a/n: no one asked for this but I’m doing it anyway! it’s probably going to be slow with lots of build up. let’s see how long it takes for me to get freaked out and leave it unfinished. for now, enjoy, and go easy on me pls.
desc: a series of moments throughout the growing relationship between two detectives, and the case that will define the rest of their lives.
warnings: descriptions of violent crimes, blood and gore, mentions of drugs and alcohol, possible drug and alcohol use, adult themes and language, religious themes
Index
I. Sleep
The call comes in early - something sinister is brewing just outside of Erath.
II. Absolution
The door is opened, the spiral begins to unwind, and we must bear witness.
Summary | Levi is caught in a dark place following the battle of heaven and earth. Believing he’s undeserving of life’s sweetness, he deprives himself until you show up on his doorstep. Inspired by and based on Too Sweet by Hozier.
Content | Angst, Fluff. Sort of slow burn? No use of y/n. Levi is a grump, reader is shorter than him. Brief mentions of off-screen sex. Italics are song lyrics that each section is inspired by.
Pairings | Levi/Reader. Mentions of Jean/Pieck.
Notes | As soon as I heard Too Sweet, I knew I needed to write about Levi. Header is from ‘kii on Pinterest. Hope you enjoy!
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It can’t be said I’m an early bird, it’s 10 o’clock before I say a word. Baby, I can never tell, how do you sleep so well?
After the war, Levi becomes a creature of the night. His meticulous bedtime routine and eves of deep, restful slumber have become wrought with nightmares, teeming with the faces of everyone he’s ever loved having succumbed to their bitter ends. He’s forgone the tea, a relic of a previous era; he now prefers an amber liquid that stings on the way down. A balm that numbs, heavy bottomed glass filled only a quarter of the way. When he ventures beyond the confines of his home, he asks for the tippy top of the top shelf - Levi always takes his whiskey neat.
You know you don’t gotta pretend. Baby, now and then, don’t you just wanna wake up, dark as a lake, smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze?
Some days, he’s lucky if he retires before the sunrise peeks over the hills and pulls itself up to the high point of the sky. Letters go unanswered, bookshelves less sparse as he fills the majority of his time with thick, leather-bound tomes. The newspaper has becomes the perfect kindling, headlines boasting peace negotiations melt and turn runny with the heat of the blaze. When Levi wakes each hazy afternoon, it’s with the lingering scent of bonfire strung about the atmosphere. His once grey eyes have turned deep, a color so sharpened it resembles the water on a lake just before the claps of thunder rumble and bring down swells of rain.
But while in this world, I think I’ll take my whiskey neat. My coffee black and my bed at three.
He knows he won’t live forever. He’s not at all interested. At this point, he’s pleading for the same sweet release from the world he afforded Erwin. Levi has spent so much time dwelling in the night, the darkness is threatening to become him. Then, you show up, one damp afternoon. Modest sundress, two small bags, a green ribbon tying back your hair. The glow you emanate is too much for him. He wants to be angry, filled with a rage so intense it convinces you to leave running in the midst of the spring storm, ribbon flying behind you. The pit in his stomach solidifies when he can’t bring himself to be irate, softened by the cold flush of your cheeks and the sheepishness of your smile as you stand, delicate in his doorway.
You’re too sweet for me, you’re too sweet for me.
At first, your presence does nothing to alter his routine. You rise with the sun, the first blinks of morning are spent brewing a sweet coffee in his kitchen, silent save the chattering of the birds. The dregs of his previous evening’s fire catching in the wind and mingling with the scent of bitter coffee grounds. Levi rises long after the sun has hit it’s peak, emerging in loose slacks and a half undone shirt, the sleeves rolled. You cross paths only briefly, while he pours his glass of amber whiskey and you prepare your cup of evening tea. A silent understanding has occurred - you can stay, if you don’t intervene. So you read in the overgrown garden, take your coffee with milk and two sugars, visit the bookstore, the seamstress down the block from the town’s main square, and worry about him only when you are tipping over the ledge into sleep.
But who wants to live forever, babe? You treat your mouth as if it's Heaven's gate.
The first change is subtle: tea leaves are disappearing faster than you’re brewing them; you know he’s dipping into the store after you retire each evening. Then, when the usual night terrors creep up again, plaguing your mind and leaving your lungs in a vice grip, the second change occurs. Levi waking and comforting you after a string of particularly violent dreams, a different sort of understanding passes when he murmurs, “I still see them, too.” You find him in your bed then, most mornings. Your routines still separate, bodies occupying different halves of the day for weeks. Coffee, bookstore, seamstress, reading, garden. It continues on, life in your solitary bubbles, except the brief overlapping in the early morning when your breaths mingle in the same space between your sleeping forms.
I wish that I could go along, babe, don't get me wrong.
The paradigm shifts once more when he begins to rouse the same time as you. A brief wave of shame washes over you as you realize he’s already awake, you cannot observe his closed eyes and smoothed forehead, the lines of his face set in peace, the soft parting of his lips, or the slow rise of his chest beneath the thin blankets. That morning, you show him how to make the coffee, and he grumbles after burning the first pot, squinting in the bright light. He notices you smiling out of the corner of his eye and something rattles around in his chest. You add three sugars to your cup. He accompanies you to both the bookstore and the seamstress, his silent presence a new comfort. Levi wants to ask why you chose him, chose his home, when there are happier and more accommodating friends, current or former members of the 104th. There’s no doubt in his mind that you’d be better off with someone like Mikasa, in her quiet cottage by the sea. Even Jean and Pieck, or hell, Reiner and his family.
You're bright as the morning, as soft as the rain.
Within a few months, Levi’s world has changed. It’s brighter, fuzzy around the edges. There’s a few sundresses in the closet of his room, a growing stack of books on his dresser. A knit shawl is draped over the chair in the living room; and the guest bed hasn’t been used in several weeks. He lets her brew the coffee in the morning, his palate now well suited for the taste, and takes chrysanthemum tea in the evenings. The garden has a bench now, front row to the beds of geranium, lavender, and snapdragon. When you smile at him through the kitchen window, an understanding dawns on him, an awakening blooms inside of him. He’s seen this look before, many times; over a shared water jug during an expedition, sleepy and exhausted over a fire surrounded by their comrades, during meetings with military leadership, after the battle of heaven and earth, and on the day you were assigned to his squad. You would never go to Mikasa’s, or to Jean and Pieck, even Reiner, or anyone else. He would never let you.
Pretty as a vine, as sweet as a grape.
The first touch of morning is chill, a breeze dancing its way through the open window, sheet gathered at his waist as Levi rouses from sleep. He hears your hums from the kitchen and swings his feet over the bed. He’s drawn to you like bees are to flowers, cloying aroma and sunlight and all things good. Forgoing the tie of his robe, he begins purposeful strides down the hall. Then, you’re there, back turned and hair down. The hem of your pale nightgown sways as you wait for the pour of coffee, glowing in the sunrise, hands over your upper arms to stave off the late summer air. You’re lost in a daydream. Levi comes to stand behind you, listening to the melody you hum quietly. The deprecating, nagging voice he contends with daily in his mind is quieted - it’s just you now; always you.
If you could sit in a barrel, maybe I’d wait.
It’s quiet when he slides an arm around your waist, body warm and flushed. It’s quiet when you turn in his hold, meeting his grey gaze with lingering surprise and pink cheeks. It’s quiet as he pulls you in closer still, hands coming up to rest on his chest. Quiet, as Levi brushes his forehead against yours, eyes closed, fingers flexing in their hold of you. Completely silent, as he tilts your chin up, up, up, and brushes his lips with yours. The taste of you nothing like he had ever dreamed, and oh, had he dreamed. When you push up onto your toes to deepen the pressure, sigh into his mouth, his black bitter heart nearly bursts through his chest.
Until that day…
And when he takes you shortly after, coffee long forgotten, limbs so tangled it’s near impossible to discern where you end and Levi begins, lips parted and dewy with sweat and each other; he can only think of the sweetness this life has afforded him in you, how the bitterness of his past has made way for this belonging.. well. There’s truly no such thing as too sweet, is there?
The snark of Eren Yeager matched only by himself, the holler of his cackle makes Jean Kirstein’s spine stiffen.
What’s worse than his cackle? Only one thing.
“HEYO ~Jean-boy~!” The high pitched whine of Eren’s voice bellows from down the hall. There could not be a worse nickname, coming from a worse person. If he didn’t know better, Jean would say even the bricks lining the walls of Mitras’ capital building shuddered in embarrassment for him. Floch’s (fucking fuck that guy, Jean thinks) stupid laugh follows quickly behind, his wheezing sounding more donkey than human.
He can’t stop the lava-hot anger boiling to the surface, shoulders rising and fists clenching at his sides. Now they’re both laughing, and he wants to deck them both in their stupid, snide faces. Jean turns, eyes narrowed to a slit, “Where’s your bodyguard, Yeager? I don’t see your usual evil brooding shadow.” Smirking, he knows he hit Eren right where it hurts, in his puny runt-sized heart. Fuck it, if he wants to play hardball and mock my mother, I’ll play, he thinks.
Eren short circuits and Floch’s jaw falls open. Before Eren becomes his usual flash of rage induced, uncoordinated, off-balance flurry of flailing limbs, Jean stalks off not quite fast enough to miss the tail end of a devastating loss.
Mikasa grabs him by the collar before he can wind himself up, “Why do you always do this shit?”
Jean smirks to himself. “Oh, hey Mikasa. Didn’t see you there!” He calls.
He’s rounding the corner when Yeager grounds out a retort that’s followed by an “Oof,” where Mikasa yanks his collar a little too hard.
Yeager still tries his patience, incessantly. Jean blows him off nowadays, his temper no longer simmering just below the surface. When his pest’s favorite insult doesn’t even make his skin prickle, he knows he’s fucked.
There’s a new factor at play, and Jean’s too preoccupied to care much about Eren being a little prick. All because of you.
It’s not his fault, he thinks. You’re so sweet. If they bottled and sold you as a drink, no one would get enough. It’s in the way you smile, eyes twinkling. How you immediately flush when paid too much attention, or address a group. Your soft voice and desire for the quiet. Jean knows you’re not a pushover, you’ll knock someone on their ass. The difference is in how - with few words spoken and gracefully, swiftly, without hesitation.
So when Jean spends the night in your quarters, warm and wonderfully devoid of the regular scout racket, his mind is far, far away from fucking Yeager and Floch. And, when you beckon him closer in the lamplight, finger under his chin and a glint in your eye; when you whisper “Come here, Jean-boy,” before bringing your mouths together… well, he’s never loved the sound of his own name more. Yeager can eat a bag of dicks, he thinks, right as your lips part and let his tongue explore the softness of you.
With one hand on your waist, the other in your hair, and you on his lap, hands around his neck, he knows for certain that he is absolutely and unequivocally fucked.
Bonus: Eren tries it again and the unintended effect is that Jean gets a raging boner.
a/n: no one asked for this but I’m doing it anyway! it’s probably going to be slow with lots of build up. let’s see how long it takes for me to get freaked out and leave it unfinished. for now, enjoy, and go easy on me pls.
desc: a series of moments throughout the growing relationship between two detectives, and the case that will define the rest of their lives. in this moment, we arrive on the scene in Erath.
warnings: descriptions of violent crimes, blood and gore, mentions of drugs and alcohol, possible drug and alcohol use, adult themes and language, religious themes
Previous: I. Sleep // Next: III. Bird
II. Absolution
You see the outline of his slim frame before anything else. Ramrod straight, ledger gripped in weathered hand. His back is to your dust caked windshield, but you don’t need to see his tired face to know the look resting upon it. Marty turns at the sound of the gravel under your tires, Rust stares on ahead, frozen in time it would seem.
The air is damp and sticky. Too early for the full heat but the cicadas are going at it full force. The smell of charred leaves and scorched earth burns in your nostrils, sunglasses low on the bridge of your nose. Striding over to the two men in matching CID jackets, Marty turns, stern.
“Might want’a take a shot’a somethin’ before ya take a look. This one’s bad.”
He stretches out the syllables before whistling an exasperated breath. When you look to Rust, he’s already regarding you, blue eyes clouded by something unnameable. Removing your sunglasses, your eyes meet and an unspoken agreement passes between you when he gives a slight affirmative nod. You start a slow walk around the base of the tree, scanning the ground and twisted roots. Rust follows behind, like a stray dog, a wide berth separating you as the full view of the scene makes itself known.
She’s kneeling in what one would assume is prayer, but this is a grotesque and violent display of faith if ever there was one. Knees sunk into the soft of the earth, grass skimming the top of a fleshy thigh. Her skin is so pale, almost translucent, the bruises in varying shades of purple and yellow look fluorescent.
The antlers adorning her head are not placed in grace or delicacy, the sharp angles giving way to the totality of the depravity here. The departure point is marked by blood and tufts of soft deer skin; jagged and messy. Her hands come together unwillingly, bound with the same gnarled cords as her ankles, ligature marks present. Fingernails cracked up through the bed, pieces pushed into the quick below, smudged with blood and dirt and fear.
To you, the viewer, the worst part is her face. Stuck in a permanent grimace, bruised and swollen, it preserves the most horrifying truth: the soft animal of this girl was not shown mercy. She felt every punch, every kick, every stab, every broken bone. You can feel it in the hair on the back of your neck, that this was someone’s idea of a masterpiece. A stray blonde eyelash, almost white, sits upon the high point of her cold cheek. You fight the urge to blow and make a wish.
It’s the sound of the ledger’s leather cover opening that pulls you from your observance as Rust closes the distance and settles stiffly at your side. The muscles in his shoulders flex and then settle, like he’s a skittish doe in a forest clearing. His eyes slide to you, waiting, pen in blue-latex-covered-hand.
A hum escapes you, dry lips cracking as you open your mouth to speak. “This is not his first, and it will not be his last. The imagery here screams religious iconoclast, the level of detail suggests obsession, but I can’t figure out with what. Is it the act itself or what the image represents?”
You cross your arms and kick a small piece of gravel. “And the fire. Why the fire? What’s the significance to him, or was it just a cover?”
His hand stills on the page, in the middle of a perfect rendering of the victims hands, posed in prayer. You can see the twitch of his Adam’s Apple before he licks his lips and his once clouded eyes, now clear, stare deeply into your own.
“No,” he says, “this is about his nature, his programmin’. The fire’s the absolution from what he is.”
Rust’s stare is too strong, eyes squinting against the sun. You feel the need to shrink away, scared he’ll uncover secrets if he looks deep enough into you. Secrets you’d keep until you were dead and buried. Still, his attention is something you find yourself seeking out more and more, like you’d snap the collar on yourself and hand him the fucking leash if he stretched out a hand and asked. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, attention fully turning back toward the tree and the girl at the center of it all. If he notices your growing unease, he doesn’t show it.
A throat clears behind the two of you, Marty standing almost sheepishly with his hand on the back of his neck.
“D’ya think you two are done chattin’ it up or what? Don’t know how much more I can take outta Rustin’s shit dark brain ‘nd I’m drawin’ a line at whatever the fuck an ‘iconoclast’ is.” He emphasizes with finger quotes, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear a smirk laid itself across Rust’s lips for the briefest of moments.
Turning on your heel, you look over your shoulder as you make your way back to the beater you drove there in. “Shut the fuck up and read a god damned book sometime, would ya Marty?”
a/n: no one asked for this but I’m doing it anyway! it’s probably going to be slow with lots of build up. let’s see how long it takes for me to get freaked out and leave it unfinished. for now, enjoy, and go easy on me pls.
desc: a series of moments throughout the growing relationship between two detectives, and the case that will define the rest of their lives.
warnings: descriptions of violent crimes, blood and gore, mentions of drugs and alcohol, possible drug and alcohol use, adult themes and language, religious themes
Next: II. Absolution
I. Sleep
It’s 5:37AM when the cellphone resting on the scratched wood surface of your bedside table rings out. A hand searching haphazard in the slowly disappearing dark, you know there’s only one person calling at this hour when you flip it and bring it up to your ear. Eyes peeling open, undersides sticky like fly tape and heavy like lead, Marty’s voice rings rough and low on the other side.
“S’a 419. Just outside ‘a Erath, ya know where that is or I gotta feed ya directions?”
It sounds like a dig but you know it isn’t. It’s hard to tell with your new partner when he’s genuinely being an asshole.
“No, I can find my way there jus’ fine, thanks Marty.”
It comes out in one long breath and slow like molasses. Not like you were sleeping much before the call anyway. He chuckles through the phone. You can picture him sitting on his side of the downturned bed he shares with Maggie, thick legs restless, while she sleeps soundly; him whispering.
“Alrigh’. Me and Rust’ll meet ya there. Careful on those dirt roads, tires go slidin’ real easy, hon.”
The line clicks and the crickets pick up the baton.
