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They're all gone.
The whole damn squad.
Whether they're alive, swallowed whole, or torn limb from limb—you have no way of knowing. There's no one left but you, and the forest is boiling with titans. Their footsteps shake the giant trees. Their roars bleed through the air like thunder.
You fly between trunks, gas hissing in sharp, uneven bursts as you thread through ancient trees thick as towers. Your blades are slick with steaming blood. Your hands are trembling.
And the titans just keep coming—slavering, swiping, their slack-jawed faces lit with that mindless, hellish hunger. You swing again, grapple locking, trying to gain height. You need to find cover, but there has to be someone still alive—
But then it happens.
A sputter. A cough from the canister.
Low on gas. Shit.
Your speed falters mid-arc. You try to launch again, but your momentum dies too early. Your line catches the bark of a massive trunk and holds—
—But without thrust, your body doesn't follow.
You drop like a stone.
Branches whip past, tearing at your uniform. One catches your thigh like a blade.
Molten pain flares.
And then the gear yanks taut.
You're yanked to a sudden stop, the harness biting into your ribs, gear whining from the strain. You dangle upside down, spinning gently, your face inches from the bark of a tree that stretches endlessly above and below you.
Your vision pulses. You can hear them below—grunting, stomping, sniffing the air.
Keep it together. Come on. Move.
With a groan, you reach for the spare line and fire. It latches. You drag yourself upright, muscles screaming, and slam your boots against the bark to anchor. You stay there, shaking, clinging like a wasp in the wind.
Then you look down.
The pain in your leg spikes as your eyes lock on it—a deep gash, jagged and ugly, carved down the outside of your thigh. Your jodhpurs are already soaked, blood dripping in fat, sticky streaks down your calf.
You probably hit a branch on the way down. Maybe worse.
You exhale through clenched teeth.
No way you can run. You're barely upright. Your leg is going numb fast.
You scan the trees—nothing low enough to reach without gas. No nearby branches to climb.
And below… they're gathering.
Lumbering shadows moving through the icy fog. Big ones. Their heads tilt up. Eyes catch the light.
You know what they're thinking. You've seen that look before.
You're meat.
There's no escape. No gas. No backup.
This is it. This is where it ends. Alone. Bleeding. Strung up like a corpse on a hook.
You settle against the tree, breathe shallow, and close your eyes.
This is how you die.
For one dreadful moment, you consider it.
Just unbuckling the harness.
Letting gravity do the rest.
Better to hit the forest floor hard and fast than be ripped open by fingers the size of tree trunks. Better than being swallowed whole while screaming.
You look down. The titans are gathering—mottled skin, vacant eyes, arms outstretched like children begging for something they don't understand. One stumbles forward, mouth gaping. Saliva strings between its teeth like spider silk.
Your fingers twitch near the buckle. A second's decision. One click. That's all it would take.
But then—
A sound cuts through the trees.
Faint, but clear.
The sharp zip of ODM cables, slicing through the air like lightning.
You twist your head, and there—like some cruel, beautiful miracle—he comes.
Captain Levi.
Steam clings to him like smoke, rising from his gear, his cloak, his skin. He bursts through the canopy in a streak of silver, titan blood hissing and evaporating off him in a ghostly halo.
Of course he survived. If anyone would, it's him.
"Captain! Over here!"
Your voice cracks halfway through the shout, but it doesn't matter. He was already looking. He must've seen the failed arc of your line. Heard the jolt of gear gone dead.
He veers sharply, slicing open a titan's nape as he passes with surgical precision—doesn't even look behind him to watch it fall. He lands against the trunk beside you like it's second nature, one boot anchored. He glances down.
The titans below are pawing at the bark now, moaning with effort, clawing like blind rats toward the scent of blood. Toward you.
Levi barely spares them a glance.
"Quite a crowd you've gathered," he mutters, already working at your buckles with one hand.
There's no time for delicacy. His fingers are fast, practised—shoulder straps first, chest next. The gear is useless now, and simply weighing you down.
"I'm sorry," you sob. "My gas, it—"
"Save it."
He cuts you off without looking, looping an arm tight around your waist. His other hand steadies you by the hip, pulling you in with a rugged, practical grip.
"We're not dying up here," he says, already moving. "Let's get out of sight and wrap that leg before you bleed out."
You nod, arms sliding around his shoulders, and hook your good leg around his waist. He doesn't hesitate—ODM gear fires, and you're moving again.
Wind slaps your face, and the trees blur. The sky's darkening by the second, the orange slant of twilight fading into purple.
You don't look down. You can't.
Levi arcs through the trees in wide, measured swings, keeping out of reach of the titans still staggering below. You hold on tighter every time he shifts his grip, breathing shallow against the pain.
Finally, he lands—smooth and silent—on a wide, high branch near the forest's edge. A field stretches beyond the treetops, empty and open. Behind you, the forest looms like a graveyard.
The titans have quieted. They always do when the sun goes down. No one knows why.
But you're still shaking.
While you sit braced against the trunk, teeth chattering despite the heat radiating off your skin, Levi disappears—backtracking silently across the canopy to the squad's original campsite. Supplies. Bandages. Rations.
You're left alone for what feels like hours, heart thundering with phantom echoes of pursuit. Every creak in the branches sounds like a moan. Every snap like jaws. You can still feel the air of their breathless hunger on your skin.
By the time he returns, you're white-knuckled and pale. You can barely feel your leg.
Your trousers are soaked through—once white, now stained a deep, sick black-red. The blood has dried tacky along your skin. Your boots are sticky. The pain is somewhere far away now, numbed by cold and adrenaline, but you know it's bad.
You don't hear him land. Of course you don't. He moves like a shadow. One moment you're alone, shuddering on a wide, cold branch with blood drying down your leg, and the next—he's beside you.
Levi kneels without a word, his cloak brushing against the bark, hands already full of bandages, scissors, and a leather pouch clutched tight in his palm. His eyes flick down to your wound, then back up to your face. He speaks low, steady.
"I'm gonna need to cut these off."
You nod, wincing before the metal even touches you. It's deep, ragged, and torn from the fall—but it's clean enough. Stitchable. If you survive the night, someone back at HQ can fix it. But until then, you're dead weight.
A burden.
His burden.
"You should've just left me," you murmur, voice barely there. You're not even sure what you mean.
A sharp tut leaves him—barely audible, already slicing clean through the blood-soaked fabric above the gash.
You bite your lip as the ruined trouser leg falls away and the night air licks across your bare skin. The pain hits harder now—burning, throbbing—but you don't make a sound. You just watch his face.
He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts your bare skin. Not intimate. Clinical. Focused. His expression doesn't change.
"Don't give me that bullshit," he says, tone flat as a blade.
He inspects the wound. No flinching. No hesitation. Just a man taking in the facts and filing them away.
"You'll need stitches," he adds, already reaching for his canteen.
The cork squeaks. He pours water onto a stark white cloth, folds it once, and begins gliding it across the edges of the wound with careful hands. It stings, but not as severely as you expect. The water's warm—body-warm. He must've kept the canteen beneath his cloak.
You blink hard. The bottom of your throat is tight.
"What the hell happened out there today?" you ask, trying to sound composed. Your voice is unsteady anyway. You watch him instead—slender fingers dabbing around the torn flesh, thumb occasionally pressing down for leverage.
A cool wind stirs through the treetops above, rustling leaves like whispers. It's almost calming. If you didn't know better, you might think this was peaceful.
"You tell me," he mutters, eyes not leaving your injury. "Never seen that many of them appear out of fucking nowhere."
You shiver without meaning to. Levi notices immediately. Without a word, he unclasps his cloak and wraps it around your shoulders from behind, securing it roughly against your chest.
It smells like leather and mint. Like him.
You clutch the fabric tight. When you glance up again, your eyes meet his. You've never really looked at him this closely before. Not with all the walls stripped away. His eyes are a sharp, metallic grey—so pale they almost don't look human. Strange. Rare. And… beautiful.
"I fucked up," you whisper, barely audible. "Used all of my gas. Didn't even check how low I was. I panicked."
You look out across the field, swallowing hard. Your chest tightens.
"And now you're stuck here with me. No horse. No gear. I can't even fucking walk. You should go, Captain. Just go."
He doesn't answer right away.
Instead, he opens a small glass vial from the kit—a sharp, acrid scent hits your nose. Something antiseptic. Like the sterile sting of a field hospital.
"This is gonna sting," he says.
And he pours it.
The pain is immediate. White-hot, tearing up your nerves like fire.
"Ah—fuck!" you hiss, loud and sharp. Your nails dig into the branch beneath you, and instinctively, your eyes shoot downward. The forest below is dark and quiet. No titan calls. Not yet.
Levi's already moving again—holding the soft bandage to the wound, soaking up the liquid, replacing it with a clean wrap. You pant through your teeth, eyes watering.
"I don't leave people behind," he says, voice harder now. "And what do you want me to do—zip back to HQ on a fucking prayer? I don't have a horse either, you damn idiot."
You go quiet. Shame burning through you deeper than the wound.
He pulls the edges of the gash together and wraps the bandage with practised care. Not too tight. The perfect amount of pressure to keep it clean and sealed from the wind.
It already feels better. Less exposed. Less terrifying.
You exhale shakily.
"Thank you," you murmur, voice smaller than before. You meet his eyes again. He doesn't hold the contact long. Just a brief flicker, then gone.
"I'm sorry for… losing it a little back there," you add. "I just… The whole squad's gone. And I didn't want to be your problem on top of everything else."
He doesn’t respond. He packs the supplies back into the leather kit methodically, sealing it shut with a flick of his wrist.
Then, without looking at you, he stands and crosses to the far side of the branch, where the forest falls away into blackness. He stands there a moment, turned away. Silent. Tense.
Then:
"Yeah, well…" he says, voice low.
"You're not a problem. Like it or not, you're stuck with me."
Your heart kicks in your chest, sharp and sudden. You don't know why. He's speaking to you like he would any other soldier—flat, efficient, detached. You're not special. You know that.
But there's something about the way he said it.
You shift slightly, leaning against the rough bark behind you, eyes tracking him across the branch as he moves with precision—measuring, planning. There's something methodical about the way he walks the perimeter, something almost ritualistic in the way he checks the branch's edges and the slope of its curve.
"Where are we sleeping?" you ask.
It's a dumb question. You're not even sure why you say it—probably just to fill the silence. You've never been good with silences. Not ones like this. Not ones shared with a man like Captain Levi.
Now that the wound is wrapped and the pain has dulled to a manageable throb, your brain is working overtime again—on all the wrong things.
No reply.
You fidget.
"…Are we sleeping?" you repeat, glancing at him from under your lashes. "Or are you just going to glare into the abyss until morning, then drag my crippled ass back home?"
His head turns slightly.
"Yes."
One-word answer. Dry. Clipped. You sigh. But then—
"But I don't fancy sleeping down there, do you?" he adds. "And I don't fancy rolling over in my sleep and falling fifty feet into a red splat on the floor."
You gulp. Fair point.
"Plus," he says, moving toward one side of the branch, "there's one other problem."
You brace.
"I could only find one bedroll."
There it is again. That little thud in your chest. That stupid flutter you try to pretend is adrenaline. Or relief. Or trauma. Anything but what it really is.
"You have it," you offer automatically, voice soft.
But Levi's already moving. He fires one ODM line clean into the bark just above where the branch curves, the grappling hook thunking deep into the wood. Then another, at an angle. The cables pull taut, forming a sort of triangle—primitive, but solid. He tugs each with a sharp jerk, testing tension.
"Don't roll," he mutters. "But if you do, the line'll catch you. Probably."
He turns and tosses the bedroll toward you. It hits your chest with a soft thump, heavier than it looks.
You catch it, arms wrapping around it instinctively. It's warm. Recently carried.
"Captain, it's freezing," you say after a beat, tilting your head. "We can share."
He stops. Looks at you.
It's not quite a glare—more like the sharp flick of his eyes when something catches him off guard.
The wind is whipping at your bare legs— you're showing a lot of skin now. Your trousers were left behind, slashed and discarded. Your thigh is bandaged, yes—but the rest of your bottom half is bare, apart from some small cotton panties. Still, he hasn't so much as let his gaze linger. Not once.
Ever the gentleman. Or maybe just repressed beyond mortal comprehension.
"It's okay," you say quickly, sensing his hesitation. "I told you—I don't want to be a burden. After everything you've done tonight, the least I can do is share."
He eventually gives a short, thoughtful nod. Then he turns, silent again, and begins to set up a fire outside the perimeter of the lines.
You watch him. There's a kind of reverence to his movements. Every gesture is spare, calculated. Efficient.
He unpacks a small metal tray, dented and blackened with soot from previous uses, and places it gently on the flattest part of the branch. Then a few slivers of firewood, carefully stacked. Tinder, tucked inside. He strikes flint to steel. Once. Twice. A spark. A glow. The fire catches.
The flames rise slowly, no taller than your hand, contained and well-behaved. Enough to warm the chill from your exposed skin, and to outline the profile of his face in gold.
He doesn't say a word. He takes a small tin cup from his pack, pours something from a flask, and sets it over the fire's edge. The scent hits you a few moments later—minty, sweet, earthy.
Tea. Of course it's tea.
When it's ready, he pulls it from the fire and passes it to you without ceremony.
You take it in both hands. The metal is hot against your palms. You bring it to your lips and sip carefully.
You glance up at him again, over the rim of the cup. He's sitting with one knee drawn up, arm resting casually atop it, eyes flicking between the fire and the edge of the trees. Always watching. Always thinking.
"It's really good…" You mewl, smiling around the metal pressed to your lips. The warmth of the tea is still humming in your chest, unfurling around your ribs like something tender. It's the first real comfort you've felt since the forest exploded into chaos. Maybe the first in weeks.
He casts a look over at you. But this time, he doesn't look away.
His eyes stay on yours, steady and unreadable. For a moment, it's like you're suspended—caught somewhere between firelight and fog, staring into a pair of eyes that see far more than they ever admit.
You pass the cup to him. His fingers brush yours, barely there, but enough to make your heartbeat flutter. He holds the rim between thumb and forefinger, brings it to his mouth, and takes a quiet sip.
"Piss water would taste good after what you've just been through," he mutters.
You laugh, despite yourself. Despite the pain. Despite the corpses still fresh in your mind.
It's not even really a joke. He's just like that. Dry. Every word measured like ammunition. But the way he says it—matter-of-fact, low, almost comforting in its lack of sentiment—makes it land differently.
He hands the cup back.
"How long have you been a scout?" he asks, like he's checking a number in his head.
"Four months."
The words hang between you. Four months, and already more death than you can process. Faces you'll never see again. Screams you hear in your sleep every night. And him—still here after all this time. Somehow.
You exhale slowly, the heat from the tea spiralling before you. The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
"How do you do it?"
A pause.
"How have you done it for so long?"
He doesn't answer right away. His gaze shifts to the open field beyond the trees. The fire flickers across the edge of his jaw. You catch something there, barely for a second. A flicker of emotion—not weakness, but something quieter. Grief, maybe. Or exhaustion.
"Who knows," he says finally, voice low. "I… keep telling myself I'm doing something good, I guess."
You hold out the cup to return it to him. He doesn't take it. Doesn't look at you either.
You hesitate—you long to reach out, to touch his arm, shoulder, somewhere; but you stop yourself. You don't know how he'd react. And you're not sure you can take it if he pulls away.
The wind shifts. Cold creeps in again.
You unroll the bedroll and slide your legs inside, careful not to disturb your injury. Even that slight movement sends a flare of pain through your thigh. You inhale sharply through your teeth, grimacing.
He notices. Doesn't comment.
When the last of the tea is gone, he shifts. Hesitantly. As if debating something with himself. Then he sidles closer, gold light from the fire catching on the edges of his shirt, the curve of his jaw.
There's something strange about watching him move awkwardly. This is a man built from precision, discipline, and steel edges. But now—now there's a kind of restraint in his shoulders. A tension that has nothing to do with Titans.
He's shivering. You can tell by the small, involuntary twitches of his muscles. He's trying to hide it, of course, but it's there. Beneath the surface.
Without a word, he slides his boots in next to yours, making sure he doesn't brush against your bandages. The bedroll shifts slightly beneath the added weight, and suddenly, he's close. Too close. The air feels thinner.
You're not even fully inside it yet, and the intimacy is already unbearable. Not sexual—just near in a way that is unfamiliar and fragile. A line drawn in firelight.
"… Don't read into this," he mutters.
His sarcasm softens the edge of the moment.
You glance over, mouth curling into the ghost of a smile. "You're shaking…"
He looks at you. His brow twitches—annoyance, maybe, or just surprise at being caught.
"So are you," He replies, softer.
He holds your gaze for a beat too long, then settles down further into the bedroll.
You shift to lie on your side, turning away from him. The alternative—being face to face—would be too much. It would invite too many thoughts, too many questions that neither one of you is ready to ask.
So you lie unmoving. Let the warmth spread. Let your Captain settle in behind you, body stiff with the growing strangeness of it all.
He turns away too, matching your position with precise silence, so that the two of you lie back to back inside the narrow bedroll. The contact is minimal—shoulders barely grazing, the heat between your spines slowly starting to build—but it's enough to leave your nerves alight.
You're exhausted, but it doesn't matter. You can't sleep.
You've never been this close to him—Captain Levi, of all people. He's a stranger in every way that matters. And yet now you're here, lying so close your bodies brush every time one of you inhales too deeply. The strangeness of it knots tight in your belly. That, and the aching burn in your leg.
The wound throbs under the bandage. You saw it before climbing in—a dark glitter of red already soaking into the criss-crossed texture of the gauze. The bleeding hasn't stopped completely. You've lost more than you realised.
And it's still freezing.
You try to focus on anything else—the rush of the wind through the trees, the faint rustle of distant leaves, the sound of his breathing behind you. Controlled. Even. Of course it is.
His presence radiates heat, and inside the confines of the bedroll, that should be enough.
But it's not.
Your body won't stop shivering. Small, rapid tremors that rattle your teeth and make your muscles clench involuntarily. The more you try to stop, the worse it gets. You tense up—tightening your legs, your arms, your core.
It only makes the pain from your injury spike.
You curse under your breath.
Fuck.
Then you hear it.
A sharp exhale. Annoyed. Just behind your ear.
"Tch. This is ridiculous."
He moves.
You barely register the motion before he shifts behind you, turning over, bringing the weight of his body with him. And then—his arm snakes around your waist, firm and sudden, and pulls you in.
A sharp jolt in your chest steals your composure.
"I'm not gonna let you lay there shaking like a shitting dog," he mutters, gruff and low, as if the act of caring itself irritates him.
Now, you're pressed fully against him. Chest to back, his forearm wrapped across your middle, palm resting flat against your ribs. His breath is warm on your spine, exhaled in slow, steady waves.
It should be nothing. It's warmth. Survival.
But your skin betrays you. Goosebumps scatter across your whole body. The brush of his uniform against you—the difference in textures—makes your heart start to pound. His leg hooks around yours loosely, careful of your injury, but possessive enough to steal the air from your lungs.
"…Sorry," It leaves your lips in a hush, too low for even the trees to hear. "…After today. It's a miracle I'm alive. I think my body's in shock a little."
Levi doesn't respond with words. He squeezes you tighter, shifting slightly—his fingers curling gently against your side.
Your shirt has ridden up. The hem of it is high enough for the edge of his palm to graze bare flesh.
It's such a small thing. But it sets something off.
Your body goes still. Air catches low in your throat, vibrating on the way out. The heat of his touch sinks into you, quiet and searing, and something electric jolts down your spine.
You don't move—but your heart does. It beats harder. Louder. A thud blooming low in your belly, unwelcome and urgent.
His chest is rising and falling behind you. Heavy. Controlled. But then—
You feel it.
Hard.
There's a distinct pressure against your ass, unmistakable and unyielding. His cock—hidden beneath the fabric of his pants, but fully, undeniably there. Firm. Pulsing. Resting against the bare skin of your cheeks.
Your eyes widen. You freeze. You don't mean to, but you shift. Subtly. Only enough to confirm what you already know.
It's not a mistake.
The weight of it. The heat.
And you're not the only one who notices.
He does too.
The stillness between you sharpens. Thickens.
Then, in a voice that's barely audible—low, tight, and unmistakably Levi:
"…Shit. You picked a hell of a time."
You don't know if he's talking to you. To himself. Or to the very obvious problem now pulsing between the two of you.
The moment pins you in place.
You don't dare move—at least not at first. Not with him settled so thick and obvious against you. Your heart pounds in your throat, in your ears, in every part of you that's not already burning.
You shift again. Testing.
He twitches in response, the soft, pulsing weight of him right where you need it.
Everything else—the ache in your thigh, the wind hissing through the trees, the distant threat of titans—fades beneath the stark, undeniable reality of him hard against you.
A slick ache of arousal pools at your groin, dampening the thin cotton of your panties. Shame doesn't even register. Only want.
You nudge back again, slower this time, letting the curve of your ass cradle him between your cheeks. An invitation. A silent plea.
His grip tightens on the fabric of your shirt, knuckles bunching near your ribs. Not quite pulling you closer. Not quite stopping you, either.
You don't know what it means. You only know he hasn't let go.
Then:
"You're not helping…"
His voice is low, hoarse. Like the words were dragged up from somewhere deep.
But then he leans in and rests his lips against the nape of your neck—a soft kiss with cold lips that makes you whimper, high and quiet.
You tilt your head, offering him more, and he takes it. His lips trace a lingering, wet path down your throat, along the place where your pulse beats hardest. He's trembling. Or maybe you are.
The press of him is constant now, thick and unbearable against you. You arch into him, more desperately, and little gasps fall from you in quick succession. You're past asking. Past overthinking.
And so is he.
His hips shift subtly. Then he fumbles between your bodies. You hear a quiet grunt as he wrestles with the fabric, and then—
Skin.
Hot, bare skin against yours, and the hard line of him throbs between your cheeks.
His palm finds the small of your back and pushes gently, guiding your spine forward. Adjusting. Aligning. Every movement is calculated and precise. Just like him.
Then the other hand—sliding lower—finds the heat pooling between your hips. His fingers drag across your panties, and he pauses. You're soaked. His chest tightens. That's all it takes.
He lines himself up. The head of his cock nudges between your folds, finds where you're already open for him.
And then he pushes in.
One motion. Steady, deep, unshaking.
The stretch is intense—fullness blooming through you like fire—but you breathe through it, jaw clenched tight as you swallow the moan rising in your throat.
You go rigid. The heat of him buried to the root is enough to make you dizzy. Your vision tilts.
His head drops behind your shoulder.
Then he moves.
Steady. Controlled. Shallow rolls of his hips, every one coaxing another soft gasp. He doesn't pull out entirely. Doesn't need to. Each thrust is measured, anchored, more about feeling than fucking.
It's not rough. It's not vulgar.
It's just need.
Wordless. Primal. Something neither of you fully understands and both of you can't stop.
His hips roll again—deeper this time. A little less restrained. Still controlled, but rougher now, like he's fighting something back.
You bite your lip hard, trying to stay quiet, but a whimper slips out—thin and shaking. Your thighs quiver against the weight of him, muscles taut around the steady push and pull of his cock as it glides through you, slow and dragging, hitting deep.
God, it feels so good—too good for how wrong this should be. Too good for two people lying injured and filthy in the middle of a forest thick with corpses. But your body doesn't care. It wants. It needs. And so does his.
The space between you disappears, his mouth hovering just shy of your skin. Levi exhales, uneven and shaky. His lashes flutter against you as he presses closer, his lips parting to kiss the place where your shoulder meets your throat.
Not soft. Not sweet.
But, present. There. Anchoring himself to you.
Another thrust—this one harder, more uneven. Levi's rhythm falters for a second. He grunts low in his throat and buries his face against your shoulder.
You reach behind you blindly, searching for him. When you find his hand—calloused, steady—you grab it. Squeeze hard.
"I need this too…" You plead, eyes fluttering shut. Your voice cracks with it—raw and undone.
He freezes for a moment at the sound of those words on your lips. His grip tightens around yours, his other arm cinching tighter around your waist, pulling you flush to him.
His hips begin to move again, and this time, there's no pretending he's in control. The rhythm is deliberate now—steady, relentless. Each stroke drags his cock against the deepest parts of you, just enough pressure to make your whole body ache with it.
You choke on a moan as he thrusts again, faster this time. He's grinding into you with purpose now, like he's chasing something, like he's trying to outrun the wreckage of the day. Every roll of his hips sends fire through your stomach, heat blooming low and deep.
You feel yourself tightening around him—slick, pulsing, so wet you can hear it between you. The friction is perfect. Maddening. You meet his thrust, grinding into him, yearning for more. Wanting all of it.
Then—his voice, low and ragged, right against your skin.
"See…?" he manages, voice frayed. "You are alive. You're right here."
It hits something in you. That voice—so rare, so real—pulls you deeper into the moment than anything else. You almost cry at the sound of it. The way he says it, like he needs to believe it too. Like he's not just reminding you, but himself.
"I'm here," The words leave your throat like a whimper, unsteady and raw. "I'm here with you…"
He kisses your neck again—slower now, like the kiss is meant to soothe. Or worship. Or prove he's still human.
His mouth lingers against your shoulder, flushed and urgent. He licks once, before his teeth graze the skin lightly, like he wants to mark you. The sensation has your stomach clenching, your body shaking around his cock as he thrusts again and again.
Your orgasm is building fast now—tight and feverish, like a bowstring pulled too far. Your whole body seems stretched thin, nerves electric with every roll of his hips, every breath on your throat, every sound he makes. And god, the sounds—
Levi groans.
A deep, strained, barely-contained sound punched from somewhere in his chest. His forehead rests against your nape, breath ragged now, lips parted.
You've never heard him like this.
He's not trying to hide it anymore.
You roll your hips into him, grinding in tight little circles between each thrust. " Levi —" you whimper, voice shaking.
His hand slips from yours only to grab your waist instead, fingertips digging into the meat of your hip. He starts moving harder now—more ragged, more desperate. Each thrust grinds another sound from you, and the edge comes at you fast, wild and sharp.
"I'm close—" you gasp.
"So am I," he growls, mouth hovering at your ear.
Your muscles tremble. Your stomach tightens. You clench around him, tight, pulsing. And then—
It hits.
You cry out softly, body convulsing as pleasure rips through you like lightning. You arch against him, your hand clutches his at your stomach, and your legs shake uncontrollably.
He keeps going, chasing his own end. His thrusts grow messier, more erratic—hips snapping into yours with full, brutal need.
Then he stills—buried deep, body tense—and moans into your back as he comes.
His chest heaves behind you—sharp, shaky breaths spilling against your shoulder like he’s still trying to catch up.
It's raw. Guttural.
You feel the hot surge of him inside you—deep and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. His whole body trembles against yours. He doesn't move for a long moment. He simply holds you.
The forest is quiet again.
No titans. No screams. Only wind. Bark. And the sound of Levi's breath on your skin.
Still close. Still here.
Still alive .
You lie there for a moment, both of you caught in the soft haze that follows—your chest rising and falling in sync with his, the warmth of his body curled around yours. His arm stays where it is—draped loosely across your middle, not possessive now, just… steady. Solid.
He stays close, the quiet of him skimming your skin. You think he might say something. But he doesn't.
Levi never rushes silence.
Eventually, he shifts—barely—his body still anchored to yours as his hand moves under the blanket, tracing down your side with careful, deliberate contact. When he finds your thigh, it's not to linger or tease. It's to check the bandage.
He brushes it with the back of his knuckles—testing for blood, for heat, for swelling. Gentle. Intentional.
He doesn't say anything, but he stays there for a second longer than he needs to.
Just long enough to make your chest ache.
"I'm okay," You turn your head slightly, voice close to the shell of his ear.
He pulls you in, his grip subtle, steady—only meant to hold you there.
You lie there in the quiet, wrapped in him and, after a moment, you speak, soft and maybe a little brave:
"Maybe it's not so bad… being stuck with you."
He doesn't respond at first.
But you feel it—that subtle shift in his body, the way the rise of his chest stops dead in place. Then, low and dry:
"You're delirious."
You smile into the dark. "Maybe."
He holds your ribs again, fingers splaying gently. He exhales, slow, warm against the nape of your neck.
"Get some sleep," he says at last.
It's quiet. Not cold, but final. The way he says most things.
But he doesn't let go.
And as you lie there—your injury throbbing, the fire low, the weight of tomorrow creeping in—you ease into the calm that holds you both. In the closeness. In the rare, quiet truth of him.
Tomorrow, the journey home will be brutal.
And maybe, after that, this will never be spoken of again.
But for now—for this one night—you're not alone.
He's here.
With you.
Somewhere in the distance, a branch snaps.
The fire finally flickers low.
And Levi's arm tightens around you...