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prettyiwa · 2 years ago

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DO NOT MENTION MY WORKS ON TIKTOK.

(previous) | (next) Relationship: Drummer!Levi Ackerman x Bassist!F!Reader Rating: Explicit 18+ Content Tags: Band!AU, Modern!AU, Fucking Your Ex, Unhealthy Relationship, Unhealthy Coping, Infidelity, Shameless Smut, Slight Exhibitionism, Public Sex, Oral Sex (M!Receiving), Face Fucking, Degradation Kink (Levi calls reader "slut"), Impact Play (Face Slapping), Slight SadoMasochism, Use of an Anal Plug, Choking, Hair-Pulling*, Creampie, Unprotected Sex, Mentions of Addiction, Allusions to Addiction, Heavy on the RCHP Mentions~ Summary: You used to be his girl and he'd remind you of that fact every chance he got. Then came an offer too good to pass up, even with all the strings attached. Now you're left without your band, without him. But hell, you can remedy that first part, right? And what's a little not hate sex between exes? Word Count: 5820

A/N: Changed it a bit but most of it remains the same. Apologies, tall readers, but we’re Levi’s height here. (I also imagine him a few inches taller here if it helps)

Levi hates this entire fucking thing. He hates being under Zeke’s thumb—what should have been a great opportunity for the band is now Zeke micromanaging them, manipulating what the music will sound like in the studio. He hates that it was Eld who played that night—not that he didn’t like Eld, but he wasn’t you. He hates that he’s here in this dirty ass club with this brunette who won’t leave him alone while Eyebrows and Quiet Blondie whisk you away.

He hates—

He hates that this is the result of his choice and he hates that he’s realizing just how much it’s affecting him now after he’s seen you.

Did Zeke do this on purpose? Did he know that you’d be here tonight? Is that why he sent Levi? He wouldn’t be surprised. It's very much in Zeke’s character to pull such a shitty move, especially as Levi is open about his dislike of the blonde.

He tries to live without regrets, without second-guessing his choices, but, shit, if signing that contract with Zeke wasn’t something he’s starting to regret.

You looked like sin tonight, dancing, singing, playing like you used to—no, not quite. You were playing better, nearly carrying the entire performance. The drummer was good. Regardless of what you may say, the two of you played well with one another.

Shit, he missed having you play bass with him. Listening to you provide the bassline, watching you play—it’s pure sex. There’s no other way to describe it than utterly sexual. You keep time with him, unlike any other bassist he’s ever played with, instinctively knowing how he’s going to move. And your harmony is unparalleled, easily transforming around whatever kick pattern he gives, whatever percussion he’s throwing your way. He’ll follow whatever accents you give the piece, wherever you lead him, he’ll lock-in. Together you’re one instrument providing harmony and rhythm.

When the two of you play together, it’s transcendental, invigorating, indescribable. And he misses it. He didn’t realize just how much until he saw you play tonight.

Nor did he realize quite how much he missed you. You were his girl. He couldn’t claim any part of you, save for your orgasms tonight. Those were his, and his alone. You waited for him, knowing that he’d come, that he couldn’t get enough. Knowing what your music does to him.

You taunted him, teased him, riled him up, reminded him what it was to feel intoxicated, reminded him what it was to be drunk off of you.

He wants to hate you, wants to hate what you reduce him to, but he can’t. He can’t when you feel so fucking euphoric when around him, when the sounds you make are his most beautiful composition, his most beautiful song.

And the thought of you leaving with them makes him sick. Makes him want to find you and remind you that you’re his. Except that you’re not his girl. He lost the right to call you that, even if it was that which made you orgasm so hard you couldn’t stand on your own anymore.

You’re the addiction he wishes he never gave up.

The guitarist won’t stop pestering him, and, unfortunately, Zeke told him that he had to come back with a prospective bassist. She said she played and was a decent enough guitarist. Maybe if she tanks, Zeke will send someone else out. Doubtful, considering the importance of a unified bassist and drummer, but Levi knows that he’s not going to find someone more compatible for him than you.

As a pair of musicians. Nothing more.

So he takes her offered number, dodges her unwanted kiss, and gets the fuck out of the shitty club.

Four Weeks Later

She’s a fine bassist. Nothing special. Doesn’t lead at all, doesn’t do anything more than follow. Disappointing, but Zeke loves it.

Oluo and Gunther hate her and he can’t blame them. Petra came too close to slapping her when she nearly found herself in Oluo’s lap, trying to make Levi jealous. It’s his own damn fault.

It was like the floodgates opened after that night with you. A year and he was fine. He was fine not fucking. It no longer carried the same meaning—music. He didn’t feel that urge to combine the two, to indulge, and then he had to go to that club that fucking night, had to see you, had to hear you.

One stupid relapse and he was doomed.

So he fucked her once. Left right after. Showered in scalding water to try to wash it away.

That was two weeks ago.

He’s about to burst.

He wants to find you. He can’t find you. He wants to remind you that you’re his girl. You’re not his girl. He wants to tell Zeke to fuck off. He gave up everything for this opportunity.

He needs a distraction. Something to tear his mind away from you. Away from this shitty reality. The guys are surprised when he agrees to go out to Utopia District Lounge.

To make matters worse Amy takes it upon herself to invite Zeke. And they don’t find out that you’re the performer for the evening until you arrive with the two blondes and they’re already two shots in.

His eyes are transfixed on you as you set up, as another brunette with glasses comes and helps you, chattering excitedly at you. Amy keeps pouting and whining that he’s not paying attention to her when it’s impossible for him to pay attention to anything but you.

He’s curious to see how you’re going to pull this off—a performance with just your bass and your voice? It’s possible, but if the blondies are here, then he can only assume that they have a plan of some sort.

Eyebrows looks at the door as Zeke walks through, missing you altogether as the latter scans the bar for the band. Levi can’t help but watch as Eyebrows walks over to you, as his hand touches your lower back and he leans in to whisper something, the wink you give Eyebrows. He can’t help but watch as your gaze meets Levi's and you give him a cocky smirk, eyes flickering to Zeke joining them in the booth.

“It’s good to see my band here, together!” Zeke announces, flagging down a waitress. “Such a rare treat for you all to be able to relax, isn’t it?”

Oluo and Gunther pick up the conversation, wanting to avoid Levi punching Zeke, allowing him to focus on you entirely.

You greet the patrons of the bar, introducing yourself as a solo artist in need of a drummer who can keep up—a not-so-subtle dig at him—and that you’ll be improvising the set for the night, but that you’d like them all to come out of the night feeling some sort of way.

And, shit, if you don’t deliver. It starts out slow, lyrics angsty, voice sultry. The songs centering around sex in one way or another, associating sex with drugs, with addiction, but if that doesn’t describe the thrumming of his heart right now, aching for you, to join you, to fuck you. It’s hard to be sober when his drug is standing before him, looking at him like that.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I have one more song for the night. It’s one that I’ve been perfecting for several years now, so I hope you’ll all like it. In fact, the person it’s about is in this bar right now,” you announce with a wicked smile. “I call it ‘My Ex is a Fucking Asshole.’ Say ‘Hi,’ Zeke.”

Your words take him by surprise, previously unaware of the identity of the "Ex" belonging to your song. Now that he knows, everything clicks into place—Zeke's terms before signing the contract, your potent reaction to the choice he made, your allergy to Marleyan Music Group. Now that he knows, he hates this entire situation even more.

And even though you’re playing with nothing but rage fueling you, he’s certain he’s never seen you look so ethereal, so dangerous, so exhilarating. Fuck if it doesn’t go straight to his dick, fuck if he doesn’t need to indulge.

You finish, glowing like you always do after a show, worrying your teeth between your lips because all that adrenaline, all that blood that’s pumping is going straight to your cunt and you need a release just as much as he. He knows how you operate, knows your singularities, knows what goes through your mind. After all, you were his girl.

And even though your eyes meet his, even though the electricity is there, the pull, you don’t approach. Not with your ex at the table. Does Levi count as an ex, or was he just a long-term fix?

Instead, your eyes find the blondes, looking at you like you’re the golden goose. Hell. With a voice like that and the mastery of your instrument, you may as well be. He can’t help but watch you leave while he’s vibrating with need, desperate to be buried inside you. But he can’t. So he makes a decision that he definitely comes to regret.

She tells him, too. “Just so you know—when I let a guy fuck me twice, it means I’m serious and we’re starting a relationship.”

He waves it away, needing release more than anything. It’s after that he realizes how idiotic he was. How, if he wants out, he’ll have to leave the band or get her to leave. He’ll have to risk his contract, including the non-compete clause. Everything that he had done, everything he had sacrificed—

“Fuck.”

Six Weeks Later

He’s miserable. Truly. Stuck in a relationship with someone he’s come to realize he hates. She talks too much, doesn’t clean up after herself, drinks nearly every day, and is too damn needy. Not to mention she’s not musically compatible with him at all.

And he runs into you more frequently now that you have a label—the label he wished he had gotten but was too poor for the move at the time. They’re playing it smart, advertising you like you’re a soloist, making you desirable to play with, to perform with. So you’re everywhere.

But it isn’t until six weeks after that fuck up that he snaps. You had just performed with one of the more prominent bands in the city sounding like sex, sounding like sin. He had to watch as the lead vocalist draped his arms around you, touched you like you were his, playing one of the songs that you had performed back at the bar.

He seeks you out in the back, overcome with the urge to mark you, to fill you up, to fuck you raw. Playing like this always made you an insatiable little shit, desperate to continue the high, to continue the music. He knows because you were his girl. He knows because listening to you play made him want the same damn thing.

You’re squeezed between the vocalist and the guitarist, arms wrapped around either of their waists, smiling with that post-show elation. As though you could sense him, you turn, making eye contact with him, licking your lips with a distinct rapaciousness playing in your expression. He approaches, unable to stop himself, unsure if he even wants to stop himself.

The air gets hotter, thicker the closer he gets, attention drawn to him when the band realizes you’re not paying attention to them, but to him, and the room seems to shrink until it’s just you two. You release yourself from the band, stepping forward to meet him, eyes raking his form as you near.

He wants to take you, kiss you, show everyone here how you respond to him, but before he can make a move, you walk past him as you had before. He has no choice but to follow, just as before. You live for this, making him follow, making him chase you for release—he was the one to walk away, after all. You’re not his girl. Shit, if he doesn’t want to make you his girl again.

Amy’s face flashes in his mind as he catches up to you, grabs your wrist, yanks you into a closet. He should feel bad, guilty, even if he doesn’t like her. But the way you whine as he pins your arms above your head against the back of the door sends shivers up his spine that wipe out all coherent thought.

The sound of the crowd and the ambient music reverberates in the small room as you grind against his thigh between your legs, whimpering and squirming with need. When his lips crash against yours, it feels like an inevitability, a certainty, a fatality. You feel like velvet against his skin, taste saccharine against his lips, sound euphonious to his ears. He makes quick work of the buttons on your pants, pulling them down, expecting to find lace or spandex or silk or something, but finding nothing.

“You like?” you croon at his sharp intake of breath. “Was hoping to get a good fucking tonight.”

The whimper that comes out of your mouth as he drags his fingers against your sopping folds fills him with an undeniable buzz that spreads across the entirety of his being. “Such a fucking slut.”

“What’s that say about—” your taunt is cut off by a discordant cry as he flicks your swollen clit, as he starts to massage it, setting you on course to that delicious fucking high that you’re so desperate for.

“What was that? I can’t quite hear you,” he whispers, leaning in so his mouth ghosts over yours.

“Shut the fuck up and fill me up already,” you utter between broken moans, still insolent, still a fucking brat. He removes his hand from your clit, bringing a pout to your perfect fucking lips, bringing a daring look to your lust-blown eyes.

It’s an impulse, an automatic response after years of fucking you, of knowing you, of—

His open palm stings a bit as your head snaps to the side and he thinks he’s gone too far—you’re not his girl anymore, and you have no tolerance for face-slapping otherwise—but an exhilarated smile forms and you peek at him from the corner of your eye as your chest heaves.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” you sneer. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

He lets go of your wrists and you immediately begin tugging on his pants, unbuttoning, unzipping, undressing, trying your damnedest to ignore the way he pinches, pulls, and bites. He springs free and you drop to your knees, looking up at him like you’re about to devour him and fuck if he doesn’t want you to.

You stick out your tongue, licking a stripe from his base to his tip, drawing out a shudder from him, causing his mind to go blank. And when you swirl your tongue around his head—the groan that comes out of him is loud and he’s certain the people on the other side of the door would hear him, but it doesn’t matter because all that he can focus on is the way your mouth is swallowing him, taking him to the hilt, the way his fingers bury themselves in your hair, controlling your pace.

And that look in your eyes, refusing to leave his—concupiscent, lascivious, absolutely pornographic. He’d let you kill him, here, now, if he could have this image, this sensation permanently branded in his memory. How pliant you are as he guides you to his pleasure, how pleading your eyes are to be stuffed with him, how intoxicating are your nails as they dig into the hard muscle of his ass.

His pleasure is building, mounting, but he doesn’t want to coat your throat with his cum—yes he does, but not right now—so he pulls you back with an unceremonious pop! Your gaze turns bitter for a moment before false docility washes over your features. You give his cock a peck before shifting, bringing your mouth to his hip, sucking at the sensitive flesh, certain to leave a mark. He can’t even bring himself to give a damn, not even when your teeth sink in, deep enough, hard enough that a forensics team could pull your dental records off his body.

He pulls you up by your hair, bringing you to your feet. He turns you around, slams you against the door, relishing in the breathy moan that escapes you, in the way you perk your ass for him, pulling your cheeks apart, showing the shiny plug nestled in your tight asshole. He taps the base, the surprisingly cool metal, and watches as you jolt, desperate for stimulation.

“You ready, you fucking tease?”

“Please, just fucking fill me already,” you beg, face pressed against the door. If anyone’s on the other side, they’re sure to hear, but as it is, it’s just you two—the world has boiled down to you two. Nothing else matters but the music that floats between you two, the music that you two create as you both seek passage to Elysium.

He nudges your opening with his cock, throbbing, begging to be inside you. You squirm against him and he tightens his grip around the back of your neck.

“Be a good girl and stay still,” he orders before entering you in a single snap of his hips, groaning at the snug fit as your plug presses against him through the tight walls of your cunt. You meet him as he slams his hips forward, as the closet fills with the joint sounds of your gasps, your moans, as you two create a song so beautiful that it’ll be stuck in his head until next time.

Because there's gotta be a next time. How could there not when your pussy takes him so well, when your body responds to him the way it does like it was made just for him?

“Look at you,” he growls, pleasure rolling through him with each thrust, each twitch. “Such a good fucking slut for me. So—fucking—tight!”

The signs are there—the tensing of your muscles, the light fluttering of your walls, the quickening of your breathing—and he wants to feel you, feel the intensity of your orgasm just like the last time. He slips his hand between your legs, fingers rubbing your clit in the way he knows you love. It rolls off his tongue far too easily, a habit, a recognition of what you once were, what he hopes you would be.

“Cum for me. I want to feel my girl cum on my cock.”

Your orgasm is like a tidal wave—a massive surge that takes everything with it, leaving no survivors. The guttural scream that leaves you and the clenching of your pussy around him sparks his own, exploding all at once, making him see stars, grabbing onto you as tightly as you’re holding onto him. A deep satisfaction washes over him, feeling the release of tension he’s been holding onto for far too long. Tremors still wrack through your body and he finds himself uniquely jealous of the lasting pleasure you feel, the magnitude of your high compared to his.

But it’s the least he could do for his girl.

Even if you’re not his girl.

“Agh, fuck, I missed that,” you mutter, low and what he can only assume was meant for your ears alone. You tap his thigh lightly, communicating your desire for him to pull out. He groans as he complies, as his dick rubs against the plug one last time. As he tucks himself back into his pants, he notices the cum that trails from your swollen lips.

You shrug out of your jacket, handing it to him, before ridding yourself of your tank top and use it as a makeshift towel to clean yourself up. He watches as you ball it up and throw it to the back of the closet, leaving yourself in your black lace bra.

“That was fun,” you wink, extending your arm to ask for your jacket. “Till next time, handsome.”

You open the closet door, stepping out before his hand closes around your wrist. He doesn’t like the look in your eye as you turn back to regard him. He doesn’t like the lack of warmth, the attempt at indifference. He doesn’t like the harsh reminder that you’re not his girl.

“Next time?” he questions the promise in your tone, the certainty. He simply needs to know when.

You lean in, smile sickly sweet, unnervingly cold, until your mouth is level with his ear. Your voice is silky smooth and dripping with poison. “You and I both know that your girlfriend’s cunt just doesn’t cut it. We’re both addicts, Levi, and I’m tired of being clean.”

Two Weeks Later

The next time is a benefit concert, one that you’re both playing at, albeit at different stages at different times. The band manages to catch your first performance and you’re covering “Orion” like you were born to, like your entire purpose is to remind everyone of the power that bassists hold. It’s transcendent to watch as you perform, as you throw yourself into the music, the rhythm.

They catch Zeke watching with a hungry expression in the back, cataloging the way you make it look almost effortless and sound even better. Finishing strong, you look out to the crowd, glowing from playing, from their adulation. You ask them for another song to cover, watching the counter tick up, up, up as donations pour in. Someone requests “Coffee Shop” and your excitement turns palpable, loving the opportunity to play RHCP.

“Well, it’s not like she didn’t get better with time. Remember all of those times you and she would warm up with the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Look at us now,” Oluo remarks snidely, throwing a glance at Amy to Levi’s right. “What I wouldn’t give to play with her again.”

The last comment is loud enough for Amy to hear. She elbows Levi in the ribs before pouting that he stepped away from her. “Hey! Aren’t you supposed to defend me?”

Levi leaves before he has to deal with any more of her whining, thoroughly missing a decent fucking bassist who makes going into the studio worthwhile. After an hour of checking out the different stages, the different acts, he makes his way to the back of the stage they’ll be performing in later, only to find you, perched at the barstool, flirting with the bartender.

“What are you doing back here?” Levi asks, much harsher than intended.

“I’m playing with the headliners,” you shrug. “Erwin and Mike rep them.”

After the final encore, you emerge, sweaty and jubilant. The musicians from the day intermingle with one another, making it easy for them to get separated, lost in the sea of bodies, making it easy for him to find you and drag you to the bathroom.

The time after that was after a show in a park. You went down on him behind the bleachers like a couple of high school kids and were nearly caught like high school kids.

Then a show at the ballroom of a hotel—in the restroom, on the empty balcony, almost in the elevator, in a room that your label had gotten you in case you were too exhausted to take the train home.

A jazz club that had tiered balconies, perfect for private stripteases and overstimulation.

At a casino—which was the first time he had actually sought you out—he fucked you so hard that you forgot your name for a minute.

Again.

And again.

A symphony of moans, whines, whimpers, exhales, all permanently ingrained in his mind. Enough that he doesn’t fuck Amy anymore. Not when he can get his fix elsewhere. Not when he has the real thing.

She pouts, cries, complains, and he would say that it affects her performance but it doesn’t. She wasn’t good enough to begin with for it to affect her performance. He doesn’t find enjoyment in making music with the band anymore, not with Zeke hovering over them. It’s almost like he has a keen focus on Levi and the band, like they’re his only clients, like he doesn’t run one of the largest labels in the country.

He’s taken to playing alone as he used to when he met you.

He misses when music was something he looked forward to making, not just a means to an end. It’s getting to the point that Gunther is talking about leaving, too, taking the hit with the non-compete clause. It helps, of course, that Gunther can lean on his mother and grandmother for support. And Oluo has his mother’s restaurant.

And Levi? Levi has nothing but a record label that’s suffocating him, a woman he doesn’t want, and a woman he doesn’t have. He had moved here, hoping he could turn his passion into a career, one fruitful and rewarding. Before their deaths, he had promised Isabel and Furlan that he would do what he could to make it, to play and share his music with hundreds, thousands, millions.

Maybe he chose this particular rehearsal hall because it’s the one you frequent. Maybe he had chosen it because it was the cheapest in the area—but he doesn’t even live in this area. Maybe he just wanted to see you.

And see you he does, through the glass window of the door of his practice room as you pass with your bass. It’s such a weird thing, the way his heart hammers in his chest at the barest glimpse of you. He was fine—

For a year, he was fine. Except that he wasn’t.

Just as he decides not to pursue, the door is yanked open and you step in with your case. Your hair is tussled, breathing a little erratic, brows drawn together in confusion.

“Since—what—The fuck are you doing here? You don’t practice here,” you yammer, confusion seeping through your voice.

“I can practice wherever I want. I paid for this room, after all.”

His answer only seems to fluster you more, while you shake your head. “You—”

“Are you going to join me or can I get back to my practice?” he drawls. He had stopped playing, lost in thought, but he needs you to make up your damn mind. As does he.

Your eyebrows shoot up at his proposition, at the prospect of playing with him again before they relax and a contemplative smile forms.

“You sure?”

“Tch. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

“Okay,” you lilt. “You mind if we do some warm-ups?” You immediately start setting up, establishing your pedals in the space where you’ll be playing, moving like you’ve never been happier, the skirt of your dress swaying as you move back and forth.

“Anything in particular?”

“Mmm, no. Just throw me a beat,” you call, connecting the last of the cables to the amp.

“It’s good to hear that,” he mutters, having missed a competent bassist who doesn’t need explicit direction.

“‘S that so? Well, you guys are using someone who used to believe that playing bass guitar and playing guitar are the same.”

“How long ago did she believe that?”

“Hmm… Two years ago? If I remember correctly. You good? Or do you want me to start?”

He picks up “Naked in the Rain” and you flow into it easily, effortlessly, like it hasn’t almost been two years since the two of you played together. The smile that is plastered to your face is radiant in its own right, unadulterated joy, and fuck if he’s not feeling a little bit of it, too. It morphs into “Blackeyed Blonde” at your direction and it’s a rush for his bassist to take charge again, for the two of you to play off of each other.

You lock eyes with him as you move to the beat, to the harmony you’re providing to his outline, and it’s unquestionably sexual as the energy in the room shifts. It’s always been like this. This is what it should be.

You wipe sweat away from your forehead as the two of you come down from the warm-ups before tossing him an extra water bottle.

“You, ah, you have something you need to practice? Or just here to jam?” you ask as you open the bottle. He’s mesmerized by the way your throat moves as you drink the water, catching himself before you have a chance to notice.

“Today is unstructured. Do you have a song you need to practice? You’ve been writing more than you used to.”

“Yeah, well, got some shit I gotta work out,” you grumble. “You mind if I practice this one song? I have the drum tabs with me if you wanna take a look. Or we can see if you pick it up?”

A challenge.

But you’re his bassist and he knows you like the back of his hand, knows your music like it calls out to his soul.

“What do you think, brat?”

You wink and click your tongue against your teeth as you smile, keeping the offered pages in your case. The two of you have done this countless times just to see if you could. This is an old habit, an old game, one he’ll happily participate in.

Starting, he picks up the rhythm you’re giving him but waits to see how it evolves. It’s unexpected when you start to sing—you could, but you never used to. Now it’s a part of your package, but it’s still unexpected in this session that almost felt like things used to be.

The raw emotion in your voice is devastating, powerful as your eyes screw shut in concentration, engulfed in the music. He starts playing along, generally uncomplicated, and your face relaxes for just a moment before it twists into a mournful expression. Your lyrics are powerful, evocative, talking about him, about how you want to love him in wonderfully calamitous ways, leaving him bleeding and broken as when he left you.

He can’t bear it. He can’t bear watching you anymore, watching the emotions dance across your face—the pain, the betrayal, the longing. He can’t bear to watch anymore because it’s mirrored within him.

When he finishes before you do, he’s lucky that you’re so invested in the song that you don’t hear as his drumsticks are discarded, as his seat is pushed back, as he steps closer. Before you have a chance to open your eyes again, he’s cupping your face and pulling you to him in a fervent kiss, desperate to wash the pain away—yours or his, he’s not entirely sure. It doesn’t matter.

You pull back, pupils wide with desire, hands secure around your instrument.

“Here?” you ask, eyebrows knitting together, though you’re already preparing to remove your bass guitar.

“You were the one just singing about wanting to fuck me,” he points out.

“Those were the lyrics, jackass,” you mutter, gently placing your instrument in its case.

“Were they any less true?”

“No.”

A whispered admission. A whispered confession.

You turn, an indecipherable emotion behind your eyes as you step forward, as you extend your arm, your hand, wrap it around his throat. He gives you a growl in response as you push him back towards the wall, capturing his lips in a heated kiss, all teeth and tongue. Your grip around his throat loosens, remaining there only as a symbol of your power over him. His hands bunch the skirt of your dress, lifting it up so he can grab the supple flesh of your ass.

Your lips chart a path down his jawline, sucking a bruise just beneath his ear as your fingers carefully undo each button of his shirt. As much as he wants to mark you, claim you, remind you that you’re his, you must want to do the same. Once his shirt is open, you trail your lips down to his chest, nibbling on his collarbone and sending an intoxicating mixture of pain and pleasure through him.

He pushes you away so he can start loosening his belt only for you to swat his hands away and do it yourself. There is no foreplay this time, no teasing, nothing beyond base desire, base need. As you tug his pants and boxers down, his own fingers loop around the bands of your underwear, shoving them down.

His hands dig into your hips as he tries to turn you around, but you pull him off of you, instead pushing him to the ground and stepping out of your lingerie. You climb on top of him, positioning him against your dripping folds before sinking down on him, punctuating your breathing with a throaty moan.

The pace you set is brutal, unrelenting, full of words that go unsaid, unexchanged. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp, sending shivers down his spine. His grip on your hips is certain to leave bruises as he rocks you against him, seeking that high for you both.

But this isn’t like the other times—this isn’t about the high, the addiction. This feeling that’s simmering beneath the surface isn’t addiction, though it could easily be confused as such. He wants you. He wants you in ways he was too stupid to admit nearly two years ago.

Your breathing becomes erratic as you near your end, as you press your forehead to his in an unusually tender expression that nearly crushes his heart.

It’s a cry, a plea, the breaking of your heart—

“Say it, please, say it, please, please, please.”

“You’re my girl,” he grunts, caressing your body as you shriek and shudder through your release. “Mine.”

He made the wrong choice back then. He knows that now, and he hates that it’s taken him this long to figure it out.

Once you’ve regained control of your faculties, he grabs your chin with a tenderness that’s been missing from these encounters, these indulgences. Your eyes are wary, afraid, achingly hopeful as he brings your mouth to his for a sensuous kiss, a delicate promise to you, to himself.

He doesn’t like living with regrets.

You break away, eyes taking in as much of him as you can before maintaining his gaze.

“You’re my girl,” he reiterates.

“No,” you whimper, voice cracking. “I was your girl.”

“I want—”

“No.” It comes out more forceful and he wonders if it’s for him or for yourself. “I hate you. I hate you for leaving. I hate that I can’t stay away from you. I hate that I can’t hate you. I want to be your girl, but you made a choice, Levi.”

You flinch as he tries to wipe away the tears that have started to fall.

“I’m going to make another,” he promises, fingers gentle on your face, careful in how he comforts you. “You’re still my girl.”

fic page (including link to the playlist) | Attack on Titan Masterlist

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