"Mikasa, stop."
She is the bullet train and he is the moth beneath her tracks. Smooth, brilliant, bloody.
Somewhere her brain tells her to dwell on the sound of her syllables swirling through his breath.
Her name.
Not "Ackerman".
Not "Kiddo".
Not idiot, dolt, cadet, tsk, or any other lowly variation thereof that he conjures up in order to create that lovely, angry vein which never ceases to appear above her right eyebrow. It unearths from her skin, swift pumping blood, twitching in brilliance every time. It is her tell; which after every insult, she would gift to him like the tendrils of veins painting themselves on the canvas of flower petals.
She spares him a moment's hesitation before whispering into the crevice of his neck-meets-shoulder.
"Is your voice the only part of your being that chooses to display self control, Heichou?"
His fingertips act like magnets, pulled towards the heat emanating from where her legs meet. His hands are massaging her ass now, between the fabric of these treacherous white jeans, and Levi realizes all too soon his body does not operate on the same wavelength as his sense of propriety. At this moment, neither are winning. In fact, the jockey currently in the lead is Mikasa. And the horse she is gearing towards victory is nestled somewhere between his legs and her greedy little fingers.
"Mikasa, stop."
The twitch.
"Fine, Heichou. I won't touch you." She is a snake. Venomous. He knows better. He sees a viper in front of him. Vipers whisper love letters into their prey's ears, all the while curling their fingers around their throats.
He knows she will consume him.
But, despite this, he continues to gaze into her eyes, which whisper to him secrets about heaven and saviors and places with no bones.
Her fingers retract from him. Mikasa backs away, unbuttoning her shirt before his eyes.
No, he thinks. She is a cobra. She is dancing for me.
Her bra unsnaps from the simple tilt of her wrist. Mikasa releases the white shirt from her grasp, the soft material ribboning to the floor; warm, forgotten. She sashays out of pants, belts, harnesses.
Of course. She had promised not to touch him further.
Yet, she will get her way. He will always gift her after her dance. He yearns to feel her fangs on his anxious flesh.
He plays the predator for a heartbeat; eyes greedily tearing into her, the exposed.
He steps forward.
There is no twitch.
Anger has been replaced with lust.
His body is pressed flush against her. He silently dares her to be whip smart with his hand slithering up her naked thigh.
"Ackerman? Tongue tied? Tch," he chastises, but her eyes close in victory. She has won; his advances a voluntary surrender.
His hand touches the valley between lips unseparated. He whispers something into her ear that she cannot remember because his fingers have finally breached her crevice and they probe against her in tantalizingly slow circles that cause Mikasa to grip the back of her Corporal's neck.
Not one member of the survey corps hear Mikasa's whimpers from inside the bathroom of the shady bar, and for this Levi is grateful.
Later, Mikasa remembers Levi's alcoholic whisper had sounded an awful lot like
"Who is eating who tonight?"