- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.
contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread
Your body burns.
No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if you’d told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didn’t touch you soon, you were going to explode.
Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sister—the queen—and you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you don’t want to tell the maesters.
“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.
He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”
“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.
Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.
The windows are open.
“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.
“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.
“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.
“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”
“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.
Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”
She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”
“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.
She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.
“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.
You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”
“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t, Your Grace.”
She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”
You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.
And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.
You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.
You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”
Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”
“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”
“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.
You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.
“What did you say?” she asks softly.
“I had a potion brewed.”
Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“
“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”
“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”
“No…” you mumble.
“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”
You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.
The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.
“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.
You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.
You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.
The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.
Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.
The door swings open again.
Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.
The person unveils themself from the shadows.
It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.
Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.
“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.
The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.
You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.
“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”
“Help with what?” you breathe.
He remains silent.
“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.
Silence.
“Tell me. I command it.”
His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”
“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”
He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”
“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.
“How it can be cured,” he adds.
Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.
When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.
You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.
“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”
Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.
“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.
“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.
Not only is he able, he is willing.
He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.
You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.
Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—
You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.
“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”
You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?
But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.
Why must you tell him?
You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.
He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.
You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.
Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”
And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.
It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.
You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.
He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.
Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.
An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.
Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.
Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.
Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.
It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.
But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.
“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.
“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.
“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”
“My what?” he pants.
“I need you inside,” you mutter.
Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.
He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.
Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.
You nod lazily.
He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.
They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.
He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.
You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.
Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.
Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.
His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.
Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.
His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.
Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.
He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.
His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.
“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.
You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.
He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.
His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.
“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.
“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.
“Kiss me.”
As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.
Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.
“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.
It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.
You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.
“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.
“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”
You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”
“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.
You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.
Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.
“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.
He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”
You chuckle breathily.
“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.
“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.
Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.
In less than a minute, you’re beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.
You know you've fucked up when you go to a doctor and the thing you have wrong with you has been named after an occupation that isn't a thing anymore. Like imagine a doctor looking at you and going "yeah you've got ox-drawn ploughman's disease. We don't even test for that anymore. Yeah the reason you've never heard of it is because the last known case was in 1927 and happened to some guy who was like 98 years old and didn't believe in modern medicine of the time. What the fuck have you been up to."
Here in Sweden we have a pretty active larping community and many of them have a historical setting. I remember a story of a really awesome WW2 larp where, unfortunately, one of the participants hadn't removed his boots for three days straight and it rained the whole time. His feet suffered so much that he had to be taken to the hospital, which was a sight to behold. See, this guy covered in mud and wearing authentic WW2 gear had managed to get an incredibly historically correct case of trench foot. From a trench.
When I got Gout and the doctor told me the diagnosis I laughed so hard the doctor then asked me if I was on any psych meds. I was just like “wait so I got Old Timey Rich Person Disease?”
Roughly paraphrasing his response: “well by your own admission you live on a diet of shellfish and wine, and you came into my office dressed like a vampire. Like. Yea man you gave yourself Gout. You want me to check you for Consumption while I’m at it? Go eat some vegetables, please.”
The most modern of medicine is no match for a Human who insists upon recreating the behaviors of their ancestors, it would seem.
☆ Summary: The world outside the walls is brutal. Levi’s arms are the safest place to be.
☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Gender Neutral Reader
☆ Genre/Tags: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Post-Sex Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, Soft Levi Ackerman
☆ Word Count: 0.5k
☆ AO3 Link
[ Art by amdyng on Twitter ]
Levi breathes out above you, the sound low and uneven. For a moment, the only thing that exists is the warmth of his body over yours and the sound of both your breathing slowly trying to steady itself after the intensity that just passed between you.
He shifts, and carefully rolls off you and onto his back beside you on the bed, one arm flung loosely across the mattress as his chest rises and falls with controlled breaths that are still just a little heavier than usual. You stare up at the wooden ceiling of Levi’s private quarters, your heart still thudding. Your entire body feels warm. Your mind drifts somewhere hazy, the afterglow of the moment lingering in the space between you.
Beside you, Levi drags a hand over his face, pushing dark hair back from his forehead before he turns his head slightly toward you. “You alright?” he murmurs in a rough voice.
“Yeah,” you say softly. You pause, then ask, “Are you?”
Levi huffs faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching like the question amuses him. “I’m fine.”
He shifts closer after a moment, rolling onto his side so he’s facing you now, the blanket tangled loosely around both of your legs. Your stomach gives a small, warm flutter when his hand slides slowly across the mattress until his fingers brush against your arm. Then his hand settles there—just resting. You glance down at the contact. It’s nice.
Levi watches your face for a moment, his expression softer than the one he shows the rest of the world. “You’re staring,” he mutters.
You blink. “Oh.” Your lips curve slightly. “Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
You shrug faintly. “I like looking at you.”
Levi raises an eyebrow. “You’re bold tonight.”
You feel warmth creep across your face, though you don’t look away. Your thoughts wander quietly for a moment. This is strange, you think. The peace. The quiet. The world outside the walls is brutal, relentless, filled with dangers that rarely allow moments like this to exist. But here, in this quiet room, Levi’s hand still resting against your arm, everything feels calm.
Levi shifts again, moving closer until the space between you disappears entirely, and suddenly his arm slips around your waist as he pulls you against him, like he knows you belong there. Your cheek presses lightly against his chest. You can hear his heart beating. Levi’s hand slides slowly along your back in a gentle, absent-minded motion, like he’s soothing both of you at the same time.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.
You hum softly. “Just thinking.”
“About me, I hope.”
You smile against him. Your fingers trace lightly along his collarbone. Levi tilts his head down slightly, brushing a soft kiss against your temple. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that it makes your heart flutter just a little. Then another kiss follows. This one against your cheek. And then one more against your lips. When he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against yours.
“You’re smiling,” he says.
“I know.”
“Why?”
You hesitate. Then you answer honestly. “Because you’re like this.”
Levi’s brow furrows faintly. “Like what?”
You lift one hand to brush your fingers through his hair. “Soft.”
Levi snorts quietly. “Don’t go spreading that around.”
You laugh softly. His arm tightens around you slightly in response, pulling you closer, intending to keep you exactly where you are.
“Stay here,” he murmurs after a moment.
You nod against his chest. You weren’t planning on going anywhere.
☆ Summary: Coach pairs you and Levi for a skating routine. Practice goes exactly as badly as expected.
☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Gender Neutral Reader
☆ Genre/Tags: Pre-Relationship Romance, Modern AU, Sports AU, Ice Skating AU, Skater!Levi, Skater!Reader, Humor, Reluctant Partners, Rivals to Potential Lovers
☆ Word Count: 1.5k
☆ Requested by @touslesjeff | Drabble game #1
#23 “Fine, keep acting like you hate me.”
#65 “Do we always end up on top of each other?”
☆ a/n: this was so fun to write. i love writing bickering levi x reader lol
☆ AO3 Link
[ Art by michi_aiart on Instagram ]
The rink is freezing cold when you step into it. The early morning pours in through the windows while the overhead lights overwhelm the natural light, reflecting across the smooth white surface of the ice. Blades scratch in the background as other skaters finish their warmups, but you remain near the boards with your arms folded, watching Levi Ackerman glide across the ice with an irritating amount of control. He skates annoyingly flawlessly.
And he knows it.
You’ve been competing in the same training program for three years now, circling the same competitions, the same rankings, the same relentless comparisons from coaches who never seem to decide which of you they prefer. You wouldn’t say you hate him, exactly. Hate requires a kind of emotional investment you refuse to admit you have.
But you definitely don’t like him.
Your coach claps from the edge of the rink. “Everyone over here.”
A few skaters coast to the boards, ice spraying lightly under their blades. Levi glides in last, slowing to a stop a few feet away from you. There seems to be permanent irritation etched into his face.
The coach clears his throat. “For the winter exhibition, we’re doing something different this year. Paired routines.”
A collective murmur spreads across the rink. Your stomach sinks immediately. Pairs. You glance sideways just as the coach continues.
“And I’ve already assigned partners. Mikasa, you’re with Jean. Christa, you’re with Ymir.”
You don’t know why your instincts immediately tell you this will end badly.
“Levi,” the coach says, then gestures. “And you.”
Silence falls. You stare. Levi doesn’t even bother hiding the mild disgust on his face. “This won’t work,” he says flatly.
Your head snaps toward him. “I was about to say the same thing.”
The coach sighs, exhausted, already regretting every decision they’ve made today. “You’re both the strongest technical skaters here,” they say firmly. “Which means you’ll manage.”
Levi exhales quietly through his nose. You glare at the ice.
Perfect.
.
The first ten minutes of practice go about as well as you expected. Which is to say: terribly.
“Your timing is off,” Levi mutters as the two of you attempt synchronized footwork across the rink.
You shoot him a look. “My timing is fine. You’re skating like a metronome.”
“Rhythm matters.”
“You’re controlling everything.”
“And you’re not following.”
“I’m not supposed to follow every single—”
Your blades cross at the wrong angle mid-spin. It happens fast. You feel your balance shift, your center of gravity tipping, the sudden slide of steel losing grip beneath you. Levi’s hand shoots out automatically, grabbing your wrist in an attempt to steady you. It works—for exactly half a second—then he slips too.
Your vision becomes a blur of white ice and startled movement before both of you hit the surface with a dull thud. You land on top of him. Cold seeps through your clothing where it presses against the ice, Levi’s arm trapped awkwardly beneath your shoulder. You sigh toward the ceiling.
“Oops,” you say, half-taunting.
Levi stares up at the lights, reconsidering every life choice that brought him here. “Get off.”
You roll your eyes but push yourself upright, brushing ice from your gloves while he sits up. He looks beyond annoyed.
“Your balance is terrible,” he mutters.
“My balance was fine until you grabbed me.”
“You were falling.”
“You made it worse.”
Levi stands without responding, brushing ice from his sleeves before skating back to the position, the argument already ending in his mind.
You grit your teeth and follow.
.
The second fall happens a week later during lift practice. Which, in hindsight, is probably a terrible place to start when the two of you can barely complete a spin without arguing.
“Keep your core tight,” Levi says from behind you, hands settling carefully on your waist. You stiffen.
“I know how lifts work,” you snap.
“Then stop leaning forward,” he scoffs.
“I’m not leaning—”
He lifts. For half a second, it works. Your blades leave the ice, your weight steady in his grip as he turns smoothly into the rotation.
Then you tilt slightly. Just enough. Levi tries to compensate, but your foot clips his ankle, and the lift collapses. You both go down again, sliding a few feet across the ice before coming to a stop. Once again, you’re on top of him. You groan into your gloves.
“Unbelievable,” you groan.
Levi scoffs beneath you. “Are you done?”
“Probably not,” you mutter.
The coach’s voice echoes across the rink. “Stop arguing and focus.”
Easy for them to say. They don’t have an arrogant idiot as a partner they were forced to work with.
You roll off of Levi with a huff. “Maybe try not dropping me next time.”
Levi stands slowly. “Maybe try staying upright.”
The third fall is somehow worse. By now the entire rink has begun paying attention. You can feel the other skaters watching every attempt with poorly disguised curiosity. You swore you saw Ymir snickering at you when you fell straight on your ass. You wouldn’t put it past her.
“Throw jump,” Levi says shortly.
You nod, skating backward into position. Your blades dig into the ice as he grips your hands, preparing the momentum needed to launch you into the air. The timing should be simple.
Except Levi releases a second too early.
You come down wrong. Instead of landing cleanly, your blade skids sideways, and your body collides directly into his chest. Both of you tumble backward. Ice sprays as you slide across the rink.
When everything stops moving, you’re once again sprawled across Levi’s torso. You stare down at him. He stares back. A long pause drops between you. You sigh dramatically.
“Do we always end up on top of each other?” you say.
Levi closes his eyes briefly. “Only when you don’t watch your blades.”
“You threw me too soon!”
“You hesitated.”
“You rushed.”
“You panicked.”
“I did not—”
Coach whistles sharply. “One more attempt!” they call. “And try not to kill each other.”
You sit up slowly, rubbing the back of your neck. Levi stands beside you again. This time, he offers his hand to pull you upright. You don’t mention it.
The final attempt begins quietly. No arguing. Just the scrape of blades against ice as you move through the routine. Synchronized footwork. Turn. Crossovers.
Levi’s hand finds yours during the spin, his grip firm as you rotate together across the center of the rink. You can feel the subtle difference in how he catches your weight now. He’s less afraid to touch you.
The lift comes next. His hands rest on your waist again.
“Ready,” he says quietly. You nod.
This time, it actually works. You rise smoothly into the air, the rink spinning beneath you while Levi holds steady through the rotation. For a moment, you actually laugh. He almost smiles. You’ve never seen him smile before—did your success do that or is he happy for himself?
Then the landing arrives. Your blade touches down slightly off-center, but Levi grabs your arm to center you. Your weight shifts.
And the two of you collapse once more onto the ice. You land squarely across him. Again. You stare down at him, breathing hard from the routine.
“Out of all people Coach could have put me with…” Levi mutters to himself, scrubbing a hand over his face.
You sigh. “Fine, keep acting like you hate me.”
Levi looks up at you. For once, he doesn’t immediately tell you to move. “If I hated you, I wouldn’t keep catching you.”
For a moment, your brain stalls, and the entire rink seems to go silent. Then Levi clears his throat and shifts slightly beneath you.
“Now get off before someone sees.”
You remain exactly where you are. Just to annoy him.
From the boards, Mikasa whispers loudly, “Are they arguing again?”
Jean answers, “No.” A pause. “I think they’re flirting.”
Levi groans and shoves you off. You laugh.
“Next time we practice, I’m bringing padding,” you say.
“Next time we practice,” he mutters, “I’m bringing a helmet.”
Levi finally pushes himself upright, brushing frost from the sleeves of his jacket. You’re still catching your breath when he offers you his hand again. You take it, letting him pull you to your feet. You don’t speak. He’s silent. You test your balance. Levi watches for a second longer than necessary, then he looks toward the rink doors.
Then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, he says, “There’s an Italian place down the street.”
You blink at him, pausing mid-brush of your skates.
“We’re done for the day,” he says, already skating toward the exit.
You stare at his back. “Are you asking me to dinner?”
Levi shrugs without turning around. “You need the energy if you’re going to keep falling on me.”
You scoff with a smile and skate after him. Something tells you Levi Ackerman doesn’t hate you falling on him nearly as much as he says he does.
☆ Summary: For weeks, Levi refuses every confession you offer him. Then you stop asking, and he’s forced to face the wound he left behind.
☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader
☆ Genre/Tags: Canon Compliant, Levi Ackerman is Bad At Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, Jealous Levi, Angst With A Happy Ending
☆ Content Warnings: Minor blood and injury, references to death, alcohol use
☆ Word Count: 14.4k
☆ AO3 Link
☆ a/n: This was requested by Anonymous. THANK YOU to my beta reader @slaytherinthoughts for going through this long ass document and helping me! Much much love <3
[ I could not find the original artist. If anyone knows who the OC is, please tell me so I can credit them properly! ]
It was more of a slip of a tongue than anything.
It’s late in the night. The corridors have gone quiet. Everyone has finally surrendered to their sleep. Lanterns have either been snuffed or are running down to the end of the candle wicks. Branches of the trees drag across the glass, and somewhere beyond the courtyard, a horse whinnies, restless in the same way everyone seems restless these days, even where there’s nothing immediate to fear.
But you know as well as anyone, that there is always something to fear.
That’s the thing about the Scouts. You don’t carry fear with you. It follows you. It lives in your bones, beneath your fingernails, in your tight shoulders after a mission briefing, in silence that follows when someone says a name and no one answers because that person is already gone.
Maybe that’s why you’re so attracted to Levi. Because he never seems afraid. Not openly, anyway.
He sits at his desk with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, a stack of reports arranged neatly in front of him. His teacup is placed at the exact corner of the desk, where even one small shake of the desk could knock it over. His cravat is loosened slightly, but it’s not enough to make him look relaxed, because you believe Levi would rather be dragged through the streets tied by the hands than look relaxed where anyone can see him. But it’s enough that the sight catches you off guard every time you glance up from your own work.
You’re supposed to be copying casualty numbers into a ledger. You’re, instead, watching the flex of his fingers as he writes. It’s almost humiliating how attracted you are to them. It’s even worse because you realize that it’s humiliating, and yet you keep on doing it. You really should stop staring.
“You’re staring,” Levi says without looking up.
Your quill nearly slips from your fingers. Caught. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That must be new for you.”
Maybe you should be offended. Maybe you already are. Perhaps a part of you lifts its head, bares its teeth, and considers he’s awful and it’s about time you stop treating him like he’s royalty when all he’s done is insult your intelligence and correct your handwriting twice. But you simply smile over your ledger, because there’s obviously something wrong with you.
“I was thinking,” you say, dipping your quill again, “that you look nice like this.”
Levi’s hand stops. It’s tiny. So small. A momentary pause in gesture, a flicker of silence between one word and the next, and yet you notice it, as you always do. You always see the things you wish you didn’t, because your affection for him has made you perceptive to the point of self-injury.
Then he resumes writing. “Get your eyes checked.”
You laugh tiredly. “I mean it,” you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to ignore every remaining sensible instinct you possess. “You always look nice, but especially when you’re not threatening to make someone scrub the latrines with a toothbrush.”
“I can still threaten you, if that helps.”
“It might,” you say, and when he finally lifts his gaze to you, one brow faintly lifted, you press your lips together to keep yourself from smiling too much. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Captain.”
You definitely did not plan on saying that out loud.
The words are like a lit match dropped onto paper. You expect something to happen, though you’re not sure exactly what; maybe for Levi to look startled, maybe for your own heartbeat to become so loud that he hears it and tells you to quiet down, but there’s only the sound of his quill stopping and his eyes fixing on you with a disbelief that’s usually reserved for soldiers who have done something phenomenally stupid with live blades. You’ve seen Connie almost cut open his own hand at least a dozen times now.
“No, you’re not,” he says. It’s so blunt that, for a second, you almost laugh again.
“I think I know what I’m feeling.”
“You clearly don’t.”
“That’s a little presumptuous.”
“You’re exhausted. You’ve been copying death tolls for two hours, and your standards are slipping.”
You should probably retreat now, but the bruise of it is too new to hurt yet, and maybe you’re still brave because you haven’t learned your lesson on how this man can cut you without drawing steel.
“My standards are excellent,” you say. “That’s why I picked you.”
Levi stares at you. You stare back, fully aware of the heat gathering beneath your skin. You notice how he hasn’t looked back down yet.His face shifts—not much, because Levi’s expressions never move far enough to be generous, but enough that something flickers behind his eyes. You can’t tell what it is.
Then he presses his lips together and scoffs. “Finish the ledger. And don’t say stupid things just because it’s late.”
The match goes out. You look down. “Right,” you say, your smile feeling much more fragile than it was one minute ago. “Yes, sir.”
After that, you decide that confession didn’t count. It was late. You were tired. He was rude, but Levi is always rude, and somehow that makes the rejection easier to deal with.
Except it does count.
Because the next time you say it, you’re not tired enough to pretend you don’t mean it.
The next time you flirt with him is after training, when the sun is high and cruel and every inch of your uniform is clinging to your skin. The sound of the training grounds is always loud. Someone groans dramatically near the water barrels. Sasha is arguing that dinner time should be two hours earlier than it is, to which Jean tells her that she’s going to get kicked out of the Scouts with her behavior. Eren is insisting to Mikasa that he could take down one of the veterans in hand-to-hand combat, which is not true and everyone knows is not true.
You’re bent forward with your hands braced on your knees, sweat dripping from your chin into the dust, lungs burning, thighs trembling with the intensity of being thrown onto your back three times by a man who has the emotional warmth of a snail. Levi stands several feet away, not even breathing hard. You hate him a little for it. You love him more.
“You’re leaving your right side open,” he says, acting like that’s the main problem and not the fact that he’s driven your spine to the ground so many times that the two of them might as well get married.
You straighten your back, wincing when your shoulders throb in pain. “I noticed.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m choosing to believe you’re only being this mean because you’re impressed.”
“I’m not.”
“Wounded,” you say, touching a hand to your chest. “And after I gave you such a good show.”
Levi’s eyes narrow as they fix on you. There’s dirt on your cheek, gritty beneath the sweat. Your hair is tousled, strands sticking to your face and neck. You know you probably look half-dead, which makes it even more ridiculous when you grin at him as though you’re the one with the upper hand.
“If I land a hit, you have to have tea with me,” you say, shifting your stance again, though your legs are already screaming in pain.
You feel the shift around you immediately, the tiny ripple of attention passing across the training grounds. People know by now. They know you admire him. They know you’re reckless enough to smile at him when most soldiers avert their eyes. They know Levi has never once softened for you in front of them. But they don’t know that you’ve already told him once. They don’t know that some small part of you is hoping the second time will land differently.
Levi looks at you for a long moment. “Good thing you won’t,” he finally says.
Then he attacks. It’s over quickly. You last longer than you did the first round, which you’ll cling to as a personal victory when your pride has stopped bleeding. But it’s not enough to make him sweat, and certainly not long enough to win yourself tea. He hooks your ankle and drops you onto the dirt with one hand gripping your sleeve and the other arm pressed against your throat.
He’s too close. Close enough that you can see the dark crescents beneath his eyes, the tiny nick near his jaw from shaving too quickly, the dust clinging to his hair. Close enough that his arm, still pressed against you, feels like the only solid point in the universe.
“You know,” you say breathlessly, “there are easier ways to get me on my back.”
Someone chokes in the distance. Jean, probably. Armin winces and covers his face. Levi’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers clench your sleeve before he releases you and stands up.
“Get up,” he says.
You push yourself onto your elbows. “No tea, then?”
“No.”
“Dinner?”
“No.”
“A walk?”
“No.”
“An emotionally honest conversation?”
“Are you always this annoying?”
You laugh then. If you don’t laugh, you think you might cry a little. To anyone else, it would sound like he despises you, but you know deep down, he appreciates your presence. At least, you think he does. You hope.
Levi steps back, eyes already moving toward the others. “Again,” he says.
Your smile falters. “Again?”
“You wanted to land a hit.”
“I also want to retain the use of my spine.”
“Then move correctly.”
You groan, but you get up anyway. When he turns away to retrieve the training blade he had discarded near the fence, you miss how his gaze drops briefly to the place where his fingers had been on your sleeve. He didn’t mean to do that.
Levi hates this. Not you. This. This thing you keep doing. This reckless habit of saying what you feel for him as though feelings are not the most complex thing known to man, wanting someone has never been a mistake, and affection is something you can simply place in another person’s hands and expect them not to drop it. He has no use for it. He has no patience for it.
And yet, when you stand again with dirt on your uniform and that stubborn light in your eyes, Levi’s first though is not that you’re irritating like he says you are.
It’s that you’re still alive and with him.
His second thought is that he wants you to stay that way.
His third thought is so dangerous that he buries it before it finishes forming.
.
People start to make jokes about you and Levi. The Scouts have a talent for taking anything sensitive and turning it into humor. It begins—as it always does—in the mess hall. It’s loud. The long tables are crowded with soldiers leaning shoulder to shoulder, passing bread, stealing scraps, arguing over insignificant things (mostly Eren and Jean), laughing too loudly at stories that are shared between moments in the training yard.
You sit with your squad, eating your soup as you try not to stare at the officers’ table. You naturally fail. Levi sits apart even among the other officers, a cup of tea held lightly in one hand. Erwin is talking beside him, and Hange is gesturing enthusiastically enough—probably about their latest experiments—to nearly knock over their own bowl. Levi appears to be listening, though his eyes flick briefly toward the table with Connie and Sasha when both of them laugh too loud.
Then he looks at you.
“You’re doing it again,” Petra says beside you.
You look down at your soup immediately. “I’m eating.”
“You’re daydreaming.”
“I’m not!”
“You absolutely are,” Oluo says, leaning back with misplaced confidence. “It’s pathetic, really.”
“You bite your tongue every other sentence trying to imitate him. Don’t start throwing stones,” Eld says. Oluo sputters. You smile, grateful for the distraction and defense, but your eyes betray you by drifting toward Levi again; and this time Gunther catches it too.
“You could always confess again,” he says. You had told the squad about your confession a week or so ago, and naturally, they found it the funniest thing in the world. And then they called you the stupidest person in the world. “Maybe persistence will wear him down.”
“It works on doors,” Eld says.
“Levi isn’t a door,” Petra says.
“He’s got the personality of one,” you say. That earns a few laughs.
Across the room, Levi’s eyes lift again. You know immediately that he heard that last part. The man could probably hear dust drifting in the air. For a moment, you consider looking away. Instead, because your pride is a stubborn creature, you lift your cup and toast it in his direction. His eyes narrow, but you smile anyway. He looks back to Erwin.
That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t. After dinner, when the mess hall begins to empty and soldiers drift toward their beds or their duties, you find yourself in the kitchen near the dedicated tea station—which you’re convinced was set up only for Levi—reaching for the kettle at the exact same time Levi does. Your fingers nearly brush, and it’s enough for your breath to hitch. Levi glances at your hand, then at you.
“Move,” he says.
“You could say please,” you mutter.
“I could also assign you stable duty.”
“You make romance very difficult, Captain.”
He frowns at the title, but you don’t really notice it too much since you’re trying to not pour hot water on yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you think. It’s only tea. He barely touched you. Levi is just standing this close—close enough that you can smell his soap—because he’s impatient and waiting for the kettle.
Behind you, someone snickers. You don’t turn, but Levi does. The snickering stops with impressive speed. “Problem?” he asks.
“No, sir,” several voices answer.
You press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing. Levi turns back to you. “You enjoy making yourself a spectacle?”
You don’t know why, but those words hit a tender spot in your nerves. Your smile falters. “I’m not trying to.”
“Aren’t you?”
That stings. Not badly, but enough for you to look down at the tea in your cup, watching the surface tremble with the tiny motion of your hand. “I just like you,” you say, quiet enough for only him to hear.
The silence that follows is almost deadly. Levi doesn’t move. You suddenly wish you’d said it louder, made it into a joke or dressed it up with such an unserious tone that he could brush it off as nothing. But it’s not nothing.
Levi’s face tenses. “Don’t,” he says.
One word. Not no. Not stop. Don’t. You’ve clearly reached for a wound without knowing it was there. Your throat tightens slightly. It’s stupid how much that single word hurts. The others have gone quiet behind you, though whether because they heard or because Levi’s silence has made things tense, you don’t know. You nod once.
“Sorry,” you say.
Levi’s jaw flexes. For the briefest moment, his eyes change, and a hint of regret moves through them, but then he reaches for his cup, turns away, and leaves you standing at the tea station with a teacup in your hand that suddenly feels too hot to hold.
You should probably stop. You tell yourself that while watching him disappear down the corridor. You tell yourself this while you stand there with the unbearable knowledge that you won’t.
.
Levi doesn’t sleep well that night, which isn’t unusual. Sleep has always been an issue for him. It’s something his body demands but his mind resents, a brief surrender that leaves too much room for memory to crawl in with its dirty hands. He’s accustomed to lying awake for hours. He’s accustomed to the silence of the night and his own thoughts circling until they get stripped down to their bones.
He’s not used to thinking about the way your voice sounded when you said, I just like you. Then he realizes that’s a lie. He is used to thinking about your voice. That’s the issue.
Levi lies on his back in the dark, one arm folded behind his head. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. He knows this has gone on long enough. You’re careless with your affection. You throw it around like it costs nothing. Like you have so much of it that losing some wouldn’t hurt you.
Then he remembers your hand trembling around your cup. He realizes, no, you’re not careless. That would be easier. Careless people don’t look away so quickly when they’re hurt. Careless people don’t apologize for taking up too much space in someone else’s guarded life. Careless people don’t learn how someone takes their tea and remembers it without being asked. You’re not careless. You’re one of the few sincere people he knows. That’s worse to him.
Levi closes his eyes. Behind them, he sees you smiling at him across the training yard, flushed and breathless, daring him to be human for one second. He sees you in the mess hall, laughing because everyone else is laughing, even though your eyes keep searching for him. He sees you tonight, freezing around a single word.
Don’t.
He should have said something else. He should have said nothing. He should have made you stop sooner. If you stop, this ends. If this ends, no one gets hurt. Except he already hurt you.
Levi opens his eyes. The ceiling offers no answers, no matter how hard he stares.
“Damn brat,” he mutters.
.
The confessions become a routine, almost. They’re never spoken in the same way, but they become woven into the strange fabric of your days. It’s as familiar as the bitter taste of weak coffee when tea runs low and the scent of soap after Levi has ordered an entire hallway scrubbed because someone left a single muddy footprint in it.
You tell him in fractions. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes because the feeling rises up in you with nowhere else to go, and the alternative is swallowing it until you choke.
Levi rejects you every time. Sometimes you think he has a list of things to say prepared. Sometimes you think he makes them up on the spot. You’re not sure which scenario is worse.
The fourth time you confess comes in the stables, of all places. Rain has slicked the yard into a mess. The horses are restless tonight. You’re adjusting tack and cleaning hooves, your sleeves rolled up despite the cold because one of the mares keeps nudging your elbow and trying to chew the cuff.
Then Levi enters. “You’re doing that wrong,” he says.
You glance down at the stirrup strap in your hand. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
“Exactly.”
You sigh and step aside, letting him take over, because while there are many hills you’re willing to die on, arguing with Levi about equipment care isn’t one of them. He checks and adjusts the straps that you already did. Then he lifts the tack onto the assigned mare to make sure everything looks good. The horse calms beneath his touch, which is unfair, because Levi is as soft as a sword, yet animals seem to understand him. You watch him stroke one hand down the mare’s neck, murmuring something too low for you to catch. You feel a strange flutter in your stomach.
“You’re gentle with them,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Levi looks at you. “With horses.”
“Horses. Animals. Things that scare easily.”
His expression goes blank, and it tells you instantly that you’ve stepped too close to something he’s not willing to reveal yet. You should retreat, and yet, you don’t.
“I like that about you.”
His hand stops on the strap. Rain thunders on the roof. The mare huffs, her warm breath ghosting into the air. Levi stares at you for a long moment, then says, “You’re reading too much into basic competence.”
“Maybe,” you say. “Or maybe you’re more careful than you want people to know.”
Levi looks away before you can follow up, tightening the girth. “Stop romanticizing me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe I’m just seeing you for who you are.”
He laughs humorlessly. “You should look somewhere else.”
You breathe in through your nose, the scent of hay and wet earth filling your nostrils. It should be comforting, but you feel foolish standing here with your heart spilling out of your chest like this.
“Maybe I don’t want to,” you say.
Levi hardens. “That’s your problem.”
You flinch. It’s tiny, but it’s there. You know it’s visible because Levi’s eyes move immediately to your face. You can tell he caught it. He seems to recoil, his brows drawing faintly together, but then he looks away.
“Finish checking the tack,” he says.
You nod. “Yes, sir.”
.
You don’t count the next time you confess because you’re half-delirious with exhaustion after an expedition that has left everyone hollow-eyed and covered with dirt and moving like ghosts through the building. You sit on a bench outside the infirmary with a bandage around your forearm and a bruise forming on your ribs, watching medics hurry past you. Levi is standing next to you with blood on his sleeve—blood that doesn’t belong to him—with a look in his eyes that tells you he’s not fully here.
You’re alive. He’s alive. Too many others are not. That kind of thing makes people act and speak recklessly. Which is why you think you say what you say.
Levi hasn’t spoken to you since returning through the gate except to ask if you were injured, and when you showed him your arm, he clicked his tongue and said, “Idiot,” with enough fury that you understood he had already been watching when that Titan came too close.
Now he stands in front of you, arms crossed, staring at the bandage. “You hesitated,” he says.
You look up at him. “What?”
“Out there. You hesitated.”
You’re far too tired to defend yourself quickly. You say, exhausted, “I was trying to pull Kessler back.”
“Kessler was already dead.”
You look away. You know that. You felt the moment that Kessler’s body relaxed and it started dragging you down. You felt the horrible slackness of his arm in your grip. You knew, even then, but knowing and letting go are not the same thing, and you’re too tired for Levi’s version of mercy.
“I know,” you say.
“Do you?”
Your head snaps back up, anger flaring. “Yes, Levi. I know.”
His eyes narrow at the use of his name. Good. Let him hate it. Let him feel something.
“I know he was dead,” you continue. “I know I almost got myself killed trying to save someone who was already gone. I know that was stupid. I know you’re going to tell me it was stupid. I know.”
Levi stares at you as you breathe too hard. Your ribs ache. Your eyes burn, though you refuse to let any tears fall, because crying in front of Levi after a mission feels like bleeding in front of a shark. His jaw works once.
“Then don’t do it again,” he says.
It’s still an order, but there’s a certain rawness underneath it that makes your anger falter. You look at him, at the dirt on his clothes, the blood on his sleeve, the exhausting plastered on his face. You look at the man everyone calls humanity’s strongest, standing there as though strength has ever saved him from grief.
The words come out before you can stop them. “I worry about you too, you know.” He tilts his head, expression hardening. You should probably stop, but you don’t. “I know you don’t want me to. I know you think it’s stupid, or useless, or whatever else you tell yourself when people care about you, but I do.” Your hands curl into fists against your thigh, nails biting into your palms. “I worry every time we leave the walls. I worry every time you go quiet after we come back. I worry because I—”
“Enough.”
You shut your mouth. Levi is no longer looking at you, but through you. You feel a shiver run down your spine. He can’t even look at you when turning you down?
“Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”
You swallow. “And what is it?”
“A bad habit.”
You feel the color drain from your face. The whole world closes around you. You can only focus on the mud on the soles of your boots, the muffled sounds of suffering through the infirmary doors, Levi standing there with his hands clenched so tightly beneath his crossed arms that his knuckles have blanched.
A bad habit. That’s what your affection has become. An inconvenience. Something to correct.
You nod once, though the movement feels fuzzy. “Right,” you say.
Levi eyes flick back to yours. You stand before you can fully lock your gazes. Pain flashes through your ribs, and you nearly sway, but you keep yourself upright because you can’t bear the thought of him seeing you so weak.
“I should get this checked again,” you say.
Levi’s gaze drops to your arm. “You already did.”
“I know.”
He understands then. You see it happen, the moment he realizes you’re leaving because of him, not because of the wound. He doesn’t stop you. You walk away.
Behind you, Levi remains still for a long time. Long after your footsteps disappear. Long after the rain begins again. Long after he realizes that the words he meant to use to keep you alive have found the most tender spot of your heart.
And still, you come back. You always come back. Even if it pains you to see him right now.
The next morning, you pass him in the corridor and give him a smile that’s smaller than usual. “Captain,” you say.
Levi nods once. He expects you to say something else. Some joke. Some reckless little comment. Some ridiculous remark about how he looks like he slept badly and should let you fix that by being charming towards him for ten minutes.
You say nothing, and you keep walking. Levi turns his head without thinking, watching you disappear around the corner. He has a strange feeling in his chest. Annoyance, he decides. That’s all it is.
That’s all it ever will be.
.
Days later, while you’re cleaning, you stand on a stool to reach for a stack of fresh rags on the highest shelf of the supply room. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with folded clothes, brushes, buckets, spare mopheads, bottles of polish, and enough cleaning solution to disinfect the entire world if Levi ever gets his way. The door opens behind you.
“Careful,” Levi says.
You glance down. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed. With what, you’re not sure. He seems to be in a perpetual state of disappointment with the world. You can’t say you blame him.
“I am being careful,” you reply.
“Standing on that thing will make you crack your skull open.”
“It’s a stool. It’s meant to be stood on.”
“...It’s wobbling.”
“That’s because it fears you.”
“It should.”
You laugh. It surprises you. Maybe it surprises him too, because Levi’s eyes flick up to your face and stay there for half a second too long. There’s a dangerous pause, and both of you feel it. You ignore it and reach for the rags too quickly to escape it, your fingers brushing the edge of the stack. You can’t quite grab it. The stool shifts.
Your balance suddenly tips just enough for your stomach to drop. Before you can correct yourself or grab onto anything, one of Levi’s hands meets your waist, the other gripping your forearm. You feel your heart slam against your ribs.
“Idiot,” he snaps.
You can’t focus on anything except for his fingers on your waist, warm through the fabric of your shirt. He’s standing so close behind you that when you inhale, you catch his scent. It’s always smelled of clean soap with an undercurrent of something almost like cedar.
You look down at his hand. He does too. Then he releases you as if you’ve burned him. “Get down,” he says.
You quickly grab the rags and climb off the stool, holding the items to your chest. “Thank you,” you say.
“Don’t thank me. Stop doing stupid things.”
“I was just trying to reach the—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I—I had it under control, Captain.”
“No, you didn’t.”
You pause, then you hesitantly say, “You worry about me.”
Levi’s eyes flash briefly before he restrains it. “No.”
You tilt your head. “No?”
“No.”
“Then what was that?”
“Reflex.”
“Your reflex was to grab my waist?”
His mouth tightens, which is how you know you’ve gotten under his skin. “My reflex was to stop a soldier from injuring themselves because they can’t manage basic balance.”
“That almost sounded affectionate.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
You smile then, because despite everything, despite the way he keeps pushing you away with both hands while somehow still catching you when you stumble, your heart keeps finding reasons to love him.
“I think you care about me more than you want to admit,” you say.
Levi steps closer. Your smile fades as his shadow falls over you. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You hold his gaze, and for once, you don’t try to soften the moment with a joke or quip. There are moments you need to be serious, and this is one of them. “Maybe not, but I know what it feels like when you look at me.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
His answer comes far too fast. Levi seems to realize it at the same time you do, because he sighs and looks away toward the shelves.
“I wish you’d let me care about you,” you say quietly. Levi’s head turns back, and suddenly, the room feels smaller than it did a moment ago.
“I don’t need that from you.”
It’s not the cruelest thing he’s said, but it still breaks a piece of you inside. You inhale slowly, gripping the rags a bit tighter. “Sorry.”
Frustration flickers across his face, but you can tell it’s directed inward this time, at himself, at you, at the entire existence of this thing neither of you seems to be willing to label.
“Just do your job,” he says, harsher now.
“Yes, Captain.”
You don’t see the small flinch he gives when you turn back to the shelves.
.
By now, Levi has recognized that there are stages to this. First, you say something reckless and stupid. Second, he rejects it. Third, you smile. Fourth, he says something. Fifth, your smile falters. Sixth, he feels like the worst kind of bastard for doing that. Seventh, he tells himself you brought it on yourself. Eighth, he thinks about it all night.
It’s a miserable system. He wishes to dismantle it. He’d like, more than that, to understand why he keeps waiting for it to happen again, because that’s the part he can’t excuse. He can excuse rejection. Rejection is clean and sets boundaries where your affection keeps trying to cross them. He can excuse harshness. Harshness is useful. Soldiers listen better to shouts than soft pleas. He can even excuse the anger that rises in him whenever you come too close, because anger is familiar, and familiarity makes things easier to handle.
But he can’t excuse the waiting. He can’t excuse his attention shifting when you enter a room. He can’t excuse the fact that he knows your footsteps by sound now. He can’t excuse how he notices when you don’t look at him. He definitely can’t excuse how guarded he feels when your voice comes gently, as if he’s bracing for impact from a hand that’s never struck him.
He hates it. He hates the anticipation. He hates the feeling that lingers. He hates that some part of him, buried deep beneath the discipline and the loss and blood, wants to hear you say it again. He wants to know if you still mean it. He wants to know how many times he can refuse you before you finally decide he’s not worth the trouble.
Part of him hopes the answer is infinite.
.
You find Levi in the corridor outside of Erwin’s office, standing with a stack of documents in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His expression is blank as always, lit by the dim afternoon light. The day has been mostly gray from morning onward. The entirety of headquarters feels submerged. You’re carrying reports from the supply division when you stop beside him.
He looks tired. Levi often looks tired, but there are different tiers to it, and you’ve learned them despite not trying to. This isn’t ordinary irritation or sleep deprivation. This is the kind that only comes after countless meetings and casualty estimates, after decisions that will ask other people to die in the name of maybe—someday—being free from the Titans.
“You should eat something,” you say.
His eyes slide to you. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I meant what I said. Leave me alone.”
“Not until you eat.”
He exhales through his nose. “Are you always this insistent?”
“With you? Usually.”
“Fantastic for me.”
You smile. “You make it very easy.” He looks away. Instead of walking away like you know you should, you shift the reports against your chest and say, “I brought extra bread.”
Levi’s gaze returns to you. “What?”
“For you.” You try to shrug it off, pretending like you haven’t been carrying it wrapped in cloth beneath the reports because you noticed he skipped lunch. “It’s in my pocket. Which sounds unsanitary, but I wrapped it. Mostly.”
He stares at you, then says, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Probably.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
You wish he wouldn’t ask. You wish, sometimes, that Levi would allow kindness to come to him without dragging it into the spotlight and demanding to know whether it has teeth or not. But he’s looking at you now with a challenge in his eyes, but something else lingers. Something that tells you he doesn’t understand why anyone would go out of their way for him unless obligated or expecting something in return. Your heart hurts for him.
“Because I care,” you say.
Levi grips his documents a little more. “Stop it.”
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
“You are.”
You frown. “No, I’m not.”
“You say things like that because you want me to say them back.”
There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, maybe because it’s partly true, and maybe because it’s not the whole truth, and he’s chosen the ugliest piece of it to hold up between you.
“I want you to eat something,” you say quietly. “That’s all this was.”
Levi says nothing. You reach into your pocket, pull out the wrapped bread, and place it carefully on top of the documents in his hand. His eyes drop to it, then lift to meet you.
“You don’t have to make everything a battle,” you say.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No, you didn’t,” you say, the words coming out a little sadder than you intend. You see him hear it, and you see the shift in his eyes. But you don’t wait for him to respond. You walk away, reports held tightly against your torso, and you tell yourself that caring about someone shouldn’t feel this much like holding your hand over an open flame and pretending the burn is proof of devotion.
Behind you, Levi looks down at the bread. He stands there and stares at it for a long time. Then, with a quiet curse, he takes it with him into the office. He eats it later. Every bite tastes like guilt.
.
“You know,” Hange says one afternoon, leaning casually against the doorway of Levi’s office while he tries to read a report and pretend they’re not there, “most people enjoy being adored.”
“Most people are idiots,” Levi says.
“True, true. But still. It’s good for morale.”
Levi doesn’t look up from his papers. “If you’re here to waste my time, find a better hobby.”
“I have several. You hate all of them.”
“Because they’re obnoxious.”
“Everything is obnoxious to you.”
Levi’s quill pauses, and that makes Hange grin a little more. He resumes writing, shaking his head. This isn’t exactly new business—Hange always comes to annoy him for the most miniscule problems and to talk about the most insignificant topics. He’s learned how to block it out over the years.
“I’m serious,” Hange says. The shift in their tone catches Levi’s attention. “She cares about you.”
“No shit.”
“And you care about her.”
The quill stops again, and this time, it doesn’t resume. Levi lifts his eyes slowly, sharpened to a point. “Careful.”
Hange, to their credit or possibly their doom, doesn’t turn around and leave like any sensible human would after the tone Levi just used against them. “That sounded like a threat.”
“It was.”
“Mm.” Hange tilts their head, studying him in such an invasive way that it makes Levi want to shove them into the nearest supply closet and lock the door. “You get nastier after she talks to you.”
“I get nastier after you talk to me too.”
“Yes, but that’s because I’m charming in a way that overwhelms you.”
“You’re exhausting in a way that makes murder understandable.”
Hange waves his remark away. “With her, it’s different.”
Levi’s face goes blank. Is it different with you? He realizes now that while he blocks out Hange’s antics, he doesn’t block out yours. He realizes that all the times he’s kicked Hange out for uttering a single stupid sentence, he’s let you stay after uttering a dozen. Hange sees the realization and smiles softly.
“I’m not saying you have to return anything,” they say. “No one can make you feel something you don’t. But if you don’t, you should stop letting her bleed herself dry trying to reach you.”
“I’m not letting her do anything.”
“No,” Hange says, “you’re just standing there while it happens.” The room goes dangerously quiet. Levi looks down at the report, but the words have rearranged into nonsense. Hange sighs deeply. “For what it’s worth, I think she knows you’re not as indifferent as you act.”
Levi’s grip tightens around the quill. “She’s wrong.”
“Maybe.” He looks up at that. Hange gives him a sad little smile, which is worse than their normal grin, worse than their teasing, worse than anything else they could have done. “But if she’s wrong, then you should make that clear before it hurts her even more.”
Levi says nothing. Hange leaves.
That evening, you bring Levi tea. You didn’t plan on doing so. It just sort of happened. You told yourself several times that day that you’d stop doing things like this, acting like your kindness is water and he’s a dying flower that you can bring back to life. You pass the kitchen, see the kettle, and think of the tension in his face that morning.
So you make the tea. Because you’re weak and hopeful, and you’re beginning to suspect those are sometimes the same thing.
When you arrive at his office, the door is slightly ajar. You knock anyway. He calls for you to come in, and you step inside. Levi sits behind his desk, eyes on a report, the candlelight casting shadows across his face. The room is painfully neat, which you should have expected. Your presence feels immediately disruptive. You carry the cup carefully, both hands around the saucer.
“I made too much,” you say.
Levi looks at the tea, then at you. “You made too much tea?”
“Yes.”
“For yourself?”
“Yes.”
“In one cup?”
You blink at him. He stares back at you. Your face warms slightly. Not your best attempt, but it was worth it. “Fine. That was a terrible lie.”
“Embarassing.”
“Deeply.”
He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. “You here for a reason?”
The question should be harmless, but it’s not. You think of all the times Levi has made you feel childish for just wanting a connection. You think of the fact that your hand is already starting to ache from holding the saucer too tightly.
“No,” you say. “Not really.” You step closer and set the cup on his desk, exactly where he usually keeps it, because you’ve grown to know the exact spot by now. “I just thought you’d want some.”
“I can make my own tea.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then stop.”
You look at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are clear as day. There’s a tension and conflict there, anger held down so hard that you see it shaking. But you’re tired too. Tired of reading hope into every almost-soft thing he does. Tired of standing at the edge of him, calling out, and hearing only your own voice come back.
“Stop bringing you tea?” you ask.
“Stop acting like this means something.”
Your heart drops. “This?”
Levi looks at you. For once, you wish he wouldn’t. At the same time, you want him to.
“All of it,” he says. “I’ve told you no multiple times. What part of that are you too stupid to understand?”
All of it. The tea. The bread. The jokes. The concern. The confessions. The look you give him after missions. You remembering his preferences. The way you keep offering pieces of yourself and pretending it doesn’t matter when he refuses to take them. All of it.
You nod, though it feels like something has finally broken inside you.
You’re too tired to keep doing this.
“I see,” you whisper.
Levi’s eyes gleam in the moonlight as he looks at you. He looks like he might say something else. Something better. Something worse. You don’t even give him the chance.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice calm enough to make yourself believe that you’re not hurt. “I didn’t realize I was making you uncomfortable.”
Levi makes a face, the most emotion you’ve seen from him in months. “That’s not—”
“I’ll stop.”
He goes silent. You give him a small smile because you can’t seem to help yourself. Even now, you’re trying to make things easier for him, because some habits are harder to kill than hope. Then you turn toward the door.
Behind you, Levi says your name. It stops you for a second, but only a second. You look back. His hand is resting near the cup, not touching it. He looks almost panicked, if Levi Ackerman were capable of such an honest expression.
“Yes?” you say. He says nothing, and there it is. The whole tragedy of him. You wait one second. Then two. Then you nod. “Goodnight, Captain.”
You leave. The door closes behind you. Levi sits very still. The tea cools untouched on his desk. And for the first time, the silence you leave behind feels less like peace and more like punishment.
.
You stop.
You don’t stop in a manner that would give him the satisfaction of calling it dramatic, because the stubborn, wounded part of you refuses to let Levi Ackerman look at the ruin he’s made of your heart.
You don’t avoid your duties. You don’t let your work slip. You don’t flinch when his name is mentioned, and you don’t turn your head too quickly when he speaks, and you don’t stand in the kitchen holding the kettle, telling yourself that tea is only tea and kindness is only kindness and that none of it has to mean anything unless he lets it.
You simply stop offering. That’s all.
Reports appear on his desk when they’re supposed to. Your handwriting is clean across the pages. Supplies are accounted for. Gear is cleaned, straps are checked, blades are sharpened, and when you pass him in the corridor, you step aside with the same respect you would give any superior officer.
“Captain.”
Nothing more. No little smile curling around the title. No teasing lift to your brow. No, you look terrible, did you sleep at all? No, I saved you bread before Sasha could inhale the entire basket. No, if you keep glaring like that, your face will get stuck and then what will we do?
Just Captain.
The first time it happens, Levi tells himself he’s relieved.
He has paperwork in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. You walk down the hall with a crate of medical linens balanced against your hip, your sleeves rolled to your elbows. You see him, shift the crate higher, and move out of the way.
“Captain,” you say. Levi nods once. You keep walking. That’s all there is to your interaction.
He should be relieved. Instead, he grips his teacup a little tighter. Idiot, he thinks, though he’s not entirely sure whether he means you or himself.
By the second day, the relief has turned into irritation.
You’re everywhere, because the universe apparently has something against him and is trying to force you into his everyday life when he’s trying his hardest not to notice you. In the training yard, helping one of the newer recruits correct their stance with a voice soft enough that the soldier actually listens instead of stiffening under correction. In the mess hall, laughing at something Petra says, your face finally turned away from him. In the corridor outside Erwin’s office, handing over a stack of documents to Miche with a polite nod before disappearing around the corner before Levi can decide whether he wants to speak to you.
Not that he does. He doesn’t. There’s nothing to say, after all. He told you to stop, and you stopped. That’s how orders are supposed to work.
Levi’s spent his life surrounded by people who either don’t listen or listen too late, by soldiers who break formation, by fools who mistake hope for strategy, by men who die because they can’t follow one simple command when terror has sunk its teeth into them. He should appreciate obedience. He should appreciate silence. He should appreciate how you gave him exactly what he asked for.
Instead, every “Captain” feels like a door slamming shut in his face. And the worst part, the most aggravating, unforgivable part, is that you’re not even punishing him. Punishment would be easier. Punishment would give him something to push against. If you snapped at him, he could snap back. If you glared, he could meet it with his own colder stare. If you cried, if you accused him, if you said, how dare you, Levi, after all the chances I gave you, then at least he would know what to do.
But you do none of them. You’re kind. Professionally kind. You answer when spoken to. You follow orders without hesitation. You still look after the youngest soldiers, still trade your last piece of bread to Sasha, still smile when Armin asks a question and still help Connie adjust his gear that he should know how to adjust by now. You haven’t become colder in all aspects—you’ve merely taken your warmth away from him.
And Levi, who has survived hunger, blood, filth, loss, and the Underground’s endless ruthlessness, finds himself undone by the absence of things he once pretended not to want.
By the third day, Hange notices. They appear beside him in the training yard while he’s watching you across the dirt, though he’d rather be disemboweled with his own blades than admit that he’s watching you. You’re speaking to Eld near the fence, head tilted as you listen, one hand braced on your hip, the other gesturing toward the Titan dummies. Eld says something that makes you laugh.
Hange hums. “Interesting.”
“Walk away,” Levi says.
“I didn’t even say anything—”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say the weather’s nice.”
“It’s overcast.”
“Emotionally, then.”
Levi turns his head just enough to glare. Hange grins, but their expression softens too quickly, and that’s how he knows he’s in trouble. He can handle Hange’s manic curiosity, their teasing, their horrifying experiments, their complete lack of respect for personal space or peace. He can’t handle pity.
“She stopped,” Hange says.
Levi looks back toward the yard. “Good.”
Hange’s brows rise. “Very convincing.”
“Shut up.”
“You told her to?” Levi says nothing, and that’s answer enough. Hange exhales, not quite a sigh. “Well, congratulations. You won.”
Hange looks ahead at you. Across the yard, you take the training blade Eld offers you and shift into position. Levi looks back at you, and he sees how dirt has already lined your face. There’s no bright glance tossed in his direction, no grin, no silent invitation for him to notice you. It makes him furious. Not at you, though—that would be simpler. No, the fury coils inward, because there’s a place inside him that recognizes that this silence is something he made with his own hands.
“I did what needed to be done,” he says.
Hange tilts their head. “For who?”
Levi doesn’t answer, and instead, he watches you lunge, watches Eld parry, watches your foot slide back to correct your balance—something you learned from him. There are pieces of him in your movements now. Small ones. Things he taught you without meaning to leave any part of himself behind.
For who?
His mouth dries. For you, he wants to say, but even in his own head, the lie limps, because if this were for you, then why does your smile seem weaker when you think no one is looking?
.
That evening, you deliver papers to his office. You knock once.
“Come in,” he says, and he hates that he knows it’s you just by the sound of your footsteps approaching. You step inside with the papers held to your torso. For some stupid reason, Levi expects tea. There’s none, only papers. You cross the room, set the stack on the corner of his desk, and take a half step back.
“Commander Erwin asked that these be reviewed before morning,” you say.
Your voice is perfectly calm. It’s built for distance, polished until nothing tender can catch onto it. Levi’s eyes shift from the reports, then to you.
“You can leave them,” he says.
You nod. “Yes, Captain.”
Levi swears his eye twitches from the title. “You don’t have to call me that every time,” he says.
You look at him then, and he almost wishes you hadn’t. Your eyes are not angry or pleading, but they’ve been extinguished of that hope you’ve been carrying with you for months now.
“I thought you preferred professionalism,” you say.
Levi grips the arm of his chair slightly. “I prefer people not putting words in my mouth.”
A flicker of hurt passes over your face, but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. “Understood.”
He should stop. He knows he should stop, but the silence after your answer feels unbearable, and Levi is not built for handling unbearable things he can’t kill. “That all?”
“Yes.”
You turn toward the door. He feels a spike of panic, the kind he’s only ever felt when he was galloping in the rain to return to Isabel and Furlan. His stomach sinks. “Wait.”
You stop. Your hand rests on the doorknob. Levi stares at your back, at the tension in your shoulders. You’re holding yourself with a carefulness that implies you’re waiting for something to split you open at any moment.
What does he want to say? Don’t go? No, ridiculous. I didn’t mean it? He did mean it. At least, he meant part of it. The part that wanted safety. The part that believes every relationship eventually ends in the ultimate heartbreak of the other person’s name carved into stone. I miss you? Absolutely not. The words rise to his tongue anyway, but Levi crushes them beneath the heel of his pride.
You wait. He says nothing, so you glance back at him. “Yes?” you say.
His throat works. The candlelight looks so soft against your face, and only then does he see how tired you are. Not physically, though perhaps that too, but tired emotionally. Tired of holding your hands to someone who keeps treating them like weapons.
Levi looks away first. “Nothing,” he says. The word tastes bitter in his mouth.
Your expression doesn’t change, and somehow that makes him feel worse. “Goodnight, Captain.”
You leave. Levi sits there for a long moment, staring at the place where you stood. The reports remain untouched. His tea, made by his own hand and brewed exactly the way he likes it, has gone cold beside him. He lifts the cup anyway, takes one sip, and slams it back down so hard that the porcelain almost cracks.
It tastes wrong.
Everything is wrong.
.
Levi sees you laughing with Eld in the training yard, and the feeling that moves him makes him so nauseous that he can only stand there with his hand still on his harness and hate everything about himself.
It’s not like he feels betrayal. He doesn’t overhear any confession and there’s no obvious intimacy that any reasonable man could point to and say “that’s the reason my blood is boiling.” You’re simply standing near the fence, one shoulder leaned against the post, your arms crossed as Eld speaks to you. His hair is messy from training, and his expression is unmistakably fond. Fond.
Levi’s eye twitches.
Eld says something too low for Levi to hear from across the yard, and you laugh. Not that small, polite laugh you’ve been giving Levi lately (at least before you started ignoring him weeks ago), the one that feels like a closed door and leaves him standing outside of it like an idiot. You laugh properly. Your head tips back and your face eases in a way that Levi hasn’t seen directed at him in days. Eld smiles, knowing he’s the reason you look a little less tired now.
Levi’s grip on his harness worsens until it creaks. He should look away, but he doesn’t. Eld steps closer, enough to reach past you and grab his coat hanging from the side of the training dummy, but from where Levi stands, the movement brings him into your space. Your shoulder brushes his. You don’t even flinch or step back. You only look down at what he’s doing, say something that makes his smile widen, and then you lift your hand to shove lightly at his shoulder.
It’s the same kind of touch you used to give Levi without thinking. A hand on his sleeve when you wanted his attention. Fingers brushing his hand when you set tea beside him. Your shoulder bumping his when you walked too close in a corridor and pretended it was accidental. The touch he had rejected so many times that you finally learned to control it.
Levi doesn’t know what he feels, but he convinces himself it’s not jealousy. Jealousy is for men who think they have a claim. Levi is without a claim. He made sure of that. In fact, he was the one who caused the distance with each cold reply, each command, and the times when you were vulnerable with him and he pushed it back as if tenderness was a weapon aimed at his throat.
So no, he has no right to feel anything when Eld leans closer to you. He has no right to hate the way you seem calmer beside him. He has no right to remember your face when you once told him that you wish he’d let you care about him, and how he had answered how he didn’t need that from you.
Eld says something else. You smile. Levi moves before he decides to.
By the time he crosses the yard, his expression has gone sharp enough to send three nearby soldiers into immediately pretending to be very busy with their gear. Eld notices him approaching first, straightening his posture the way a subordinate does when they realize their superior is walking toward them.
“Captain,” Eld says.
You turn. The smile fades from your face. Not entirely—you’re too composed for that now, too determined not to let Levi see where the pain still lives, but he sees the change anyway, the armor coming up to shield you.
“Captain,” you say.
Levi looks from you to Eld, then back to you. “You done wasting time?” The words are even colder than he wants them to be. Or they might be just as cold as he means them to be, because quite often being cruel is more acceptable, in his mind, than standing there and confessing that he actually walked across the yard because another another man made you laugh and Levi wanted, with a sudden violence that disgusts him, to insert himself between you and that warmth.
Eld’s brows draw together. You freeze. “I’m not wasting time,” you say. “Eld was helping me with the new recruits’ drills.”
“Looked like a lot of laughing for drills.”
The silence that follows is thin and almost dangerous. Eld’s eyes move briefly between the two of you, and because he’s neither stupid nor cruel, he steps back. “I’ll go help Auvray’s squad. Captain.” He gives you one last look, almost protective, then leaves.
Levi hates that too. He hates that Eld looks at you as if your feelings are something he knows how to handle gently. He hates more the fact that Eld might be better at it than he is. When the space between you clears, you face Levi fully.
“That was unnecessary,” you say.
“Excuse me?” Levi scoffs.
“You heard me.”
A month ago, the challenge in your voice would have come wrapped in humor. You probably would have tilted your head at that moment and smiled, softened the tone for him so you could pretend you were just teasing. This time, there’s no smile, nor softness offered for his comfort. He should be glad. He isn’t.
“You’re still on duty,” he says.
“So is Eld.”
“Eld isn’t the one I’m talking to.”
Your lips part slightly, half in surprise, half in disbelief. “No. I suppose not.”
Levi’s hands ball into fists at his sides. He wants to ask what that means. He wants to ask if there’s something between you two. He wants to ask if Eld has touched your hand, if you’ve brought Eld tea, if you smiled at Eld the way you used to smile at him. He wants to ask if you’re happy now that you’ve stopped talking to him. But he knows he has no right to ask any of it.
“You should be more careful,” Levi says instead, because his mouth has always known how to be the worst possible weapon. “People get the wrong idea when you throw yourself at every man who gives you attention.”
He did not mean to say that.
Your face goes blank. Completely, utterly blank. You don’t even look hurt or angry. It’s just blank. His stomach drops. Your fingers twitch once at your side, but your voice, when it comes, is surprisingly—painfully—eased.
“I see.”
You step back. Levi says your name. It leaves him before he can stop it, stripped of rank and anger and all the useless armor he keeps trying to force between himself and whatever the hell you’re doing to him.
“Don’t, Captain.” You turn away and leave without looking back.
The title hits harder than if you had slapped him. He honestly would have preferred if you slapped him. Levi just stands there, frozen, watching you leave while the recruits pretend not to stare, pretending that they didn’t just overhear the most emotionally charged conversation they’ve heard in their entire time in the military.
He thinks of following you at first. Then he thinks of what he would say. Nothing comes. Nothing that would undo it. Nothing that would explain why he keeps turning fear into a knife and then acting surprised when you bleed. So he stays where he is until your figure disappears amongst the crowd. Only then does he realize Eld has stopped near the fence and is looking at him with disappointment. Levi looks away first.
By the time he reaches his office, the anger has returned, boiling hotter than shame. He shuts the door harder than necessary, and the sound breaks through the silence of the room before it rushes back in, deeper than before. He looks at the teacup waiting on the corner of the desk, empty, because he’s not yet made tea and you no longer do.
It’s better this way, he tells himself. No more pointless kindness. No more interruptions. No more break snuck to him because you noticed he skipped a meal. No more stupid confessions. No more of you looking at him like he could be anything other than what he is. A soldier. A killer. A survivor by habit, not by virtue. A man who has spent his life learning the names of the people he couldn’t save.
Levi grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He remembers the exact words he said to you not two hours ago. The memory of your face after he said it hits him with such force that his breath hitches.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
He pushes away from the desk, pacing once toward the window, then back again, restless energy crawling beneath his skin. He wants to clean something. He wants to tear something apart. He wants to go back in time into the yard and rip the words out of the air before they can reach you. If he could, he would slap himself before he could even get the words out.
Instead, he does nothing. His thoughts circle you first. Your hand in his field of vision as it places tea on his desk. Your melodic voice. Your laugh across the mess hall. Your eyes, now careful, guarded because he taught you to guard them.
Then Eld. Eld standing too close. Eld making you laugh. Eld smiling at you. Eld looking at you like he wouldn’t punish you for wanting to be wanted.
Levi’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. This isn’t about Eld. That’s the truth, and he hates it. Eld is a good soldier. Loyal. Kind without making a spectacle of it. He’s the kind of man who probably knows how to accept affection. The kind of man who might say yes if you chose him instead.
The thought makes Levi’s stomach turn. He braces both hands on the desk and lowers his head. He realizes now what he’s been avoiding. It isn’t jealousy; it isn’t irritation or discipline or concern with professionalism. It’s fear. Raw fear.
It’s been there from the start, waiting beneath every rejection, every insult, every cold turn of his shoulder. He sees it now. You were never the danger. Wanting you was. Wanting you means imagining you outside the walls and worrying you won’t return. Wanting you means knowing the exact sound of your laugh and then imagining a world where he never hears it again. Wanting you means letting your existence become a part of his own, and losing you would nearly kill him. No, it would kill him.
And Levi knows loss.
His mother. Kuchel, pale and motionless in a bed that he’d seen too much of. Her hand no longer able to reach for him. Her voice gone before he was old enough to understand all the ways the world could take from him.
Then Isabel. Loud, passionate Isabel, with her recklessness and her impossible faith that the world above could be something other than a nightmare. Isabel, who had called him big brother with such devotion that he’d pretended to hate it because pretending was safer than letting himself feel vulnerable.
Furlan too. Furlan, who had trusted Levi’s judgement more than anyone had a right to, who followed him out of the Underground, who believed, who died because the world is merciless and Levi is never fast enough when it matters most.
His comrades. Countless comrades buried beneath banners and speeches and the rotten consolation that they died for humanity’s cause. Faces that once turned toward him in trust before the Titans took them.
Connection, to Levi, has never been safe. To him, it’s a door opening into a room that will one day be empty. A hand reaching for his that will one day go cold. A voice saying his name that will one day stop answering.
So he rejected you. Again and again and again. And some sick, righteous part of him had called it mercy. If he kept you away, you would be safer. If he made you stop loving him, you would stop standing too close to the blast radius of everything he loses. If he refused to want you, then losing you—if the world ever took you, when the world took you—would not destroy him.
Except you’re not gone. You’re alive. And he’s still managed to lose you.
Levi sits slowly in his chair, his legs suddenly feeling unsteady. He did this. Not titans. Not the Underground. Not fate, not duty, not the walls, not the endless bloody machinery of survival. Him. His fear. His hands pushing away the one person stubborn enough to keep reaching for him. To keep trusting him.
He doesn’t move for a while. The office grows darker around him, the last of the daylight fading behind the curtains. Somewhere outside, he hears footsteps. They’re not yours. He wishes he wasn’t so disappointed. He hears voices fall and rise. Life continues with an indifference that feels almost insulting.
Then comes a knock at the door. For a moment, he thinks foolishly that it’s you. Then the hope is snuffed by reality, and he doesn’t bother answering. The door opens anyway. Hange steps inside, takes one look at him sitting motionless behind his desk, and pauses. They already have a knowing look on their face.
“You know,” Hange says, closing the door behind them,” for someone so smart, you’re impressively stupid about feelings.”
Levi sighs deeply. “Fuck off, Four Eyes. Not in the mood.”
“No, I imagine you’re not.” Hange approaches without waiting for permission and leans against the edge of the desk. “I saw what happened. Eld looked like he wanted to hit you.”
“Eld knows better.”
“Mm. He does. That’s probably the only reason he didn’t.”
Levi looks away. The words should irritate him—and they do—but beneath the irritation is shame, and shame has sharper teeth. Hange studies him for a moment.
“What did you say to her?” they ask.
Levi’s eyelids flutter down briefly. It would be easy for him to lie. He could tell Hange to get out and leave him alone with the wreckage he caused. Instead, because some exhausted part of him is too tired to keep bleeding in secret, he says, “Something I shouldn’t have.”
“That bad?” Levi gives them a look, and it makes Hange wince. “Ouch. That bad.”
Silence settles between them. For once, Hange doesn’t rush to fill it. Levi stares at the teacup near his hand. He wonders if you still make tea for yourself. He hasn’t seen you near the tea station in a while—but then again, you could just be avoiding him that efficiently. Or perhaps you just avoid the places where he lingers.
“She stopped,” he says finally.
“You asked her to,” Hange says.
“I know.”
“Did you mean it?”
Levi’s throat tightens. That should be an easy question. He's built his entire life on making hard answers sound simple, but nothing about you has ever been simple, not from the first time you looked at him like he wasn’t nearly as scary as everyone was making him out to be.
“I thought I did,” he says.
“And now?” Hange asks.
Levi’s hand wraps around the teacup, though there’s nothing in it. He thinks of you laughing with Eld. He thinks of your face going blank. He thinks of how much easier it was when you loved him loudly enough that he could pretend your heart was the problem and not his own cowardice.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.
Hange doesn’t ask what this means—they know. “Start by not hurting her every time she gets close.”
Levi bitterly laughs once under his breath. “Brilliant advice.”
“You’re ever so welcome.” His eyes lift to meet them, and Hange’s expression is painfully serious now. He hates when they look like this—it means they’re impossible to escape. “You’re allowed to be scared, Levi.”
He looks away instantly. “No.”
“Yes,” they say, firmer. “You are. After everything you’ve lost, you’d be insane not to be. But being scared doesn’t give you the right to make her feel disposable.”
Levi’s stomach churns. “I know,” he says. It sounds like defeat. Maybe it is.
Hange’s voice gentles. “Do you love her?”
Levi freezes. His first instinct is to refuse. His second is anger. His third is to remember your face. Your smile. Your voice that softens only for him. Your absence now, filling his office more than your presence ever dared. Levi lowers his gaze. There’s nothing to hide behind anymore.
He nods.
Hange doesn’t smile like they normally would. They only nod once, confirming what they already knew and had been kind enough to let him reach on his own. “Then you’d better figure out how to say that to her before someone else does.” Levi glares at them, and they lift both hands in defense. “Just being real. She’s a catch.”
Real. Levi has always hated that word, but this reality sits in front of him now, unavoidable. He loves you. He hurt you. You might not wait for him to become brave. The idea ought to make him stand, should send him out of his office, down the corridor, to your door with an apology and every wall inside him burning down behind it. Instead, he stays seated, because despite his love being genuine, the fear that was born first is still the one to rule.
Hange pushes away from the desk. “For what it’s worth,” they say at the door, “I think she loved you enough to listen.”
Loved. Past tense. Levi flinches at that. Hange notices, but they leave anyway, the door clicking shut behind them. Levi sits alone in the dark with the word still lodged in his chest.
Loved.
.
Levi didn’t plan on drinking. He doesn’t drink. Not normally. He definitely doesn’t drink because he enjoys it. Enjoyment has always been something he doesn’t trust easily. He drinks because the bottle has been sitting untouched in the bottom drawer of his desk ever since Erwin left it there three months ago after some late night visit that had run past midnight and into the hours of the morning. He drinks because the office is silent now. He drinks because Hange’s question won’t stop replaying in his mind.
Do you love her?
He grabs the glass and pours the amber liquid into the cup with a hint of anger and almost spite. He doesn’t lift the glass for a toast to the empty room. There’s nothing worth celebrating or honoring in this moment. No winning, no relief, no opening up of himself that could be considered noble or brave. There’s only the fact that he loves you. And because Levi is a man who’s lived by the rule of cutting off weakness before the world can get its hands on it, that very fact feels like a wound in his gut, and he has no idea how to bandage it.
He drinks. The liquor burns down his throat and warms his chest. The heat gives him something physical to hate for a blessed second. He pours again. Outside his office, the headquarters eases into a slumber. Someone’s laughter echoes down the corridor before it’s hushed by another person. A door closes somewhere else. The fact that life continues is taunting him, acting like it doesn’t matter that his entire world has shifted because you finally stopped loving him.
Well, you didn’t stop. He doesn’t know if you stopped. He only knows you learned how to be silent about it. He taught it to you. The thought makes his heart skip a beat.
Levi leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, but the darkness behind them provides no mercy. It gives him the image of you instead, because his mind can’t go anywhere else. He imagines you in the supply room. You in the corridor, placing bread in his hand. You in the stables, admiring his connection to animals. You outside of the infirmary with both physical and emotional wounds. You in the courtyard today, your face going blank after he used your own affection against you.
“Damn it,” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow ridge. He’d just meant to protect himself. He’d looked at the recklessness of your devotion and saw every grave he’s stood over. His mother’s body. Isabel’s smile turned slack. Furlan’s trust, wasted on the impossible idea that Levi could let them all out alive.
Levi drinks again and again. The room begins to spin slightly. His reflection waits in the dark window as he turns to face it. Pale, blurred, a man with too much blood on his hands. A man who has no idea what to do with love except ruin it. He’s a coward.
If rejecting you had been mercy, then why had it only hurt you? If pushing you away had been kindness, then why had your voice gone so careful around him? If he had been protecting you, then why does the memory of your face make him feel like the danger was never the world outside the walls, but him?
He pours again, his hand shaking this time, and a small amount spills onto the desk. Normally, he would reach immediately for a cloth. Tonight, he only stares at the dark stain spreading over the polished wood. His mouth twists in both disgust and irritation.
“Great,” he says to no one.
Every time he raises the cup, it feels heavier. So does the truth. He loves you. He loves the way you say his name. He loves the stubborn tilt of your chin when you refuse to let his cruelty be the only thing between you. He loves you for noticing when he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, when he’s so angry that you know grief alone couldn’t cause it. He loves you, and it scares him so much that he’s tempted to seek refuge behind every locked door inside himself.
Instead, drunk and stripped bare by the quiet, Levi thinks of you. Your room is down the corridor, past the turn by the east stairwell, three doors from the end. He knows it by heart, despite not being there often.
For several long minutes, he sits motionless with the glass in his hand, raises to press against his forehead. He breathes deeply through the horrible desire of wanting to see you and the equally horrible knowledge that, deep down, he has no right to ask anything of you now.
Then he stands. His vision swims. Levi grips the desk, scowling at the fact that he can’t even balance himself. It’s pathetic, he thinks groggily, but he doesn’t sit back down. He leaves the bottle open on the desk. The spilled liquor dries beside his hand. He stumbles into the corridor.
You need to hear the truth from him. Even if you no longer want it.
.
You sit on the edge of your bed with a half-mended shirt in your lap, needle in your fingers. The motions are familiar after years of practice, though it has been a while since you’ve needed to mend something. You’re surprised, considering the less than gentle treatment your clothing constantly endures. You’re glad, however, that your mother taught you how to sew. You think briefly that you should send her a letter soon.
Then a knock comes. It’s so late in the night that you think you might have imagined it. You shake your head, dislodging the illusion, and return to your sewing. But then the knock comes again, more urgent. Your hands stop moving. Your stomach turns at the first thought that comes to your mind. But you know it’s not him. Why would it be? You sigh and set the shirt aside, then stand.
When you open the door, you’re immediately proven wrong. Levi is standing before you, one hand braced against the doorframe, his hair slightly messy, his cravat loose at the throat, his eyes too dazed. Levi is many things—controlled, scary enough to whip grown men into shape just by entering a room, but he’s never this. Never unsteady or vulnerable. Never looking at you like this as if he’s spent the entire night debating and fighting over the urge to go to your room, still not knowing whether he deserves to enter.
“Captain?” you say.
His face twists. He leans in slightly—not intentionally, but from a loss of balance. “Don’t call me that.”
Then you smell the liquor. You blink, taken aback. “Levi, are you drunk?”
His mouth pulls into a line that’s too bitter to be a smile. “Unfortunately.”
You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do with him at your door in the middle of the night, drunk enough that he’s tipping over but sober enough that his eyes are still full of pain. You don’t know if you should let him in or tell him to screw off, whether to be worried or angry, whether to protect yourself or reach for him before he walls. And the worst part is that deep down, you still want to care for him.
“Why are you here?” you ask.
Levi looks at you, and his face breaks in a way you’ve never seen before. “I fucked up.”
The words come rough and raw. They’re not even surprising to you, because you’ve known that for weeks now, but hearing him say it is different. You peer down the hall and step aside before you can convince yourself not to.
“Come in before someone sees you like this.” He enters slowly. You close the door behind him, and when you turn around, he’s just standing there, his shoulders and hands tensed, looking at everything except your face. “You should sit down.”
“No.”
“Levi—”
“I wanted you.” You freeze. His eyes finally lift to yours. “I wanted you. Every damn time. Every time you said it, every time you smiled at me, every time you made those stupid jokes. I wanted to say yes. And I didn’t, because I’m a coward.”
You swear all of the air in the room escapes at that moment. You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest, shock and hurt and old longing colliding so violently that you almost feel sick. This is what you wanted once, isn’t it? This confession, this man standing in front of you and finally saying the thing you’ve been dying to hear. But it only came after he drank. After he’s made you feel stupid for offering what he now claims he wanted. You swallow hard.
“You’re drunk,” you say. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.”
“No,” Levi says, stepping closer, then stopping himself. “You’re going to hear it. You listened to every shitty thing I said. You can listen to this too.”
He’s not wrong. You did listen. Every time. You stood there and took every dismissal, every wound, and you kept making excuses for him because loving him was easier than admitting he had been hurting you on purpose.
Your eyes burn. “Fine,” you whisper. “Say it, then.”
“I’m sorry,” Levi says. He swallows, looks down, then forces himself to look at you again. “I’m sorry for all of it. For making you feel like you were stupid for caring. For treating you like dirt under my shoes. For taking every good thing you gave me and throwing it away because I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
Your throat closes. You want to hate him. You think hatred would be far easier than this—the fact that you still love him while still remembering why you learned to retreat. “You made me feel pathetic.” Levi flinches at that. For a second, you’re happy, and then you hate yourself for thinking that.
“I know,” he says, his voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it.
“You made me wish I hadn’t said any of it,” you continue. “I meant it every time, Levi. Even when I made it sound like a joke. Even when I smiled. Even when everyone laughed. I meant it, and you—” You pause. “You made me feel humiliated.”
Levi’s eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, they’re wet. “I know.”
“That doesn’t fix it.”
“I’m not trying to fix it.”
“Then what are you trying to do here?”
He looks at you so helplessly that it hurts you. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
His gaze drops to your hands, then returns to your face, and when he speaks, the words sound like they’ve been dragged out of the deepest, most guarded place in him. A place you have rarely, if ever, seen.
“Love someone.”
The room goes silent. The candle flickers across his face. Your heart twists. Levi takes a shaky breath. You match him.
“But I love you. I do. And I’m sorry it took me hurting you to stop lying about it.”
Part of you wants to reach for him. The other part of you wants to step back. You want to tell him you love him too, and you always have. You want to ask why love had to be dressed in apology. Instead, you look at the floor between you.
“Levi,” you say quietly. “I still love you. But I’m hurt.”
“I know,” he says.
“And I don’t forgive you yet.”
“Good.” That surprises you. You raise both eyebrows, and he gives a humorless little exhale. “You shouldn’t. Not just because I finally stopped lying to myself.”
“You need to sit down,” you say.
This time, he doesn’t argue. He lowers himself into the chair by your desk, elbows resting on his knees, head lowered. He looks so exhausted. You pour him some water from your pitcher and bring it to him. Both of you freeze momentarily when his fingers brush yours when he takes the cup. He withdraws first.
“I’ll say it again when I’m sober,” he says hoarsely. You look down at him. “If you’ll let me.”
Your fingers curl around the empty space where the cup had been. The answer should be simple, but it isn’t. You don’t know if you want to hear those words without the barrier of alcohol. They might just break your resolve.
After a moment, you nod. “Say it sober,” you whisper. “And then we’ll see.”
Levi nods and closes his eyes.
.
Morning breaks through the thin curtains, laying a strip of light across the floor and the half-mended shirt still folded at the end of your bed. Levi wakes in a chair—the same chair he was in last night. He’s no stranger to falling asleep in chairs. Where others would be aching, he feels fine, save for the headache pulsing behind his eyes.
He doesn’t remember where he is for a second. Then he looks around, and he remembers everything about last night. The drinking. Coming to your door. Your face when he said he wanted you. Him confessing his love.
Levi sighs. Across the room, you’re laying in bed, turned toward the wall, blanket pulled to your shoulder. You look peaceful, or close enough to peaceful that guilt moves through him with a force that nearly brings him to his feet to leave before you can wake up. Maybe that would be better. He could go back to his quarters and pretend this never happened.
He shifts carefully, trying not to make the chair creak, but the movement sends pain up his spine and a low sound leaves him before he can swallow it. You stir in your sleep and wake. Levi freezes. You open your eyes slowly and turn around to face him. Now that he looks at you, you don’t look like you’ve just woken up from sleep. You don’t have that grogginess most do, and your hair is neatly brushed.
He gets confirmation of this when you get out of bed and grab a teacup, filled with tea that you must have brewed before he woke up. You carry it over to him. He stares at it, then at you, and you hold it out.
“Well?” you say.
Levi takes the teacup, though his fingers shake around the porcelain. He doesn’t even bother to hide it this time. He looks at the caution in your eyes, the hurt still sitting behind it, the hope that lingers. His mouth dries and his throat closes up, but he forces the words out anyway.
“I love you,” he says.
Your lips part slightly. “You’re sure?”
Levi lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, though it’s not really a laugh, more like an exhale of exhaustion laced with a hint of relief. “I was sure before,” he says. “I was just an idiot.”
Your face crumples for a second. You never thought this day would come, that he could utter those words. You didn’t realize how badly you wanted this. How much it cost to hear it now.
He sets the tea aside and stands, keeping enough distance that you can choose whether to close it. You’re not sure if you want to yet, but the urge trembles between you.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
You look down, blinking hard to force the tears back. “Please don’t hurt me every time you’re scared.”
Levi nods. “I won’t. I promise.”
The silence comes to rest between you. Then, carefully, you step forward and reach for his hand. Levi looks down as your fingers touch his, stunned by the gentleness of it, by the fact that after everything, you’re still willing to reach out. He grabs your hand and wraps his fingers around yours.
levis left hand didn’t dare move from your body , especially not now. the least he could do for some support was hold you.
his patient girl, yawning, dozing off in his lap while he continued his paperwork. you were quite the distraction for him, it just made his hold on your lower back firm even more, he couldn’t resist. your soft sleepy mumblings, some of them incoherent. but he’d respond “mhm, yeah.” and all would be well.
and when you struggled staying awake, you busied yourself with kisses along his cheek, his temple, sometimes his neck. he let out soft breaths when you did this, the pen in his hand stilling, waiting out your affection slowly so he could go back to work.
“levi…” you trailed off in your words, it’d been a few minutes since your last update on his progress.
he let out a barely audible, “hm?” at your words, his focusing shifting in and out between the work he had a professional obligation to and the girl his heart had an obligation to.
you leaned your head down on his shoulder a bit more, slouching over. “hurry up..” you said, the slightest gruff in your voice now.
he held back a small chuckle, but he couldn’t help the smile on his lips. “you’re ordering me around now?”
and at the sound of your silence, your sleepiness had gotten to him, his professional desires falling back. he set down his pen, leaning up, and giving you a small quick kiss while his warm hands held you upright.
he looked up at you, his mind already set. “…you win, let’s go.” he said with finality, before picking you up and carrying you into the bedroom.
i always get a lil embarrassed posting character x oc stuff but also cringe is dead and i like how this turned out!! mirror kiss!!!!! but he's a vampire so you can't see him!!!!! yeah!!!!!!!!!!
areudirty
annaxmalina
snowghoul
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