Chapter Text
It was going to rain. The damp in the air was no mere sea fret, and the sky twisted in on itself like some black adder prepared to strike. Perhaps it was fitting a squall should announce her arrival at his door.
“Fight me.”
Underneath the surprise, the mild annoyance, she gleaned amusement from his gaze. The reaction only pissed her off more; there was something caught in her chest—vicious and desperate to get out. It had been stuck there for a while, and the murmuring sky seemed to remind her of that.
He stepped out of the bungalow and closed the door behind him. "Right now?"
"Yeah. Right now."
When he looked at her again, the humor was gone, and she could see a reflection of her own unrest in his eyes—the unshakable carryover from a lifetime of noise. He glanced up at the darkening sky, carefully rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Then he nodded. "Alright, then."
So they fought. Her muscles would protest in the morning, but in the moment it was as natural as breathing. The clamor of the sea drifted to a corner of her mind, all her focus on his movements and attacks and the steady flow of her breathing. Only when it became too dark to see their hands before them and the first drops of rain began to fall did he call an end to the spar. She didn't thank him. He didn't walk her home.
There was something oddly straight-forward about the whole thing, and when she returned the next evening—earlier, and without a storm in tow—they fought again without much preamble or smalltalk. Though she wouldn't admit it, she felt more relaxed fighting him now than she had back in their military days; it had been years since the war, and while most still referred to him as “captain,” or simply “sir,” he was no longer her superior officer.
On the third night, he broke the pattern and introduced a new rule. Or he broke one. She couldn't decide which.
"How long you want to keep doing this, Mikasa?"
"Getting tired already?" They were circling, both breathing hard.
"Hardly. I just have other things I need to do."
Mikasa broke stance, arms falling to her sides. "Didn't realize your schedule was so tight."
Gray eyes narrowed beneath dark fringe. "We would have stopped a while back if I'd thought you were wasting my time, brat." He carded a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his damp forehead. "I'm only asking what your plan is here."
Something akin to disappointment curled in her gut, threatening to inflame her face. A childish reaction, maybe, but there were ghosts hanging over her head and they only seemed to settle when she was either knocked out with the sleeping draught Hange had prescribed her or doing something violent. "Never had one."
A familiar dynamic hung between them, one which had been absent in their fights. It was the same old bond of duty that compelled her comrades to address him by an honorific he no longer possessed. She didn't like it.
An inscrutable expression crossed his face before he schooled it again. He turned abruptly and made for the bungalow. "Then come up with one and stop wasting my time."
"Don't pretend you aren't getting anything out of this," she called to his retreating back, blood still hot and pumping for a fight. "You're alone most of the time, living on the edge of a fucking cliff. Don't bullshit that you've got a life."
Levi's boots scuffed to a halt along the ragged earth. She'd expected anger, for her petty fighting words to entice him back into the game. Instead, he continued walking and disappeared back into his house without another word.
Their brief regime had ended it seemed. At least, that's what she'd thought until he cornered her in the town market two days later. She'd been hovering around a produce stall when he shoved a book into her hands. The Anatomy of a Sailboat. It was a guidebook.
"Are...are you building a boat?"
"No, brat, I've decided to take up knitting." He took an apple from the basket hanging at her arm and bit into it without chagrin.
Mikasa swatted the air, shaking her head at his incorrigibility. "A better question, why are you showing me this?"
He jutted his head at the volume beneath her hand. "Figured if I could lead a squadron into battle or handle ODM gear I could put together a boat. I have most of the supplies. I'm good with my hands."
It wasn't that she doubted his competency, and if anyone could pick up something on the fly it would be Levi, but... "why a boat?"
The corner of his mouth twitched, gray eyes wry. "Why not?" He leaned forward into her space. "Look, I don't really care what you think, brat. Never have." Well, that wasn't necessarily true. The history between them may not have always been amicable, but there had been a time when she'd thought a mutual respect and understanding had formed between her and the captain. "But if you want my help with sparring, I could use some help building this thing." He tapped the illustration of the sailboat on the book's cover.
Mikasa snorted a laugh. Some foolish part of her had thought he'd come to her to apologize. “I didn't come to you to be trained. I can just ask Jean to spar with me."
Again, the wry expression. "And why don't you?"
Some things never change. Still an arrogant prick. There wasn't anyone else who could spar at her level or intensity, let alone anyone who'd want to; her comrades had all settled into the post-war life, some forgetting skills they'd learned in the corps completely.
She ignored him. "Again, it's not like you weren't getting something out of this."
"Well, it certainly broke the humdrum of my bullshit life on the edge of a cliff." While some things had remained very much the same, some had not, and it almost seemed as if Levi Ackerman had developed a sense of humor. "Or maybe I'm planning on getting the hell out of here and seeing what's on the other side of that shitty stretch of ocean."
"You're leaving?"
"Eventually."
"And you'll spar with me until then as long as I help you with your boat hobby?"
"Something like that."
She should have put her foot down, should have ignored the old bond of duty. Boats? She knew nothing about boats. The damned ocean was a recent concept. Maybe it was boredom or frustration or just loneliness, but Mikasa went against any better judgement she had left and visited him that weekend. The inside of his home was exactly how she'd imagined it—clean, functional in design though not austere. If anything, she'd deem it rather inviting. They sparred during the day, and at night they drank tea in his kitchen while he brought her up to speed on the plans for the boat, referencing a combination of well-organized notes and the instructions from the manual.
And she would deny it until her dying day, but Mikasa began to look forward to more than just the fighting; she had fully anticipated the venture to be a dull drag, but the boat was becoming more tangible, no longer a mere concept on a page. A modest sailboat, something easily managed but sturdy enough to weather a fickle tide.
Spar, tea, plans, bed. Repeat. It was in this newfound routine, this familiarity, that things changed. Perhaps it was in their shorthand, or in the wry turn of his mouth, or the fact that she’d begun to stay in the guest room with more frequency because it was convenient. It was all very convenient...
On one of those nights—when he was too engrossed in his work to notice her watch the orange glow from the hearth play upon the sharp angles of his face and jaw—Mikasa put a name to the fire in her gut. Her reason for seeking him out of all people was so abruptly clear to her, she had to turn in for the night earlier than usual.
It was the way he walked that got her: the power in his stride, the confidence with which he moved, never arrogant. Each night she became more and more restless, and each night he looked more and more attractive. Something had been building—a pressure slowly rising and liable to burst. And perhaps it had been growing for a while now, well before she'd arrived at his doorstep with a storm at her back.
Levi could maintain the ignorant act all he wanted, but he had to have been just as aware of it as she. Perhaps even more so, and for longer. But hell if he was going to do something about it first—although, to be fair, she could understand his predicament; crass though he may be, Levi carried a certain amount of respect for the relationships between superior and subordinate, and she supposed that was honorable. But the war had ended a while ago...
And it wasn’t like it was that great a divide, anyway. Especially in regards to age. At least, not anymore. She was now twenty-two, so that put him at, what, late thirties? Maybe forty? Hard to tell with a face like his.
So, it all happened out of boredom then. Desperation, maybe. One night at the table, drinking tea. Mikasa was at the end of her rope. Because she was twenty-two. And the war had ended a while ago.
“Do you wanna fuck?”
The sight—and sound—of Humanity’s Strongest spluttering his tea was as satisfying as it was anomalous, and Mikasa had to hide her mirth in her own cup.
It was a small display, more a rush of air through his nose and a shuffling of his papers in an attempt to rescue them from potential spillage. He wouldn’t look up at her, though, keeping his eyes trained on a knot in the table’s wood. Irritation was visible, even from his profile, his eyes flickering across the space between them as if searching for something. He opened his mouth to speak. Then he shut it again.
Flabbergasted may have been too strong a term, but this wasn’t exactly the reaction she’d expected. A thorough castigation, perhaps—or, in contrast, a blasé gesture of assent, but the latter had been in the back of her mind...
“I don’t think I need to outline for you how inappropriate that was,” he said at last, and his voice was even as always. Despite herself, she felt a pang of chagrin, as if the rules of rank still applied.
Nonetheless, Mikasa played it off with a shrug, rotating her cup upon the table in a display of insouciance. “Thought you appreciated candor.”
He did look at her then, though his eyes seemed to hover somewhere just above her head. “I also appreciate tact.”
Mikasa couldn’t stop herself from rolling her gaze to the ceiling. She wouldn’t press, of course; but she knew, if only for a brief moment, he had considered it. “That’s fine, captain.” There was no honor in his title. She placed both hands on the table and rose from her chair in a deliberate motion. “Forgive me if I stepped over your sensibilities. I just thought, at this stage, the lines between us weren’t as...defined as they used to be.”
“They’re defined, Ackerman. They’re clearly defined.” His gaze was hard, unblinking, and if it hadn’t been for the slow rise and dip of his larynx, she would have severely rethought her actions. As it were, the need to leave the room pressed suddenly upon her.
“My bad,” she murmured, with not a trace of contrition to her tone. She took her time to refill her tea before turning to head for the guest room. Moral scruple demanded she leave his house entirely. But it was dark outside. “Night, then.”
Sleep wouldn’t come, she knew that much, but she turned down the bed nonetheless. Mikasa had kicked off her boots and was midway through the buttons of her blouse when the bedroom door flew open. While she supposed knocking was probably too courteous a practice for him, the entry itself was a little more forceful than was probably necessary—as if violence were the only way he could overpower his compunction.
The air was charged, alive. Neither spoke. Levi stood in the doorway for a few minutes, backlit by the dim embers still smoldering at the hearth. Then, with a stilted movement, he turned his head, offering his profile.
Even in the poor light Mikasa could make out the warring emotions raging across his face. His jaw was tense, eyes large and fixed upon some place unseeing—an almost manic expression.
Gray eyes returned to her, resolved now, and something warm twisted low in her belly. He stepped into the room fully, the door slamming closed behind him with a kick from his boot. For a moment, she was frozen in place as he strode toward her, the buttons of her blouse forgotten. She fought the urge to shrink inward, to retreat as he closed in. She trembled, breath caught in her lungs, heart stuttering.
Suddenly he seemed so alien to her, as if she’d never been this near to him during a spar, felt his heat or his body. But she hadn’t, really. Not like this. His hands were warm upon her hips, rough, and the breath she'd been holding released itself from her throat in a gasp as he pulled her to him. He was so close, his eyes two burning points of coal, riveting and consuming. Oh. They were actually doing this, then.
Levi’s nose pressed against her cheek. “This will only happen once,” he murmured, the words rumbling in his chest, reverberating against her hands.
“I know,” she replied, voice foreign to her own ears.
“I won’t be gentle.” There was an underlying confession there—that he didn’t know how to be gentle.
“Good.”
He didn’t kiss her—it wasn’t a kiss—more some primal marking upon her neck, all hot flesh and teeth, and he never once went near her lips. His hands were everywhere, burning a path across her sides, her ass, her breasts. And he was right, he wasn’t gentle, and that was more than good.
The blouse was ripped open completely with a firm yank, the remaining buttons flying free and scattering through the dark room. Heat pooled between her legs, her thighs rubbing together to appease the sudden ache.
Levi returned his mouth to her neck, working down to her chest, his strong hands pulling away the protection of her brassiere to assault her exposed breasts. A groan escaped her unbidden, her hands diving through his hair, gripping.
“How long,” he began, gripping her hips once more to spin her around so her back met his chest, “have you thought about this?” He peeled the shirt from her shoulders and cast it somewhere behind them. “Huh?’ he prompted, hand sliding over the curve of her ass to grope at the heat between her legs.
A responding moan was all he got. She arched against the hardened bulge in his pants, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. His merciless fingers slid further along her clothed sex, stifling her attempts to grind against him.
“Tch. Is this it?” he growled, teeth sliding against her ear. “I haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already so compliant—“
She wormed in his arms, elbow arching to connect with his sternum, driving him backward. He grunted in discomfort, hand clutching at his bruised pec. Mikasa followed through without hesitation, grasping his neck with both hands and throwing him onto the bed.
“I asked if you wanted to fuck,” she said, removing her brassiere without ceremony, “not shoot the breeze.”
Levi made no attempt to move from his supine position on the bed, his hooded gaze following her as she crossed to the side table. She pulled a blade from the drawer, watching the way his adam’s apple bobbed. She wondered if he knew how many weapons like this she'd hidden in various points around his home. Probably. He most likely knew where they all were, too.
“To avenge my blouse,” she purred, straddling his hips. He let her slice his shirt from end to collar before reacting. She nearly dropped the knife when he gripped her wrist, her momentary falter allowing him to wrench the weapon from her grasp and hurl it across the room. She heard it bury itself in the wall with a thud.
The world spun, and then she was the one on her back. The captain captured both her wrists and pinned them above her head, clamping her thighs together with his legs. He shamelessly assessed her exposed front, a very unusual, and very wicked-looking smirk pulling at his lips. “You have very pretty breasts.”
A blush heated her face, much to her chagrin, and she hoped it was too dark for him to see. “I told you to stop talking, asshat.”
He lowered his face to her chest, her traitorous nipples standing at attention as his breath ghosted across her skin. He hummed, the sound sending another arrow of heat straight to her loins. “You can’t take a compliment, can you?”
“You like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”
Another huff of breath met her chest, and she realized he was laughing. He found her amusing.
“Stop playing around and fuck me already.”
He dragged his tongue across a pert nipple, making her arch, and it was all she could do not to make a noise. “You always were an impatient chit.”
“I hate you.” The words lost their vigor, coming out a little too breathless as he laved his attention upon the other breast.
“Is that so?” he drawled, transitioning both of her wrists to one hand, using the free one to undo her belt. “You proposition every person you hate, Ackerman?” His adroit fingers wormed their way beneath her smallclothes, searching.
Another curse rested on the tip of her tongue, but she could only bite her lip as he dipped his index into her silken heat.
“Yeah, I can feel how much you hate me,” he scoffed, sliding another finger inside.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snipped. “You’re a tool. I’m using you as one.”
Again, that crooked smirk, and no doubt he could feel how she convulsed around his fingers. He freed her wrists, rearing back to pull her pants from her legs, taking her underwear with them.
She reached for his belt but he smacked her hand away, rising from the bed to divest himself of his ruined shirt. “We’re both tools, Mikasa,” he said, regarding her through dark fringe as he undid his pants.
The use of her name inspired a different sensation in her. It was sobering. That annoyed her. She attempted to hide any reaction by raking her eyes down his now entirely nude form. Anticipation curled in her gut, and she rose to her elbows as he slunk up the bed towards her.
Then his hand secured around her ankle.
Flipping her onto all fours, Levi grasped her hips and pulled her to him. She made a perfunctory attempt to crawl away, but he only hauled her back. She could feel his erection press against the back of her thigh.
“You wanted me to fuck you. You didn’t specify how.” One of his hands left her hip, and she bit her lip again as the tip of him maneuvered between her thighs. “You’ll tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice softer, and it was part command, part question. Again, she felt sobered.
“Just hurry up,” she growled, pressing backwards desperately.
He pressed forward, but not far enough. Both of his hands had returned to her hips, holding her in place and preventing her from pushing back. “Tell me what you want.”
She turned her face to glare back at him, puffing at the strands of dark hair obscuring her face. “I want you to stop being a jackass.”
“Tch.” He slammed into her fully, the movement lurching her forward and snapping her head to attention. She hissed with discomfort at the initial intrusion, willing herself to relax around him. After a moment, he withdrew once more to the tip, only to surge forward again, this time deliciously slow.
Mikasa tossed her head back, jaw slackening at the sensation of him moving inside her. She hated the protracted pace now. “Go faster.”
He withdrew even slower.
“ Goddammit , fucking move.” Her voice was humiliating to her own ears, far too desperate, but she could no longer bring herself to temper it.
“Beg,” he commanded. She groaned, aroused and angry. He grabbed a fistful of her hair. “Beg for it, brat.”
“Fuck you.”
“You are.”
His hips rolled forward, length sliding deeper and then halting once again. Mikasa pressed back against him. “You’re a son of a bitch,” she snarled, words muffled by a mix of hair and the sheets.
“Whore might be more accurate,” he quipped, hips snapping forward again. “Fucking beg, Ackerman. I can keep this up.” He repeated the torturous slide to prove his point, but he was speaking through his teeth.
Still, she remained mum, pressing against him and ignoring the stinging pain from his grip in her hair. She flexed her inner muscles, mentally cheering at the stuttering breath he gave. He was momentarily distracted by the sensation, affording her enough time to twist out of his grip and force him away from her.
The tables turned in a blink, her hands once more around his throat as she straddled him. He bared his teeth, chest heaving.
“When’s the last time someone had you on your back, shorty?” She shifted one hand to his jaw, the other fending off his attempts to grope her breasts. “You’ve gotten too comfortable being humanity’s strongest, I think. No one can touch you.”
A stifled grunt left him as she slowly slid her sex along the length of his member. His fingers dug into her hips, bruising, his jaw tensing as her folds curved around him.
“I can see right through you,” she continued, voice pitched slightly higher than before. “They say we’re alike. Takes one to know one, I suppose.” Her head flew back at the sensation of her clit grazing along him, and she pressed a hand against the center of his chest to aid the angle.
Levi gave another grunt, this one not as restrained, his eyes fluttering closed with a breathy “fuck.”
“A few weeks ago,” she breathed, “it’s the way you fucking walk.”
“Eh?” His brow furrowed, eyes remaining shut.
“That’s the first time I thought about fucking you.” She reached between them and angled him to her. They gasped together as she sheathed him in one swift motion. “And you stopped wearing that fucking cravat—”
He rolled his hips to meet her, and her mouth fell open in a silent cry. She moved against him, lifting and falling, feeling his girth. It took her a moment, but she regained herself.
“You stopped wearing it, and you seemed so different, and I started to think about what it would be like…” Her mouth gaped again, nails digging into his chest. “...what it would feel like... fuck... oh fuck…”
Both hands rested on his chest, her head thrown back in rapture as she continued to ride him. Levi was watching her now, breath uneven and short. She didn’t stop him this time from reaching along her belly to palm at her breasts, but pressed herself into his hand. He twisted her nipple—hard—and she keened.
Suddenly, she was falling, rolling from the bed to tumble onto the floor. There was nothing graceful about it, and it left her momentarily disoriented. He’d shoved her . The bastard loomed above her once again, hiking her leg above his shoulder and sliding his cock home.
“Is this what you thought about?” His voice was dark, unrecognizable beside her ear. She shuddered, clenching around him involuntarily. “Did you think about me fucking you like this?”
There was nothing slow about his movements this time, as he made good on his promise of renouncing tenderness.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned, teeth dragging against the side of her neck.
Mikasa threaded her fingers through his hair, the gesture implying intimacy. Then she gripped the dark strands and wrenched his head back, exposing his neck to her. She dragged her tongue from the base of his jugular to his chin, earning a guttural moan.
His hand sought her own neck, his thumb pressing against her jaw and twisting her face away. “You fuck like you fight.”
They were moving with abandon now, the room filling with the chorus of ragged breath and the crude sounds of flesh against flesh. Mikasa was sure she’d never made this much noise in her life, her voice cracking at the end—it was freeing, but partly a mere wile to finish him off; he would come and she would regain the upper hand, and she would have won.
He had his own shifts and ploys—his mouth at her jaw whispering all sorts of lickerish things. Mikasa lifted a hand above her to brace against the wall as he hammered into her.
The angle, his voice in her ear, was a powerful combination and she could feel herself quicken. The fire of competition burned in her belly, however, and she swatted away his hand from her breasts. A brief scuffle ensued, ending with him clamping both her hands above her head and leering down at her in victory.
“Levi,” she moaned, dragging out the syllables.
The look on his face faltered, breath stuttering in his throat, and she knew she had him. She repeated his name, the break in her voice only partly affected. She focused on his painful grip on her wrists, anything to distract from the precipice looming ever closer.
“Fuck,” he gasped, hips faltering, movements becoming sloppy. She arched against him, once more giving him his name against his neck. His right hand flew away from her wrist, slamming down beside her shoulder as he braced himself.
Mikasa captured his jaw to watch his face, to watch him come. She let his head fall to the crook of her shoulder, listened to him gasp for air. Then he rolled away from her, boneless and defeated.
A smirk affixed itself to Mikasa’s lips as she observed her beaten captain. She rose to her feet and returned to the bed, adjusting the ravaged sheets and pillows before lying down. The rattle of a belt prompted her eyes to him, and she watched shamelessly as he dressed himself. He kept his eyes on his task. Thunder rolled in the distance.
“Sorry about the shirt,” she said. She wasn’t sorry.
“An eye for an eye.” He gathered the shredded garment, slinging it over his shoulder. He turned to leave without another word. He stopped before the door, head turning slightly. “And if you must know, the new uniforms.”
“Sorry?”
“It was probably before that, but that’s when I couldn’t ignore it.”
Oh.
“Black looks good on you.” And with that he whipped open the door and left.
The uniforms. She remembered the first day they’d issued the black livery, remembered the unanimous appreciation throughout the regiment for the new attire. That had been...a while ago.
A jagged spark of lightning filled the room with a flash of white, followed swiftly by the rolling pound of thunder. Mikasa caught sight of her blade protruding from the far wall just as the first pats of rain began to fall against the window.