(trying to work out the rust from my writing skills. i was thinking about first kisses so here's a little postwar something)
“Hey, Levi.”
“Hm?”
“Did you know that 80 million bacteria are exchanged in one kiss?”
Sitting across from you at the dining table, Levi looks up midway through his first sip of tea. Sunlight is pouring through the parted curtains over the kitchen sink, draping you and the page you’re reading from in a warm glow.
He isn’t sure where the question came from, but a quick glimpse of the upside down writing from the inside sleeve you’d nicked tells him you’re reading some sort of article. You usually like the advice columns the most.
“Is that so?” he hums, focusing again on the front page in front of him.
You nod, not looking up. “Mm.”
Time ticks away. Several seconds pass in amiable silence. Then, you take a deep breath and sit back up, like someone coming out of a trance.
You prop your elbows on the table and tuck your interlaced hands beneath your chin, watching him. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
Your tone is light–-conversational even-–but he has been around you long enough to recognize the look in your eye. You’re up to something.
He takes another sip of his tea, enjoying the way it burns a little on the way down his throat. The heat of the sun suddenly makes the collar of his shirt feel uncomfortably snug.
Of course you already know he hasn’t. Or at least, he assumes you do. By the time he’d joined the Survey Corps, you were already an established soldier. His reputation around headquarters resembled more of an uncivilized dog than a charismatic flirt. In his state now, people struggle to meet his eyes, much less get close enough to kiss.
He clicks his tongue. “Like I’ve ever had time for that kind of thing.”
He can feel the tips of his ears go red, which is only made worse by the shift in your expression when you notice it too. The small little smile that grows on your face that always makes his stomach flip.
The only 2 times that Levi raised his voice at another person to get his point across to the other party. (Sidetrack: he didnt even do that to Zeke when he was chiding him)
Now, you can see that his sudden burst of anger caught both Isabel and Hange by surprise.
Caution: Levihan lens is on
Although the words he had used can be interpreted by a third party as heartless, but we all know that he hides his kindness deeply and does not like to be described as such.
So, he is really worried about the safety of Isabel and Furlan, and not thinking that their skills are subpar or that they are a liability.
And if he is truly angry with Hange playing with the lives of soldiers, the first thing he would have done is to grab her by the collar and give her a throw, like what he did. But Hange is still in her crazy mode and blabbering about the loss of the titan (aka unaware of the dangers around her), that he had to remind her of her own safety, of course after ensuring that his blades are clean and that Oruo is ok.
And there are many times, esp in the Smartpass short stories, where Levi is reminded of, and being horrified by the dangers Hange put herself on whenever she gets engrossed in her crazy mode. (Shelter from the rain, Dusty Library, Raid of the Section Commander's office etc. Probably more, got to read again)
Of course things took a turn when Hange's curiosity led them to discover Ilse's remains and notebook. And the look Levi gave when Hange (yet again) took the first step to investigate the remains in the treehole, basically is a look of "....I should not have...." aka guilt.
The deeper the care towards the other person, the stronger the emotion being expressed out. 🙂↕️
♡ Levi hires you to work at his tea shop, and the two of you become close.
♡ SFW fluff!
♡ Postwar!Levi x Fem!Reader
♡ One shot, soft Levi, friends to lovers vibes
♡ Word count: 2416
♡ Summary: Levi hired you years ago to work at his tea shop, back when it was brand new. Over the years, you became close friends, and recently developed into more. You're both a bit rough around the edges, but get each other in a way no one else can. You're like two black cats in love.
It was years ago that you'd walked by Levi's tea shop in Marley and noticed the piece of paper pinned to the door that simply said "Hiring." in bold, slightly messy, handwriting.
Your eyebrows raised despite yourself, slightly amused by the straightforwardness of the sign -- no frills, no details, no niceties.
Marley had only just started to get on its feet again after a full year of scraping by while rebuilding, trying to shake off the lingering fears and treat the deepest wounds. Everyone was on the precipice of healing, and you figured it was as good a time as any to bring back some normalcy into your life. Working at a tea shop seemed like a decent enough way to do that; quiet, peaceful, easy enough. You were never much of a people person, but you could handle basic customer interactions.
When you'd entered the tea shop, you were met with Levi, who was behind the counter, a focused -- but not harsh -- look on his face as he neatly stacked boxes of tea into an orderly pyramid, a small display of the tea flavors. The bell above the door jingled as you entered, and he looked up at you, his gaze narrowing slightly, his hands pausing their precise movements. You got a clear look at his face -- the cloudy white eye, the healing scars tracing patterns into his skin.
"Hiring?" You asked, simply, nodding toward the sign on the window.
His eyes darted toward the sign, as if he'd forgotten that he put it there, and then fell back onto you.
"Guess so," he answered, his voice lacking any sort of feeling about the matter. "You want to work here?"
Before answering, your gaze scanned along the interior of the tea shop -- it was small and sparsely decorated, but not in a cold way. It was simple, comforting. Small wooden tables dotted the perimeter, intricately painted ceramic tea cups were stacked behind the counter, a few plants sat in the windowsills, drinking in the hazy sunlight.
"Yeah." Your gaze found his again, and you nodded. "I do."
"'Kay." His focus returned to the pyramid of tea boxes, his hands continuing to organize the stack. "What makes you qualified?"
"It's making tea," you retorted, dryly, without thinking. "Not mechanical engineering." You regretted it the instant you said it, realizing you'd likely butchered your chances of getting hired and that you should've made something up about having a passion for serving the community.
Without moving his head, his eyes drifted toward you, and you could see the faintest look of amusement tugging on his lips.
"Fine." This was all he had said, and you waited for him to ask more questions to evaluate you further, but they never came.
You stood there, somewhat awkwardly, watching as he continued working on his little display of boxes. Once he was finished, he tossed an apron over the counter toward you, which you caught, the fabric balled up into your hands. You were hired.
Surprisingly, it didn't take long for you to get accustomed to working alongside Levi. Neither of you were particularly talkative, preferring to keep to yourselves as you did your individual tasks; but, even separately, you worked in perfect harmony together, a seamless fit.
Over the years, it became less that you worked for Levi, and more that you worked with him, the tea shop turning into something that belonged to the both of you. It was never something that was discussed, it was just understood.
You'd started adding your touches to the shop -- art hung on the walls, pillows on the chairs, little knickknacks here and there. The shop was undeniably warmer and more inviting, and even though Levi would narrow his gaze each time you added something new, he never stopped you.
One day, he'd even shown up and placed a small ceramic cat on the counter, adjusting its position just so, though he wouldn't tell you where he got it. You'd teased him, somewhat relentlessly, about it, to which he blushed despite himself and muttered that it was never going to happen again, that you were a horrible nuisance in his life; you called him "such a baby", but made him a cup of black tea and all was forgiven. He brought a new plant into the shop the following week.
You'd share knowing glances with each other whenever a customer was particularly talkative or bothersome, and after they'd leave, you'd gripe to each other about it.
During breaks or lulls in the day, you'd both hover over the same book on the counter, reading simultaneously, your shoulders brushed together just barely. You wouldn't say anything, or even share your thoughts or opinions -- you'd just read, together, settled into the quiet of the tea shop.
As the time passed on, you'd begun to care for Levi, in a way you hadn't expected, hadn't experienced before. When he'd occasionally burn his hand on the stove, you'd hold the ice to his hand. When he had a cold (which he'd never admit to), you'd bring him soup from the cafe down the street. When you could tell he hadn't been sleeping well, you'd tell him to go home early and you'd handle cleaning up and closing the shop.
He'd always frown slightly and say something about how you shouldn't go through the trouble, that he can take care of himself, but you could tell that he appreciated it, that he might have even begun to count on it. You'd usually just tell him to shut up. He'd laugh, barely.
You knew, somehow, that you were the only person he let treat him this way -- gentle, caring.
You two had developed a quiet sort of friendship. You didn't talk all that much, you never saw each other outside of the shop, and you were both a bit rough around the edges. But, you fit together. Understood each other. It was as simple as that.
That was how it had been for years, which is why it took you by surprise when, on one particularly cold winter night, Levi insisted on walking you home after closing. You'd hesitated for a moment to answer, recalling all of the rainy, snowy, cold late nights that you'd walked home alone before, but the expression on his face told you that any protesting would be pointless. So, you let him.
Once you'd arrived at your front door, the two of you lingered silently on your porch, the only sound the soft creaking of the wood below and the brisk wind shuffling through the trees.
"Thanks for walking me home, Levi," you'd said, pulling your key out of your coat pocket and beginning to reach for the door. "Goodni-"
His hand clasped around your wrist, halting your movement. Your eyes snapped up to his face, his gaze secured onto his grip on your wrist. A stretched moment of quiet passed between you two, as you waited for him to say something, but he didn't.
"Okay," you said, drawing the word out, raising an eyebrow slightly as you look at him. "Are you holding me hostage because you think it'd be funny to see me freeze to death out here, or...?"
The tension in his expression dissipated slightly, your dry, teasing tone eased his frayed nerves with a comforting familiarity. He'd gotten used to you, to the way you spoke; it became one of the few, small things he'd ever allowed himself to rely on.
"Y/N," he said, his tone taking on a softness, a somewhat pleading vulnerability that you'd never heard before, as his eyes finally drifted up to meet your gaze. The cloudy grayness in his eye faded into a pale, ethereal blue under the moonlight, the features of his face illuminated, exposed.
He didn't have to say another word. You knew exactly what he meant. That was just the way you two worked.
"Yeah," you'd whispered, knowingly, the word pillowing into the cold air.
His hand slid down your wrist to your hand, his rough, calloused fingers gripping around yours with a sense of uncertainty and newness, like he was learning a new language. He tugged gently, drawing you in, close enough that when both of you breathed, the visible clouds mixed together.
His free hand rose to your face, slowly grasping around your jaw. His teeth clenched slightly, a hint of self-consciousness in his gaze as he looked at the gap his missing fingers left on your cheek; feeling unable to hold you completely.
"Don't," you whispered, somewhat sternly, urging the self-doubt out of his gaze. Your hand flew up to cover his, holding it against your face, the missing fingers not even a thought in your mind.
"You always do that." The words came out as a rough, tumbling statement.
Your lips curled into a faint smile, your head tilted into his palm. "Do what?"
"Protect me," he whispered, his eyes searching yours, "from myself, mostly."
"Can't help it," you whispered back, the words softening his gaze even further.
Before he could think about it more, before he could stop himself, he pulled you in closer, only a sliver of cold air between your lips. He paused for a beat, drawing in a shallow breath, before closing the space. His lips trembled against yours for a fleeting second, before melting against yours. A perfect fit.
His grip on your cheek tightened slightly, his lips moved against yours with a quiet desperation, as if communicating all the words he'd been wanting to say.
He broke the kiss just as suddenly as it started, his lips remaining parted, soft and glistening.
"Goodnight, Y/N," he whispered, before leaning in to press a kiss on your cheek by your ear, his thumb brushing against your jaw one last time. He took one last look at you, his expression somewhat unreadable, before turning and walking away, leaving you at your doorstep.
That night was not too long ago, only a few weeks had passed since. Your relationship was like a delicate melody -- starting slow and gentle, then blooming into a perfectly synchronized symphony.
He'd started walking you home every night, and he'd come inside for a while, sitting on your couch with you, talking more than he ever had (which still wasn't much, by most people's standards). You'd make dinner for the two of you, drape a blanket on his lap on the couch, gently tend to the scars on his face when they'd occasionally get irritated.
You'd lean your head on his shoulder, intertwine your fingers with his. Sometimes, he'd lean into your touch, slinging an arm around you and letting his head settle into the curve of your neck. Your fingers would stroke his hair softly or trace patterns up and down his back.
He'd always thank you at the end of the night and kiss you as if you were about to disappear into thin air. While he never specified what he was thanking you for, you knew he was thanking you for taking care of him.
That's all you really wanted to do -- care for him. You knew that his scars ran deeper than the visible ones, and the more he shared bits of his past with you, you could tell that he never had it easy. His life, until now, was one of fighting, survival, and loss. All you wanted was to alleviate some of the pain, some of the weight that had built up within him for so long.
So, you did these little things to dote on him, to show him what true affection felt like, in hopes that someday, he'd realize how deserving he is of it. That over time, the little things would grow into bigger things, that affection wouldn't be so foreign and unsettling to him. You were willing to wait.
He was standing by your front door now, slinging his jacket onto his shoulders, preparing to head home after another night spent together. You'd sat on the couch, his head on your shoulder, and he'd just finished telling you a simple story about Furlan and Isabel, who you'd learned about recently.
"Levi," you begin, your eyes shifting toward the window, at the powdery snow flurrying through the air. "It's freezing outside, you need more than a jacket."
His gaze follows yours out the window, his expression remaining unfazed. "It's just snow, Y/N."
You ignore him, and grab a knit, brightly colored scarf from the coat rack and hand it to him, your expression stern, but gentle. "Wear this."
"What? You can't be serious. I'll look ridiculous," he looks at you and the scarf dubiously, his brows pressed together with distaste. "I'll be fine."
"Would you just shut up and take it?" You roll your eyes, but you smile, affectionately. Before he can object further, you wrap the scarf around him, earning a groan from the back of his throat.
His nose scrunches slightly in disapproval, and the corners of his lips curve downward, but he lets you finish placing the scarf around his neck.
"Thanks, Y/N," he mumbles, leaning in to kiss your cheek, the touch soft and fleeting.
Mhm, you hum softly, satisfied with your little victory. You think he's about to turn and leave, but he doesn't -- he stands there, still, looking at you for a long moment.
"What, hoping to get a matching beanie?" You tease, warmly, a laugh escaping your lips.
He shakes his head.
"I told you a while ago that I never felt like I had a home before. Not a real one, anyway. But..." he says, his voice taking on a softened introspection, a gentleness to his face that you've discovered he reserves only for you. "I think this is it."
"Marley? Yeah, it's not so bad. Told you you'd get used to it," you say, a gentle, affectionate teasing in your voice, your fingers adjusting the scarf around his neck.
"No, Y/N. Not Marley," he corrects, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze remaining intently fixated on yours. "You. You're my home."
Your expression melts, a faint pink blush rising to your cheeks. Your hand drifts up from the scarf to cradle his cheek, your thumb tracing his cheekbone.
He turns his head, his eyes remaining on you, and he presses a soft kiss into your palm. The kiss feels like he's making a promise to always be yours, and for you to always be his.
Levi always cut his own hair. Always. Over the bathroom sink, the door open just a sliver, a crease between his brow, his lips set in a straight line.
You knew this about him. You figured it was just another one of his habits and particularities, like how he has to brew his own tea. You tried once, and when he took a sip, his nose twitched and he asked “How did you make this?” — not quite an insult, he couldn’t bring himself to be completely rude to you, but you knew what he meant. You haven’t made tea since.
But the hair cutting. He’d never announce it, never make a comment about it after. If you told him it looked nice, he’d simply make a noise of acknowledgement and move on.
You’d simply find him, in the bathroom, door cracked open, while he leaned over the sink, snipping pieces of hair with practiced precision. The muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back would flex and move with every motion, the tension lingering within them obvious. The irises of his eyes looked cloudier, distant, and that crease between his brow persisted. Always.
You push the bathroom door open, slowly, soundlessly, as if a sudden movement would make him disappear into thin air. Sometimes, you thought it might.
You lean against the doorway, watching him — he catches your gaze in the mirror for just a second, his eyes locking onto yours with a fleeting vulnerable intensity, before he focuses on himself again.
You just want to help. It’s all you ever want to do, really — to take over some of the tedious little things he does by himself every day, just because he’s always done them by himself. Bit by bit, you want to show him that the weight he carries on his shoulders is something that can be shared, that you’d carry it with him, happily.
“You know, there are these things called barbers that are pretty good at this sort of thing,” you tease, gently, a faint smile curling onto your lips. You knew a groan was coming, but you also knew he appreciated your teasing. It made him feel more grounded.
Groan. Tch.
“Why would I pay someone to do a shitty job?” His eyes flicker to yours in the mirror again, a touch softer this time.
“Want help with the back?” you ask, your eyes lingering on the strands of hair that have begun to grow down the curve of his neck. “I’ll do it for free. It’s really quite a steal.”
“No,” he says. Instantly, flatly.
You walk over closer to him, as he snips the hair in front of his face.
“I won’t mess it up. I can handle trimming a few pieces of hair.” You smile at him in the mirror, and your hand finds its way to rest on the nape of his neck, gently. He flinches, slightly. He never moved away from your touch anymore — not since the early days of your relationship, where every affectionate touch was foreign to him. In fact, now he usually leaned into it, wanted it.
“I can do it myself.” His voice comes out a little lower, a little rougher this time. His eyes don’t find yours in the mirror.
“Okay, Levi.” Your hand retracts from his neck, and you exit the bathroom. You didn’t want to push, you never did. You learned that with Levi, things had to progress a little slower. It had been like that since the first time he kissed you — his lips had been so light against yours, his hands just barely cradled your face. He’d never admit it out loud, but you knew he was afraid — afraid to let himself care about something precious, afraid that you’d leave him one way or another, afraid that he’d never be able to give you what you deserve.
You knew none of it was true. You loved him, and you weren’t going anywhere, and you loved the way he loved you. Quietly, subtly, through actions and small gestures, instead of words and big romantic displays. It was all you’d ever need.
You didn’t need him to sweep you off your feet or tell you that he loved you every day. You were just as happy waking up every morning to a warm cup of jasmine tea on your bedside table, in your favorite mug that he had once spent hours fixing after the time you had dropped it. It was always made perfectly — something he’d learned just for you, despite calling it “that herbal crap.”
Seeing the way your lips curved into a smile after taking a sip was really the only thing he ever needed.
So, you leave the bathroom and you get into bed, and you wait for him to join you.
A short while later, he does. He slides into the bed beside you, his head finds the place on your chest that it always does. His head turns away from you, the back of his neck a faint red from rubbing it with a towel, tiny drops of water glistening in his hair.
You reach out and stroke his hair — while he doesn’t let you cut it, he will always let you run your fingers through it. You’ve found that it soothes him, that it helps him relax at night.
He makes a noise of approval, of affection.
“I’ve never let anyone cut my hair,” he says after a while, a hint of apology in his tone.
“Levi.” Your hand continues to stroke his soft hair. “You don’t need to explain it to me.”
“My mom was the only person who’s ever cut my hair.” His voice is low, a rare softness to it, as he admits this, his face turned away from you. “I don’t want…” His voice trails off.
He doesn’t need to continue. You know what he means. He’d told you bits and pieces about his mom, about his childhood, and you’d been able to put it all together. You could tell, by the way he talked about his mom, that his memory of her was starting to slip through his fingers — and now, it seemed, the way she cut his hair is one of the few memories left.
“I know,” you say, your voice soft. “Don’t worry. But, at least let me get you some better scissors for it.”
A long, gentle silence falls between you two. Your eyes trace the slope of his shoulder, the slow rising and falling of his breathing.
He turns over, his head faces toward you. Your fingers drift from his hair to the curve of his cheek.
“Maybe… next time, you can help.” His voice is a slight, relaxed mumble, and his eyes search yours. “With the back. It’s a pain. Practically break my damn neck doing it.”
Mmm, you hum, nodding softly. “Alright, I will.”
“Just don’t make it uneven. Or I might have to leave you for a shitty barber.”
You laugh, and you smile. This is all he ever needs.
The corners of his lips twitch into a faint smile. His hand reaches up to capture yours as it gently caresses his face, and he presses a soft kiss into your palm. You know what this gesture means.
“I love you too, Levi.”
⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹ ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
My first time posting a little Levi one shot fic. Maybe I’ll do more! Hope you like. :)
