TAG YOUR MOOTS AND MAKE THEM EXPLAIN THEIR USERNAMES LORE
Starting with me:
Hyyl18 because when i was youngest i had a group in a random app with some friends and i didnt knew qhat username to use so i decided to create one with things i used to read since we were talking abt fanfic in this group so: Hot Yaoi Yuri Lemon +18 stuff (i was in my dirty era dont dare to judge me). Hyyl18 thats it. Now i use it everywhere yay
@patroclus-is-the-bigger-person @b4rty-r0s13r-w1ll-fck-y0ur-m0m @cuntyteardrop @glassesgirlies @leninthestarlight @bardorsomethinglikethat anyone else who wanna join tbh yay
I picked out this username back in 9th grade when I was creating my Wattpad account. I had a list that I made years ago of username ideas (in case I ever started a YouTube channel). And I ended up picking dr3am_caf3, which is what I use for multiple platforms!
So apparently they're making a movie with an AI generated version of a deceased actor. Not only is it disrespectful to his name, image, and legacy, it could be the first step towards replacing actors and actresses with AI. As an actress myself, I do not support this, and I will not stand for it. AI is going too far, and we need to do something about it.
Stop the AI movie using deceased actors
This is a petition to urge studios to not give into corporate greed and exploit actors and actresses, living and dead. Please sign it and help us to put a stop to this!
Genuinely disgusting what they’re using AI for. When will it actually be used to better life for everyone? Replace dangerous and menial jobs? Help increase lifespan? Be something that will help humanity prosper? This is just degenerating us.
bleh thiis is so disrespectful though i mean just get another damn actor....he is at peace now, and shit, @formulaparkolympian is right, we have it seems not been using ai as well as we could be. genuinley disturbing and disrespectful though....im dissapointed
Holy shit this is so disrespectful to the actor and reminds me of everything about AI I fear, we created AI to help people, not to mimic them. Hire another actor, isn't job employment a massive problem? Wth this is so disturbing and disrespectful...gods. @nicothehalfblood
I get some people in this world are homophobic but do they really have to go this far but disrespecting their rights? OUR AMERICAN DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE STATES, FUCKING STATES, that EVERY yes EVERY SINGLE PERSON STANDING ON AMERICAN SOIL, must be treated with equality, additionally being provided with inalienable rights. This applies to trans people too. They are human, not an object to be throwing and putting labels on.
Why do the conservatives have to deny every queer thing? Like come fucking on, I get it that majority of you are respecting your religion but do you know the phrase “be yourself?” If a person isnt what they believe they are, let them modify into someone they think is them. God fucking dammit give me a break
uhm tags…?
@nefariouslittleschemer @paranoia-offical @s0l4rb4llsf4n @mtx-art @da-police-offical @moonjellyfisho @laciffo-natas @satan-offical (sorry again to u satan 😭) @no-one-offical @heterosexuality-official
please please please at least reblog this even if you don't live in the us!! i am so fucking pissed that this is happening as a trans teen. not only will it make it harder to be accepted in my red state of texas, it will put a target on my head even if my parents give permission for me to be marked as male. genuinely fuck the government.
“If all you old men were hares on the mountain / how many young girls would take guns and go huntin’?” (Magnanimity by Rabbitology)
I saw this earlier this week. God I’m so tired of this goddamn administration. Keep trans kids alive and creeps away from our fucking bodies.
Tagging mutuals as always, thank you @silly-blue-gosling for the tag
@liamthesnail @sir-froggs @swagerly @lynx-of-clouds (Ik the rule but I’m breaking it bc this is important ^^) @hyperfixatedmythosgirl @stankycheez @ruginabug @buymyfinepies @randomperson3071 @crypticraccoon96 @m0thwithaflashlight @kounelisbrunch @sothis39
@hashediedyet pls make a post abt this if you can 🩵
my father will dislike me trying to spread the word because he agrees with the law that was passed... but who cares this needs to be known (and all the marginalization shit too when does that end it's been going on since the dawn of humanity)
Content Warnings: Angst / Abusive Words / Curse Words / Mentions of Death / Drunkness / Alcohol-usage / Begging
“Aniki. Let’s ta—”
“Not now, Genya.”
Sanemi didn't look up from the sword he was polishing. His movements were mechanical and aggressive, the whetstone scraping against the steel with a harsh, screeching rhythm that filled the quiet room.
“Nii-chan… Y/N—”
“I said, not now—”
“Why? If I ask too much, you’ll push me away too?!”
The scraping stopped. The sudden silence in the room was deafening, heavy with the weight of the accusation. Sanemi’s knuckles turned white around the hilt of his nichirin blade, his shoulders locking into a rigid, defensive line.
Genya stood in the doorway, his tall frame trembling with a mixture of rage and sheer, suffocating grief. He had kept his mouth shut for weeks, watching his brother wander the empty halls like a ghost, but seeing the dust collect in the kitchen—seeing the absolute lack of life in the house since you left—had finally broken his patience.
"Go to your room, Genya," Sanemi said, his voice dangerously low, though it lacked its usual fiery bite. It just sounded tired.
Hollow.
"No!"
Genya shouted, stepping fully into the room.
"I am not a child anymore, and I am not going to pretend everything is fine! You treated her like she was nothing. You called her a beggar, Nii-chan! She stayed here because she cared about us—about you—and you drove her out because you're too much of a coward to let someone love you!"
"You know nothing about it," Sanemi hissed, finally turning around. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles beneath them proving he hadn't slept a full night since the gate clicked shut.
"She was wasting her life here. I gave her what she needed. Freedom."
"She didn't want freedom from us!" Genya's voice cracked, tears finally spilling over his scarred cheeks. "She was family to me. She was the only person who made this place feel like a home instead of a graveyard. And you threw her away. Are you going to do it to me next? The moment I become too much clutter for you, are you going to throw me out into the dirt too?"
Sanemi flinched as if he had been physically struck. The word 'clutter'—your word, the final brand you had left on his conscience—made his chest tighten so violently he could barely breathe.
He wanted to scream at his brother. He wanted to storm out. But as he looked at Genya's tear-stained face, the horrifying truth settled deep in his gut.
He had wanted to protect Genya from the pain of his misery, but by breaking you, he had broken his brother all over again. He was completely alone in the void he had built, and the walls were finally closing in.
“Woah woah… what’s happening here, Shinazugawas?”
Sanemi pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t expect any visitors right now, especially not Tengen.
The former Sound Hashira had always been a good friend to him, along with Obanai and even Giyu, who had surprisingly become a close companion as well.
"Why are you here, Uzui? I did not let you in."
"The gate was unlatched, mate, and honestly, you could hear Genya shouting from the next town over," Tengen said, leaning casually against the doorframe. He had a flask of sake hooked on his finger and a bright, easy grin on his face, completely blind to the emotional wreckage he had just walked into.
"I was in the area and thought I would drop off some premium sake. Where is Y/N? I brought those sweet rice cakes she likes, too."
The mention of your name was like a gunshot in the small room.
Genya let out a sharp, ragged breath, looking away instantly as fresh tears spilt over his scars. Sanemi froze entirely, his grip tightening on his polishing cloth until his knuckles turned a violent white.
Tengen’s smile faltered slightly. He looked between the two brothers, his sharp instincts finally picking up on the suffocating, heavy air in the room. The usual warmth of the house was completely gone. The kitchen stove was cold, dust was beginning to settle on the tatami mats, and the silence between the siblings was deafening.
"Hold on," Tengen said, his voice dropping its loud, flamboyant edge, replaced by a sudden seriousness. He looked at Sanemi’s hollow, sleepless eyes, then at Genya’s trembling shoulders. "Where is she, Sanemi? Did something happen?"
Sanemi didn't answer. He couldn't. He just stared at the floorboards, the word 'clutter' ringing in his ears, completely unable to face the man who had come to visit a home that no longer existed.
Meanwhile, away from the suffocating silence of the Wind Estate, the world kept moving.
The village was louder than the estate ever was. Here, there was the constant chatter of merchants, the scent of roasting dango, and the bright, uncomplicated laughter of children playing in the streets. You had taken a small room above a textile shop, spending your days helping the weaver handle the heavy bolts of silk. It was honest work. It was quiet work.
Most importantly, it was work that did not require you to check the horizon for a silver-haired man who would never come home with a smile.
Sometimes, you would find yourself reaching for a spare tray at breakfast or measuring out a portion of tea that was far too strong for one person. Your hands still remembered the rhythm of his life even as your heart tried to forget the sound of his voice. You were moving on; you spoke to the woodcutter’s son, you laughed with the girls at the market, and you finally looked like a woman who belonged to herself.
But at night, when the village went still, the word 'beggar' would still echo in the corners of your small room, reminding you that even freedom had a bitter aftertaste.
You didn't know that Tengen was currently demanding answers for your absence. You didn't know that Genya was crying for you. You were just trying to learn how to exist in a room that didn't feel like a waiting room for someone else's grief.
Back at the estate, the silence didn't break; it shattered.
Sanemi hadn’t offered Tengen an answer.
He couldn't.
He just sat there, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, staring at the floorboards while Genya's heavy, furious breathing filled the room. The premium sake Tengen had brought sat on the tatami mats between them, completely untouched.
Tengen looked from Genya’s tear-stained face to Sanemi’s hollow, stubborn expression. He had seen enough. He knew exactly what a man looked like when he was suffocating in his own misery, and he refused to let the two brothers tear each other apart in this dead house.
"Right. We are getting out of here," Tengen stated, his voice dropping its usual theatricality as he grabbed the bottle of sake by the neck and stood up. He pointed a firm finger at Sanemi.
"You. Move. You’re suffocating the kid, and you’re suffocating yourself. We’re going down to the village."
Sanemi glared up at him, his temper flaring. "I am not going anywhere, Uzui. Leave."
"I wasn't asking, Shinazugawa," Tengen snapped back, his sharp eyes leaving no room for argument. "Genya, stay here and get some rest. Okay? Your brother and I are…” Tengen knows he cannot tell Genya they will be having a drink. So then…
“We are… going to have a very long conversation, and we are doing it anywhere but this graveyard."
Short of starting a full-blown physical fight in front of his brother, Sanemi had no choice. With a venomous scoff, he shoved past Tengen and stormed out of the estate, his heart hammering against his ribs in a mix of rage and absolute exhaustion.
The walk down to the village was brutal.
The night air was crisp, but it did nothing to cool the bitter burn in Sanemi’s chest. He marched ahead in total silence, hands shoved into his haori, while Tengen walked a pace behind him, unusually quiet as he kept watch on his friend. Sanemi just wanted to get to a tavern, down whatever alcohol it took to numb his mind, and stop thinking about your final words.
He knows his father’s history too well, and Sanemi knows that he shouldn’t drink. However, it’s all he can do to achieve the peace that he has killed already. He is lost. Lost in the wilderness of pain and regrets inside his head, and right now, he knows he cannot see the compass to find his way out.
But as they reached the edge of the village, the universe pulled the rug out from under him.
It was late, and most of the market stalls were already packed away, leaving the cobblestone streets quiet and washed in the soft, amber glow of the hanging lanterns.
"Look, there's an izakaya just down this way—" Tengen started, but his voice died in his throat. He stopped dead in his tracks.
Sanemi frowned, pausing a few steps ahead. "What?" he grunted, turning his head.
Tengen didn't answer. His sharp gaze was locked entirely on a small textile shop just across the street.
Sanemi’s eyes followed his friend's look, his irritation ready to boil over—until his breath caught violently in his throat.
There, standing under the warm light of a lone lantern outside the shop, was you. You were carrying a small basket of folded fabrics, turning to say a quiet, polite goodbye to the elderly shop owner before closing the screen door. You looked tired, but your expression was peaceful.
Calm.
Sanemi froze, his entire body locking up as the blood rushed to his ears, drowning out the sound of the wind. His mind completely emptied.
It was you.
You were right there, just a few yards away, perfectly whole and living a life that didn't include him at all.
"I… I don’t think it is a good idea to go there, Uzui." Sanemi stalled, abruptly turning on his heel and walking in the opposite direction.
His heart was hammering violently against his ribs, a sudden, frantic panic clawing at his throat. He couldn't look back. If he looked back, Tengen would notice.
Tengen’s sharp, analytical eyes noticed everything, and the absolute last thing Sanemi could handle right now was his friend discovering the pathetic, hollow shell he had become the second he saw you.
He had spent weeks convincing himself that throwing you out was the right thing to do. He had forced himself to believe you were just clutter. But seeing you standing there—so close he could have called your name, looking so utterly peaceful without him—made the ground under him collapsed.
Sanemi's mind was spiralling out of control.
Why is she here? Why does she look like that? Why isn't she miserable?
The questions bit into him like a blade. A terrifying realisation settled deep in his gut: you weren't broken. You were surviving. You were moving on, while he was the one rotting in the dark house he had fought so hard to keep empty.
"Oi, Shinazugawa! Where the hell are you going?" Tengen called out, his heavy footsteps echoing on the cobblestones as he hurried to catch up with the Wind Hashira’s sudden, aggressive pace. "The tavern is that way. Why are you marching back toward the woods?"
"Changed my mind," Sanemi barked, his voice tight, rough, and entirely unconvincing. He kept his eyes locked dead ahead, his fists clenched so hard inside his sleeves that his nails bit into his palms. "We're drinking at the estate. Move."
He just needed to get away from that shop. Away from the warm lantern light. Away from the terrifying truth that he had completely ruined the only good thing he ever had, because if he stayed there for even a second longer, the Wind Hashira was going to fall apart right in the middle of the street.
He didn’t even get three paces before a heavy, iron grip slammed onto his shoulder.
Tengen didn't just stop him; he violently yanked Sanemi backward, forcing the Wind Hashira to stumble over his own feet.
"Like hell we are," Tengen snapped, completely refusing to play along with Sanemi's sudden, chaotic retreat. He wrapped a massive arm around Sanemi’s neck in a tight headlock, dragging him right back toward the centre of the village street. "I did not walk all the way down this mountain just to turn around because you're throwing a tantrum. Seriously, Giyu's more fun than you lately. At least he just stays quiet instead of marching around like a frustrated toddler."
"Let go of me, Uzui, or I swear to God I'll slice your arm off!" Sanemi hissed, thrashing aggressively against the hold.
His heart was practically leaping out of his chest. He was actively suffocating in Tengen's grip, his eyes frantically darting around the cobblestones, trying to look anywhere but across the road.
The panic was a cold, sharp blade twisting in his stomach, making him feel physically sick. If Tengen kept dragging him this way, they were going to walk right past you. You would see him. You would see him looking pathetic, cornered by his own friend, and worst of all, he would have to look at the girl he had brutally cast aside.
He couldn't do it. The sheer weight of his guilt was a physical weight crushing his lungs. His mind spiralled into a dark, frantic loop.
He had called you a beggar. He had told you that you were nothing compared to Kanae's memory.
If you looked at him now with hatred—or worse, with absolute indifference—he knew he would completely shatter right there in the dirt.
"Oh, please, you couldn't slice bread right now," Tengen snorted, completely oblivious to Sanemi’s internal meltdown as he shoved him through the wooden doors of the nearest izakaya, effectively blocking the view of the textile shop.
"Now shut up and sit down. You're losing your mind, Shinazugawa, and you need a drink."
The tavern was loud, smelling of cheap tobacco and fried food, a sharp contrast to the quiet night outside. The moment Tengen let go, Sanemi dropped onto the tatami mat at a corner table, his breathing ragged. He didn't look at the menu. He didn't look at Tengen.
He just grabbed the unopened bottle of premium sake Tengen had carried down from the mountain, ripped the seal off with his teeth, and drank straight from the ceramic neck.
The alcohol burned a bitter path down his throat, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't fast enough to drown out the image of you standing under that warm lantern light. He took another massive, desperate swig, his hand trembling against the clay bottle as the heavy spiralling in his chest began to blur into a dark, volatile intoxication.
The ceramic neck of the bottle clattered harshly against Sanemi’s teeth as he took another massive, desperate gulp. The sake was premium, smooth and expensive, but to him, it tasted like battery acid. It burnt his throat, but it wasn't burning fast enough. It wasn't doing a damn thing to dull the sharp, agonisingly clear image of you standing outside that textile shop.
Why did she look like that?
The question hammered against the inside of his skull, rhythmic and brutal. You looked peaceful. You looked clean. Your hair was neat, your shoulders were relaxed, and you were holding a basket of silk instead of a basket of his blood-soaked, sweat-stained uniforms. You looked like a woman who belonged to herself, not a shadow tethered to a monster's graveyard.
I don’t feel loved. I feel stifled.
His own words bounced back into his mind, loud and mocking, amplified by the alcohol beginning to weigh down his blood. He had told you that your presence was a debt. He had told you that you were a placeholder for Kanae. He had stood in the moonlight and torn your soul apart with the precision of a swordsman, wanting you to bleed so profusely that you would finally run away from him.
He had got exactly what he wanted. You had run. So why did his chest feel like it was being compressed under a collapsing mountain?
"Oi," Tengen's voice cut through the tavern's roar, low and uncharacteristically grim. He slammed his own cup down on the table, leaning forward to look directly into Sanemi’s bloodshot, unfocused eyes.
"You’ve downed half that bottle in thirty seconds, Shinazugawa. You're not drinking. You're trying to punish yourself. What happened back at the estate? Where is Y/N?"
Sanemi didn't look up. The tavern around him was beginning to tilt, the edges of his vision blurring, but his thoughts were trapped in a terrifyingly tight spiral.
"Every time you touch my wounds, I am thinking of her hands. You are a placeholder, Y/N, and a poor one at that."
God, he had been so cruel.
He had looked at your tear-stained face, at the girl who had scrubbed his floors until her knees bled and stayed awake through his worst nightmares, and he had called her a beggar for a ghost's scraps. He had thrown Kanae’s name in your face like a cursed blade, knowing it was the one thing that would completely destroy you. He had forced himself to believe he was doing you a favour, saving you from a sinking ship.
But seeing you just now, under that warm village lantern, shattered his delusions. You weren't a placeholder. You weren't clutter. You were the only living thing that had ever tried to keep him warm, and he had thrown you out into the dirt because he was too much of a coward to let someone love him.
"Shinazugawa, I am asking you a question," Tengen pressed, his hand reaching across the table to grip Sanemi’s forearm, preventing him from lifting the bottle again.
"Genya was crying. The house is completely dead. And you look like you've seen a ghost. Did you two have a fight?"
"Shut up, Uzui," Sanemi muttered, his tongue feeling slightly heavy, thick with the onset of the alcohol. He tried to pull his arm back, but his muscles felt sluggish, uncooperative. "Just... drink your sake and shut up."
"Not until you tell me why she isn't there," Tengen said, his grip tightening, his expression completely devoid of his usual flamboyance. "She loved you, Sanemi. Everyone with eyes could see it. What did you do?"
"I’m finished being pathetic. I’m finished being a beggar for a ghost’s scraps."
Your final words echoed so loudly in his ears that he half-expected Tengen to hear them too. Your voice hadn't even wobbled. It had been dead. Empty. He had pushed you until you finally broke, and now, you were out there in the village, breathing fresh air, while he was suffocating in the vacuum of his own making.
A harsh, jagged laugh escaped Sanemi’s lips, sounding more like a choked cough. The room spun slightly as he forced his eyes up to meet Tengen's. His vision was swimming. The heavy intoxication finally taking hold, turning his raw panic into a messy anger.
"I gave her what she wanted," Sanemi growled, his voice slurring slightly at the edges as he ripped his arm away from Tengen's grip. He grabbed the bottle again, his hand trembling violently.
"I told her to leave. I told her she was wasting her fucking life on a broken man. She’s... she’s free. Isn't that what people want? Freedom?"
Tengen stared at him, his eyes widening slightly as the pieces began to fall into place.
"Sanemi... what the hell did you say to her?"
"I told her the truth!"
Sanemi snapped, a sudden, desperate loud tone bursting from him before he instantly choked it back down, terrified that his voice would carry out the tavern doors and reach the textile shop across the street. He leaned over the table, his face twisted in a mask of absolute misery and drunken rage.
"I told her she was a placeholder. I told her I would never love her. I told her she had no self-respect."
He took another massive swig of the sake, the fluid spilling slightly down his chin, wiping it away roughly with the back of his scarred hand. His chest was heaving, his mind completely unravelling as the alcohol blurred the line between the past and the present.
"She called herself clutter, Uzui," Sanemi whispered, his voice suddenly dropping into a broken, slurred rasp. His bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the wooden table.
"She said she was finished being a beggar. And she left. She actually left."
Frustration came into Tengen like a snake readying itself to strike its prey. Pinching the bridge of his nose with his good hand, he could feel the pain radiating from Sanemi's figure. And then and there, he poured sake into his cup and drank from it.
"Then… why are you crying if that's what you really want? If you wanted her to leave?"
The question and the realisation that he had been crying came into Sanemi's blurry senses like a slap, knocking out all of the sense of pride in him. And yes, if the older retired Hashira didn't point out the tears in his face, he wouldn't have noticed it.
The heavy ceramic bottle slipped against his palm, his grip loosening as the room took another slow, sickening tilt.
Sanemi isn't even sure if, after the war, he could still cry… He had lost so much, especially the ones he had loved more than himself. Like Kanae, the very woman that he had compared to you. He was about to tell her how much he loved her before; however, how could he if… she had already passed?
And now you…
The silence inside his own head was deafening, even with the roar of the tavern surrounding him. He had spent years believing his tear ducts had simply dried up on the mountaintops, buried under the mounds of dirt he had dug for his mother, his siblings, and his comrades.
He had survived Muzan.
He had survived the collapse of his entire world.
He thought he was entirely hollowed out, a walking corpse incapable of shedding another drop of grief.
But looking at the amber sake reflecting the dim tavern lights, his vision blurred into a hazy, shimmering mess. His chest didn't just ache; it felt as though someone was physically cracking his ribs apart with a rusted blade.
He had lied to your face, telling you that he thought of Kanae’s hands every time you touched his scars, convincing himself that a cruel lie was better than letting you anchor yourself to his rotting soul.
But the truth was so much worse.
The truth was that when you touched his scars, you actually made the burning stop.
When you walked through the door, the ghosts in the corners of his room finally went quiet.
You weren't a placeholder for anyone. You were the only real, living thing left in his universe, and he had treated you like a disease.
"Shinazugawa," Tengen’s voice sounded muffled, as if it were travelling through deep water.
You're completely unravelling. Put the bottle down."
Sanemi didn't listen. He couldn't. His slurred thoughts were racing back to that small textile shop across the cobblestone street. You were sitting just yards away from him right now, probably sewing, probably breathing easily, completely unaware that the man who had shattered your soul was rotting into a tatami mat just across the road.
He wanted to get up. He wanted to storm out of the tavern, kick the screen door of that shop open, and grab you by the shoulders. He wanted to scream at you for actually leaving, for taking your warmth away, for leaving him alone with Genya’s crying and an empty house that smelt like dust.
However, he couldn't go over there. He didn't have the right to. He had told you that you were a poor placeholder, that your love was an insult, and that you lacked self-respect. If he went to you now, drunk and broken, he would only prove how much of a monster he actually was. He had forced you to become a stranger, and now he had to sit in the dark and watch you live like one.
But as the heavy intoxication settled into his bones, the fierce, defensive anger began to drain away, leaving only a pathetic, suffocating despair.
Sanemi stared down at the table, his knuckles turning white as he dug his nails into the grain of the wood. The alcohol was moving rapidly through his veins now, loosening the tight, aggressive grip he usually kept on his own throat.
"I lied to her, Uzui," he whispered, his voice cracking, thick with a desperation he had never allowed another living soul to hear. He didn't look up, his eyes fixed on the spilt sake pooling on the dark wood.
"I looked right at her... and I told her she was nothing to me."
Tengen leaned closer, the irritation completely gone from his face, replaced by a tense, heavy silence. "Sanemi..."
"I told her she was a placeholder," Sanemi cut him off, his voice rising, raw and slurred as the words oozed out of him like blood from an open wound. "I told her every time she touched my scars, I was wishing it was Kanae. I told her she was embarrassing. That she had no self-respect for staying in a house where she wasn't wanted."
He let out a harsh, wet laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob, finally lifting his bloodshot eyes to meet Tengen's shocked stare.
"But it was a lie. All of it. Every fucking word," Sanemi rasped, his chest heaving as he grabbed Tengen’s haori, bunching the expensive fabric in his fist. "When she touched me... the burning stopped, Uzui. The noise in my head actually stopped. I was so terrified of dragging her down into hell with me that I became the devil myself just to make her run."
Tengen didn't pull away. He let Sanemi grip his clothes, his expression darkening with a mixture of pity and disbelief. "You utter fool. You completely ruined her."
Finally, Sanemi looked up at Tengen, his heart aching so bad with the reality of where he is right now. "She looked at me... and her eyes were just dead," Sanemi whispered, his hand slowly dropping from Tengen's chest, his strength entirely draining away as the heavy intoxication took over.
Again, for the first time. He knows he has lost someone and is aware of how he cannot get you back anymore.
"Uzui… what should I do?"
"Seriously, I am not sure… First of all, we are not sure where she is—"
Sanemi reached for the clay bottle again, but his hand was trembling so violently he nearly knocked it over.
"She’s out there, Uzui" Sanemi muttered, his head drooping as the tavern around him began to spin in earnest.
Tengen rolled his eyes, not believing it. For him, Sanemi was too drunk and already hallucinating about me. "Shinazugawa. Let's go home."
"No, Uzui. She’s right across the street. She looks... she looks beautiful. She isn't crying. She isn't screaming. She’s just... living. Without me."
"Shinazugawa, you're so drunk. Genya will get mad."
"I want to go to her, Uzui. I want to drag her back to the estate, but how can I? I told her I'd never love her. I ruined it. I ruined the only good thing I had left."
And there, when finally Tengen looked across the street, there you were, closing the textile shop and getting ready to head to your place above it. His eyes widened, and he quickly looked at Sanemi, but… he was already gone.
"Shinazugawa? Where the heck are you?"
Tengen’s voice was lost to the chatter of the tavern as he scrambled up from the tatami mats, knocking his own cup over. But Sanemi didn't hear him. The alcohol had turned his panic into a reckless, heavy momentum, pulling him out of the izakaya doors and into the crisp night air before his brain could even register the choice.
The village street was cold, but Sanemi’s skin was burning. His vision swam, the lanterns casting long, distorted shadows across the cobblestones as his unstable steps carried him across the road. Every instinct he had as a swordsman was entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, drunken gravity drawing him toward the only light that mattered.
You had just turned to lock the wooden screen door of the shop, your fingers wrapping around the brass key, when the heavy, uneven thud of footsteps made you freeze.
You turned your head. And your breath instantly caught in your throat.
"Y/N..."
Sanemi stumbled, his shoulder hitting the wooden pillar of the shopfront with a dull thud. He looked completely unravelled. His hair was a wild, silver mess, his haori hung loosely off his shoulders, and his usually fierce eyes were clouded, bloodshot, and wide with a terrifying kind of vulnerability. The sharp, overwhelming scent of premium sake hit you a second later, thick and heavy in the night air.
You stood rooted to the spot, stunned to the bone. Your heart, which you had spent weeks convincing to stay quiet, hammered violently against your ribs.
Why was he here? Why now, after everything?
"Sanemi..." The name slipped from your lips before you could stop it, a quiet, breathless gasp.
He didn't move toward you, as if an invisible wall still stood between you, but his gaze locked onto your face with a desperate, suffocating intensity. His jaw worked, his scarred features twisting in absolute agony as he stared at you. He looked at your neat clothes, the small basket in your hand, and the peaceful life you had built in the dark without him.
"You're... you're really here," he rasped, his voice slurring heavily at the edges, thick with intoxication and a raw, bleeding despair. He reached a trembling hand out toward you, his fingers hovering in the empty space between you, not daring to touch your skin.
You aren't a ghost. You're... you're actually here."
"Why are you here, Sanemi?" Your voice didn't shake, but it was thin, stripped of all the warmth he used to take for granted. You stepped back, pressing your spine against the locked door of the textile shop.
"Why are you doing this to me now?"
"Y/N... please," he choked out, his hand dropping heavily to his side. He staggered forward a single, clumsy step, the smell of sake rolling off him.
"I saw you... from across the street. I didn't know you were here. I didn't know."
"So you came over to finish it?"
A bitter, breathless laugh escaped your lips, your vision suddenly blurring with a rush of furious, painful tears. All the progress you had made over the last few weeks, the quiet peace you had fought so hard for—it all shattered the moment you looked into his ruined eyes.
"Did you forget a few insults? Did you come to remind me one more time how much of a burden I am? How much I stifle you?"
"No! No, that's not—I didn't mean it!"
Sanemi practically shouted, his voice cracking violently in the quiet street. He gripped his own head, his fingers digging into his silver hair as he shook it desperately.
"I lied to you. Every fucking word I said in that room, it was a lie!"
"A lie?!"
You looked at him in absolute disbelief, the anger finally tearing through your chest.
"You told me I was a placeholder! You told me every time I touched your wounds you wished it was Kanae! Do you have any idea what that did to me? You killed me, Sanemi! You made me feel like an embarrassment just for loving you!"
"Because I am a monster!"
Sanemi roared, tears finally spilling over his scars, glittering in the amber lantern light. He fell to his knees right there in the dirt at your feet, his broad shoulders shaking with a violent, pathetic sob.
And it shattered you. This is the high and unreachable Sanemi Shinazugawa. The Wind Hashira who had fought and won that war. And yet now, here he was, kneeling in front of you, crying as if he were wishing you to not give up on him.
"I am a monster and a coward! I thought... I thought if I made you hate me, you’d run away and stay safe. I thought I was saving you from me!"
You stared down at him, your hands trembling so violently the basket of silk slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the cobblestones. Seeing the fearsome Wind Hashira brought so low, weeping in the dirt, sent a sickening jolt through your core.
"You don't get to do this," you whispered, your voice cracking with an uncontrollable sob.
"You don't get to throw me out like trash, tell me you'll never love me, and then show up drunk on my doorstep crying about it. Why are you doing this to me? I was finally moving on. I was finally breathing again!"
"Don't move on," Sanemi rasped, reaching out with a desperate, trembling hand to clutch at the hem of your kimono, his face buried near your feet.
"Please... don't leave me in the dark. The house is so cold, Y/N. The ghosts won't shut up. When you touched me... the burning stopped. It was always you. Please..."
"NO!"
You pulled back violently, ripping the hem of your kimono from his desperate grasp. The sheer rejection made Sanemi flinch as if he had been struck with a real blade, his hand falling into the dirt, empty and trembling.
"Shinazugawa!" Tengen’s heavy footsteps finally pounded across the cobblestones, his massive frame skidding to a halt between the two of you. His sharp eyes took in the entire scene in a fraction of a second—the dropped basket, your tear-stained face, and the fearsome Wind Hashira brought to his knees, weeping in the mud.
Tengen immediately reached down, hooking his arms under Sanemi’s shoulders and hoisting the heavily intoxicated man to his feet. Sanemi didn't even fight him this time; his strength was completely gone, his head hanging low as a ragged, broken breath escaped his lips.
"I am sorry, Y/N," Tengen said, his voice entirely serious, stripped of all his usual theatricality. He looked at you with deep, genuine pity. "I am so sorry. I shouldn't have let him near you tonight."
"Uzui-san... please take your friend away. Please..." you sobbed, your voice breaking entirely as the suffocating weight of the past weeks crashed down on you all over again.
Without waiting for an answer, you turned on your heel, abandoning the basket of silk on the ground. You shoved the heavy wooden door open and ran up the narrow stairs leading to your small room above the shop. Your breath came in sharp, harrowing gasps, your chest tight as you practically threw yourself through your doorway, sliding the screen shut and collapsing against it.
Down in the street, Sanemi tried to lift his head, his slurred voice calling out into the quiet night.
"Y/N... wait... please..."
"That's enough, Sanemi. Leave her be," Tengen muttered firmly, tightening his grip around the Wind Hashira's torso and forcing him to turn back toward the mountain.
"You've done enough damage for one night. Let's go home."
Inside your room, you pulled your knees to your chest, burying your face in your hands as the distant sound of their footsteps slowly faded into the village quiet. The scent of sake and cedar still seemed to linger in the night air, a bitter reminder that no matter how far you ran, the ghosts of the Wind Estate would always know exactly where to find you.
"Why did he come here…" you sobbed, letting the cold air caress you. "How can he dismantle the peace I tried to build for weeks with one single... appearance? Why?"
You pressed your forehead against your knees, your entire body shaking as the tears soaked into the fabric of your kimono. The room was dark, but it felt entirely too small now, suffocating you with the echo of his voice.
You had worked so hard. Every single day, lifting those heavy bolts of silk until your arms ached, you had told yourself that you were doing fine. You had forced yourself to smile at the market, to chat with the neighbours, to believe that the hollow space in your chest was just freedom. You had finally stopped looking at the horizon.
And then, in less than five minutes, he had destroyed it all.
He didn't even have to draw his sword. He just had to look at you with those bloodshot, ruined eyes. He just had to drop to his knees in the dirt and whisper your name, and every single wall you had built over the last few weeks came crashing down around you.
"It isn't fair," you choked out, your voice dropping to a broken whisper against the quiet of the room. "You told me I was clutter, Sanemi. You told me you would never love me. You made me feel so small... so why are you the one crying?"
The image of him weeping at your feet burnt behind your eyelids. The fierce, terrifying Wind Hashira, a man who faced down upper-rank demons without a single blink of fear, had looked so completely small. So broken. Hearing him admit that he lied, hearing him beg you not to move on, it didn't heal the wound he had left behind. It only twisted the knife deeper.
If it was all a lie, then why did he make you suffer? Why did he force you to pack your things and leave the only home you knew?
You pulled your arms tighter around yourself, staring blankly at the tatami mats. The silence of the village night felt heavy and bitter now. You had wanted so desperately to belong to yourself, to be free from his grief and his ghosts.
But as you sat alone in the dark, listening to the wind rustle the roof tiles, you realised the most terrifying truth of all: no matter how many miles you put between yourself and the Wind Estate, your heart was still trapped in that moonlit room, bleeding from the words he had used to cast you out.
A month passed, but the seasons didn't care about the fractures in a human heart. The late spring air grew warmer, the cherry blossoms fell to make way for deep green leaves, and the village outside your window slowly adjusted to its usual, bustling rhythm.
You had rebuilt your walls. It was harder this time; the mortar was mixed with a new, defensive anger, but you managed. You forced your hands to stop shaking when you carried the silk. You forced yourself to look at the cobblestones outside the shop without seeing a man on his knees. You were surviving, second by second.
Until the afternoon the wooden screen door slid open, and the tiny brass bell chimed.
"Welcome—"
The greeting died instantly in your throat.
Sanemi stood in the doorway. He wasn't drunk this time. He was completely sober, dressed in a simple, dark green civilian kimono, but his haori was neatly draped, looking unusually put-together.
He looked different. The wild, chaotic edge to his posture was gone, replaced by a tense, hyper-alert stillness. He looked like a man standing on thin ice.
Your hand clenched tightly around the measuring tape in your palms. "Shinazugawa-san. If you are looking for Genya, he isn't here."
"I'm not looking for him," Sanemi said, his voice quiet, lacking any of the rough gravel it usually carried. He didn't look at you directly, his eyes tracking the rows of fabrics instead, though his chest was moving in shallow, rapid breaths. He cleared his throat, a completely unnatural sound for him.
"I... I need a winter cloak. Black. Heavy wool."
It was a blatant, pathetic lie. It was the middle of spring, heading rapidly into summer.
"We don't stock heavy wool in May," you said, your voice dropping into a cold, transactional, flat tone. You turned your back to him, deliberately reaching for a bolt of blue summer cotton on the top shelf, trying to look as indifferent as humanly possible. "Try the capital."
"Then... cotton," he pressed quickly, taking a half-step forward before catching himself and freezing in place. "For a summer yukata, Genya needs one."
"Genya knows where I live. I sent him a letter, and he had been visiting. If he wants a yukata, he can come himself," you replied, keeping your back to him. You began aligning the edges of the blue fabric with slow precision, completely ignoring his presence.
A heavy, suffocating silence stretched between you. In the past, Sanemi would have snapped. He would have clicked his tongue, slammed his hand on the counter, or barked an insult about your attitude. But he just stood there, taking the rejection, his scarred fingers twitching against his sides.
"I'm sorry about the basket," he whispered suddenly.
Your fingers froze against the silk.
"Uzui told me," Sanemi continued, his voice dropping even lower, thick with an unspoken, heavy weight. "The basket of silk you dropped that night. I... I bought the whole stock from the owner the next morning. It’s at the estate. Safe. Clean."
You closed your eyes, a sharp, familiar ache flaring up behind your ribs. He was trying. The fearsome, untouchable former Hashira was standing in a civilian shop, stumbling over his words, trying to court a girl he had brutally dismantled a month ago. He was trying to mend a shattered porcelain vase with raw, bleeding fingers.
"I don't care about the silk, Shinazugawa-san," you said quietly, finally turning around to face him. Your expression was an unreadable, stony mask.
"The weaver was paid. That is all that matters to me. Now, if you are not purchasing anything today, I have a delivery to prepare."
Sanemi looked at you, his beautiful, scarred eyes full of a quiet, desperate pleading that nearly made you flinch. He wanted you to yell. He wanted you to throw something at him, to scream about Kanae, to demand answers—anything but this terrifying, polite distance.
"Right," he rasped, his jaw clenching as he slowly took a step backward toward the door. He looked down at his own boots, his broad shoulders slouching into a posture that looked entirely too small for him. "Right. I'll... I'll come back when the wool is in season."
The bell chimed as he slid the door open and stepped out into the bright afternoon sun. You let out a long, ragged breath you hadn't realised you were holding, your fingers digging into the countertop until your knuckles turned white.
He was going to come back. You knew him well enough to know that a man who survived the bloodiest war in history wouldn't be deterred by a cold shoulder—and that was exactly what terrified you the most.
The very next afternoon, the tiny brass bell above the door chimed again.
You didn’t even have to look up from the ledger to know who it was. The heavy, distinct rhythm of his footsteps was a sound your soul had memorised long before your brain could try to forget it. A sharp flash of pure annoyance flared in your chest.
"Shinazugawa-san," you said, your voice tight as you finally snapped the ledger shut. "I told you yesterday, we do not have the fabric you are looking for."
Sanemi stood by the counter, looking incredibly out of place amongst the bright bolts of summer silk. He was wearing a simple, dark indigo yukata, his hands tucked into his sleeves, but his posture was completely rigid. He looked as though he had spent the last twenty-four hours pacing his estate, trying to construct a perfect plan, only to have it completely dissolve the moment he saw you.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he pulled a small, neatly wrapped bamboo parcel from his sleeve and placed it gently on the wooden counter between you.
"I brought you something," he said, his voice rough but incredibly quiet, lacking any of his old, aggressive edge. "From the shop down the road."
You looked down at the parcel. Through the thin wrapping, the sweet, earthy scent of sweet rice and red bean paste drifted up to you.
"Ohagi?" You let out a dry, incredulous laugh, your irritation finally bubbling to the surface. You looked up, meeting his bloodshot eyes with a cold, steady glare. "I don't want that. That isn't even my favourite sweet, Shinazugawa-san. That's yours."
The words left your mouth before you could filter them, sharp and defensive. But the moment they hit the air, Sanemi’s face changed. The tense, worried lines around his mouth softened into something achingly tender, a tiny, breathless smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"You still know my favourite," he whispered.
The realisation hit you like a physical blow to the stomach. Your breath caught violently in your throat. You had spent weeks building a fortress around your heart, telling yourself you were entirely indifferent to him, yet your instincts had just betrayed you in a single second. You still knew him. You still remembered every single detail of the man who had torn your soul apart.
Panic seized you, hot and furious.
"Get out," you snapped, your voice dropping into a dangerous, ragged whisper as you grabbed the bamboo parcel and violently shoved it back into his chest.
"Y/N, please, just listen to me—" Sanemi pleaded, his scarred hands catching the package, his fingers desperately reaching forward as if he wanted nothing more than to grab your hands and hold them against his chest.
"No! I am not doing this with you!" You backed away from the counter, your heart hammering against your ribs as you grabbed the edge of the heavy wooden divider, ready to slide it shut. "I don't want your sweets, I don't want your excuses, and I don't want you coming into my shop every single day pretending you need fabric! You threw me out, Sanemi! You told me I was a secondary thought in a ghost's world! You told me I was a poor placeholder! So leave me alone!"
"I am trying to court you!" Sanemi suddenly blurted out, the confession bursting from his lungs so loudly it echoed in the small shop.
You froze, your fingers locking tightly onto the wooden screen, your eyes widening in absolute shock.
Sanemi took a deep, ragged breath, stepping right up to the counter. The fierce, terrifying former Hashira looked completely exposed, his shoulders shaking slightly as he looked at you with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thin.
"I don't know how to do this," he rasped, his voice thick with raw emotion, his thumbs digging into the bamboo parcel. "I've only ever known how to destroy things, Y/N. I've only ever known how to push people away before they get hurt. But I am not going to let you go. I will buy every piece of cloth in this village, I will bring you everything I have, I will stand here and let you yell at me until my ears bleed. Just... please let me talk to you. Let me try."
Your throat felt incredibly tight, a bitter rush of tears burning behind your eyes. He was standing there, completely sober, laying his pride in the dirt at your feet, begging for the very crumbs he had accused you of chasing.
"I have nothing to say to you," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.
With a decisive, heavy motion, you slammed the wooden partition shut between you, cutting off his face, his beautiful, pleading eyes, and the sweet scent of the ohagi. You stood behind the barrier, your forehead resting against the cold wood, listening to the heavy, painful silence on the other side.
He didn't leave immediately. For a long, suffocating minute, you could hear his slow, steady breathing through the screen.
"I'll be back tomorrow, Y/N," he said softly through the wood.
The tiny brass bell chimed as he finally stepped out into the street, leaving you alone in the quiet shop, desperately trying to stop your hands from shaking.
The next afternoon, you didn’t even bother waiting by the counter. The moment the familiar chime of the brass bell echoed through the shop, you kept your head down, fiercely scrubbing a stray ink stain on the wooden cutting table before shifting to sort a chaotic pile of threads. You made yourself look as busy as humanly possible, moving around the room like a woman possessed, completely ignoring the large, indigo-clad figure stepping inside.
Sanemi didn't push. He simply stood by the counter, his scarred hands resting flat against the polished wood. When he realised you weren't going to look at him, let alone speak, he cleared his throat and just started talking to the back of your head.
"Tengen told me I looked like a stray dog pacing outside your door yesterday," Sanemi said, his voice unusually soft, carrying a strange, nervous cadence. "He... he said if I were going to do this, I needed to learn to use my words. He told me that when I threw you out, I didn't just hurt you, I proved I was an idiot who didn't deserve the ground you walked on. He’s right."
You ignored him, aggressively sorting a box of wooden buttons, the loud clattering filling the space.
"I tried to make the ohagi myself this morning," he continued, completely unfazed by your silence. "It turned out terrible. I burnt the rice. Genya wouldn't even touch it. I realised... I realised I don't know how to take care of a house without you. I don't know how to do anything but look for your shadow in the hallway."
You slammed the button drawer shut, the wood rattling under the force. The sheer persistence of him, standing there in his simple civilian clothes, pouring his thoughts out into the open air while your lungs collapsed under the weight of his presence, was becoming entirely too much to bear.
You spun round, your face flushed with a mixture of heat and pure exhaustion. You marched over to the counter, your fingers digging into the wood as you stared up at him, a sharp, bitter smile twisting your lips.
"So you need a servant? Want me to be your Kakushi again?" you cut in, your voice dripping with a harsh, defensive sarcasm that felt like a protective shield. "Wanna hire me, Shinazugawa-san? Sorry, but I am already employed. I am finished scrubbing floors until my knees bleed just to be told I'm a burden."
Sanemi flinched, his jaw tightening as the memory of his own cruel words hit him square in the chest. He looked as if he had been struck, his scarred fingers twitching against the countertop.
"Y/N, that's not—"
"Why are you really doing this?" you demanded, your voice breaking as the sarcasm cracked, leaving nothing but raw pain. "Why are you here, Sanemi? Why are you torturing me like this?"
Sanemi looked directly into your eyes, his posture losing all its rigidness, leaving him looking utterly defenceless.
"Because I love you," he whispered.
The words hit you like a physical blow, sending a sickening jolt through your core. It didn't feel like a victory. It didn't heal the massive, hollow crater in your chest. Instead, it felt like a cruel joke.
A bitter, painful rush of tears burnt behind your eyelids because he had already broken you. He had dismantled your soul, forced you to pack your bags, and left you to rot in the dark—and now, only after you had bled out completely, he was finally giving you the words you had spent months begging the universe to hear.
"You look stupid," you choked out, a breathless, broken laugh escaping your lips as the tears finally spilt over your cheeks. "Do you know how stupid you look right now?"
Sanemi didn't flinch. He just leaned forward slightly, his bloodshot eyes swimming with his own unshed tears as he looked at your devastated face.
"I know," he rasped, his voice cracking completely. "I know I look stupid. I know I am a fool, Y/N. I am a bloody idiot who realised what he had only after he threw it away. Yell at me. Call me a monster. But please, just let me stay here."
"I'm not letting you stay," you whispered, your voice shaking as you wiped a hot tear from your cheek, your expression hardening into something fiercely protective. You looked at his pleading, beautiful eyes and felt a sudden, sharp urge to strike back. You wanted him to feel the exact phantom coldness he had left in your chest. You wanted to dismantle him the way he had dismantled you.
"In fact," you continued, a brittle, mocking smile forcing its way onto your lips, "you're wasting your time standing here, Shinazugawa-san. I am quite busy these days. I'm actually meeting with a matchmaker on Sunday."
Sanemi froze. The faint glimmer of hope in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness. His breath hitched in his throat, his broad shoulders locking up as if he had just been pierced through the lungs.
"A... what?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a hollow, disbelieving whisper.
"A matchmaker," you repeated, leaning forward slightly, pressing the advantage just like he had done to you in that moonlit room. You wanted the words to hit him like a physical blow. "A lovely woman from the next town is setting me up. She thinks she can find me a respectable civilian. A husband, Sanemi. Someone who will actually want to look at me with care. Someone who won't think my presence is a debt or a penance. Isn't that exactly what you told me to do?"
"Y/N... stop," he choked out, his face turning a sickly, pale grey under his scars. He reached a trembling hand across the counter, his fingers twitching desperately as if he were trying to catch a falling glass, but he didn't dare touch you. "Please... don't say that. Don't do that."
"Why not?" You let out a sharp, breathless laugh, the tears spilling over your lashes even as your voice remained cuttingly cold. "I am just doing you a favour, remember? I am stopping myself from being a ghost's servant. I am finding someone who isn't perfectly fine rotting alone. I am finally stopping being a beggar for your scraps!"
Every single word you threw back at him was a mirror of his own cruelty, and you watched it slice right through him. Sanemi looked completely shattered, his chest heaving as he stared at you, his jaw trembling violently. The realisation that he had handed you the blueprint to your own escape—that he had literally ordered you to find another man—was entirely suffocating him.
"You don't mean that," he whispered desperately, his voice cracking into a pathetic, slurred plea. "You're... you're just saying that to hurt me. Y/N, please..."
"And what if I am?" you snapped, your voice breaking as the rage and pain finally tore through your chest. "Even if I am just trying to hurt you, it doesn't change a single thing! You broke me, Sanemi! You emptied me out until I had nothing left, and now you think you can just walk in here, say 'I love you', and fix it? It doesn't work that way. I am shutting you out. I am finished with you."
With a sudden, violent motion, you grabbed the edge of the heavy wooden divider and slammed it shut, the wood rattling furiously in its tracks. You locked it from the inside, pressing your back against the solid barrier as you buried your face in your hands, your chest heaving with deep, silent sobs.
On the other side of the screen, there was no anger. There was no shouting. There was only the sound of a muffled, broken gasp, followed by the heavy, uneven thud of Sanemi stumbling backward, completely undone by the ghosts of his own making.
The rain that had been threatening all afternoon finally broke after midnight, a heavy, relentless downpour that lashed against the wooden roof tiles of the Wind Estate. Inside, the house was dark, smelling of damp cedar and old dust. It was the exact kind of suffocating silence that Sanemi had claimed to want, but as he sat on the engawa, staring blankly out into the flooded courtyard, the emptiness felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest.
He didn't have a bottle of sake tonight. He didn't deserve the numbness. He just sat there in his simple night yukata, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.
A matchmaker. Someone who will actually look at me with care.
The words were a continuous, brutal loop in his mind, slicing through him with a precision that made his chest ache in a way no demon blade ever could. He had told you to find a husband. He had ordered you to be free of him. He had literally given you the map to escape his misery, and now that you were taking it, he felt like he was drowning in the middle of a dry room.
A hot, heavy tear slipped down his scarred cheek, catching in the rugged groove of his skin before falling onto his lap. Then another. He didn't even try to wipe them away; he just sat there, his chest heaving with silent, repressed breaths, his entire body trembling under the weight of a despair he had spent years running from.
A soft rustle of fabric from the hallway made his instincts flare.
Sanemi instantly stiffened, his head snapping up as he roughly dragged the sleeve of his yukata across his face, scrubbing at his eyes until the skin burnt. He forced his features into a harsh, defensive scowl, turning his back toward the shadows of the corridor.
"Aniki?"
Genya stood at the edge of the hallway, rubbing his eyes, his large frame looking hesitant in the dim light. He had a blanket draped over one shoulder, clearly woken by the storm—or perhaps by the heavy, suffocating atmosphere that had been hanging over the estate all evening.
"What the hell are you doing up?" Sanemi growled, his voice rough and raspy, sounding like sandpaper against wood. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the rain-slicked courtyard, refusing to turn around. "Go back to bed, Genya."
Genya didn't move. He took a slow step forward, his eyes tracking the tense, rigid line of his older brother's shoulders. Even from behind, Sanemi looked completely different. The fierce, untouchable posture was gone; he looked smaller, hunched over as if he were trying to protect a fatal wound. And then Genya heard it—the faint, wet catch in Sanemi’s breath that he hadn't quite managed to choke down.
"Aniki... are you... are you crying?" Genya whispered, his voice full of an immediate, frightened disbelief.
"I said go back to bed!" Sanemi snapped, his voice cracking violently on the last word. He slammed his fist down onto the wooden floorboards of the porch, the sharp crack echoing through the rain. "Don't ask stupid questions. I'm just watching the storm."
Genya didn't pull back this time. The days of being terrified of his brother's temper were behind them, buried in the ashes of the war. He stepped out onto the engawa, dropping to his knees a few paces away from Sanemi, his eyes wide as he finally caught a glimpse of his brother's profile in the dim light of a distant lantern.
Sanemi’s eyes were bloodshot, the rims raw and swollen, and despite his harsh words, a fresh tear was already tracking through the scars on his cheek. He looked utterly defeated. Genya had seen his brother bleed from a hundred wounds, had seen him face the Demon King without a flicker of doubt, but he had never, ever seen him look like this.
"What happened?" Genya asked, his voice softening into a quiet, desperate plea. "Please, Aniki. You’ve been like this for weeks, ever since... ever since she left. Did you see her today? What happened at the village?"
"I ruined it," Sanemi rasped, the defensive walls finally crumbling under his brother's persistence. He buried his face in his scarred hands, his broad shoulders shaking violently as a heavy, broken sob finally escaped his throat, no longer able to hide it. "I completely ruined it, Genya."
Genya stared at him, his heart twisting in his chest. "What do you mean?"
"I told her I loved her," Sanemi choked out through his fingers, his voice slurring slightly with the sheer exhaustion of his own grief. "I went to the shop. I stood there like a bloody idiot and I told her... and she looked at me like I was a monster. She told me she’s meeting a matchmaker on Sunday. She’s going to find a civilian. A husband."
He let his hands fall, looking at Genya with eyes that were completely vacant, stripped of all their usual fire.
"She used my own words against me, Genya," Sanemi whispered, his chest heaving as the rain poured down just inches away. "Everything I said to her that night... she threw it right back in my face. She told me she’s shutting me out. And I had to just stand there and take it because I'm the one who taught her how to be that cruel."
Genya stared at his older brother, his own throat tightening at the sight of Sanemi so completely brought to his knees. The fierce Wind Hashira who had carried the weight of their family, who had bled for him, was sobbing into his scarred hands.
"Nii-chan..." Genya said softly, shifting closer until his shoulder pressed against Sanemi's shaking frame. He didn't offer empty platitudes, because he knew his brother had indeed behaved like a fool. But as he watched the rain pour off the roof tiles, a quiet, stubborn resolve settled into Genya's chest. He wasn't going to let his brother rot in this dark house alone.
The next afternoon, the weather had cleared, leaving the village street smelling of fresh mud and damp stone. You were behind the counter, neatly wrapping a bundle of linen, when the tiny brass bell above the door gave its familiar, light chime.
A heavy wave of exhaustion and immediate irritation washed over your shoulders. You didn't even lift your gaze from the fabric, your fingers tightening into the cloth.
"Sanemi, I told you—"
"It’s not him," a sheepish, deep voice interrupted.
Your head snapped up, the defensive words dying on your tongue. Standing by the counter, looking entirely too large for the small shop space, was Genya. He was dressed in a simple civilian yukata, his hands tucked nervously into his sleeves, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"Genya?" Your breath left you in a rush, your eyes widening. "Oh... why are you here?"
Before he could even answer, the tight, defensive coil in your chest completely unraveled. You threw the linen aside, hurried around the counter, and threw your arms around his broad shoulders. Genya froze for a fraction of a second, startled, before his large arms wrapped gently around you, burying his face near your shoulder. You hugged him tightly, the familiar comfort of him bringing a sudden prickle of tears to your eyes. You missed him. You missed the quiet, gentle boy who had always eaten your cooking without complaint.
"I missed you, Y/N," Genya murmured softly as you finally pulled back, holding him at arm's length to look at him.
"I missed you too," you said, your voice softening. "But... what are you doing here? Did you need something for the estate?"
Genya looked down at his boots, his cheeks flushing a faint pink with nerves. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "No. I... I came to talk about Nii-chan."
A sharp prick of annoyance instantly flared in your chest. Your hands dropped from his arms, your posture stiffening. If it had been Sanemi, or even Tengen, you would have slammed the wooden partition shut right then and there. But this was Genya. You couldn't find it in your heart to be truly angry with him; he was entirely innocent in the wreckage his brother had caused.
"Genya, please," you said, your voice carrying a heavy, pleading sigh as you walked back behind the counter. "If he sent you here to beg for him—"
"He didn't send me!" Genya pressed quickly, taking a step closer to the counter, his eyes wide and completely earnest. "He doesn't even know I'm here. If he found out, he'd probably chop my head off. But... Y/N, he's completely unravelling. He sat on the porch last night in the middle of the downpour, just... crying. I've never seen him look like that. Not even during the war."
You bit the inside of your cheek, looking away toward the rows of silk. Hearing it from Genya made the image of Sanemi weeping in the dirt feel entirely too real, threatening to breach the walls you had built so carefully.
"He told me what you said about the matchmaker," Genya continued quietly, his voice dropping into that soft, gentle tone he only used when he was trying to mend things.
"And I know he was a monster to you, Y/N. I know the things he said were unforgivable. But he only did it because he thought he was a curse. He thought everyone who stays near him dies. He’s a bloody idiot, but... he really does love you. He’s just terrified."
You bit your lip so hard the iron taste of blood nearly broke through. Looking into Genya’s big, honest eyes, the heavy lie you had slung at Sanemi suddenly felt like a lead weight in your stomach. You could harden your heart against the Wind Hashira, but you could never lie to Genya.
"There is no matchmaker, Genya," you admitted softly, your shoulders dropping as a ragged breath escaped you.
Genya blinked, his jaw falling open slightly. "What?"
"I made it up," you whispered, looking down at your hands, which were twisting the linen on the counter. "I just... I wanted to hurt him. The way he hurt me. I wanted him to feel what it’s like to know you’re completely replaceable, to feel the coldness of being cast aside. I needed him to stop coming here."
"Y/N..." Genya reached out, his large, scarred hand resting gently near yours on the wood. "If you still care enough to want to hurt him... then you still love him, don't you?"
A bitter, painful sob caught in your throat, and you finally looked up, your eyes swimming with a fresh rush of tears. "Of course I love him, Genya! That's the problem! I loved him when he was screaming at me, I loved him when he told me I was clutter, and I love him now while he's rotting in that house. But love doesn't fix what he did. He completely dismantled me. I was a beggar for his scraps, Genya. I had no pride left."
Genya’s face twisted with deep, heavy sorrow. He gripped the edge of the counter, leaning in, his voice cracking with a desperate, youthful pleading. "Then why don't you just come back? Please... Nii-chan is a fool, but the estate is dead without you. I miss you. Just come home."
"I can't, Genya. You know I can't," you sobbed, shaking your head violently as the tears finally spilled over your cheeks. "If I walk back through those gates just because he's crying, I am telling him that it's okay. That he can break me into a thousand pieces and I'll still come crawling back to clean up his mess. I have to protect what's left of myself. If I go back now, I'll never survive the next time he decides to become the devil."
Genya looked down, a thick, heavy silence settling over him. He didn't push you further. He just squeezed your hand once, a quiet understanding passing between you, before he slowly turned and walked out of the shop, the tiny bell chiming a mournful note behind him.
Two days later, Genya came back. He didn't mention Sanemi. He simply asked if you could help him carry a heavy crate of supplies to the teahouse at the edge of the village, complaining of a dull ache in his shoulder from an old war wound. Because it was Genya, you didn't hesitate. You closed the shop early, lifting one side of the wooden crate and chatting quietly with him as the afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and deep gold.
But when you reached the secluded clearing behind the teahouse, Genya suddenly stopped. He set his side of the crate down, his eyes darting toward the small, shaded pavilion nestled under the weeping wisteria.
"Genya? What's wrong?" you asked, wiping the sweat from your brow.
He didn't answer. He just gave you a look full of immense guilt, stepped backward, and disappeared down the path before you could even call his name.
Panic seized your chest. You spun round toward the pavilion, and your breath was instantly dragged from your lungs.
Sanemi was sitting on the wooden bench.
He wasn't wearing his haori—just a plain, dark grey yukata that laid bare the heavy expanse of scars across his chest and neck. He looked utterly hollowed out. His skin was pale, dark purple shadows bruising the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his silver hair was loose, falling over his face. When he looked up and saw you standing there, his entire frame shuddered. He didn't look angry that Genya had tricked you; he looked terrified, like a ghost trapped in the daylight.
"Y/N..." he rasped, his voice so thin and broken it barely carried through the quiet clearing. He stood up, his knees trembling slightly, but he didn't dare take a step toward you.
"You... you didn't meet the matchmaker on Sunday."
The betrayal from Genya stung, but looking at Sanemi brought the raw, bleeding angst of the last month roaring back into your throat.
"Genya has a big mouth," you whispered, your voice trembling with an immediate, defensive fury as you stepped back, your hands curling into tight fists.
"Don't look at me like that, Sanemi. Just because I didn't hire a matchmaker doesn't mean I am coming back to you."
"I know," Sanemi rasped, his voice dropping into a register so thick with pain it sounded like it was tearing his throat apart. He didn't move an inch toward you, keeping his distance as if he truly believed his very shadow was poisonous. "I know you aren't coming back. I don't deserve you to. I don't deserve a damn thing from you."
He took a sharp, shuddering breath, his hands tightening into the fabric of his dark grey yukata until his knuckles turned white against his scarred skin.
"But Genya told me... he told me what I did to you," Sanemi whispered, his chest heaving under his collar. A heavy, hot tear finally spilt over the rim of his eye, cutting through the rugged lines of his face.
"He told me how you felt when you left. And hearing that... it felt like someone shoved a nichirin blade right through my ribs and twisted it."
"Then why did you say it?!" you cried out, the sheer, exhausting frustration of the last month bursting from your lungs. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the sobbing that was already making your shoulders shake.
"You knew what I felt for you, Sanemi! You knew I gave you every single piece of myself, and you still stood there and tried to cast me out into the cold!"
Sanemi flinched, his jaw locking tight. The guilt was heavy, but the raw, frantic desperation to make you understand finally broke through his rigid posture. He didn't drop to his knees this time to beg for pity; instead, he stepped off the pavilion floor, his boots hitting the dirt as he closed a fraction of the distance between you, his eyes burning with a fierce, painful honesty.
"Because I thought I could survive losing you, but I can't," he burst out, his voice cracking violently across the quiet clearing. The anger in his tone wasn't directed at you—it was the pure, suffocating fury of a man who hated his own weakness.
"I thought if I pushed you away, the world couldn't take you from me the way it took everyone else. I tried to be the monster so you'd hate me enough to stay safe, far away from my mess. But I was wrong. I just broke the only person who ever truly looked at me and saw someone worth staying for."
He stopped a few paces away, his broad shoulders shaking as he forced himself to look directly at your tear-stained face, refusing to hide his own ruined expression.
"I'm not here to ask for your pity, Y/N," he choked out, his fists clenched tight at his sides. "And I'm sure as hell not here expecting you to just smile and pretend nothing happened. I'm here because the thought of you carrying that pain around, thinking you were just a footnote to me, is entirely unendurable. I love you. I love you enough to stand right here and let you hate me, for as long as it takes, just so you know that every cruel word I said to you was a bloody lie."
You stood frozen under the shadow of the weeping wisteria, your own chest aching so intensely you could barely draw breath. The sheer force of his voice—stripped of his usual civilian restraint, filled with the raw, terrifying volume of his love and regret—sent a sickening jolt through your veins.
"Please," Sanemi slurred slightly, the raw emotion making his speech heavy as he stared at you, completely defenceless.
"I don't expect you to just forgive me. I don't expect you to walk back through those gates today. But don't look at me like I'm a stranger. Don't let me live this life knowing I made you doubt what you mean to me. You were everything. You were the only reason the burning ever stopped."
The silence that followed his confession was heavy, filled only with the distant rustle of the wisteria leaves and the ragged sound of your shared breathing.
You looked at him, seeing the fierce, prideful man who had survived the worst horrors of the war now standing before you completely exposed, his heart laid bare in the dirt. Every instinct in your body wanted to cross the grass and bury your face in his chest. You loved him so much it felt like a physical weight, an ache that had not eased for a single second since the day you packed your bags.
But as you took a half step forward, the phantom memory of that heartbreak flared behind your ribs, freezing your boots in the dirt. It was a sharp, terrifying reminder of the coldness in his voice that night, when he had effortlessly cast you out into the dark. If you ran to him now, if you forgave him just because he was bleeding, you would be giving away the last piece of your pride.
"I still love you, Sanemi," you whispered, the admission tearing from your throat, raw and trembling.
Sanemi’s breath caught, his eyes widening with a sudden, desperate flash of hope that made his chest heave. He took an instinctive step toward you, his hands reaching out, before catching himself and freezing in place to respect the distance.
"But it hurts," you choked out, the tears finally cascading freely down your cheeks and blurring his scarred face. "It hurts so much. You broke something inside me, Sanemi. You made me feel like I was completely dispensable, like I was just a ghost's shadow. And I cannot just pretend it didn't happen. I cannot just pack my things and walk back into that estate today like my heart didn't break into pieces."
The hope in his eyes did not vanish. Instead, it softened into a profound, quiet understanding. He did not look angry, and he did not try to make excuses. He just stood there, letting your pain wash over him, nodding slowly as his fists relaxed at his sides.
"I don't expect you to," he said, his voice incredibly gentle, devoid of all his usual rough gravel. "I don't want you to just forget it. If I could tear open my own chest to fix what I did, I’d do it right now. But I know I can't. If it takes a year, or ten years, or the rest of my life, I'll wait. I'll earn it back. I’ll stand outside your door until you're ready."
You wiped your face with the back of your sleeve, taking a deep, shaky breath to steady the erratic hammering of your heart. You looked at him for a long, quiet minute, letting the reality of his words sink in. He was not demanding your forgiveness; he was submitting to your terms.
"Don't come to my shop pretending to buy fabric anymore," you said, your voice gaining a tiny bit of its old strength, though it was still thick with tears. "And don't bring me sweets that you like, hoping it will make me smile. If you want to talk to me, you come as yourself. You ask me how my day was. You learn what my favourite things are. We start over. From the very beginning."
A faint, breathless smile tugged at the corner of Sanemi's mouth, making it the first real smile you had seen on his face since the war ended. The fierce, unyielding lines of his face softened completely, making him look younger and human.
"Understood," he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours with a total devotion. "From the beginning. Whatever you want, Y/N. I’ll learn."
The distance between you suddenly felt entirely too wide. The pain was still there, heavy and real, but the sight of his complete surrender broke the final dam holding back your longing. You took the final two steps, closing the gap between you, your hands reaching up to gently cup his scarred jaw.
Sanemi let out a sharp, ragged gasp at the touch, his entire frame shuddering as if he couldn't quite believe you were real. He didn't move, too terrified of breaking the moment, until you leant up on your toes and pressed your lips against his.
The kiss was desperate, tasting of salt and old tears, a quiet collision of all the angst and love you had both been suffocating under for the past month. His large, calloused hands came up slowly, trembling as they rested against your waist, pulling you against him with a fierce, possessive grip that told you he was never going to let you drift away again. When you finally pulled back, your foreheads remained resting together, your breaths mingling in the cool evening air.
"And tomorrow," you added, a tiny, watery laugh escaping your lips as you kept your hands resting against his chest, "you are going to come back to the shop and help me carry the rest of these supply crates, since Genya abandoned me here."
Sanemi let out a low, rough chuckle, the sound incredibly warm and grounding in the quiet clearing. He brought one hand up to gently brush a stray tear from your cheek, his eyes dark with a fierce, quiet promise.
"I'll carry the whole bloody shop if you want me to," he murmured softly.
The pain was not gone. The scars from the past month were still there, tender and easily bruised. But as you turned together to walk back down the path, his hand sliding carefully into yours, you knew the fortress had not been demolished. It had simply opened a small, cautious gate.
For the first time in a long time, the air did not feel suffocating. It felt like the very first breath of spring.
𝓣𝓗𝓐𝓝𝓚 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓢𝓞 𝓜𝓤𝓒𝓗 𝓕𝓞𝓡 𝓡𝓔𝓐𝓓𝓘𝓝𝓖!
I really appreciate your support and love, especially on the previous chapter. I didn't expect it to blow! I LOVE YOU ALL ❤️
Sooooo. I am sorry for making you cry XD But yeah! Here we go.
More fics will be out soonest! Love yah all!
Alsoooo, I was listening to If Only by The Marias (looped ver) as i am writing this and I cry so hard HAHAHA Just sharinggg!
Feel free to love, reblog, or comment! Really love seeing all your support. Mwa!!
Bᴜʏ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏғғᴇᴇ~ if ever you wanna share some love and help me grow my pages!
☆ 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.
so we know that sanemi is rude and angry to everyone right so imagine he has feelings for you but refuses to accept it and you also have feelings for him but he keeps dismissing you. so one day he hurts you like REAL BAD, not with actions but with words yk how words cut deeper than action so yeah. now after that incident you start ignoring him and trying to move on (and even start talking to other men perhaps not in a romantic way just to move on yk wim) and he sees this and he cant take it right. he has all this guilt and sadness and one day he gets drunk like really drunk and he cant stop thinking about you even when he is sipping his drink and he comes to you in this state and starts acting VERY drunk obv, and confesses. so maybe you could write a one shot about this you can do the aftermath of this incident on your own.
also please let this happen in a world where muzan is dead but everyone survives( i can not handle more trauma so)
and my only request is that you kinda write longer scenes where he is drunk because he is vulnerable and it will be adorable to see after all that angst so (oh and on more angst if yk wim)
ITS UPTO TOU BUT I HOPE YOU WRITE THIS. IK ITS PRETTY LONG REQUEST IM SORRY. I HOPE YOU ARE NOT ANNOYED, LOVE THE WAY YOU WRITE.
😭😭🫶🏻
Hi there love, @sashaaalikescherry!
Sorry for the long wait but... because it was a long wait and as a Sanemi-obsessed girlie, here is CHAPTER ONE of this two-shot. I knooow! It should be one-shot but, let's both get a good cry out of this XD
Content Warnings: Abusive Words / Curse Words / Mentions of Death / Blood / Begging
The Wind Estate had always been a place of restless energy, even now that the drums of war had fallen silent. The scent of cedar and sharpening stone usually filled the air, but today, it was overshadowed by the sweet, earthy aroma of the fresh ohagi resting in the basket against your hip.
Being a former high-ranking Kakushi, who was assigned to serve Sanemi, you can’t help but find yourself… caught in a trap: adoring everything about the former Wind Hashira despite his gruffness.
Yes, he is a very closed person, like a cactus. One mistake and it can prick and make you bleed.
You’ve seen it. You’ve seen how Sanemi changed after the war; he is a bit calmer now than before. Maybe he is already smiling and is really close to his brother, Genya, who thankfully survived in that battle too.
But despite all the peace right now, Sanemi still seems to be living in a void.
You had practised your greeting the entire walk over. You knew Sanemi was struggling with the quiet of peacetime; that his mind, forged for battle, didn't quite know how to sit still in a world without demons.
You wanted to support him.
You wanted to show the former Wind Hashira that quiet didn't have to mean empty.
It may seem to sound weird; however, you chose to stay by his side.
He told you lots of times to go away and that you don’t belong here. Sanemi even told you to stop wasting your life here when you finally have the freedom to live a normal life.
Yes, you stayed… despite everything.
You found Sanemi on the back porch, the sun catching the jagged lines of the scars across his chest. He was staring at his hands, his knuckles white as he gripped his knees.
“Good morning… Shinazugawa-san. I thought you might be hungry. I made ohagi just the way you like them.”
He didn't look up. “I told you to stop coming here unannounced.”
“You know I work here—”
“I have no servants. Go away, Y/N.”
A weary sigh escaped your lips. His actions always made your heart ache. It is so obvious that despite everything, Sanemi is still afraid to let people come into his life.
You know you shouldn’t answer, and yet, here you are, standing your ground and looking at him as if he were a child with a tantrum. Yes, there are times Genya acts more mature than his older brother.
And this is one of those times.
“Shinazugawa-san—”
“The war is over. Your job is done. I don't need a shadow following me around cleaning up messes that aren't there anymore.”
“I am not cleaning any mess; I am just bringing you food. It is past breakfast. Genya-kun had already eaten but we haven’t seen you…”
Sanemi’s jaw tightened at the mention of his brother. He hated how easily you moved through his home. He hated that you knew his schedule, his brother’s appetite, and the exact way he liked his tea. It made his chest feel tight, a terrifying pressure he didn’t know how to handle. To stop the feeling, he decided to destroy the source of it.
“Oh, so now you are the family caretaker?”
He sneered, taking a menacing step forward until he was towering over you.
“You think because you survived the war in the back lines, hiding behind a mask, that you have the right to lecture me on when I should eat?”
In one blurred motion, Sanemi’s arm swung out. He didn't hit you, but his hand caught the edge of the basket with such force that it went flying. Your effort was slammed against a stone lantern in the garden, the dark bean paste staining the white gravel like a bruise.
The ringing in your ears was drowned out by the sudden, violent thumping of your heart. You froze, your hand still hovering in the air where the tray had been.
Sanemi gestured wildly to the ohagi on the ground, not caring about how much effort you put into it.
“Look at that. That is all you are. You are just a servant who doesn’t know when the contract is finished. I didn’t keep you here because I wanted your company. I kept you here because I felt sorry for a girl who had nowhere else to go. A Kakushi with no master is just a beggar, is she not?”
He leaned down until his face was inches from yours. His voice dropped to a cruel, jagged edge. “You are not my friend. You are not family. So take your pity and your food and get out.”
“Aniki? What are you doing?”
Sanemi’s eyes widened as if he had been struck, his body jolting upright at the sound of his brother’s voice. The fierce, jagged mask he wore didn’t quite slip, but it trembled. He didn’t look back at Genya.
He couldn’t.
The shame of being caught acting like a beast in the middle of their hard-won peace was clawing at his throat, but his pride was far too thick to allow for an apology.
“None of your business, Genya,” Sanemi barked, his voice cracking slightly with a strange, frantic energy. He stepped over the ruined ohagi, his heavy boots crushing one of the sweets into the gravel without a second thought. “I am going for a walk. Don’t follow me.”
He stormed past his brother, his shoulder clipping Genya’s in his haste to escape the suffocating weight of the silence he had created. He disappeared around the corner of the estate, leaving a trail of hostile energy that slowly began to dissipate in the morning air.
Silence fell over the porch. You remained frozen for a moment, staring at the white gravel and the dark, bruised shape of the ruined food. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs, a painful, rhythmic reminder of how much those words had stung.
A heavy sigh sounded beside you, followed by the soft crunch of stones. Genya stepped down into the garden, his tall frame casting a long shadow over you. He didn’t say anything at first. He simply knelt in the dirt, his large, scarred hands reaching out to pick up the dented wicker basket.
“He is a complete idiot,” Genya said quietly. It was a tone of voice only the two of you shared—the weary, exasperated bond of the only two people who truly bothered to handle Sanemi Shinazugawa’s temper.
You let out a shaky breath, finally sinking to your knees to help him.
You and Genya had become a team over these past months; you helped him with his studies, and he helped you navigate the more terrifying moods of his brother. He was the only person who knew exactly how much effort you had put into those ohagi.
“I thought the food would help,” you murmured, your fingers trembling as you reached for a piece that had landed near the stone lantern. “He seemed so restless this morning. He didn’t even join you for breakfast.”
“It is not the food,” Genya said, his brow furrowed. He looked at the mess, then back at you with genuine concern.
“He sees someone being kind and he thinks it is a trap. But what he said just now... about the contract... He didn’t mean it.”
Genya reached down and, before you could stop him, picked up a piece of ohagi that had rolled onto the moss. He brushed off a bit of dirt and popped it into his mouth.
“Genya-kun! No!” You gasped, your eyes widening as you reached out to grab his wrist too late. “It is dirty! It was on the ground!”
He chewed quickly, a small, defiant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the tension. “It’s fine. It still tastes like yours. It would be a waste to leave it all for the ants just because nii-chan is having a tantrum.”
“You’re going to get an upset stomach,” you scolded, though the knot in your chest loosened just a fraction. You swiped at your eyes with your sleeve, refusing to let the tears fall. “And then I shall have to be the one to look after you, too.”
“I have eaten much worse things than a bit of garden dirt,” Genya joked softly, his expression turning more serious as he looked at the red marks on your wrists. He nudged your shoulder with his own. "Are you alright? Truly? Nii-chan was... he was especially cruel today."
You looked at the basket, now half-filled with salvaged, slightly squashed sweets. You thought about the way Sanemi had looked at you—the cruelty in his eyes and the way he had called you a beggar. It hurt more than any injury you had seen during the war.
"I’m fine," you lied, though the wobble in your voice betrayed you. You stood up slowly, brushing the dust from your hakama. "I should get back to the kitchen. There’s still plenty to do for lunch, and if I stay out here staring at the dirt, I might actually start to believe him."
Genya stood up with you, clutching the basket protectively. "You’re not a beggar. And you are definitely not just a servant. If he cannot see that today, I will make sure he sees it tomorrow. I will stay with you while you cook, alright?"
You gave him a small, grateful smile.
"I would like that, Genya-kun. Thank you."
Beggar… I am nothing but a beggar, am I?
Looking at the mirror, you can’t help but feel pathetic. You know, you shouldn’t cry. Maybe Genya is right, he didn’t mean it. But… what Sanemi told you stuck into the back of your mind like how the ohagi you had woken up early to make for him stuck on the rock when he slapped it from your hand.
You should know better. Maybe you should really leave and find someone who will look at you as if you weren’t hopeless. Perhaps you shouldn’t really be dwelling in a dragging life like this, as you are well-aware that there will never be a space in Sanemi’s heart for you.
Of course, he was a Hashira… second from the strongest. He had bigger priorities than this, so why are you even expecting that he would have time to sit and think about you?
Another tear escaped from your swollen eyes. Eventually you will end up sleeping, just to wake up the next time with patience as deep as the ocean for a man like him. It was as if your understanding towards Sanemi were so vast, but… is this the time to give up? It has been months… no… a year already.
You were kicked out of your trance as the shoji behind you slid wide open. Dim lights illuminated his silvery locks, making your eyes widen. His eyes look like they are in a haze, and there is something unreadable behind those purple orbs.
“Shinazugawa-san?”
“Why are you still here?”
“I… where did you go? Why are you… why are you bleeding?”
You practically stumbled to your feet as you tried to go near Sanemi, whose arm was bleeding. With heartbeats beating hard against your throat now, you took the bandages you always kept and pulled Sanemi’s sleeves up with practised ease.
You had done this hundreds of times. You had patched Sanemi every time he went home… bleeding like this because of the demons back then.
“Why are you bleeding?”
You asked as you made him sit and surprisingly, the former Wind Hashira followed easily. He sat there, quiet and…
“Are you drunk?”
“Are you my mother?”
You hissed, feeling worried but also kind of mad at whatever this is. Sanemi doesn’t drink; he has always avoided this, but… right now, he is here, drunk and bleeding.
“I never claimed to be your mother. I just want to know what happened.”
Finishing cleaning and bandaging his wound was also surprisingly easy, but you surely can feel that there is something wrong. Really wrong with how Sanemi looked at you for a few seconds with a stare that almost told you everything; yet also gone too soon.
“Fight. Stupid fucking… people… Why do you care anyways?”
“Because I do.”
“Hmmph… stupid fucking Kakushi.”
For a few seconds, you held your breath. Yes, you know how stupid you are to stay even if he treats you like this. But maybe Sanemi became a habit to you… A vice you can’t cut off even if you wanted to.
You know he is hurting you, but here you are… still tending to his wounds—still caring and… loving him.
“I know I am…”
"Yes, you are. You’re wasting your fucking life for a guy like me.”
“I am not.”
"Yes, you are. Y/N, do you think I am stupid? I know why you’re doing this.”
The midnight air came so coldly, echoing through your core, freezing you inside. He knows? He knows I’ve always loved him? Or maybe he is just bluffing. Right, he is—
“You’re so pathetic for being in love with a broken man like me.”
You wanted to deny it… But… how can you do it if you can see how he looks at you now with tears welling up in his beautiful eyes?
You can still remember that one sunny morning where you first saw Sanemi. It was the first time that your world stopped and everything became clear. I will always stay for you…
It was a promise to somebody who would never need it… A very childish promise, however, made you so hopeful that one day, those beautiful eyes would look at you with such… love.
But how could it happen if both of you were living in such a cruel world?
“You should leave. Get a husband that would look at you with so much love and care. Be free from me.”
Leave… he wants me to leave… Of course he does. He even pushed Genya away before.
“Shinazugawa-san… you know I won’t do that…”
Sanemi let out a harsh, jagged laugh that sounded more like a cough. He reached out and gripped your chin, not roughly, but with a terrifyingly cold steadiness that forced you to look into his bloodshot eyes.
“And that is exactly why you are so pathetic,” he whispered, the words hitting you like a physical blow. “You’re clinging to a sinking ship and calling it a choice. Do you truly think I feel grateful for this? Every time I see you in my house, I feel a weight around my neck. I don’t feel loved. I feel stifled.”
“What did I ever do to you… Shinazugawa-san?” Your tears managed to escape your eyes now with all the pain and confusion that you had been holding on. An uncontrollable sob escaped your lips as you looked at Sanemi, who was looking at you with so much… hate.
He let go of you as if your skin had burnt him.
“What did you do? You are waiting for a version of me that died years ago. He is not coming back. So stop looking at me with those hopeful eyes. It makes me want to be even crueller to you just to see when you will finally break. Is that what you want? Y/N? Do you want to see how much of a monster I can actually be before you finally run?”
He turned his back to you, his shoulders shaking with a repressed, violent emotion.
“Go away, Y/N. Your presence here is not a comfort. It is a debt I never signed for and a penance I do not want to pay. Find someone who actually wants to be saved, because I am perfectly fine rotting alone.”
“But… I will rot with you if it’s needed… Sanemi.”
You called him by his name for the first time, maybe to beg. Maybe to show him that you will do everything for him. It actually halted him from stepping out of your room and made him turn to you with such… horrified expression.
“Do you think your love is some kind of medicine? Do you think I am going to wake up one day and be fixed because a Kakushi decided to be stubborn? It’s insulting that you think I am that simple.”
“I am not even trying to insult you—”
“But you are! Every time you breathe… every time I see even your shadow. Every fucking time that I hear your footsteps and feel you around me. It makes me feel like… like I was in the war again. Yes, you remind me of the war. Of the things I wished I could just bury, but I fucking can’t!”
Your heart ached hearing all this from him. It’s like a stupid slap, yet it's already killing you like a fatal blow to the solar plexus. Your breath hitched as you looked at Sanemi, your sight blurred with tears.
“And… and… I will never love you even if I manage to win from these ghosts. I have loved and lost… and I think… I’ll always love Kanae even if you or a more pathetic person comes into my life.”
The air in the room seemed to vanish, leaving you gasping in a vacuum of your own making.
You had survived the bloodiest war in history, had seen the most horrific injuries a human body could endure, but nothing had prepared you for the surgical precision with which he just dismantled your soul.
Mentioning her name—the one woman whose memory was a sacred, untouchable garden in his mind—was the final, jagged twist of the blade.
Sanemi did not just say he didn't love you. He told you that you were a secondary thought in a ghost's world. He looked at you then, and for the first time, his eyes weren't full of rage—they were just empty.
He didn’t stop there. He saw the way you flinched at her name, and instead of pulling back, he pressed the advantage like a swordsman sensing a gap in armour. He wanted you to bleed so profusely that you would finally have no choice but to let go of him.
“You think you’re being selfless, don’t you?” he continued, his lip curling in a way that made his scars twitch.
“Standing there with that pained, devoted look on your face. It is not noble, Y/N. It’s embarrassing. Do you know how hard it is to look at you and see a girl who has so little self-respect that she begs for the crumbs of a man who does not even want to see her?”
He took a step closer, invading your space once again until the scent of cedar, alcohol, and old scars felt like a chokehold.
“Every time you touch my wounds, I am thinking of her hands. Every time you bring those stupid sweets, I am wishing it was her walking through that door. You are just a hollow reminder of everything I can never have back.”
He paused… then.
“You are a placeholder, Y/N, and a poor one at that.”
He laughed then, a dry, rattling sound that lacked any mirth.
“Go on then. Cry. Go to Genya and tell him how cruel I am. But do not pretend that you stayed for me. You stayed because you are a Kakushi at heart—you need someone to serve because you are too empty to exist on your own. I am doing you a favour by throwing you out. I am giving you the chance to stop being a ghost’s servant.”
The silence that followed was different from the others. It wasn't a pause; it was a death. The air felt thin, as if the room itself was rejecting you.
You felt a strange, hollow sensation in your chest, as if your heart had finally stopped trying to beat against a wall of stone. Every meal you had cooked, every floor you had scrubbed until your knees bled, every night you had stayed awake listening to his nightmares—it wasn't just unappreciated.
It was an insult to the shrine he had built for a dead woman.
"I see," you whispered.
Your voice didn't wobble this time; it was dead. You looked at his scarred hands, the ones you had wanted to hold, and realised they would only ever be open for someone who wasn't there.
"You speak as if my love is a stain on her memory," you said, the tears finally spilling over, though your expression remained eerily still. "I thought I was helping you carry the weight, Sanemi. I didn’t realise I was just more clutter in your void."
He didn't move. He didn't take it back. He just stood there in the cold moonlight, a man so committed to his own misery that he would rather drown in the past than reach for the hand right in front of him.
"You don't have to worry anymore," you said, stepping back into the shadows of the hallway. "I am finished being pathetic. I’m finished being a beggar for a ghost’s scraps."
Sanemi remained as stagnant as the moonlight, his silhouette jagged and cold against the paper doors. He let you walk away into the darkness of the hall, the silence of the estate swallowing the sound of your retreating steps until there was nothing left but the wind whistling through the eaves.
You spent the rest of the night in a trance. There was no dramatic weeping, no more pleas for him to understand. There was only the mechanical movement of folding your spare robes and tucking your few personal belongings into your old Kakushi satchel. Each item felt heavier than the last, a physical reminder of the months you had spent trying to turn this house into a home.
As the sun began to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in a bruised purple, you left a small note on the kitchen table for Genya. You couldn't bear to say goodbye to him in person; his kindness was the only thing that could still make you crumble, and you needed to stay iron-grey and hollow until you were far away from here.
You walked out of the front gate without looking back.
Behind you, the Wind Estate sat in perfect, suffocating silence. The crushed ohagi still lay on the gravel, the dark bean paste drying into the stones like an old scar. You had finally given Sanemi exactly what he demanded. You had removed the clutter. You had left him alone with his ghosts.
And as the gate clicked shut, you realised that for the first time in your life, you didn't have a master to serve or a wound to tend. You were finally free, and it felt like a death sentence.
𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅…
𝓘'𝓶 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓻𝔂 𝓲𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓱𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓼 :<
I think I just also need a good cry XD But I hope you loved it! See you in the next and last chapter! This is almost 4k words already sooo yeah!
Feel free to love, reblog, or comment! Really love seeing all your support. Mwa!!
And yes, I know! I have sooo many WIPS! No worries, once my schedule clears up irl... I will make sure to finish 'em all!
Bᴜʏ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏғғᴇᴇ~ if ever you wanna share some love and help me grow my pages!
likeee around 5'8 i think??? idk i dont remember tbh.....
@wuthering-on-ur-ashes @wawancafe314 @evilyaoi413 @landm1neb0y-23 @leilameow @lowoffline @cry-all-the-timee @boop-bo0p @needyf4goverdose @emeruniii @mourningjirai + open tags cuz idk who else to tag lolz!!! (sorry if i tagged u and u dont do tag games or youve already done this one!!)
I don't have Spotify but the two current songs I'm stuck between are New Way Out by Poppy and Going Under by Evanescence
@book-of-mapss @cathedralofcherries @donutshark2763 @eddiemunsonsguitarpic @jupiterxzyy @livewithoutwxrning @phantom-scaress @rosedmcenjoyer @smolpinkgremlin and any other moots or followers
pronouns? rlly any besides she/her, though they/he is preferred!!
system? not that I'm aware of, so nope!
taken? NOPE 💔💔💔
favorite book? Warrior Cats, BEFORE YOU JUDGE I DON'T READ THAT MANY BOOKS, THATS MY EXCUSE--
favorite movie? Girl in the Closet - 2023, it sounds random but that movie genuinely tickled my brain a bit.
top three fandoms? Ranboo/generation loss, hermitcraft, and Linkin Park 🥹🥹
favorite artists? OUUHH LETS SEE LETS SEE currently umm The Front Bottoms, Linkin Park, atlas ivy, and MARINA.
who inspires you? ALL of my friends (online and irl :33) and uuurrhhhhrhhr a lot of twitch streamers because they're gAY. /satire
ocs? Mrs. Veil (genloss oc) mainly, I had others but I low-key forgot about them 💔💔 (there was another that I basically turned into a trauma dump but I forgor her name.)
Name - Vicky ( fun fact unless you didn't already know Vicky isn’t my name irl )
Age range - 12-17
Pronouns - ok personally Im used to going by she/her and Im fine if you call me they/them ( you can also use he/him just a little but weirder for me tho but you can experiment and Im fine with )
Are you a system? - uh no?
Are you taken? If they have tumblr, tag them! - i mean kinda I don’t really know in a way so basically I was in a polyamorous relationship and then one of the people I was with became homeschooled but we never said all of us broke up so maybe … anyways only one has tumblr and she can’t use it so im just gonna say her name Vixie
Favorite book? - ok these are like book series but still Hooky I’d like my fave graphic novel series abd chapter books is Heroes of Olympus
Favorite movie? - honestly probably Jumanji ( I used want my parents to play it all the times when we ate )
Top three fandoms? - probably dream smp, Hermitcraft, and the life series
Favorite music artist(s)? - honestly probably like right now - Derivakat, CG5, AJR, and Cavetown
Who inspires you? - honestly my life, my moots, and my friends
If you're an OC creator, name three of your OCs! - Miel, Everest, and Haruko
Name? - not gonna share my irl name here yet but call me Sunset nicknames I have irl though are Paul (not my name tho) and Poland
Age range? - 12-17
Pronouns? - Usually I use she/they pronouns, but I go by she/any! (except for it/its, makes me feel uncomfortable)
Are you a system? - Nope! just me :P
Are you taken? - Single ToT
Fav book? - Well It's more of a series but Trials of Apollo by Rick Riordian
Fav movie? - Imma go for 2: The Magic Faraway Tree (i watched recently) and Jumanji (classic for my family, also I have a boardgame modeled after the movie but it's not dangerous :P)
Top 3 fandoms? - If i had to choose, probably Dandy's World, Forsaken and Let Him Go although I'm in many, MANY others
Favourite Music Artists? - I have ALOT. cg5, or3o, jakeneutron, Laufey, Ed Sheeran. Oh, also Jamie Page and Flavor Foley as well!
Who inspires you? - My friends, my moots, and life in general
Name 3 of your OCs! - I'm going to name my non-fandom OCs, so there's Kiko, Kairo, and Aria though I got more
Fav. Book: whatever i can get my grubby little hands on. i read a lot of fun fact books
Fav. Movie: hmm. lego movie maybe. could be the first spongebob movie too
Top 3 fandoms: deltarune, undertale, uh tally hall i guess
Fav. Music artists: tally hall, most vocaloid songs, i also like the tally hall members as standalone musicians. basic ass music taste i know but im happy okay
Who inspires you?: inspiration is very very sporadic. sometimes it’s hope, sometimes it’s spite
Name 3 of your OCs: Chroma, Rook, Meowstic (you will be meeting them soon…)
@that0nekate @kaihasmoreswagthanyou3 @tvgoop @tvbroadcaster @dh4mp1re @blueberry2cheesecake @agendercyptidcore + open tags sorry if i forgot anyone :( i love all my moots im just tagging off the top of my head
6. What is your favourite gender? not your gender. your favourite.
7. What is your least favourite colour?
@incognitostunner @woman-offical @stagefrightbaxter @callofwinter @holymolyitssam @tagging-officals-offical @archangel-gabriel-offical @eric-cartman-offical and open tags. ok? answer my questions. DO IT.
1: What the thing you last consumed: Boba from my Boba Milk tea
2: When did you do to sleep last night: 12 am I was reading spy and family
3: When did you wake up this morning Hmm?: 6:52 am
4: do you ever shut up: Yas, I'm quiet a lot of the thing unless I like geek out Abt smth
5: Do you still sleep with stuff animals: YAS I have lots on my bed that I all sleep with
6: What's your favourite gender: That one Xeno gender called Boba Cat gender cuz I like both boba and cats and then I like the Fae/Faer pronouns but I go by any/all
7: What's your least favourite colour: with no context Yellow but some shade of Green I don't like either without any context
@lavendermoon48 @sunshine-snake @beanzdabean @potatodolikeuman @yourlocalavian @tabbykai @maedaeeee @vickysnowpawz @lotustired and open tagsss
1. What the thing you last consumed? Pokebowl from school cafeteria <3
2. When did you go to sleep last night? Um like 11:30
3. When you wake up this morning? Hmm? 6:00am but then I fell back asleep (after a while) and woke up at 6:30 and then went back to sleep until 7
4. Do you ever shut up? Unfortunately yes too much
5. Do you still sleep with stuffed animals? YES <3
6. What is your favourite gender? not your gender. your favourite. I’m stealing prevs answer:
✨racecar ✨
7. What is your least favourite colour? That one diarrhea brown we all hate or smth (BUT!! I do think all colours are pretty in the right context. ALL OF THEM!!)
@cartoonenby @biblicalvampireemmy (ik u dont do many tag games but istg if you tell me you slept at 3 am and woke up at 7 again i will choke u) @wynndexandformaldyhyde @infinitelypurple @tabbykai (you too man i see you at 1am reblogging stuff on a wednesday)
1.Uhhhh I'm eating Kopiko rn but before that, Cornetto Oreo Ice cream
2.Idk 😶
3.Uhhhh.......4:25? I have sports practice and I set a lot of alarms so I wake up on time
4.With my parents, family and others? Hell yes. With my besties? HELL NO.
5.OBVI I RECENTLY GOT A SHEEP PLUSHIE FROM MINISO AND NAMED IT BAKRI 😭✋ (Bakri - Hindi/Marathi for sheep)
6.I'm bi. So ....... Whatever gender Nanami, Sanemi, Choso, Giyuu, Gyomei, Akaashi, Nobara, Mitsuri, Shinobu are ;) (yes, I like both men and women, to answer the question)
7.Neon colours. All of them. God made colours to let me see, not the opposit Tagssssssss
Prologue: After you walk out on the fight, Sanemi realizes his mistake too late. But will you still take him back?
A/N: YASSS FINALLY I WROTE PART 2 😤 @sashaaalikescherry how is it :D
Warnings: UNREQUITED LOVE LET'S GOOOOOOOOO, ANGSTTTTTTTTTT, Hashiras being ✨in favour of y/n and hating Sanemi✨
Enjoyyyyy 💕💕💕💕💕💕
You burst out of the flat, tears streaming down your face, bag clutched in your arms. The wind was sharp, the cold stinging, but nothing hurt more than the pain in your heart.
That was it. Sanemi finally said what he really thought about you. Was everything a lie? The time when he brought you roses for weeks on end just because he wanted to apologise for not spending enough time with you? The time when he told you that he wanted to stay with you forever? All those happy times you spent with him, starting from when he first asked to to be his girlfriend in high school, were they all just wasted time?
You don't know how you got there, but soon you were standing in front of your friend's door. The third person in your friend group with Sanemi. The shy, quiet boy who everyone always swore had never spoken a word.
Giyuu Tomioka.
Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. Would he even remember you? After all this time? You held your breath as footsteps approaches the door. As soon as the door opened, your eyes closed.
"Y/N?"
God, his voice was so pretty, like the song of the angels, and hearing him say your name sent tingles down your spine.
You opened your eyes, only to meet his.
He looked exactly like he had in high school; soft woolen sweater, same calm but hesitant eyes, same long fluffy hair neatly drawn back into a ponytail.
"Hi, Giyuu......been a while......."
Giyuu tensed. Seeing the tear tracks on your face, he immediately tensed and pulled you inside without a word, closing the door immediately.
His home was simple; minimal furnishing, calm blue walls, but a hugeeeeee set of cabinets filled from floor to ceiling with books. Without a word, he guided you to sit on the sofa, then crouched down so he was at your eye level in front of you.
"Did something happen?", he asked quietly. Hearing him say that made your chest hurt. Taking a deep breath, you slightly nodded.
Giyuu immediately got up, easing you back onto the sofa when you too got up in alarm. "Hey. It's alright, I'm just gonna go get something for you." Giving a rare, shy smile, he left the hall, moving towards the kitchen. He immediately got to work, setting the kettle, looking through his shelves for something good he could give you.
He let out a rough sigh, lacing both his hands on the countertop and leaning forward. You definitely had a fight with Sanemi. He'd observed Sanemi as of late, even though the latter didn't even know that the former was working in the same school as the P.E. teacher and disciplinarian. He saw. Saw how Sanemi was becoming brasher than usual. Saw how he left the school early, disappearing in the direction of the local pub. But, what hurt his heart the most, was how he saw you silently losing yourself. Even after high school, he'd hang out at the town library just to see how you were doing everyday.
Soon, the water was boiled. He poured it out into the best, cleanest mug he could find, put some relatively fresh rice crackers on a plate, and carried it to the hall, where you were still sitting.
It was silent. The way he cared for you. How he just put the water and food in front of you. Not forcing, not careless. Just a simple gesture saying that you should have it, but whenever you were ready and wanted to.
You saw the hesitant way he was hovering in front of you, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to sit or not. You quietly shifted over, making space, inviting him to take a seat beside you.
He took a sharp breath, then sat down. Why was everything you did so perfect? Damn his traitorous heart, beating erratically at everything you did. Why did butterflies flitter through his stomach when you quietly invited him to sit beside you, essentially telling him that he was okay?
He thought that he had gotten rid of these feelings. Anyways, you could never be his. You were already Sanemi's. Ever since junior high.
You and Sanemi were two pieces of a puzzle. Two sides of a coin. Two peas in a pod. The king and queen in a deck of cards. And he? He was the joker, only included because you felt bad that no one talked to him. And Sanemi never liked him. He just "accepted" him because it was what you wanted, not because he liked him, or something.
He heard you exhale shakily, then asked softly, the sound cutting through the quiet air. "How bad?", he asked. You closed your eyes, holding back tears. "He threw a beer mug handle-!!!" You didn't even have time to react before Giyuu reacted on pure instinct.
It's how they say in all those manga. "I didn't even think. It's like my body moved on its own." And what could be a better example than this? Before he himself could process it, one arm was wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close, while the other cupped your cheek, thumb wiping away fallen tears. "Shhh. It's alright. I'm here."
Outside, he looked calm, composed even. Inside, he was mortified at his own boldness. How could he just do that!?
Apparently, just like that.
...
Back home, Sanemi was having a full blown panic attack. He'd called everyone he could think of, asking if you were there.
It wasn't pretty explaining why exactly you weren't there. Rengoku sighed painedly, then hung up. Tengen was exasperated, sarcastic even, immediately telling him that what he did was extremely unflashy. Shinobu coldly told him that even if you come over to her place, she wasn't telling Sanemi and was going to poison him if he even tried to approach you. Mitsuri yelled at him and cut the call immediately. Gyomei told Sanemi that he was very disappointed in him, and this was not appropriate at all.
But the worst was Obanai. He told Sanemi to fuck off, and blocked him immediately, not even bothering to listen to Sanemi's begging.
He was scared to shit now. You were God knows where, out in this cold, and no one was telling him if you were with him. So? He grabbed his bike keys and headed out. He'd try out one last person.
Giyuu.
...
Now, you were comfortable. You hadn't packed much, so Giyuu bashfully lent you a comfortable woolen pair of his own clothes and let you take a long bath. After you finished, you put on his clothes. Pale blue button down shirt, beige cardigan, white woolen pants (kinda like khadi), and white woolen socks. Giyuu even lent you a pair of house slippers.
As you came out, Giyuu barely managed to hide his blush. Seeing you in his clothes, looking so cute and small, did things to him. His heart twisted. The lustful part of him purred in satisfaction. Why were you so goddamn cute?
Should he just ask you to be his? Sanemi already proved that he wasn't any more worthy of you as Giyuu was. But that small voice in his head was insistent. You liked it too, right? The simplicity? The comfort? Away from Sanemi's brashness?
He took a sharp breath. It was now or never.
"Y/N? Can I..........can I ask you something?"
You nodded, slightly confused. Why was he so hesitant? "What is it, Giyuu?"
He took a step closer, giving you ample time to step back, emboldened when he saw that you didn't do so.
You'd felt it too. The quiet caring, the soft look, the tender affection he couldn't hide no matter how composed his face was. And honestly?
You needed this.
Badly.
Sanemi had been ignoring you and drifting away for months. You'd never felt so cared for in a long time, and you welcomed the feeling with open arms. You could feel it too. The promised intimacy. The love in everything he did for you.
And you weren't afraid of what anyone would say or do. You could predict what he was going to ask, and you'd already made up your mind to accept it.
Unfortunately, neither of you heard the distant sound of motorcycle wheels skidding to a halt in front of the building.
...
Sanemi barely bothered to park his bike properly before dashing up the stairs like a madman. This was his only hope. He didn't know what to do after this.
...
Giyuu was closer than ever before; closer than he had ever been to anyone. He towered over you in a protective, gentle way, feeling more like a shield than a barrier. You could feel the warmth radiating off his body, mingling with your own. One strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his chest, while soft fingers gently tilted your chin upward to meet his gaze. The tension in the room was so thick it could be cut in half. Voice barely a whisper, Giyuu finally asked.
"If I asked you to be my girlfriend...........what would you say?"
The question hung in the air; soft, caring, but still cautious. He wouldn't force you. Never. It was purely what you wanted.
You paused for a moment. On one hand, there was Sanemi; drifting away, having realized his mistake too late. On the other, there was Giyuu, holding you like you were the only thing worth living for, looking at you like you were his whole world, simple actions guaranteeing more than what Sanemi had ever promised.
"Oh, Giyuu......", you whispered softly, looking up at him. Your heart calmed down, and a small smile graced your lips. "Ye-"
And that was when the door burst open.
Sanemi walked in to seeing the guy he hated hugging his girlfriend while she was dressed head to toe in his clothes.
What a night indeed.
Alrrrrrr pookies I'm making this a mini series I hope you liked ittttt~~~
MY FIRST EVER TAGLIST!!!!
@angelbearknyyy
@sasgaycumfilledcondom
@evthescribbleguy
@kugisakinobaradesu
@chihir-cqun
@kay27-iread
I added my earliest moots bcoz this is my first ever taglist :D
Comment if you want your name added for the next part 🎀
@sashaaalikescherry is already mentioned in the beginning, and they are also one of my earliest moots, and it's due to their request we have this series planned
As usual, lots of love, ILYASM!!!!!!!
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