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You know what gets me too about Levi?

He's just such a sweetheart. He really, really is.

He has such a tough, intimidating exterior. He is tough and intimidating, forged that way from a life of hardship. But his heart is as gentle as they come.

The last shot of him, handing out candy to all those little kids. The way he saved Ramzi from that angry mob. The way he worked with Historia to relocate all the children from the Underground above, to give them better lives.

Levi's compassion toward children is demonstrated again and again, and really exemplifies his compassion overall. People that treat children kindly, that are so aware of children and their worth, and acknowledge them and their worth, are the most genuinely good people.

And when you think about Levi's own childhood, the brutality and loneliness and poverty of it, it makes his kindness and compassion toward them all the more remarkable. His own, deprived childhood could have turned him callous and cruel, unable to care for others out of the desperation to survive himself, but it didn't. Instead, Levi remained and remains exceptionally kind and caring. He remains more deeply compassionate and generous and selfless than anyone.

That last shot of him handing out candy to those children, helping them to regain even a semblance of a normal childhood, to experience some of the joy and innocence of childhood again, after the trauma of what they've been through, exemplifies who Levi is best of all. He isn't wallowing in self-pity, or lamenting on what he's lost (and he's lost more than anyone). He isn't feeling sorry for himself for losing his mobility, or being scarred and disfigured. He isn't drowning in his grief or despair over the friends and family he's lost. He isn't embittered or negative, he isn't angry or cynical. He isn't self-absorbed, or wrapped up in resentment that others have what he never did.

No, instead, he's out there, on the ground, bringing light into the lives of children who still have a chance to escape that darkness that consumed his own childhood, and the vast majority of his adulthood too. He's out there doing his best to protect them from that despair, to give them a chance at a happy childhood.

This is what I mean when I call Levi the most selfless character. Because he is. He doesn't begrudge others having what he was always denied. Rather, he does all he can to ensure they never experience the deprivation he did. He does all he can to give them what he was so cruelly robbed of.

And all this after he's already given everything. When he owes no one anything.

He really is an absolute sweetheart. He's just the sweetest man.

he angy

Humanity's strongest indeed.

I love drawing Levi’s hands.  So damn graceful.

holy fuck, thank u arifumi imai

Seeing the “wings of freedom” for the last time, and seeing it showing Levi while fading out, can tell you a lot.

Levi represented the “wings of freedom” from the very beginning.

He is a symbol of hope, strength, and freedom. He is strong, free and never was a slave for something or someone, even when he was living in the underground city, in a place that was full of criminals and people -majority of them- have no dignity or morals and do anything in order to survive; he was free, strong, having morals and principles.

You can see what Levi represents, all in the way Erwin looked at him there.

Hope, strength, and freedom.

-

He always flies so high in the sky, just like a real “wings of freedom”.

From the very beginning.

Hope, strength, and freedom.

In this shot of Levi's eye in the final OP

The color of his eye... is Denim Drift..

listen, i know levi's always pretty, but i feel like mappa made him extra pretty for this last episode and i can't get over it

“Eren took off first, Mikasa stayed behind him, and I was dead last.” Eren died first, Mikasa buried beside him, Armin kept visiting their graves as an old man until he joined them

Race towards the tree/chronological order they died in

This is the same man.

Levi Ackerman's final flight

This is most likely the final time he uses ODM gear...

We have to remember, this man is the last remaining longtime high ranking officer of Paradis Island's military who's still alive

He's giving it his all in this final fight

So... I found this and now it keeps coming to mind. You hear about "life-changing writing advice" all the time and usually its really not—but honestly this is it man.

I'm going to try it.

ME LISTENING TO MUSIC AND IMAGINING MY SILLY LITTLE GUYS IN THE SADDEST SITUATIONS POSSIBLE

he's so pretty I HATE HIM

couldn’t read this earlier and saved it for when i got home so I could fully pay attention to every detail…. ANOTHER masterpiece 🫡💥 already too excited for the next chapter

silver underground. / chapter 14.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 4K

Summary: flashback four - this is just straight-up levi filth

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ / nsfw (nipple play, fingering, dirty talk, semi-public sex, praise kink, multiple orgasms)

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 14 - FLASHBACK: FOUR

We’re friends.

Technically it’s true.

Friends who fight until they’re a sweaty heap on the ground, expecting exhaustion to hit how it used to; before that fateful party.

Friends who meet up in secret for days, months, perhaps even years until time passes in the blink of an eye and you're left wondering if this was how it always was.

Friends who disappear from the world for an hour, then an hour and a half, two, until it borders on three because time itself is a construct.

Sparring becomes your excuse — and everyone saw it coming.

Everyone except the twenty year-old man waiting for your arrival, and you, who showed up ten minutes early because you couldn't wait any longer.

(Neither you or Levi Ackerman had ever been self-aware when it came to matters of the heart.)

Turning the corner at the determined sparring grounds, your heart squeezes at the mere sight of him: hands in his pockets, billowing white shirt slightly unbuttoned, boyish hair cascading over his forehead. His body is shrouded in shadow, out of sight, but you see him.

You always do.

“Hey,” you greet breathlessly.

Levi says nothing, yet his left hand flexes when his gaze drops in line with your chest.

Ever since your eighteenth birthday, you've refused to remove the silver necklace gifted to you. Whether you're sleeping, showering, fighting, here — it stays glued to your neck.

Today, your olive button-down shirt slopes just enough to show it off.

(Wearing something he gave you drives him crazy. You've learned well enough by now.)

With minimal patience he waits for you to near. Easily you slide into the darkness, away from wandering eyes.

“Are we fighting today?” you ask after a beat, awkwardly standing in front of him.

You know the answer before he can speak, but you ask anyway.

Levi’s eyes linger on the necklace, memorizing, then raise to your face.

One word, blunt and loaded.

“No.”

That left hand shoots out to grab your wrist as he drags you into him in one swift motion, eager to get his hands on you.

You giggle to the sky, chin lifted, as your bodies collide. Levi hums in appreciation and uses the opportunity to press slow-open mouthed kisses up your neck.

It works every time: he knows what spots halt your laughter, and the heat of his ragged breath follows.

Suddenly it's less playful and more heated.

A chill runs up your spine as his right hand runs along your waist, bunching your shirt into his fist for an anchor when your nails rake through his scalp.

You’ve only ever gone this far with him: kissing until you both run out of air, dizzy and hazed.

In alleyways, behind carts, between stores; it only took almost getting caught in the apartment once when you both swore Furlan wasn’t home to exclusively take this outside.

You don’t mind. You need the air after he steals so much of your breath.

You want more, though, but aren’t sure how to ask for it. Every fucking time you start to paw at his chest, every goddamn time he starts to bring that friction to the apex of your legs where you burn for him, it stops.

Levi pulls away and centers himself and does the gentlemanly thing of walking you both home like he’s suddenly averse to calling you stupid and leaving you behind.

(Like he’s nervous to continue.)

You want things to change, but you don’t want this to change: Levi and James. James and Levi.

(He’s never been scared of you before, so why start now?)

“Levi,” you murmur above the crown of his head.

He swirls his tongue gently along a spot that he’s mercilessly assaulted with affection without breaking the skin. “Mmm?”

“Kiss me.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he mumbles. “Cleaning you like a dog?”

You snort and use the leverage of your hand in his hair to tug at the strands, pulling his mouth off of your neck. 

The back of your hand connects with the wall he leans against, but the roughness of brick isn’t what makes your breath hitch.

It’s the way he grunts, eyes nearing that familiar black when he’s turned on.

You’ve memorized it by now.

(Hell, you’ve gotten off to it plenty in the bathroom when everyone is asleep.)

“Do you not like it when I do that?” he asks instead, taking all of his thoughts and shoving it under an invisible bed so he can focus on your face instead.

You snort, rolling your eyes.

“Don’t be stupid, Ackerman.” 

It’s enough of a distraction to make his brows knit — a perfect opportunity to lean in and capture his lips for your own.

He kisses back with just as much fire, the grip on your shirt only tightening when you part your lips. Running your tongue along his lower lip is a learned weakness. You’re discovering what makes him tick, as if a sequence will unlock what you really want.

“Here,” you whisper against his lips, taking charge after a beat when he doesn’t.

You kiss him fiercely, pressing into him, but your hands leave his hair to meet him at your waist. 

Levi groans in response, shifting in his stance and tensing when your hand tugs him away from the crumpled safety of your shirt.

“Let me help,” you add, shaking his fingertips free enough to glide them across the smooth expanse of your stomach. 

Levi hisses, almost pulling away, but you flick your tongue against his lower lip: don’t run.

A choked moan exits his throat when he relents, but you don’t anticipate the switch of power: your feet dance around his, counter-clockwise, until your back collides with the wall that was once behind him.

Your head remains cradled by his palm, cautious not to cause injury, while his other hand explores new skin.

He’s kicked, punched, scraped at your torso a thousand times, yet what knocks the air clear from his gut is simply this: his hand riding your button-down shirt higher, exposing your body to him and him alone.

“Fuck,” he curses into your mouth, and you grin. “How are you so soft?”

“What, afraid I was going to feel like a lizard?” you tease between kisses, unable to help yourself. 

“Is today’s theme of insults animal-related?” Levi retorts, but his voice is back to that strained baritone that drives you completely insane. “Fuck off, freak.”

I’m trying to. I’m really trying to.

You’re still you. He’s still Levi. 

The pokes and prods do not stop just because you can feel his fingertips inching closer and closer to the swell of your breast.

Your body practically screams at him: do it, do it, do it.

“And I don’t need help,” he adds minutes later, circling back to your original statement — only to pause completely when his middle finger hits sloped fabric.

Levi pulls away to look you in the eye, panting, and all you can do is stare back.

“I’m not glass," you remind him.

“I know,” he answers lamely.

“You can touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“Levi.”

“What?”

“You can touch more.” 

“I’m being…” He falters, searching for the right adjective in his hazy gaze. “...respectful.”

You lean in to gently tap the tip of your nose to his. “You don’t have to be, y’know.” Any tension in his shoulders melt at the contact. “Unless if you don’t kn—”

“Tell me, then.” 

He flinches at his sharp request, cutting you off. 

Your eyes widen as arousal shoots pins and needles through your body.

There is something about how vulnerable Levi looks when his nostrils flare, so determined in his conviction. 

“Tell me what you like, what you want. I don’t— if you don’t like something—”

“Moving your hand up usually helps.”

His breath hitches at your bold direction, only to nod a second after. 

His chin drops to watch his hand slide — first the pad of his middle finger over your bra, second pushed higher, higher, until his palm cups your breast. 

Your shirt bunches at his wrist, protesting at the stretch.

You bite your lip, wishing you felt much of anything, but an idea pops into your head — and like he's read your mind, Levi has the same thought a split-second after.

He lets go and you get ready to protest, but his fingers drop to the first button of your shirt. He spends precious seconds undoing each one like he’s opening a holiday gift, unveiling a golden ticket, and as soon as your collarbone is fully exposes he dives in to kiss it.

A whine bubbles at your throat when he slides his lips lower, hungrily dragging down the expanse of your chest. “You don’t want me to be respectful?” he mumbles against your skin, rocking into your hips.

The pressure rips your breath clear from your lungs. “God, no.”

He hums, neither positive or negative. “What do you want, then?”

“Everything,” you blurt the first word that comes to mind, “anything you’ll give me.”

“Even if it’s respectful?” he muses, nose nuzzling the soft swell of your breast.

“Levi, you annoying little— ha.”

You didn’t think he’d be bold enough to push your bra cup down, releasing your breast to the cool night air. He drags a thumb experimentally over your nipple, seemingly mesmerized by the way it rises to attention under his command.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Were you saying something?”

Your eyes screw shut, unable to see the amusement etched across his face, but you hear it.

Your entire world is on fire, and you whimper when his thumb swirls at an agonizingly slow pace. 

No words come to mind — all you can do is arch your back, head bent back on the brick wall, seeking more.

Levi bends his head to kiss down your breast, earning a moan the second his lips close around your nipple to replace his thumb. He takes his time swirling his tongue, flicking it, chasing the tiny noises bubbling in your throat for him.

You’ve quickly learned that anything he can give you — the necklace, the way you moan for him, the breathy way you plead his name — is all he really wants.

“Levi,” you shakily whisper, barely audible. His free hand snakes to the other side of your chest to run across your neglected breast. “Levi.” The swirl of his tongue is his only response. You squirm against the wall as a sharp, hot pang of arousal washes over you in a hot flash. “Le-vi.”

Finally he pulls his lips away when you moan in broken syllables but not without a short flick of his tongue to the perky bud.

“Yes?”

“Someone might— mmph, see.”

You hate that you have to bring in the logistics during public displays of erotic affection, but the keyword is public. Someone could walk right past this very alley — albeit unlikely — to either try to seek out you or Levi for something related to the gang.

His thumb absently runs along the cup of your bra, as if truly contemplating your observation. 

Except you know what it looks like when Levi’s thinking of a plan.

He isn’t.

There isn’t a single thought behind those eyes.

“Guess this’ll be a test, then,” he decides, letting go of your chest to crowd your space.

“A test?”

He nods. “Of how stealthy you can be.”

You tilt your chin. “Stealthy?”

“Yeah. Quiet.”

“Ackerman, if you don’t trust by now that I can be qu—”

Your eyes widen at the implication of the way his wrist turns clockwise from your chest, fingertips gliding across the plane of your bare ribcage — until they’re pointing downward.

Oh.

He waits.

Watching.

His lips part, eyes focused on watching every micromovement in your face as you connect with what he’s silently asking — what he’s offering.

“Not Ackerman.”

“What?”

“Levi,” he chides. “Look at me and say my name.”

Immediately your eyes snap up, eager to meet his request — his demand.

You’ve witnessed Levi like this countless times as a leader of the gang. How he can command respect, attention, allegiance, merely with his words.

You’re willing to comply; to let go.

“...Levi,” you correct, dazed and too horny to challenge him.

"Again."

"Levi," you whimper, bordering a beg.

A flicker of emotion passes over his face in the gentle flinch at the bridge of his nose and between his eyebrows. Then it melts into opaque adoration, and you feel the heat rise from your bones to your skin.

“What do you want, James?” Levi mumbles, angling his body so his hand is hidden between the two of you. His palm is warm against your belly. “Be good and use your words.”

Be good. Your eyes grow impossibly wider.

You blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

“You.”

The ache of a word actually makes him smile.

“How badly?”

“You wanna feel for yourself?” you boldly ask, almost tripping up his power trip. 

You reach past his hand to your trousers, and his eyes blink downcast. Your hand expertly unbuttons the fabric, creating more space.

You keep your attention on his face and notice his throat bob with anticipation.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah," you tell him.

A beat passes, and his fingers move a millimeter lower.

“Is this okay?” he questions, faltering in his confidence for one second to find explicit consent, but you’re already pulling him closer to kiss you on the mouth.

A distraction from being so goddamn nervous about this: Levi, touching you where no one else ever has.

There’s no one else you’d rather have. There’s never been anyone else.

He moans against your lips at the contact and nods — I hear you, loud and clear — before his fingers start to drag lower.

Past your belly button.

Past the fabric of your underwear — not quite diving in yet, but teasing the elastic with his fingertips to get a gasp out of you.

His lips upturn against yours when he roams further south, the tip of his middle finger dragging over your pubic mound and—

“Fuck.”

Levi swears sharply, breaking the kiss when he realizes how obscenely wet you are. You think you should be embarrassed, but all you can do is rock your hips closer to his hand. It drags his fingers closer to your clit, earning a needy whimper.

“This all for me?” he asks, breathy, awed.

“Only you,” you promise, and his fingertip experimentally strokes you through your soaked underwear. You choke on a breath, head dropping back to the brick wall.

“Cant say shit like that out here,” he warns under his breath, “because I’ll drop to my knees so fucking fast, James. Fuck worrying about getting caught.”

Your exhale rushes in a woosh.

(But he can say shit like that? )

His knee nudges your legs wider, giving him plenty of room to cup your pubic mound. To tease. To play.

You swear you forget how your lungs work. The domed, rocky sky above your head swirls as you spend all of your efforts not to cave to the floor.

“Please,” you sputter, needing more. 

Needing everything.

He must realize your knees are going weak, because he presses his hip into yours, pinning you in place. “I got you,” he promises, and you moan between clenched teeth at just how dirty such a praise sounds on his lips.

The world is burning around you and all he can do is experimentally tease you, opting to circle the fabric until you squeak when his index finger catches your clit.

“There?” he huffs, trying one more time. Your entire body trembles. “You need me right there?” Squeezing your eyes shut, you nod so hard that the wall scratches the back of your head. “Okay, I got you, I got you.”

Then he doesn’t stop.

Slow, agonizing circles — 

It’s amazing.

It’s torture.

You can feel just how easily his fingers glide over your underwear, ruined and soaked.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

He keeps you pinned against the wall, mumbling incoherent encouragement — that’s it, you can take it — and you’re so embarrassingly close already from what little he’s done. 

“I’m not — I think I’m going to—”

“It’s okay. I want you to.”

“But I want to feel you,” you force out, whimpering as you buck against his fingers. He hasn’t let up on his rhythm; refuses to.

“You will,” he says, full of promises tonight. “This won’t be your only one tonight.”

Your eyes shoot open, mouth hanging open to ask what he means.

“Wh—”

Then he presses a little harder against your clit with the same speed and your world crumbles.

His hand quickly smacks over your mouth when you yelp, succumbing to your first orgasm. You clench on nothing, fluttering and desperate. Stars fill the corner of your eyes until he stops moving his fingers and pulls his hand from you.

You shake your head and start to protest into his palm, delusional in your high.

“Ha, shit, Levi—”

Except he’s not letting you go.

The opposite: his fingers slip unceremoniously into your underwear, and he moans at just how wet and sensitive your clit is when his middle finger makes contact. 

You shriek against his palm and he shushes you, toying the pad of his fingertip over your folds.

“Thought you said you didn’t need to prove how quiet you can be?” he asks, the smugness dripping from his voice.

You breathe hotly through your nose, strings of curses muffled back at him, and Levi smirks. From this angle, he looks like the devil incarnate — his hair flops over his eyes, beads of sweat matting the ends, so keen on watching you squirm and beg.

“One more?” You make a noise of surprise. “Oh — so two more?” Your eyes widen. “Three?”

Your tongue pokes out to lick his palm, and your heart sings when he laughs.

Levi actually laughs — breathy and earnest on the tip of his tongue. 

You jerk your chin, setting your mouth free from his grip.

“Three?!” you whisper sharply, and he dips his fingers into your folds again.

The high has come down, leaving your body more compliant with his touches. That familiar warmth spreads, and you rock your hips into him once again.

Needy.

Searching.

The raven-haired man nods. “If we lived alone, then I would always give you at least three.”

If we lived alone.

(Like a couple would.)

Maybe he says such a wild scenario in the heat of the moment, but you can’t help the blush creeping onto your cheeks.

“If we lived alone, then I’d already be returning the favor,” you test talking dirty on your tongue, finding that it feels more natural than you would have expected.

Levi bites his lip, holding back a sound as his eyes wander down. 

"I have way more shit I wanna do to you first before you can return the favor."

"Fuck, Levi."

"That's the plan one day, just not in an alley."

(Such a fucking dirty talker without even trying.)

After a moment of consideration, his hand pushes further into your panties to find your entrance, causing you both to pause.

Out of breath and flushed, he leans in for the smallest of kisses. You oblige, meeting his lips in an ironically chaste kiss. 

Then he whispers against your lips, losing his confident edge for a moment. 

“Can I…?”

You know what he’s asking.

You nod quickly and brace yourself for when his middle finger slowly, carefully, pushes inside.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before — a fullness that has you grasping for his shoulders in the search for something grounding. He peppers gentle kisses to your cheek.

“If it hurts—”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “Nothing hurts. Just feels… new.”

“Okay."

He doesn’t move his hand for a moment, allowing your body to adjust. Instead he tugs lightly at your trousers, pulling them down your hips for less constriction. Your bare ass touches the cool brick, causing you to hiss in surprise.

“Just tell me if it ever does.”

Then he slips his finger out, curving the digit, and pushes back in.

You moan soundlessly to the sky, dropping a hand to grip his bicep for stability. It flexes as his arm works you to ruin.

Over and over you whisper his name — Levi, Levi, Levi — and his ragged breath follows the melody.

“You feel so good,” he praises into your ear, kissing the outer shell of your ear. “Can you take more?” When you nod adamantly, he glides his ring finger to stretch you further.

This time it doesn’t hurt. It’s a delicious burn, slow and cautious, and you rock his fingers deeper into you. He curses as he watches his hand work you, focused on grinding the heel of his palm into your clit.

Levi continues fucking you with his fingers, searching for something, until the world stops — there.

You’re not sure what he’s brushed against inside you, but you’re smacking your own hand over your mouth when a strangled moan exits your throat unexpectedly.

“What?” he murmurs, but you can’t speak without moaning when he hits the same spot. “That feel good right there?” You’d be embarrassed at how quickly you nod if it wasn’t for the way he groans. “Good.”

After that, he knows precisely where to touch you — between the pressure on your clit and whatever the hell he’s found inside you, you feel insane. Out of your mind. 

Like he’s taking you apart piece by piece only to put you back together in his vision.

You whine against your own hand, the sensation climbing higher and higher as you buck against him. It feels just as good this way, if not better — you never want to feel empty again. You never want him anywhere else.

Your chorus of mangled breathing mixed with the obscene sound of his fingers pushing you towards that edge for a second time carries through the alleyway.

There’s no time to be modest, not when Levi’s leaning back from your body to watch you under a curtain of sweat and lust. His eyes scan your torso to take in the disheveled trousers falling down your thighs, your open button-down shirt, your exposed chest — your silver necklace, proudly on display.

Pure admiration.

You contract against his fingers as that familiar wave starts to crest, causing you to erratically fuck yourself onto his hand without shame.

“Fuck, I can feel you getting close,” he says in awe, taking you out of the delusion. “You look so fucking good like this.”

You want to tell him you’ll look better if he fucks you right here, right now, against this wall.

That you’ll get on your knees, lay on your back, crawl on all fours, if that’s what he wants.

That he’s it — nothing, no one, will ever take that place.

(There is a word for that, right there on your tongue, but you keep your hand clamped tight onto your mouth.)

There is a word on his, too, except Levi says it:

Your name.

Your real name, smooth as chamomile.

“Come for me.” Right against your ear. "Come," he repeats.

A woman possessed, your climax crashes on command. You arch your back clear off the wall, sobbing into your own hand as you ride out your orgasm. He works you through it with a string of praises, a handful of curses, kissing the back of your hand affectionately where he imagines your lips must be.

And he keeps going until you’re frantically pushing his hand away.

Sensitive.

Way too sensitive for him to keep going a third time.

Levi pulls his fingers out of you, leaving you feeling empty yet satisfied.

It’s embarrassing to see his two fingers coated with your wetness, but your eyes blow wide when he puts them to his mouth and licks.

First his index finger, then his middle, until he pushes his digits into his mouth and swirls his tongue around them.

Levi hums like you taste better than any smuggled tea he craves.

You realize what word came to mind, the one suppressed under your palm.

You can't say it.

Not today.

.

author's note: this wasn't in the original plan but you all have been so wonderful and patient and encouraging that i felt like some spice for the weekend was well-deserved. ❤️

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @vigilancio @nomi98

Everything In the World is Embarrassing but Only when I do it

guess who is here nearly 4,000 words later with the first rough draft of chapter 14 is finished AYO

you deserve all the love, it’s been so long since i’ve been invested in a fic like this- your writing has me hooked 😭and you’re giving me the inspo to post my own that’s been in my notes for 2 months ✨

can’t wait for the next chapter already 😭😭

um holy shit my Tumblr blew up while I was asleep and I have a bunch of new anons in my inbox did something happen ffbsmsms

ALSO CAN YOU GUYS STOP MAKING ME CRY WITH YOUR VERY LOVELY COMMENTS AND TAGS I HAVE BEEN NONSTOP EMOTIONAL SINCE 10AM YESTERDAY WHEN CH13 DROPPED

oh god I gotta write ch14 faster silver underground Fridays is such a cute title - also I'm somehow now near 1500 followers this is bonkers

Everyone should read their own fanfics recreationally tbh this shit fucking rules. It's like the author knows exactly what I like.

i have been waiting on the edge of my seat for this mshjzmxcjskms ‼️❤️

silver underground. / chapter 13.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 6.7K

Summary: flashback three - a look at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, then finally - your eighteenth birthday, when everything changes

Warnings: depictions of violence, sparring, furlan is my baby boy, isabel is my light, alcohol, partying, mention of vomiting (doesn't happen), hurt/comfort, pinning, sensual themes, levi's in deep shit now

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 13 - FLASHBACK: THREE

note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. they are my interpretations of the material. please watch those episode first, otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory.

“All those years of street fighting and that’s the best you got?”

“Oh shut up, Ackerman.”

You’re getting pretty sick of tasting an invasion of dirt in your mouth every time Levi Ackerman harshly slams you into the ground, demanding surrender. Forget seeing stars — you’re mapping constellations every time you go toe-to-toe in his sparring sessions.

Whether it’s from a sweep of your legs, an arm popping behind your back, a head-butt out of a grapple, this hurts.

Yet you still show up during downtime anyway.

Maybe the years of running recklessly with Furlan’s crew has helped you lose a couple of brain cells along the way.

.

.

.

.

Fifteen comes and goes in a flash.

That first night, the choice to escape the clutches of your adoptive keeper, was met with little to no thought.

Levi held out his hand to you, and you chose to never look back.

When you arrived at Levi's apartment, you're surprised to find an unassuming apartment with a set of stairs leading to the second floor where he lives with Furlan Church. You carried burdensome baggage through the building’s threshold, as the only things you had to your name were the clothes on your back and the bruising on your skin.

Eventually the bruises lightened, and Levi keeps his promise:

No one comes after you.

No one dares — not when you were under his wing.

Much to your surprise, Furlan Church was excited for your arrival. Thrilled, even, that Levi could get you to agree to joining their budding heist team.

When you first stepped into the apartment, you were greeted with the presence of a lanky boy sporting a lopsided smile and soft, spiky ash-blonde still wet from an evening shower. He wore similar clothes to Levi: a button-down hung wide open to display his chest and slacks a little too big for his frame.

Furlan was so much different than what the streets claimed he was: most suggested he was cunning and angry, a force to be reckoned with, but what stood in front of you that night was simply a teenager just like you looking to change the hand that starves him.

While bringing someone else into the mix meant the apartment lost a little space, it was more comfortable than anything you had ever experienced in your life.

They gave you your own room. A bed to sleep on. A small dresser for the possessions you don’t own. Towels. Food in your belly.

Given his smaller frame, you were forced to rely on Levi’s old clothes until you were able to find — more like steal — threads of your own. The only gotcha was the promise to keep them clean, neat, pressed and folded.

He wouldn’t let you abuse what little he owned, and you learned quickly just how much of a clean freak this mirage of a boy really was.

Spotless. Pristine. Scrubbing here, sweeping there—

Every day and every night.

And you were expected to contribute, so you did.

For weeks the three of you coexisted under the same roof.

Furlan was funny. Levi won every card game.

It felt like your own version of family.

(Something that wasn’t twisted, gnarled, from darkness.)

After some time had passed, the boys would finally let you in on their most precious secret:

The reason Levi Ackerman and Furlan Church were so successful in comparison to the other gangs floating around this godforsaken city.

“So it’s true.”

You sit on the dilapidated couch while you watch Levi clean the nooks and crannies of the boxy silver gear lying on the table.

Furlan beams on the opposite end of the table, arm lazily draped against its surface.

“Ch’yeah. Kind of amazing, isn’t it?”

Omni-directional Mobile Gear.

The shit you can only get from the military.

Your brows knit with curiosity. “How’d you manage that?”

“Ha — it wasn’t easy,” Furlan tells you, re-crossing his legs. “Took weeks to plan.”

“And you know how to use it?” you ask, but it’s not to him.

Levi never pauses his motions, but his eyes flicker up when he detects your vocal direction. “Well enough,” the dark-haired boy provides. “If the pigs can learn how to use it on the surface, then it wouldn’t be so hard to teach ourselves.”

“Damn…”

Leaning over, your forearms press hard into the tops of your thighs.

“When people said they thought they saw some of our own zipping around the Underground, I thought they were maybe drinking from sewage.”

“Sorry we couldn’t tell you sooner,” Furlan laments, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s nothing against you—”

“But it’s a big secret,” you finish for him, nodding in understanding. “I get it. It was smart.”

“And now we’ll teach you.”

Furlan glances to his left when Levi speaks with certainty.

Levi takes a minute longer to linger his eyes on you before going back to the gear. He continues to address you.

“We needed a fighter who knows how to stay on their feet.”

“Ah, so that’s why you got the shit beat out of me — to see if I can handle ODM gear?” you ask sarcastically, directing your gaze to Furlan. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“What? It was only fair, code is code. I couldn’t give you special treatment!” Furlan yelps. “C’mon, just because Levi endorsed you—”

“Oi,” Levi interrupts, narrowing his eyes to the other boy.

You slowly grin. “Endorsed? This is news to me.”

“Drop it,” Levi warns.

“Dropped,” Furlan promises.

You want to keep pushing, but instead you stand to your feet and walk to the table where the stolen ODM gear lay.

You run a finger over a metallic edge, noting just how hefty the equipment must actually be.

“What’s so tough about this shit, anyway?”

“Well, it’s…” Furlan starts to speak up, but he grimaces with an unspoken apology. The two exchange looks, both in the know — and you’ll soon be, too. “A little jerky.”

“In what way?”

“As in you have to use your core and keep your balance. It’s harder than it looks.”

Furlan’s not fucking kidding.

Your first attempt at harnessing into ODM gear is rough. Wall into wall into wall — the recovering shiner on your forehead now sports fresh purples and blues in the second try; the third, the fourth.

Levi uses the equipment seamlessly, flying around the cavernous walls of this hellscape like it’s a natural gift.

Furlan’s just about as good, consistently leaving you in the dust.

Day in and day out you follow their instructions and practice until every muscle is sore in your body; until the feel of the equipment on your hips, in your hands is an extension of yourself; until things just click.

Zipping from buildings, increasing velocity, landing on your two feet.

It brings you that much closer to a power so few Underground City citizens possess.

Little by little, you learn about the mirage of a boy with your life in his hands. Levi Ackerman is a fully actualized person, with quirks and aspirations and feelings — though you’d be hard pressed to know them yourself, as he keeps everything close to the vest.

He is stoic, calm in even the worst situations, and particular. He fights with clean brutality. You eventually find out that the man who trained Levi wasn’t his father, but Kenny the Ripper — a boogeyman you and your siblings had heard about in passing without fully realizing you’d ever crossed paths.

None of the scary stories about Kenny the Ripper involved a ward in his possession, so Levi is just as much of a ghost as you are.

Although the story of his upbringing passes through blurred lines and inferred details, you come to learn that most — if not all — of Levi’s swift tricks are passed down through meticulous training and trials by Kenny himself.

(No wonder he’s so ruthless.)

After a few weeks, Levi’s willing to show you some of his best hand-to-hand tricks himself.

Although you two possess completely different fighting styles — one erratic, the other calculated — it culminates and meshes somewhere in the middle, where ferocity and strategy marry.

Fighting becomes fun, whether either of you admit it or not.

A stress release after a long day.

A constant in an eternal night.

You never ask how Kenny taking him under his wing came to pass, but he never asks about your history with Mother, either.

It’s better that way. Not talking about it dissolves the impact Mother had on your life.

It lessens both of your former guardians authority.

(As for Mother, she never tries to find you. Even when you walk the old paths where street fights continue, you never see her face in passing. Rumors spread that her drinking problem got the best of her. You imagine Levi has something to do with her expiration, whether he'll ever admit it or not.)

Petty theft, money heists, intimidation — you rack up the offenses against your name and double the notoriety of your trio.

The citizens of the Underground look twice when you walk by. They never once try to touch or attack you again.

Church, Ackerman, James.

Always together. Always in sync.

It’s paradise.

.

.

.

.

  Sixteen is a slow burn.

Complicated heists mean complicated teams, and Furlan puts himself in charge of divvying up the goods while Levi investigates potential candidates. A team of two turns into three, three turns into four, and soon enough there is a network of reliable bodies willing to lay their lives on the line for a chance to work with the three of you.

Sometimes the job requires Levi to leave for days, but he makes it a point to come back to this cramped apartment with bags full of food and goodies for your hard-working gang.

(You’ve noticed he is particular about smuggling tea back home, particularly the leaves only available to purchase on the surface. It’s ballsy, but he gets it done.)

In a strange way, you miss when he’s away.

And when he's away, it's usually just you and Furlan — until it isn't.

Because Isabel Magnolia, a short and spunky ginger-haired menace, becomes an unexpected fourth addition in the leadership squad.

In a testosterone-fueled household, the younger woman is a breath of fresh air for you. Idealistic, brave, and bold above all else — Levi and Furlan stumbled into her while she was in the midst of an escape from Military Police.

Something about making unauthorized trips to the city stairwell, illegally ignoring the tolls to do some of the most ludicrous shit that only a teenager would do.

Like save baby birds from the surface, as if they’d somehow survive down in the Underground.

(That bird did. Furlan swears it’s the magic of Isabel’s optimism.)

Isabel ends up sleeping in your room in a makeshift cot on the floor, squawking your ear off in excitement to the point of a headache.

Still, it’s nice to have company, especially when the boys are recruiting or completing deals.

The four of you as a unit feels right. By now you’ve come to appreciate Furlan’s jokes, admire Levi’s seriousness, partake in Isabel’s dreams; they’ve each played a part in cracking your own hardened shell, shaping you into this —

Not the James your Mother created, but the James your friends accepted.

You’ve even told them your first name, the real name you were born with. They keep that name like a sacred oath, something special those three (and only those three) can say. It becomes something of a last name for you, something to be respected. The rest of the gang know you solely as James, yet you've grown to no longer loathe being called such.

(Not when it’s on their lips.)

And you like her — this person named James.

You like that she’s capable of being reliable to a team of people with their own strengths.

You like that Isabel gives her hope in the middle of her babbles at the stroke of midnight.

You like that Furlan discovers what her real laugh sounds like — straight from her belly and up to her chest — and it’s loud and obnoxious and genuine.

The sound even gets Levi to crack, if only for a twitch at the corner of his lips.

Shit.

Levi.

You like that he’s particular with his teas and trusts you enough to share the reasons why.

You like that he puts his hands on your hips when you’re practicing ODM gear.

You like that he isn’t afraid to touch your sweat-matted hair after a spar to tuck it behind your ear, like you’re nothing dirty to him.

And you realize the James you’re becoming will do just about anything Levi Ackerman asks.

.

.

.

.

  Seventeen is complicated.

Messy is a better word — Yinter’s massive fuck-up on the South Region heist puts a halt on any and all jobs for the rest of the year.

One of the newest recruits, Yinter, panicked in the midst of his attempt at robbery, causing the rest of his squad to almost get caught by meandering Military Police.

Cleaning up the tracks of an inexperienced team took several weeks of tireless labor and moving supplies around, but the gang managed.

What once ran as a worried whisper in the Underground is now loud and on the tips of the MPs tongues, placing a target on the backs of four cocky teenagers leading the charge.

All of you should have known navigating the crime world by the skin of your teeth was risky.

At the beginning, the idea of a lawless gang was beautiful.

However, Furlan’s a little more of a dreamer in the sense that he sees the unattainable and runs with it. Sometimes his head is so far up his ass that he thinks none of this will blow back onto any of you.

Maybe it can damage some of the runts, sure, but he thinks leadership’s plans and aspirations are fool proof.

You disagree. Loudly.

Now you’re certain Furlan’s sometimes pissed that Levi ever suggested they recruit you with your constant pushback of his ideas. Levi never seems to express any doubt towards you, but that doesn’t stop him from being the Devil’s Advocate thorn in your side.

Sometimes you and Levi Ackerman bicker.

Sometimes it's a lot of bickering — about the little things like team preferences and heist plans, times and locations.

Yet more often than not, the two of you always land in the same archaic loop: fist-to-fist sparring, taking out your frustrations in the most natural way you know how. Ducking and dodging until your tempers simmer and you run out steam.

Until frustration turns into playful, heated banter.

A secret language for two.

(You'll never stop fighting, you realize too little too late, but neither will he.)

You kick and you punch and you watch Levi slam you into the ground again and again and again — the scrawny teenager always ends up on top of you, wrists pinned to your head, declaring your surrender.

Glare to glare, out of breath and spent, the fight ends when you burst into laughter from how scrunched his nose gets when he’s hell bent on winning.

It used to be funny.

Yet with each passing week, each dying month, warmth surges through your belly when he pins you down.

It would be easy, you think, to do something stupid.

You can’t afford to be the stupid one of the group.

.

.

.

.

  Last week marked your eighteenth birthday.

A party is reckless, but Furlan wants to celebrate something after the Yinter accident with the spoils of the last successful heist: booze, food, rationed cigarettes, the works.

You aren’t naïve to what partying means, even if you’ve never partaken in the act yourself. The Underground is full of red-light districts if you know where to look: people piss away their money to eliminate their troubles in the arms of others, in the bottle of a stolen vintage whiskey, in the spices that can ascend far past the surface into somewhere better.

Levi is sorely against the idea.

Furlan, for once, pulls seniority.

Which leads to why Levi’s so damn determined to kick your ass right now — if he can’t vocalize how annoyed he is, then he sure as hell will exert enough energy to pass out before the event even starts.

“All those years of street fighting and that’s the best you got?”

“Oh shut up, Ackerman.”

A nonchalant boot digs into your side, bringing you back to the Underground.

“Get up.”

You grit your teeth, counting down the seconds. “Actually, I kinda dig it down here.”

“Seriously—?”

It’s enough of a distraction to earn yourself much-needed time to reset and win.

Pulling as hard as you possibly can, you use your core and sweep his leg. Levi makes a noise of surprise as he’s airborne, only to crash beside you in a nasty thud.

You crawl up the young man's body to press your arm into his windpipe, daring him to fight back. Your knees cradle his hips, trapping him beneath.

“Dirty trick,” he spits, gritting his teeth, but it doesn’t feel as if he’s trying to escape very fast.

(A phrase he's picked up from you like a bad habit.)

You shrug a shoulder, pressing harder onto his windpipe. He sputters, but his face remains just as neutral as ever.

“What’s got you so pissy today?”

“What?” Levi asks from beneath you. His hands curl around your elbow and fist, but he doesn’t push your forearm away just yet.

“You’re particularly moody.”

“I’m not.”

“Are too.”

He narrows his eyes. “And I’m letting you win.”

“Are not.”

“Wanna bet?”

Easing up on his windpipe, you crawl off of him and extend a hand to help pull him up to a seated position.

Levi begrudgingly takes it, hoisting himself up on the flat of his palm. "Thought we didn’t do draws."

“I don’t wanna look like shit before the party, so I’m calling a draw.”

“So you’re admitting I was winning?”

You roll your eyes into the back of your head, swatting his hand from yours. Levi uses the momentum to prop himself up with his palms behind him, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. You stay with your legs folded like a pretzel, hands idle in your lap.

“I’ve never drank before,” you murmur with an excited melody to your tone.

Levi grimaces. “It’s disgusting.”

“I won’t know until I try, right?”

“Can’t you take my word for it?”

“But your taste is so awful.”

It’s a lie, but the immediate scowl sent your way is worth the dramatics. You smile it off.

“I mean, Furlan seems to think it’s fun.”

“Furlan is a dumbass,” Levi replies. “I thought you already knew that.”

“I do, but I still want to at least try it. If I hate it, then you can tell me I told you so. Deal?”

“And if you love it, then that means I’m on babysitting duty.”

"Babysitting?”

“Yeah. I don’t need your drunk ass fighting new recruits.” His scowl deepens. “Or ruining the fucking furniture if you get sick.”

“So pessimistic,” you tease. “Levi, you don’t have to take care of me.”

The conversation dissipates.

Levi keeps his eyes on you for a second longer before turning a chin to stare straight ahead.

You continue to watch him, taking in the sharpness of his nose on his profile.

At nineteen years old, he’s grown into his once sullen face with high cheekbones and a sharp chin. His thin arms are toned under the white button-up he sports, torso cinched by the auburn vest. His fingers have small cuts, but they’re slender. Strong.

You see the way girls look at him when he passes.

He never seems to notice.

.

.

.

.

      “Ja-haaaames!”

A shrill and slurred attempt at your last name brings you back to the rowdiness of the room.

Despite Levi’s best efforts, the party goes without a hitch. A dozen, maybe two, have shown up to enjoy the spoils stolen by the Military Police: at least a crate of wine, a few half-polished bottles of whiskey, and a multitude of cigarette cartons pass through the hands of the hard-working legion that made it happen.

The lack of food in this area makes it easy for people to get sloppy on next to nothing. Within a shot or two — cheered to your name, as if eighteen years of your life in the Underground mean anything at all — half of the crew is loud and rowdy.

Laughing.

Horsing around.

Kissing.

You don’t remember when it is you dissociated from the noise, but it’s Isabel’s voice that guides you back to this cramped little apartment full of people.

“Hello, welcome back,” she greets with a giggle, handing over a tiny medicine cup of a clear liquid. “You’re out, and I need you to be on my level.”

Except you are on her level — where Isabel gets louder and more rambunctious on alcohol, you’ve become quiet, contemplative. You haven’t been able to feel your nose in at least an hour. Everything is warm, deliciously so, and your muscles don’t ache like they usually do.

“Should you even be drinking that stuff, Isa?”

“What, this? Yeah, I’m good.”

“But you’re only—”

“What do ya think about the party so far? Here.” Interrupting her own question, she places the tiny cup in your hand and taps it with her own. “Cheers to you, oh fearless one.”

“Oh stop,” you moan, taking the tiny shot with ease.

The first shot almost made you spit up the drink before it could pass down your throat. The second you forced down, clenching your teeth to air out the burn on your tongue.

Furlan was right: it gets easier every time.

“How many is that?” Isabel asks, flopping back at the wall you lean against.

“Four. Five. I don’t know, I lost count,” you answer honestly, peering down at the empty cup with scrutiny. “I feel like this is going to bite me in the ass.”

Isabel cackles, bumping her shoulder with yours. “That day is not today! C’mon, sis, don’t hide. We already have a party pooper, so you can not join Levi.”

“Levi?” you ask, blinking over to her. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Exactly. Bro’s avoiding everyone like a scaredy cat. God… Levi and James. James and Levi.” Isabel groans into her cup, sipping in contemplation. You already hate where this might be going. “That’s a topic I have wanted to—” She hiccups, taking your medicine cup. “—bring up for a while now.”

If you weren’t so preoccupied at the sound of Levi’s name, then perhaps you’d have sobered up from the neon red sign telling you to avoid this conversation at all costs.

Isabel talks over the volume of the room.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” you repeat.

“You’re going to make me say it?” For a second, your blood returns to your body. It’s spiked with an anxiety you cannot verbalize. “You two were gone for pret-ty long time this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” you quickly solve. “It was sparring hour. We always do that.”

“Not usually for that long, though.” Under a curtain of eyelashes, the redhead blinks up at you with a hope that seizes your head. “So….?”

Oh.

Oh, no.

“We’re friends,” you blurt. “Colleagues, actually, which is a step below friends.”

Isabel blows disappointed raspberries. “Furlan said you two go way back.”

“We do, but—”

“Levi hand-picked you to join the gang.”

“Not really, he—”

“All he ever does is hang out with you.”

“That is not true,” you snip, itching to run. “I mean — okay, some of it is true, but I’m not the only person he talks to. Shit, Isa, I’ve known him since I was a kid. He pulled me out of a bad situation and we — no, it’s nothing like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Isabel mimes zipping her lips closed with her thumb and index finger, only to toss the invisible key somewhere in the crowd.

“Isabel.” You turn towards her, eyes widening in a desperation that even surprises your drunken state. “Get the — get that fucking key back, we aren’t—”

“We aren’t what?”

A deeper voice breaks the moment of insanity, causing Isabel to stare behind you with rounded eyes and a dropped jaw.

You stare back at her, cursing her stupid ginger mop of a head with every crude word under the sun.

Then she does about the worst thing she could do at a time like this.

“Hi, bro! Gotta go!”

“Isa—!”

Too late.

She piles in with the rest of the sloppiness, leaving you to deal with the man over your shoulder.

When you turn, Levi is there — eye-level in height and frowning, brow quirked with mild interest. The shirt he usually has so neatly aligned is popped at the collar and buttoned down to his sternum.

“You’re drunk,” is all he greets with, and the tinge of red on your face only increases.

“A little,” you admit.

To your horror, you see it: the way his lips part while he waits for an explanation, the fall of black strands over his eyes, his expanse of his naked chest—

You’re friends. You are two people who found each other in one fucked up place. You work together, live together, survive together.

So why would Isabel feel the need to open a door that you had no clue was unlocked?

“Oi.” Squinting, Levi leans in to study the drain of color from your face. “Are you—”

“I don’t feel so good.”

You don’t wait for Levi to register your interruption, instead curving past him towards the open door leading to the dead air of the Underground City.

Walking until there aren’t any bodies to stifle your next breath, you round the corner for a sense of privacy and breathe in deep through your nose.

Drunk. That’s all Isabel is — babbling and silly and drunk.

“Maybe pull your hair out of your face if you’re going to puke.”

Shit, did he—

Craning your chin over your shoulder, your worst nightmare is confirmed: Levi Ackerman stands a mere few feet from where you’ve hidden yourself, facial expression dripping with annoyance.

His arms cross over his chest once your eyes connect.

“I’m not doing it for you,” he adds when you say nothing.

The nausea dissolves in an instant, leaving you with a very heavy weight on your shoulders.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I just…”

Unable to find the right words to explain yourself, you twirl and smack into the cobblestone wall. Inch by inch you drop in height, dragging down its cold surface until you’re seated on the ground. Levi’s brows fly high, but he doesn’t move.

“This is all really surreal right now.”

Levi bites. “In what way?”

“As in I never thought I’d make it to my tenth birthday, much less my eighteenth birthday, and here we are celebrating it. No one in our house actually knows it’s a real accomplishment,” you admit in the haze of the liquor. “Everyone is happy to have us, and I’m happy to have us, but I feel this… this butterfly anxiety in my stomach every time someone says 'to many more years' like we have guaranteed years and it’s—”

The sound of his boots gently tap closer until something presses against your arm. When you lull your head to look in the direction of the sound, it’s Levi sitting beside you.

In the dirt.

A beat passes.

“You’re gonna get dirty,” you mumble.

“Don’t remind me.”

Drawing your knees to your chest, the two of you sit in silence for what feels like an hour.

You can’t pretend to know what’s going through his head — if he heard an ounce of what Isabel said, if he can hear your heart beating wildly in your chest, if he even understands the gravity of what he did.

What he’s done through these last few years.

“Why did you do it?”

The question is barely audible, but you feel Levi shift to watch you.

Head bowed to your knees, you catch your wrist between your thumb and finger and squeeze.

“Do what?”

“You gave me a second chance, Levi.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” you argue firmly, “and I never understood why. I’m glad you did, because I thought— I didn’t even see myself ever getting out of that hell, but it—”

“James.” You quiet at the soft snip of your name. “Don’t spiral. It’s the alcohol talking.”

“It’s me talking, Levi,” you argue firmly. “We always skirt around this shit. We… fight it out or whatever so we never have to bring it up. Someone has to finally say something.”

“If I give you your present early, then will you knock it off?”

You perk, chin lifting from its perch on your arm to stare at the other boy like he’s grown a second head.

He scowls, hand buried deep in his trouser pocket.

“My what?” you softly ask, and for the first time, Levi deflates.

At first it’s physical: inch by inch his body lessens its typical intensity, from shoulders to chest, arms to legs. He slumps beside you, head bowed with cascading black bangs covering his eyes.

He continues to fish around in his pocket before producing his open palm to you.

In the center lay an unassuming box, brown and thin, without labels or bows.

“Your present,” he reiterates like it’s painful.

“You got me a…”

“It’s your birthday.”

“I know it is, but you didn’t have to—”

When your eyes connect, you see it: the nerves that settle in his eyes, at the corners of his lips, as he waits with this damn box in his hand.

“What?” he asks, flat.

The walls start to build brick by cautious brick.

The window of vulnerability is closing.

Abruptly you lean forward, grabbing his hand to keep him from retreating.

Levi sways with the sudden movement, breath hitching at the way your other hand closes on top of your joined hands, trapping it.

“Don’t.”

Don’t run, is what you want to say.

Don’t hide, when you know it’s what he wants to do.

Levi stills at your command, and you slowly slip the box from his palm.

“What is it?”

“Isn’t the point of a shitty gift to open it as a surprise?” he rhetorically snaps, throat bobbing with a swallow.

Eventually you loosen your grip and free his hand. He draws it back into his lap before his hand can touch the dirt below.

You sit straighter, mindful of the way you remove the lid of the rectangular container.

Fragile, because you have no idea what Levi could possibly—

“Oh.”

Silver.

Dainty and small but more beautiful than anything you’ve ever witnessed in the Underground, you stare slack-jawed at the silver necklace nestled in a blanket of tissue paper.

Even in the forever night of the city, the jewelry gleams — and at its sloped apex sits a gemstone, smokey and small —

“If you hate it—”

“Hate it?” you interrupt in a gasped bark, stunned Levi would suggest anything of the sort.

For once, emotion shows: his eyes widen, lips parted with an apology he cannot find as you rip the necklace out of the box to hold it to your chest in a balled fist.

“How could I hate it?”

“I didn’t know if you liked silver,” he admits lamely, caught off guard.

“How the hell did you get this?”

“Bought it.”

Now it’s your turn to stare like a deer caught in a lantern’s light.

“I knocked the guy’s lights out after, so don’t look at me like I’m some fucking saint.”

He didn’t steal this.

With his own earnings, he bought this — for you?

“Why go through that trouble? This is… it has to be surface made, right?”

“A while back, you said you don’t own anything,” Levi explains, the tips of his ears turning a shade of pink. He reaches to smooth rogue baby hairs away from his face and settles his elbow on a raised knee. “Nothing proper, anyway. Now you do.”

You don’t own anything.

He’s right. You hold the necklace like stardust in the palm of your hand, studying every centimeter of its gleam.

It’s such a thoughtful idea, such a beautiful gift, that your throat closes up with budding emotion.

All of this trouble — for you.

“I might cry,” you tease, but it isn’t entirely untrue.

Levi groans like he saw that inconvenience coming.

“For fuck’s sake, do not cry.”

Then something otherworldly happens.

You both stare at the other and smile.

Although his is microscopic, it’s there: upturned corners and a crinkle in his eye, face exposed with his hair out of the way. You bite your lower lip to avoid grinning too hard, enamored with the sight before you.

The party feels so far away when Levi’s looking at you like this.

All you hear — all you see — is him.

“I might need help,” you murmur, pinching the chain between your thumb and index finger to hold out the small piece of jewelry to him.

“You think I know how these things work?”

“You’re smart. Figure it out, Ackerman.”

You hold your hair higher and turn your back to him, mimicking the things you’ve seen women do in the illustrated books Isabel’s smuggled from the surface people.

It feels right, especially when his fingertips brush along the slope of your neck.

Before you can stop yourself, a small gasp bursts from your lips. Levi either doesn’t hear or ignore it, because he’s reaching around to lay the necklace lightly on your collarbone without comment.

His fingers continue to touch the nape of your neck, careful not to pinch or scratch.

(To think hands like his can be soft.)

“That okay?” he asks behind you, his hot breath peppering your skin.

You glance down at your chest, touching the tiny gemstone with adoration.

“Perfect,” you say.

It really is.

(And it's yours. It's all yours.)

When you turn your chin to look at him, you don’t expect the proximity of his face — Levi’s nose is so close that you can see the gentle faded freckles that would have thrived with the sun.

He doesn’t slink away, doesn’t move a muscle, and you’re trapped staring at his mouth expecting an insult, a name, anything.

Nothing comes.

Instead you both remain here in the heat of two beating hearts, too afraid to run.

(Too afraid to ruin.)

Furlan said you two go way back.

“We should go inside.”

Levi, albeit strained, murmurs between you. His breath tickles your lips.

The silver around your neck shifts when your head gently shakes.

“It’s too crowded in there,” you argue without much fire.

From this angle, you can’t see his eyes. He’s too busy staring down at your mouth.

“It’s cold.”

“I’m not cold,” you tell him honestly.

“No?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Must be the alcohol,” he surmises.

“It isn’t.” You’ve never been so serious in your life. “I feel sober now. Just…”

“Just what?” he asks a little too quickly.

You miss his gaze a second too late — when his eyes raise, yours drop to his lips.

His boots become one with the ground beneath you, stuck in place. You swear you hear his breath grow heavier, contemplative, and you know — know that you’re about to do that one stupid thing you’ve thought about for years.

“Tell me."

He whispers, and it shatters the glass barrier between you.

You bridge the gap and press your lips softly to his.

Levi's stiff as a board, as if his brain realizes what you've done before his body has. Eventually his chin dips forward, his lips fluttering across yours as he finds his breath.

Then he moves like a starving man that’s found his oasis.

His knee knocks into yours when he pushes, deepening his mouth’s position on yours. You fumble backwards, shoulder blades hitting the wall with a gasp. Both of your limbs fumble to grab the other’s face first, but his reflexes outshine yours.

Slow and deliberate, experimenting with the sensation, Levi kisses you. He kisses you.

You match his exploration, trembling with your hand curled around the back of his neck. He inhales sharply when your nails scratch gently against his skin, causing him to push against you more.

Like he’s drowning.

Like he doesn’t care if he ever breathes again.

Your body burns when his left hand drops from your cheek to lightly run along the gemstone at the cusp of that glittering silver necklace.

You gasp for air as your noses knock together, both silently eager to find a rhythm you can both sing to. A whimper escapes your throat when something wet runs along your lower lip. His hot breath mingles with your tongue, the sensation shooting straight to your lower belly.

Then Levi pulls away like he’s somehow hurt you, gray eyes wide and — scared.

Fearful, like he’s crossed a line.

Delirious from the high, you shake your head and run your hand through the buzzed undercut at the nape of his neck. “I wanna keep doing that.”

As if his eyes could get any wider.

Levi looks wrecked. He opens his mouth to say something, as if to find any good reason to dispute your request but closes it.

He simply nods.

Inching forward, Levi captures your lips with a tenderness you’ve never considered he could possess. He’s careful, caging your head in with both of his hands now and thumbs lazily stroking your cheeks.

You hate that you must taste like the very thing he despises.

Except Levi groans, body shuddering, and when he shifts you feel something hard against your hip. It’s fleeting, but it snaps your eyes open in surprise.

Levi’s eyes are squeezed shut. Focused.

(He doesn’t even look this determined when he’s flying around on stolen ODM gear.)

You sigh when he presses further into you, eliminating the space between, and kiss back with feverish intent. Levi drops a hand to steady your hip — whether to keep you still or to keep himself from suffocating you, you’re not sure.

Then your tongues accidentally touch again, and you can’t help but moan. “Levi.”

He grits his teeth, pulling away. “Don’t say it like that.”

Your heart seizes with uncertainty. “Say what?”

He must be in pain. His eyes are screwed shut. Then he shifts again, gliding his thigh between yours, and you know now.

Levi Ackerman is rock hard, fighting every demon in his body.

“My name,” he croaks, finally opening his eyes. His pupils are practically blown black.

“But I like your name,” you reason innocently, and he drops his forehead onto your shoulder.

“Fucking shit…” He must feel you expand your lungs to ask a question, because he stops you before you can start. “I’m fine. Just… give me a second.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, hand still buried in his hair.

His head instantly picks up, searching for your face. Studying. “For what?”

“That.” His brows move a microscopic fraction higher. “If you didn’t… I mean, I haven’t…”

“I haven’t either,” he confesses without ever explaining what he means.

Now it’s your turn to widen your stare.

Your first kiss was his first kiss, too.

Something giddy floods your system. Something stronger than any hard liquor can conjure.

“Do you regret it?” he asks under a murmur.

You adamantly shake your head. “Do you?”

It takes a breath, but he shakes his head back.

Your mouth burst into a bright smile, high on the adrenaline of the point of no return you’ve both crossed in the midnight.

Cheeks tinged with a pink hue, all Levi can do is stare — then he chuckles, breathless and bewildered.

His hand drops to take yours, tugging the both away from the wall. You follow with little resistance, squeezing his palm.

You both linger in the dark for a second longer.

Then he lets go, taking the lead back to the apartment.

You follow.

(Door, now and forever, unlocked.)

.

author's note: imagine sitting on this exact chapter since march 2023. i have been dying to post this shit. chapter 14 is taking a lil longer to write so i'll keep you posted if itll be next week or in 2 weeks.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @vigilancio

SMILING LEVI SUPREMACY PASS IT ON

I'M BACK.

Hi guys. I hope you're ready for this.

Welcome to the first ever cringefest hosted by literally all of us writers on tumblr.

What is cringefest, you might be asking? Well my lovely tumblr fiend, this is an event for us lovely creative writers to band together and let go of all our inhibitions. I personally find that I stress out a lot about my writing, making sure it's professional and well written (hell I'm doing it right now as I write this) and that can be very taxing to go through! It's literally so stressful. But what if we said fuck it and wrote for the sake of it?? To be dumb, to laugh at our dumb ideas.

Let's put our blorbos into some situations, yeah??

But first, some answers to some questions:

What do I do?

Write the cringiest, most stupid drabble (or a one-shot if you have more to say) you can about whatever you want.

This is open to any fandom, character, show, anime, movie, trope etc etc.

You need to put them in some real cringy situations though. And make sure your writing itself is cringy, don't hold back!!

Please tw/cw accordingly.

Smut is allowed obviously, I'm not your mom, but again mark MDNI and tw/cw accordingly.

Can I join even if I don't write normally?

ABSOLUTELY. This is open to EVERYONE. AND I MEAN EVERYONE.

How long does this last?

This will be open starting Saturday, July 8th and will close on Saturday, July 15th.

Who do I tag once I'm done, and what do I tag it as?

Tag me, @chaotic-on-main, so that I can compile everyone's stories into one masterpost as they come in.

As for the tags, please tag it as #cringelord69 (thanks @humanitys-strongest-bamf) and #23cringefest!

I don't feel good about knocking on certain things.

This isn't a question but I hear you!! I also don't want this to feel like this is a 'shitting on' contest, BECAUSE IT'S NOT. This collab is not meant to be mean, discriminatory, or judgmental. The point of this is not to make fun of characters, tropes, scenarios, ESPECIALLY WRITERS. This is literally us having fun and writing these characters in the dumbest way possible. Think of my immortal from all those years ago. YEAH. THAT MY IMMORTAL.

I'm worried about being bullied for my writing.

Again, not a question, but that's okay! So listen bud, this is the best thing about being cringy on purpose. We're out here being shitty for the sake of being shitty and anyone that makes fun of you is the dummy for not understanding the assignment.

Try not to worry about it, but if you are, please just send it to me in an anon and I will post it and link it to the masterpost. Easy peasy!

I said I'd tag those who reblogged the original post here in case you were all interested and wanted to partake!

@wyvernslovecake @humanitys-strongest-bamf @highgoon69 @roseofdarknessblog @sckerman @suukee @kingkonoha @honeylavendr @rae-does-stuff @oxygenbefore1775

don't forget guys, CRINGE CULTURE IS DEAD.

HAVE FUN WITH THIS!!