behind anonymity.
Because, like moths to a flickering meme, people like you flock to the most popular choice, and your taste buds are easily swayed by the latest tiktok buzz.
It's a shame to see a character's journey, their internal struggles and triumphs, are reduced to a mere popularity contest.
I am talking about your grand declaration of Levi being "nothing." Deep. Did you come up with that one all by yourself, champ?
Levi may not be everyone's cup of tea, but to dismiss his entire character arc, his skills, his dedication, as "nothing" just shows how blinded you are by your bias.
The writers who pour their heart and soul into crafting compelling narratives must despair at the sight of these shallow consumers, abandoning well-developed characters for the fleeting validation of trendy picks.
Imagine a shelf stacked with jars of colorful candy. One jar, overflowing with bright red cherry chews, is constantly picked and devoured by everyone. But across the aisle sits a jar with a single, beautifully crafted dark chocolate truffle.
Popularity isn't everything, and the same goes for characters in books, movies, or video games. Just because a character is everywhere, doesn't mean they're well-written.
A well written has depth and complexity. It might have funny quirks or tragic flaws that make them relatable. They might surprise you with their actions or choices, but those choices always feel true to their personality. They grow and change throughout the story, learning from their mistakes or facing their fears.
Even if they're not traditionally "likable," they're interesting.
The cherry chews, on the other hand, are the popular characters. They might be fun for a quick pick-me-up, but they all sort of taste the same. They're one-dimensional, with predictable personalities and easy jokes. Maybe they're the goofy sidekick or the sassy best friend. They fulfill a role in the story, but they're not particularly memorable.
But there is a place for both cherry chews and dark chocolate truffles. Sometimes, a light and fluffy story with a popular character is exactly what you crave. But a truly well-written character leaves a lasting impression.
They stay with you long after you finish the story, because they feel real. They make you think about the world, about yourself, and about the choices we all make.
The next time you encounter a character, don't just be swayed by their popularity. Dig a little deeper. See if there's more to them than meets the eye. After all, the most rewarding discoveries are often the ones you have to search for.
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