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historia-vitae-magistras · 2 years ago

Note

You got anymore fics or hc of Alfred being a good brother to his 8ft tall beanpole?

'tis garbage I wrote about 20 years ago and is poorly recycled but here! enjoy if you can lmao. TW for poorly written ptsd, references to beheading and axe murder and snuggles.

1920, Quebec City.

"I'm fine." His baby brother said, even as he looked like he desperately needed to lay down.

"Matt, that cough does not sound good,"

"It's fine," He said, stifling another fit with a harsh swallow. Alfred grimaced and jogged to keep up as Matt strode ahead on the rain-battered sidewalk and took the umbrella with him, like speeding up would disprove the implication he wasn't at perfect 100%. How could it sound like he'd been gassed recently?

"You sound miserable,"

"It's fine," Matthew said again, shrugging and knuckling his chest as he struggled to keep his breathing even. "It's just the weather. Tell me about the new Ford coming out,"

"Oh it's a beauty, they're even going to come out with other colours than black," Alfred said, longing to reach out and squeeze Matt's shoulder and steer him inside. "But it will mostly only affect internal market goods.

"Interesting. What are the implications with free trade?"

"Don't try to distract me. I know you don't give a shit about economic law unless you're being forced,"

"If it interests you, it interests me,"

"You can't force yourself to be quiet through this,"

Matt rolled his eyes. "I'm not dying,"

"You kind of sound like you are,"

"Then I'll die!" Matt shrugged and gave one of his rare, frustrated Gallic shrugs. "C'est la vie! And honestly, it'd be nice to sleep without waking up coughing. Wake up and go to work tomorrow with more than an hour of sleep behind me,"

Alfred frowned, a surge of helplessness as he watched Matt press on through the rain as if determined to outpace whatever was wrong. Alfred lengthened his stride to keep up and get back under the umbrella, snatching it from Matt’s hand to make him slow down.

“Come on,” He said, steering them both down the path towards the subway stop.

Halfway down the park hill, he couldn't stifle anymore and ended up clinging to a tree branch, doubled over and coughing so hard veins corded at his forehead and throat and when he breathed, he shuddered through another bout so hard Alfred thought he was going to throw up all over the park path. He sucked in air and the wheeze that accompanied it was so horrific Alfred grabbed his shoulders and steered him to a bench as Matthew tried to get his breathe. Air coming in and out rapidly and almost uselessly like Matt was breathing through shredded black smiths billows. Alfred pulled him upright.

Two neatly dressed couples threw them dirty looks like Matt was some infectious consumptive polluting a public park. Alfred glowered right back. He might have flirted with the one who’s dainty green dress that was fashionably short to show off shapely legs but now he was just frustrated.

"Go fuck off to the circus if you want to gawk at something!" He yelled and the men sped along, dragging the women with them. Matt made another face gesturing for Alfred to stop but couldn't get words out as coughing wracked him all over again.

It was another five minutes of Matt coughing and coughing and coughing before he stopped and collapsed on Alfred's shoulder, heaving.

"Jesus Christ, Matt," Alfred said. “You sound like you’re dying.

"I’m not—" Matt heaved air, it caught in his throat and he hacked out another pounding cough that left him spasming and shivering against Alfred. "It comes and goes,"

"Are you sure it's not consumption?"

"Yeah, Dad made them x-ray me three times during demobilization, I'm just like this now,"

"What? Chronically asthmatic?"

Matt shook his head. "I’m not chronically anything. It’s just a bad day every now and and again."

"Is that what doctors say?"

Matt nodded and leaned more heavily onto him, panting again.

"You're burning up," Alfred could feel it against his coat. “Mattie…”

Another nod. “Like I said, it comes and goes.”

He sighed, getting them to their feet. “Christ, Matt.”

“Oh, don’t look so sad.” Matt rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, the supply of your favourite whiskey isn’t about to dry up.”

“Is that what you think? Fuck you.” Alfred scowled. “You’re such a–” Realization dawned on him and he turned to his brother, grabbing his shoulder again. “You little shit. You’re trying to piss me off so I leave this alone, aren’t you?”

Matt blinked, taken aback. “Fuck me, you finally figured that one out?”

“You little asshole,” He laughed. “That is so manipulative.”

“Hardly. You’re so self righteous usually all I have to do is mention Dad and you’ll leave me alone for a month. What is this? Character development?” He laughed, and the coughing started again.

This time, Matt didn’t argue when Alfred insisted they go home. The grey stone heart of his brother’s first city, into the stone houses behind the stone walls the English and the Americans had besieged more than once. Behind slate walls, warm wood greeted them as they passed through the red door with the same iron hinges, squashed between what had once been the apothecary and the bakery. Matt had once been stingy with the firewood but now he had electricity and the coal fired boiler in the basement that heated the house beyond the parlour with its polished brass fire grate and brick hearth.

"Sit," Matth said as he leaned against the wall. He threw aside his damp coat and propped himself against the worn wood. Scrubbing his damp hair off his forehead, he sighed. "I guess I should make coffee and sandwiches or something."

“Will you bite my head off if I offer to make something?” Alfred asked, cautiously toeing off his shoes.

Matt gave a wry sort of look, almost amused. “No.”

“Hallelujah.” Alfred replied, throwing his hands above his head.

“Don’t push it.” Matt said but his face was light.

Alfred chuckled and headed to the kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets, with all the fine little details of grapevines heavy with fruit and swirling knotwork that reminded him of Aunt Brighid’s embroidery. He thumbed one and wished she was there. She wouldn’t put up with this. He put on water to boil, dug a slightly dessicated chicken carcass out of the fridge, tore it apart to make sandwiches, put the bones on to make soup and returned to the living room with a mug and a plate for each of them.

Matt was sprawled on sofa, his face pink. Alfred didn’t want to wake him up, they both spent so much time ignoring the other’s nightmares these days. He still looked like Matt when he was asleep, sweet and still, like the man the cherubic baby Matt should have grown into rather than the wraith that had to shake off their father or the trenches. But he was feverish and Alfred made himself wake him.

“Here,” He said, handing Matt tea and the sandwich.

“Thanks.” Matt said quietly. He drank the tea eagerly but set the plate down next to him.

“Eat that.” Alfred said, taking a bite out of his own and throwing himself onto the leather chair. “You always do this when you’re sick. Don’t want to eat, don’t want to bother anyone, don’t want to admit you feel like ass. Just like Dad. It’s fucking annoying.”

“No one said you have to be here.” Matt glared, but he had picked up the sandwich and taken a decent bite. “Happy?”

“Never happy when you’re miserable.”

Matt snorted. “Oh, that’s bullshit.”

“Stop.” Alfred sat forward, hands on each of the chair’s arms. “Stop, okay? God. I know you’re–”

“Know I’m what?” Matt took another bite of the stupid sandwich and there was a flash of something flinty and dark behind his eyes Alfred didn’t like.

“Like how you always are after a war,”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you get good at killing and keeping everyone alive and–”

“And what?” Matt said.

“You get shit at everything anything else.” Alfred desperately wanted a cigarette but it felt a bit cruel. “Bring back Gilbert’s head like some sort of fucked up barn cat, sure, you’re great at that. But lay down and act like a human being? God forbid.”

“Oh don’t you–” Matt sighed through his nose and ate more, and too Alfred’s bewilderment, smiled. “You know how often I tell Dad something like that?”

Alfred stared, but leaned back, holding his coffee. “You back talk the old man?”

“Bringing Gilbert’s head back like a fucked up barn cat gave me some leeway.” Matt said, the sly smile on his face fading into something more serious. “But yeah. By the end, by the hundred days, we talked. About what I did. About what he didn’t stop. And I told him to shove it up his ass sometimes. He’s a hypocrite and so am I.”

“Sometimes.” Alfred responded. “You’re still a pretty good brother though.”

“Thanks.” Matt said. “I try.”

“I know.” Alfred said. “And I’m sorry I don’t sometimes.”

Matt shrugged. “Not your job. You don’t have to waste your time if you don’t want too. I’ll live, the overpriced booze will keep flowing. I shut up and do my job, everyone benefits. It’s fine.”

“We’re brothers.” Alfred said. “We’re supposed too… I don’t know.”

“You’re a rising great power, I’m the favourite knife of the British Empire. We have our roles. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want too.”

“Matt–”

He’d drooped against the arm of the sofa, breathing ragged, unable or unwilling to reply.

“You with me?”

“Yeah.” He responded, hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Is this from the gas too?”

“Yeah,” He didn’t off anymore of an explaination and Alfred shook his head.

“Dumbass,” He stood, and crouched to reach out. He gently placed the back of his hand against his brother’s forehead. “All you have to do is ask for help and, fuck, I think you’re warmer.”

“Just tired.” He murmured, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Mattie…” How many times in a day could he let denial slide before it was stupid? Matt was trying to rally himself, push Alfred off and reach for the tea, muttering about how he was fine when there was a loud crack. The windows rattled and suddenly he had his arms full of his brother, shaking like the last maple leaves on the trees, eyes screwed shut and mouthing something in French Alfred couldn’t make out.

“Hey,” Alfred laughed nervously. “Hey, you cold?”

“They’re coming.” Matt said, and the fever flush had disapeared. He looked bloodless. “They’re coming.”

“Hey.” Alfred suddenly understood. “Hey it’s okay. I’m right here. Matthew, I am right here. Nothing’s wrong. It was a car backfiring, not gunfire. No one’s coming.”

Matt leaned in more, burying his face in Alfred. “You don’t let anything happen to me.”

“Never have, never will.” Alfred rested one cheek on Matt’s feverish head. He held on tight, feeling the tremors that sprang through Matt until they stilled. But Matt’s breathing was still fast and shallow. He hadn’t been this close in a while, and the path of Matt’s spine showed through his layers, and he’d had that pinched up look half his life.

“Come on.” He said, gently. “Bed.”

“No.” He burrowed against Alfred more tightly, like he was four, barely spoke English and it was a cold morning he didn’t feel like greeting just yet. He’d always had a streak of stubbornness.

Eventually, Alfred got him up, got him to change and horizontal. He was a little delirious, shivering between the sheets and coughing until he was curled in a ball and muttering about how he needed his axe. But he didn’t get up to get it. He breathed through a split lip and rolled around trying to get comfortable. Alfred fed him pills and glass after glass of water, and somewhere around the seventh, Matt seemed to pass out into real sleep. Alfred sat on the bed and pressed his hands to Matt’s cheeks and was relieved to find it a little cooler.

Matt rolled over towards him, hugging his side, demanding warmth and making a contented sound when Alfred let him with a snort. “You always were a snuggly baby.”

#the ask box || probis pateo #Ideas || i should write this someday #hws canada #hws america #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #alfred and matt || lonely boys with the longest borders

118 notes · View notes

nelapanela94 · 2 years ago

Text

wc: 3.7k

tw: +16, mild SMUT scene. angst. hurt/comfort, fluff.

This one centers on Levi and Y/N's stumbling relationship prior Isabel Ackerman. For me they're two wound souls foolish and afraid to love. Fluffy ending!

Marley, 856

“What’s with that face? You constipated?” Levi hedges when you enter the kitchen.

The tempting smell of sizzling bacon and garlic wafts in the air and makes your stomach growl louder.

You roll the eyes. “Not at all,” you say, the hinges of the cupboard doors squeak mildly, and you reach out for two glasses. “It was nice and smooth, but can we just not talk about poo before dinner?” Glass whumps on the checkered clothed table, and you turn around to head to the fridge. However, something on the countertop catches your attention and a haughty smirk curves on your lips. You take a last-minute strategic detour and snatch a discarded chunk of parmigiano. Something to appease your hunger because your stomach wouldn't stop making funny noises, and you clamp your teeth into it. You steer around a frowning Levi, waving with a victorious smile and your hand curls around the fridge handle.

He goes back to work and whisks the eggs, cream, and part of the grated cheese in a bowl. Then he adds the mixture and the crispy chopped bacon to the pasta and toss over in low heat.

After leaving the jug of water on the table, you fetch two plates and put them next to him, ceramic clatters on granite. With mastery, he plates, and a rain of cheese coats the twirl mounds of pasta.

“Extra cheese for me.” You stomp to the table. The legs of the chair screech and you take a seat.

He snorts and slips your plate of spaghetti carbonara before you. Your eyes beam, your hands rub together, and you utter a thanks that Levi ignores. He drags out his chair and sits across the table from you.

“So, you’re not telling me.” He takes a swig of water.

“Telling you what?” You grab the fork and plunge it into the coil of pasta, swirling.

“What’s nagging you.”

“Nothing it’s nagging me.” You moist your lips, squinting. You hate how good he can read you.

He’s staring at you, elbows resting on the table, hands steepled, waiting.

“Mattias Dupont.”

A black eyebrow arches. “My doctor?”

“Uh-huh. Well, he asked me on a date, and I said yes.” Your eyes fixated on the twine of pasta as you drag the fork to your mouth. “The other day, he went to the tea shop while you were doing the inventory with Gaby and Falco in the storeroom and asked me.”

A lash whips on his chest.

You swallow.

His fork catches a few strands of spaghetti, and he twists forming a wrapped-up bundle. Seconds lengthen. He hoists it, beads of sauce drip back onto his plate.

His good eye flickers to you.

“He’s not your type.” He blurts.

You let out a wild laugh that almost chokes you and smack a fist on your chest to keep the food in your stomach before it dashes back through your throat. “What’s my type then? Enlighten me.”

“He’s not your type.” He scoffs, his eyebrows sink deeper. His fork is still hanging before him.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

His toes curl in his shoes, his chest tightens. Broiling blood fizzes through his veins. He’s seething and for no valid reason.

He bites his lips, then opens his mouth to speak. “Why?” He gulps, “I mean why you said yes?”

You tilt your head to the side, eyebrows knit together, your mouth twitches. Your love life is none of his business. “Well, he’s good-looking, smart, fun, easy-going…”

Your words are stabs ripping his chest. He gets it. Mattias Dupont is everything he’s not. And he can’t blame you. He’s just a scarred, one-eyed, cripple with the shittiest attitude.

He shoves the pasta into his mouth, but it’s bitter. Listlessly, he chews and swallows. Shards of broken glass slam down, lacerating his throat.

“Well, maybe you screwing my doctor can be used to my benefits so I won't have to wait so long for an appointment.” He nudges, unabashedly.

Your slam on the table echoes, taking him aback. “Your assholery has no limits.” Your teeth gritted.

He shrugs. “I was raised that way.” His cutlery clanks over the edge of the plate, and he washes down with water the amalgam of distress and rotting pain that strangles him.

He gets up, takes the leftovers, and puts them in the fridge. And so do you. The door to his room slams shut, and a subtle ‘fuck you, Levi’ dribbles of your mouth while you roughly scrub the pans and dishes. When you get angry, you get to clean up better than the grumpy midget. Chips of foam strike on your face, and groaning, you sweep them off with your sleeve.

You barely exchange words. The next morning, Levi prepares scramble eggs for breakfast, but you’d rather let your guts stick together and die of starvation. You leave the house first without saying goodbye, and make a stop at the boulangerie, and buy a two-feet-long baguette for yourself. Crispy crust, chewing texture. You leave a trail of crumbs behind which leads and halts in front of the teashop.

He's flipping the sign open.

The welcoming bell tinkles over your head, he doesn’t glance at you, and you don’t glance at him. You go straight to the office in the back, snatch your apron from the hook and slip your head into the loop, then tie the straps behind your back, kick-starting one of the longest days of your life.

At least, you could keep your mind distracted, thinking of what you’d wear in the evening. Mattias would take you to the theater. Hamlet posters have been saturating the city, walls and lamp posts covered to the brim.

A melancholic smile tugs up one corner of your lips. He’s not Levi, but you still could give it a shot. Why not?

Levi. Levi. Levi.

Levi, the one who made you understand the songs of love and heartbreaks.

Tears swell in your glassy eyes, but you wipe them right away. You can’t let him ruin your day.

The lock of the door clicks. You twist the knob and push the door open. You stomp in, your heels click-clack down the entryway. The switch snaps, followed by a faint buzz, and the lights flutter on. You slip off your coat and leave it on the hanger, your purse too. You flump on the cushion bench and take your mauling shoes off.

Darkness envelops you again, and you cross the living room, then pass by the kitchen and you spot his silhouette, coated in the silver gleam of moonlight that dress him in luster and carve the line of his brows and scarred cheek into chiseled marble.

Pathetic.

He’s sitting at the table, kind of. Bare toes touch the floor. His head is nestled against his bicep. Arm stretched out, and a hand dangling over your side of the table. Two empty bottles of wine toppled, and the one standing half full. Fingers curled around the stem of the glass. He tilts it, and the glinting crimson bottom drop slants.

“Loser.” You heave.

He spots the smudged edges of your lipstick. “Did you have fun?” He rasps, the glass languidly spins in his hand. Yes Levi, scrape the scab. Let the wound bleed again.

“I did.”

Barb wire scourges his back.

You turn around, ready to leave, but you still can't pluck out the thorn of your heart. You’re afraid that as soon as you pull it off nothing would stop the bleeding.

But you need to know.

You clomp to the table and stand on the spotlight when he can see you. You’re heaving. You walk back and forth with your arms folded over your chest. If you were a fire-breathing dragon you would have already set the whole building on fire. Levi snorts at the thought, pulling the pin of the grenade.

“Whatever you have to say, say it.”

Your assuaging saunter, that felt more like a yomp, halts, and you clear your throat.

“Why? When are you going to stop playing this game? Just tell me how miserable I have to be for you to be happy?” You shout the last part, and he jerks up. “I try to move on with my life, heal wounds and you insist on sinking deeper, making me feel guilty.”

Your eyes sting with tears, your fists clenched by your side. A throbbing vein pops in your temple, threatening to explode. You’re trembling and the clog that seizes your chest and throat grows bigger.

Don’t cry, shit I make her cry.

His feet drag him to you, like inertia and he’s standing in front of you.

“Fuck, say something. Please.” You plead amid sobs.

And what do you want me to say.

It's true. In the depths of his heart, in the black rotten corner, there is something that does not allow him to move forward, and sometimes it spreads in him like a cancer. Grappling him like dense shady hands. They control him, and he ends up doing what he swore he'd never do: hurt you.

Driven by an impulse, his fumbling hands slip on your damp cheeks. His palms are warm, and they feel right. And before you know it, his lips are brushing yours. Your eyes widen round like plates, white glinting flecks quiver in your dilated pupils like stars forming a mantle of diamonds over the calm waters of a lake. You close them. Blood rushes through your veins with a fizz of delight.

Your hands relax, your nails are no longer digging into your palms.

Like his hands, his kiss is rough. His mouth mashes against yours as if to flatten and trounce your lips. The bristles of his three-day-stubble chafe against your chin as he squeezes your cheeks firmly, as if to keep you from running away. This is wrong, this is a mistake. Tears wring out through your lashes. You work your mouth against his, plunging your tongue in his, wrestling with him for control. Red wine, that’s what he tastes like.

The chirping voice in your head keeps nipping This is wrong. And you listen to it.

You reel back, his mouth chasing you, and then the sting of your palm on his cheek scorches him. Gaping, trembling, he’s looking at you, his own hand pressed on his face, burning with the shape of your slap.

“What the fuck?!!!”

You holler in unison, eyes slather with rage.

“Why did you kiss me?!” His shirt wrings in your tight fists.

“Why did you kiss me back?” He spits, his voice scrapes each syllable like sandpaper.

“Fuck you, Levi Ackerman, Fuck you! FUCK YOU!!!” You squeal, eyes stinging red with madness. Your punches on his chest doesn’t budge him, yet he doesn’t stop you. He knows he deserves it. He deserves being stab with a toothpick, you could flay him with a nail clipper, and he’ll take it.

His tears are seeping out too, unfamiliar sensation.

“You’re old enough to keep playing this fucking game!!! Pushing and pulling. The rope will eventually snap, and we will fall on our butts.”

And your rope is hanging together by a single thread.

“You’re hurting me.” Your wails and sobs hung in the air, stabbing his ears with a screwdriver.

Your head rests on his chest, his moistened shirt feels like a cold bite against your cheek. "I want to love you, but you won't let me. When you leave the door ajar and I try to come in, you slam it shut in my face.” A long sniff. “It’s always been that way, Levi. Always. And I've had enough. I don't want to waste any more time waiting for you.” You inch back and stab a finger on his chest. “If you can’t give your all, I don't want anything. Simple as that. So, make up your fucking mind before you end up destroying you. Destroying us.”

He always loved you in his own way with silences and distances because he didn't know any other way, because he was afraid.

His eye pierces you, but no word comes out of his mouth. His silence is the answer.

“Good night, Levi.” You mutter. You turn around and walk toward your room.

Fuck, he rubs a hand over his face. The heap of emotions are about to crush his head and all he can think of is how beautiful you look in that red dress. The skirt billowing at your knees. Mesmerized in the sway of your hips.

He stretches out a hand before him, hand splayed open. Turn around, turn around and look at me. His mind calls you, but it’s forwarded to the voicemail.

You slither through his fingers.

His body feels heavy, as if he had looked Medusa in the eye and turned to stone. His legs do not respond. He tries to take a step but his knees buckle. He clings to the tablecloth and a fraction of a second later, an explosive wave of pain bursts in his face. Glass shatters and a bright stain of red expands on the wooden floor.

“Levi!” You slap a hand over your mouth, panic surging and infesting every cell. You tiptoe avoiding stepping on glass and crouch next to him, slipping an arm around him. He holds onto you.

“Levi, I’m here, I’m here’ I’m here.” You croon. He lolls his head and a smudge of blood smears over his right eye.

“Don’t look at me, please, don’t look at me. Not like that.” His voice quavers. He hisses as the tears prick his cuts.

You tow him up. “Can you walk?”

He nods.

He no longer weighed so much as he used to. After the war, a poor diet and lack of training had trimmed down his muscle mass.

You sit him on his bed and carefully sling off your arm. You rush to the bathroom and fetch the first aid kit and clean his wounds. After so many tumbles, you were already an expert at patching him up. He winces and hisses and tries to pull away, the last not for pain, but shame. Your fingers lace through his hair and sweep his meddlesome strands away. You swab and dab a cotton ball on the cut above his eyebrow and gauze it.

“Thanks,” he shyly mutters, gazing down.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?”

He shakes his head.

You place the kit on his nightstand, and the mattress sink with your weight. He eyes you askance and fights the urge to tangle his hand in yours. Oh, fuck. He wants to touch you.

Your eyes sag, your shoulders too. Dismay and fright ebb from your limbs, and the wave of weariness crashes in your shore.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Serenity envelops his voice.

“Yeah,” you breathe and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “I was dozing off during the play, but dinner was great. He was kind and gentlemanly, never tried to overstep or do anything I didn't want, but…”

“But?” He turns his face to you, lifting a brow.

He’s not you. “We don’t have much in common.” You chew on your lip and scratch your temple. Your eyes met his.

Deafening silence engulfs you.

You lean back, your hands embed on the bed behind you. You sigh.

“Is there anything you want to say?” He folds his arms over his chest and turns his head to see you.

“I hate that you can see right through me, and I can't figure you out.” You flump back onto bed, your tangle of hair sprawls around your head. “It's just that I feel like life is passing and I'm not. The years. And I…I,” you swallow, “I want, I always wanted to build something with someone, settle down,” you purse your lips into a thin line and tuck an arm beneath your head. “have a family. I don’t know, maybe I’m being too childish and greedy, but I want an ‘I love you’ whispered to my ear, good-bye and welcoming kisses. I want a man who will sweep me off my feet, who drives me crazy, in a good way, who loves me and protects me. A best friend. Someone who makes me laugh. And the best lover, someone who loves me so well that I can't look at anyone else." You let out a loud guffaw and haul yourself up, wiping off your tears of laughter.

You swing your head and meet his eyes. He seems lost, lips parted, a dull gray orb drills you. You feel the temperature and weigh of his gaze. You know it by heart.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The blow dislodged something in his head.

If you can’t give your all, I don't want anything. Your words, like an annoying luminous advertisement, light up in his head in the most fluorescent and annoying colors.

You were right. You don't deserve bits and pieces or leftovers. You didn't deserve a cowardly love like the one he had shown you all this time. He didn't have the strength to fight like he used to, but even if he had to crawl in the mud and fight with his fingernails and teeth, he would protect you. He could give you all the kisses you want until his lips are blistered and worn out; with effort, he could tell you ‘I love you’. It’d take time and you’d understand. He'd adore you till the end of time; he'd walk on a path of rusty nails to bring you a cup of tea. He'd drive you crazy, but not the way he's been doing it, he could be your best friend, and come on, his shit jokes are not bad. He’s seen you laugh at them. And damn, he'll love you, every day even when his cock won't stand on its own and he'll need the little blue aid.

“Levi,” you snap your fingers, the wanton brush of his fingers on your thigh tickles you, but more than that, it sends shivers through you. It’s electrifying, arousing. “Levi.”

Your voice awakens him, and his eye flicks to you, then to his sneaky hand. He stops but doesn’t retrieve it. Instead, he searches your eyes again.

You don’t flinch, you don’t react at all. For a while, you’re drinking each other through your eyes. Tired, beaten up, physically and emotionally.

And then a desperate kiss, an unzipping sound. Clothes pooling on the floor. The cold biting your naked bodies. Caresses, kisses; moans, groans, whines, and giggles composing an erotic melody. You map your bodies with your hands and lips. Lying on your sides, facing each other, you swing a leg over him. He studies your face, and you nod and kiss him, and he rolls his hips, sheathing himself into you, slowly, both tensed and holding your breaths, and then he’s fully inside you, enveloped in your silky warmth.

He stills, getting use to you and letting you get use to him. You smirk, and squeeze your walls around him, teasing him, and the fluttering around him would make him blow up soon.

“Fuck, Y/N. Don’t do that.” He grunts and hisses and begins to move his hips. “Stop doing that, shit or I’m going to come now.”

But you can’t stop giggling and he shuts you up with a kiss. His hands roams over your thigh and hips, his fingers grip tight to your waist when the tingling sensation builds up in his lower belly. Whether it's right or wrong you don't know. Risks take a back seat. You just want everything from him. Everything. His mark on you.

“Come inside.” You muse, and your back draws that beautiful arch and jolts of pleasure unleash through you. Gasping. Your eyes roll back into your head, your lips shaping an O.

He’s about to pull out, but you wrap your arm around him and stop him.

And, Oh, holy fucking shit!

He fills you up.

And greedy you, don’t want him to come out. No. With your bodies still joined, and your legs entangled, drowsiness catches you. Not all love stories are like in romance novels. And it's okay.

Six months later, you got married, in an intimate ceremony. Gaby, Falco, Oni, and the kids–no longer kids– of the 104th were there too. Five more months flew by, and you dropped the news to him. You were expecting, and he couldn't believe that he had created a new life with you. He wept with joy, and immediately, his protective instinct kicked in. He hardly let you breathe, now he had to take care of two, and if the baby was reckless like you, he would lose his mind. You promised not to reveal the baby's gender, and it would be a surprise for him until they were born, but oops, it slipped out a few weeks before term.

The room that used to be yours became his baby girl's room. Onyankopon helped him to make it suitable. They painted the walls in pastel colors, and set up the crib, the changing table and two wing chairs. The shelf was crammed with all the baby would need and more. Onesies, dresses, ribbons, mittens, scarves, even if it was summer. Wipes, diapers, barrier creams, baby soap, and any product he could find with the word baby on it. Although he knew he was not going to use it for the first three years, he also installed the tea set in a corner of the room. He fit in the tiny chairs too.

“Levi, isn’t it too much?”

“No.”

It warmed your heart to see him like that. Deep down you knew he did it because he wanted to give the baby everything he didn't have and more.

Cuddled in bed, he’s gently stroking your belly. It tickles. Your hand intertwine with his, and the baby starts to kick.

“Oi! Don’t give mom a hard time brat,” he spews, and you both laugh.

“She’s gonna be like you.”

“I'll teach her how to kick asses.”

You roll the eyes, shaking your head.

“Do you have a name in mind?” His voice softens.

“Nope, do you?”

“Yeah,” His eyes tinge with wistfulness. “Isabel.” He coos, the name coils in the tip of his tongue like a prickling velvet.

“It’s perfect.”