Team Levi x tall reader || how the main scouts act when their GN partner is unusually tall
being tall in the scouts is its own kind of language. it changes the cadence of hands, the angle of eyes, the jokes people dare to make. it means you notice things sooner and other people notice you faster. it also means every pocket of affection begins with someone looking up.
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levi
levi notices you first in the mess hall, when you duck to slide past him with your arms brushing his. he freezes, looks you up and down, then looks up at you like he used to look at a stubborn corner that needed cleaning.
“you hit my elbow,” you say, voice teasing.
“keep your elbows to yourself,” levi answers, but his tone has gone soft around the edges. he reaches for the strap on your harness and fumbles like he never does when he’s alone. you watch his fingers, the way he hesitates on your shoulder as if memorizing the slope.
later, after practice, when the sky is bruised and everyone else has drifted away, you sit on the low wall while he cleans blades. his stool is too small for him to be comfortable beside you. he doesn’t seem to mind.
“you’re taller than me,” he states like it’s an observation he’s been meaning to log. his voice has a crack in it that makes you smile.
“yes,” you say. “and?”
he snorts. “you’re clumsy with the vacuum.”
you laugh and lean down, elbows on your knees so your face is closer to his. he looks up at you. it’s intimate in a new way, that tilt of his chin meeting the space between your eyes.
“stand still,” he says suddenly. you do. he steps in close enough that you can feel his breath. then he presses the corner of a mouthful of hair behind your ear, steady and small-handed.
“don’t get used to me being soft,” he mutters, but he rests his forehead against yours, and for a long moment you both exist only in the tiny space where your heights meet.
when titans come and the air is all teeth and panic, it is your reach that drags him to safe ground more than once. afterward, when everyone else is shaking, he stays wrapped around you like a small, stubborn knot. you hold him the way someone holds a small animal: protective, gentle, precise. he lets himself be held.
“i thought i hated being small,” he confesses once, voice muffled against your chest. “i don’t when you’re around.”
you kiss the top of his head. “you can be whatever size you want with me.”
erwin
erwin treats your height like the most practical thing in the world. he maps it into strategy and then into the spaces between you.
you stand at the edge of the war room while he explains a plan. he keeps glancing up at you, and when he gestures he often points to where you will stand. later, he comes to you with a cloak and a quiet, official look.
“you should stand forward on the ridge,” he says. “you’ll be the signal.” his hand rests on your shoulder, warm and deliberate. when he talks, the world listens, but when he touches you, something quieter unfolds.
“i don’t want the attention,” you admit, voice smaller than you feel.
“attention keeps people alive,” he replies. then, softer, like something not meant for the room, he says, “and sometimes attention keeps me less lonely.”
that line surprises you both into silence. you slip an arm through his and guide him to a bench. you sit behind him and let him fold into you, taller frame leaning into your center of gravity. he hums, a small sound you came to associate with relief.
“if you ever doubt the use of your size,” erwin murmurs, “remember you make the horizon easier to read.”
you kiss his temple. “i’ll be your horizon.”
he smiles, which is all the concession you need that he feels something besides duty.
hange
hange is a storm of noise and affection. they treat your height like their favorite toy.
“let me measure your reach,” they declare while ransacking the supply room. before you can answer, they’re up on your shoulders, arms wrapped around your neck, chattering about leverage and titan vitals as if you were a lab table.
“hange, get down,” you protest, amused and indulgent.
“only if you promise to teach me how you balance so well,” they say with breathless excitement.
you sit on a crate and let them drape across you like a scarf. they tell you everything in excited stutters. you answer with long, patient sentences and the occasional kiss to the curve where their cheek meets your collarbone. they squeal when you lift them higher so they can look over a barricade. later, when the town is quiet and the adrenaline is gone, hange curls into you and becomes small.
“you don’t know how steady you are,” they say, voice gone low. “i forget that sometimes.”
you stroke their hair. “then i’ll remind you.”
they lift their face to yours and places a messy, earnest kiss on your lips. it’s loud and gloriously real. you laugh when they pull back, eyes bright.
“you taste like victory and stew,” hange breathes. “and i like both.”
you smile and let them nuzzle you until sleep claims them, your arms an obvious scaffold.
mikasa
with mikasa everything is quiet and inevitable. she is not demonstrative with words, but the way she exists beside you is a prayer.
you train at dawn. the two of you move as a pair, a tall shadow and a compact, fierce presence. sometimes you slow for her, not from pity, but because the two of you have found a rhythm. she appreciates it in the way her shoulder brushes yours and in the way she rests her head against your arm when breaks come.
“you make a good shield,” she says once, cutting a grapefruit and offering you a slice.
“you don’t need me as a shield,” you answer.
“i like both,” she says simply. then she reaches up, fingers knotting in the back of your collar to pull you down into a small, precise kiss. it’s short, devastating in the best way.
on missions, she positions herself near you, compact and ready. people expect her to be protective; you expect her to be protective. after, she washes your hair with deliberation, fingers gentle and methodical. she hums without thinking, a wonder of contentment on her face.
“when you stand tall,” she murmurs, “it makes me stand taller.”
you rest your head on hers. it’s a small, perfect balance: her chin on your shoulder, your cheek on the crown of her head. words are not necessary.
jean
jean’s first words about your height are awkward and accidental.
“you know,” he starts, fidgeting, “you’re like a lighthouse. or at least a very tall barn.”
you snort. “a barn?”
“a very romantic barn,” he corrects quickly. he’s blushing and you like him all the more for it.
he walks with you everywhere, the comfort of your height a new kind of anchor. he gets flustered when you lean down to kiss him, and you make a show of pretending to adjust your height just to tease him. he retaliates with sweaty, ridiculous jokes and the occasional clumsy, earnest kiss.
“i hate that you make me feel small,” he confesses one night, truth slipping past his embarrassment. then he looks at you, eyes bright. “not literally. i mean—i like how safe it feels.”
you thumb the side of his face and pull him in. “then be honest. say it.”
he grins, relieved. “i love you,” he says, low and sure.
you laugh softly and kiss him like you mean it. he melts like someone who’s finally learned how to fall without breaking.
armin
armin studies you like he studies maps. he has a scholar’s awe and a small person’s practical concerns.
“does your height make the air feel different?” he asks one evening, notebook in hand, eyes wide with curiosity.
“no,” you tell him, amused. “just less dust in my nose sometimes.”
he writes it down anyway. later, when he’s too nervous to lead, he leans into you, seeking the kind of comfort only your presence gives. you wrap an arm around his shoulders and let him tuck his face into your chest.
“you make me feel braver,” he whispers into your shirt. “even when the plan fails, i remember you.”
“then we’ll make more plans,” you say. “and i’ll carry the tall parts.”
he kisses your side, earnest and full of small promise. you hold him close and hum a tune that steadies his breath.
sasha
sasha is unabashed devotion. she treats your height like the best part of your personality.
“you can get the top shelf!” she exclaims every week. she plants one foot on a crate and demands you reach whatever snack she cannot. she steals kisses that are loud and messy. she laughs when you lift her just to twirl her until her braid is a halo.
“you’re my personal ladder,” she tells you constantly, and she means it like a sacred title.
late at night she sleeps curled against your ribs, breath warm and full of contentment. you drape an arm over her and feel the steady rhythm of her sleep.
“i like being close to you,” she murmurs half-asleep. “your arms are like a tall, warm fence.”
you grin and kiss her hair. “i’ll keep you inside my fence.”
she sighs happily and slides deeper into your hold, as if you were the safest place on a battlefield.
connie
connie’s relationship to your height is constant, jokey, and completely sincere.
“hey tall person,” he calls, hopping onto your back in the middle of training. “can you see my future? is there pizza?”
“i see pizza in your future,” you tell him, and he whoops.
he uses you as leverage, as a step, as his favorite listener. when he’s scared, he becomes small and stubborn, and you sit with him until his bravado returns.
“promise me you’ll never shrink,” he whispers one night, serious for the first time.
you cup his face. “i promise i will always be tall for you.”
he smacks your chest like it’s a punch, then tightens his arms around your waist. you feel the effortless way he leans into your height, trusting it as much as a shield.
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