Author's note: Rape(?) dubcon, violence, blood, vague references to past sexual abuse of a minor, etc. etc. etc.

The candle flame flickers when Erna pulls it closer to supplement what little light filters through her window. The moon is new tonight, which means it isn't much help as she sits at her desk, answering letters and recording shipments and payments. The Military Police had offered her an accountant for this. It was standard. She declined and told them it was a waste, as she was perfectly capable of keeping track of a few numbers on her own. She left out the part about how a large part of her books would be extortion, blackmail, and bribes. Really, they should have expected as much, and even if they did give her the benefit of the doubt, they had to at least wonder how she always had a stock of luxury items that other camps couldn't afford, like tea for herself and healthy food for the brats, but she's an expert and she never leaves a trail of evidence. Nothing wrong with accepting "favors".

She gives her eyes a break to look out the window over her desk and scan the starry sky. She hates new moons. She needs more light than that. She clears her desk and gets up to light a few more candles.

For obvious reasons, Erna has issues with darkness.

She has a few "quirks" thanks to her time with Nile. She appreciates certain things that, before, she wouldn't have cared about or even noticed. There's the aversion to small, dark spaces. That one makes sense, but there are also a few she hasn't bothered to think about enough to try and make sense of, like the reason that she has a thing now for soft beds and long showers and maybe a preoccupation with caring for her skin. She has an inclination toward a lot of things that, before, she thought were frivolous and pointless.

She moves to the closet and reaches for another preference that developed shortly after her release: silky lingerie. It's almost an addiction. She'll never wear coarse cotton again, unless it's her military uniform.

Maybe it's a way of reclaiming her broken and pieced-together body. Maybe it's because of the scars. She doesn't care about the underlying psychological motivation. She just knows it feels good against her skin, and she fucking deserves some nice things after all the hell she's gone through.

She searches the hangers until she finds a pale pink pajama set, simple shorts and a tank top. That could be enough, but she reaches for a pair of white lace underwear and a short, silk robe, as well, and takes everything to the bathroom to check whether her bath is ready or not.

Erna has the only bathtub onsite. Plumbing is mostly nonexistent in the training camp she inherited. The barracks have group showers in each building, with water that's collected in cisterns on the roofs and heated by the sun, which means winter is fucking rough…and dirty. She's trying to extort enough money or find out the right piece of blackmail she needs to get a very expensive bathhouse for the camp so she won't have to look at so many dirty little brats whenever the weather gets cold.

Her own tub sits above the floor, raised over a brazier that she can load with hot coals for heat. It's inexact and it's work, but, once a week or so, it's worth it to her.

She sets her clothes down on a table next to the wash basin and strips off her uniform, carelessly letting the military issue garments pool on the wooden floor. She tests the water—not hot enough for her. She could stoke the coals, but that means waiting possibly up to half an hour. Instead, she takes a small pair of tongs hanging on a nail near the brazier and picks up a red-hot coal. She drops it directly into the water with a hiss.

Through her impatience, she's found that coal actually makes a very good exfoliant. Her skin has gotten softer and smoother in the years she has taken charge of the southern district training camp. Not that anyone gets the opportunity to notice but her.

She likes it this way. She likes being alone. She never masturbated before. Any ability to associate pleasure with sex was ripped away from her at a young age, and, even before puberty, her body became only an object to her. When she used it, she felt detached from what was happening, especially with men. Women could sometimes pull her into the moment, but only if they were good enough at what they were doing to make her mind go blank.

In a way, by torturing the shit out of it, Nile cleansed it with fire and gave her back a feeling of possession of her body that she hadn't felt in decades. She could finally look at it and see something that appealed to her. She liked her curves, her lines, the slight shadows and indentations of lean muscles over a delicate frame of bones. She fetishizes herself, a probable reason for the obsession with pretty lingerie, and objectifies her body for herself in a full length mirror.

Steam from the bath makes her skin blush a dusky red and undoes her hair from the straightened bob she sets it into every morning, making it return halfway to its natural curl, but it isn't the cause of the heat that pools in her abdomen when her fingers reach for the silky folds between her legs. Her eyes close, and she rocks against them, moaning for no one but herself.

She only teases herself. She doesn't want to make herself come until she can watch herself in the mirror, and she needs to get clean first.

She has a thing for soap and oils and toiletries that she never cared about before. Maybe because they would only have made her more appealing to other people, and she didn't give a fuck about others. Now that she gets off on her own skin, she enjoys actually taking good care of it with expensive soaps that the merchants who have been blackmailed into accepting meager military contracts have learned make her easy to negotiate with. Sometimes, they send bars of soap and shampoo along with the shipment of whatever she's ordered for the camp. Sometimes, if they need to beg, they send it to her personally in discreet, brown paper packages. If they're especially desperate, they send whiskey and cigarettes.

Higher ranking officers in the Military Police are the most devoted in sending tributes, lately, since she made some offhand remarks about how easily she could rank the trainees so that only the worst placed into the top ten, or she could rank them fairly but use her sway over them to convince the top ten that they would be better off joining the Wall Garrison. That way, the Military Police wouldn't even get recruits from her camp at all. It was all hypothetical, of course, but it still moved a few officials to keep her so well-stocked with the things she liked that she might need to start sharing her whiskey just to make room for more.

She smirks to herself as she gets out of the bath and dries herself with a towel. Sharing. That would be the day. Instead, she's settled for decorating her cabin with the pretty bottles, at least one in every room. Easy to take a nip whenever she feels moved to.

After rubbing rose-scented oil on her pulse points and getting dressed, she pours a generous portion of the amber-colored poison from a decanter on her vanity into a small glass. A small sip makes her cheeks start to glow. She sets the heavy-bottomed glass down and opens a drawer on the vanity. Her fingers rifle past a hairbrush and find the smooth object she wants. It's another gift, though from someone who knows her much more intimately—a thick, clear glass facsimile of a six inch cock. She'd laughed when Nanaba gave it to her as a parting gift "to remember her by." She'd asked how a glass cock was going to help her remember her. Then, Nanaba showed her exactly how.

She morbidly wonders every time she picks it up if Nanaba is dead yet. She should ask Erwin when he comes to fetch the brats. She doesn't know why she still gets a sick satisfaction out of her lovers dying, even when it isn't by her own hands.

She drags the short vanity chair over to the full length mirror, setting the piece of smooth glass on the edge of the tub close by and retrieving her drink. She takes another, longer sip, and, as she caresses her skin, she feels the whiskey warm her blood and go straight to her clit. Her hand stays above the silk shorts and rubs against the fabric covering her skin, which feels so much nicer than skin on skin contact.

As her face heats up, she leaves the chair, instead kneeling on the floor so that she can get a better view of the way her spine arches and creates a beautiful line for her eyes to follow to her cute, round ass. She takes one more small sip of whiskey before setting down the glass and grabbing her own flesh more aggressively. Her fingers stray into her panties, pushing at the waist of her shorts and disappearing. Her other hand slides up the curve of her small waist to grope at her breasts and pinch lightly at her nipples, until they poke slightly at the tight, silk tank top. The robe, with its pattern of pink lotus flowers over an ivory background and black trim, falls off of her shoulders with a soft whisper on its way to the floor. When her lips part unconsciously to let out barely audible huffs of air as she pants for breath, she finally pushes the shorts and lace panties down her thighs and reaches for the smooth, glass cock on the edge of the tub. Just as the head is prodding at her opening, there's a knock at the front door.

She closes her eyes at first and tries to ignore it.

In the pause between knocks she keeps running the smooth head over her wet hole. On the second knock, her eyes fly open and she stands up, hissing to herself, "Motherfucker."

She pulls her panties and shorts back up as the poor, misguided idiot outside keeps knocking. The robe gets picked up and tied back around her waist again, though not tightly enough to really cover her, because she's in a hurry to murder whoever has the fucking gall to try to disturb her this late at night. She sets her toy carefully on the vanity and picks her glass of whiskey up, bringing it with her and taking another hasty sip as she yells on her way to the answer the door, "Somebody better be dead and already in the ground!"

She rips the door open, expecting to see an officer. Instead, she is shocked to see Levi, whom she'd almost forgotten about over the past few days. She wants to ask him what the fuck he's doing out after curfew, but even before he pushes his way in the door, she can see the flash of hate in his eyes, the familiar look of a man who wants to kill her. Her pulse quickens while he swiftly closes the door behind him without letting her out of his sight, and, just as quickly, with no words, she breaks the glass in her hand against the small table by the door, gripping tightly the largest shard that stays heavy enough in her hand to not join the rain of glass falling to the floor. She slashes the air in an arc toward his throat.

Levi is surprised by her speed. He's able to take a step back only just in time to avoid getting his neck sliced open by a small fraction of an inch.

He can't help but be impressed by her quick thinking and reflexes. He would have expected her to be paralyzed in fear, or to panic and do something stupid. He had been expecting that. Most people didn't even have the intuitive sense to know when their life was being threatened until it was too late. Even if they did realize the need to defend themselves, they usually put too much effort into it in a panic and quickly wore out the energy needed to fight off their attacker. Erna looks almost calm in front of him, securely out of reach, waiting for him to make a move rather than taking another lunge at him.

He waits patiently, too, because he knows he's not the one in danger here.

This hadn't been his plan. His plan was to push her inside and kill her quickly, preferably with his hands. He'd fantasized for days about squeezing her throat until the life died out of her terror-stricken eyes, but, in that fantasy, she was wearing her uniform, not a very revealing set of light pink, silk lingerie, barely covered by a robe that accentuated the curve of her thighs. When he imagined killing her, he didn't picture her the way she is now, with flushed skin, her hair in messy curls, and lips wet with whiskey. The look alone would have started to make him change his mind. What clinched it was the way she fought him.

He's still faster than her. Her reflexes aren't good enough to change her stance or get out of the way before he sweeps her legs out from under her and makes her fall to the floor. Once she's flat on her back, he straddles her, dodging another slash from the piece of glass she hasn't dropped even though it cut her hand from the beginning, spilling more of her own blood than his.

Levi catches her wrist and pinches it between his fingers until the pressure cuts off the nerves, making it impossible for her to close her fist around the improvised weapon. She cries with impotent rage as her fingers go limp and the piece of glass falls to the floor. She tries to scratch at his eyes with her other hand, but he grapples with her and pins both wrists to the floor.

With her defenses finally disabled, he takes the time to stare at her neck, so temptingly vulnerable. An uncharacteristically violent idea flashes behind his eyes of how it would feel to rip at it with his teeth like an animal while holding her down and fucking into her. Before his humanity slips completely away from him, she interrupts the thoughts that she draws out of the darkest part of his mind and says, "If you're going to kill me, at least have the decency to do it quickly."

"I did come here to kill you," he growls, "but maybe I changed my mind."

"Yeah?" she answers back with cool bitterness. She can read him all too well. "You think you're going to rape me instead?"

He hadn't thought of it that way. "Is that what you think?" he asks.

She tells him with an aloof drawl, "I think if you wanted to see me cry, then you're going to be very disappointed."

"No," he muses, though tears would be nice. He feels a slight attempt at movement from her and pushes her wrists harder into the wood floor. "I think you want it." He leans into her harder to better hold her down, but also to nose at a warm spot behind her ear that smells intoxicatingly like roses and tell her in a gravelly, low voice, "I think you've been starving for it."

He can hear her swallow, but, otherwise, she stubbornly gives him no physical indication that he's right. He raises himself upright again and says frankly, "I think that's why you've been pushing me."

She scoffs at him and narrows her eyes. "Men are so fucking simple. I push you because I'm bored. You were supposed to be interesting, and I've been sorely disappointed. Even this is fucking predictable."

"If it's so predictable, you could have stopped me."

"Maybe I'm suicidal," she counters with an obstinance that most suicidal people wouldn't have. "Maybe I wanted to die."

"Yeah?" he asks, intrigued by the morbidity of her conjecture. "Let's see."

He leans into her and brings her wrists together above her head, easily holding them in one hand and crushing them to the floor as he pushes his hips into hers. Already, he can feel her breathing get faster and more shallow as the claustrophobic panic of being trapped and helpless makes her heart race. He revels in the satisfaction he feels at showing her how weak she is, but it isn't enough. He wants her to feel how much stronger he is. He needs to make her struggle.

He picks up the nearby shard of broken glass and brings it to the curve of her fragile, delicate neck, right to where her pulse is pumping the hardest. She can barely stop her body from reacting. He feels her muscles tense and coil underneath him, but her eyes still stare at him defiantly, daring him to do it.

She doesn't believe him, he thinks. That's a mistake. He actually hasn't decided yet whether or not he'll kill her. His decision is going to depend on her reaction. If she isn't willing to fight for her life, then he'll gladly take it from her. People who won't even fight aren't worthy of living. Besides, if she's so willing to let him kill her, then what fun would fucking her be anyway? And if she isn't going to be a good lay, then he doesn't really have any use for her, obviously.

He tells her, "Don't worry. I'll make it fast," like it's the kindest favor he's ever done someone, and when he draws blood, finally she believes him, and her eyes go wide. Her legs suddenly kick furiously underneath him, and she tries to twist away from the glass cutting into her. As she struggles against him, her pulse races, only making her lose blood through the tiny cut faster.

Levi can't help but smile. If he still wanted to kill her, it would be so easy. He lets her fight a few seconds longer and squeezes her delicate wrists that fit in his one hand tighter, bruising them to emphasize how helpless she is.

He puts the weapon down on the floor, not far in case he needs it again. "See?" he gloats as she realizes what he's done and starts to calm down. "You don't want to die. You just want a fight. Like any feral, caged animal."

He drinks in all of the defiance returning to her eyes as the panic fades away. She hates him now. He's humiliated her and exposed all of her weakness, but hasn't shattered her pride. He can't touch that. He smiles slightly while he decides that he likes that about her. She won't break easy.

Carefully, he lifts his hips and moves his leg, placing his right knee between her thighs and roughly pushing them apart. She makes a small noise of protest until he leans down and looms over her. Her fussing is cut short, sounds of objection dying in her throat as he brings his mouth close to her ear and promises, "I can give you the fight you've been wanting… Erna."

That spurs the violent reaction he was hoping for, her arms straining to break free as her back arches off the floor, and she makes an animalistic sound that gives way to hissing and spitting like an indignant cat. "You fucker!"

He ignores her threats to cut the tongue out of his mouth and calmly traces it down the side of her neck that's free of blood as she bucks and writhes under him. With the hand that isn't busy caging her wrists, he holds her waist and squeezes before pushing the layers of silk out of the way and sliding his fingers under her tank top to feel how smooth her skin is. Then, it slides down and cups that round ass he's watched sway self-assuredly away from him so many times after all the nonsensical punishments and humiliation she's inflicted on him. He gives her a rough squeeze and lifts her hips, pressing her against his thigh. He can feel her heat through both her thin, silk shorts and the white fabric covering his leg. A low growl reverberates through his throat, before he harnesses some patience and settles for biting at her clavicle and actually feeling her collarbone in his teeth. A predatory lust to kill courses through his veins, and he bites down harder until she lets out a moan that gives way to an alarmed scream. He lets go and sits up to get a look at the deep, red tooth marks. He has to tell himself that he's going to feel that heat that's against his leg around his cock soon, but he really needs to do something about that cut on her neck, or he is literally going to fuck the life out of her.

He looks down at her and takes in the way her eyelids have gotten heavy. Her lips are slightly parted, and her breathing shallow. He would wonder if that's all from blood loss if not for the way her thighs are clenching to rut needily against his leg. Funny how the symptoms of slowly dying and wanting to get fucked are so similar.

"You have a first aid kit?"

She nods and chokes out, "Under the bed."

"I'm going to let you go," he explains. "I think you're smart enough to not move."

Just in case she isn't smart enough, he adds, "If you try to get up, you're going to pass out." He can be certain of that based on the pint of crimson staining the floor under the crook of her neck. "And that's not going to stop me from taking you," he warns darkly as he lets go of her wrists and stands.

Before he bends down to check for the first aid kit, a bottle of whiskey on the bedside table catches his eye. He reaches for that first, while listening closely—especially for the sound of a large piece of glass being picked up off the wood floor—as he bends over and reaches under the bed for the small, metal box.

When he comes back to her, he stands over her prone body for a moment, silently bragging and stressing their difference in position. She squints hatefully up at him as she keeps firm pressure on her open vein with one hand.

He sets the first aid kit down next to her, but holds onto the whiskey bottle. Then, just to really rub it in as he steps over her and straddles her again, he says, "Good girl."

"Fuck you," she spits back.

He knows that's just bravado. He saw how much she liked it when he broke her nose only a little over a week ago. He didn't know if it was the pain or the violence or both, but he could see in her eyes that she got a charge out of it, which hadn't been his intention, but it was still useful information.

He roughly removes her hand from the cut he gifted her, and, before she can complain, he tips the neck of the bottle and pours whiskey over the clean slice in her flesh.

She kicks and screams and calls him some very creative things. He calmly smirks at her and concentrates on the way her chest heaves with her deep breaths. His eyes travel down to take in the barely-visible rise in her tank top where her nipples are pressing against the silk. He doesn't doubt how much the liquid burns, but it's better than an infected cut, he thinks.

"Tch. Don't be so dramatic."

He takes a long drink straight from the bottle as he waits for the alcohol to evaporate off of her skin. Judging by how it burns his throat, it's a high enough proof that he won't need to be waiting long.

She holds still for him while he staunches the blood flow with some wound powder made to get blood to coagulate faster and then tapes a piece of gauze over it. He ties some around the palm of her cut hand as well, even though it's barely bleeding anymore, but he doesn't want her smearing blood all over him when she's clutching at his shoulders and begging for his cock.

Suddenly, just as soon as he's finished patching her up, she pushes herself to sit up with one hand splayed against the floor underneath her, and Levi readies himself to put her back down and teach her again how much stronger he is than her. She snatches the bottle from his hand, and he thinks she's going to try to smash it over his head. His arm coils to grapple with her again, but, contrary to his prediction, she brings the mouth of the bottle to her lips and takes two long, greedy, desperate gulps.

He smirks as he watches her throat bob and asks, "Did I interrupt your nightcap?"

Instead of glaring at him again, her eyes soften, darkening under her long eyelashes and taking on a liquid look. Slowly, carefully, she reaches for his belt, slipping her fingers under it gingerly as she purrs in a smooth, whiskey-soaked voice that almost lulls him out of his guarded alertness, "Thank you for patching me up."

She shifts her hips, and he leans back slightly to allow her to sit up more. He stares, entranced, as she wets her lips on the bottle again. Before he can lean in and lick the excess moisture off her lips, she stops him by sliding her hand down from his belt and palming at the bulge in his pants, rubbing with subdued urgency at the fabric. He keeps watching her mouth as her tongue slowly licks away any whiskey left behind on her lips, and she rubs a little harder, searching and curious until she feels him and squeezes gently around the outline of his cock. A primal moan rumbles in his chest, and he covers her hand with his own, pressing it harder and wrapping her fingers to grip his length through the cover of white fabric.

Her tongue darts out to lick at those pink, glossy lips again, but not to lick up excess whiskey this time. She watches hungrily at the way his cock strains against the confining pants, and then she looks up, searching his eyes as if to ask if she has permission to touch him freely.

He lets go of her hand and lets his own fall to his side, giving her room to play how she wants. His eyes get lazy as he rubs against her hand and watches her take one more sip from the bottle before setting it gently down and out of the way. His eyelids close when her fingers brush over him teasingly again, before grasping at the end of his belt and pulling at the buckle.

He never should have trusted the sudden change in her demeanor. He should have been more suspicious when she thanked him for bandaging cuts that he caused himself. He let lust dull his wariness. He never saw or heard her swallow that last sip of whiskey.

He doesn't see her raise her other hand, though when it swipes at him he feels the sharp stinging of her black claws across his face. As soon as his eyes open, she spits at him, and a fine mist of alcohol burns his eyes as well as the fresh scratches. Before he can grab at her, she's already on her feet and behind him with his own belt around his neck so tight that it's impossible to breathe. He feels her foot press against the space between his shoulders for more leverage, pulling the belt so his fingers would need to rip through the skin of his own throat to get under it and release the pressure. His tongue bulges with blood, and his mouth opens noiselessly.

"It's cute how you think this is the first time I've been hurt and helpless underneath someone much stronger than me," she purrs.

When he tries to move, she pulls tighter, and his eyes bulge with a sickening wave of dizziness.

"Now," she says, her voice straining audibly with the effort of keeping him still, "I'm not going to kill you—though I could—because I like you." She jerks on the belt again to discourage him from reaching for it. "This is the most fun I've had in a very long time," she confesses evenly as he loses the strength to struggle. His lungs ache with fire and his vision starts to go grey around the edges. "SoI'm going to let you go, you're going to catch your breath," she pauses and then finishes disdainfully, "and then you're going to stop treating me like I'm made of fucking porcelain. I was more turned on when you were going to cut my throat open."

When the belt finally loosens and falls, he gasps, and his lungs suck down air with heaving breaths. While he's still weak, her fingers push against his hair and rake over his scalp patronizingly, like he's her good pet, and he sees red. His hand flies back for her wrist and crushes it in a violent grip. He twists her around, bringing her to her knees, facing him. His other hand goes for her throat, and he holds her still until he has enough air in his lungs to stand without blacking out, at which point he lifts her with him. The muscles in his arm barely strain to pick her small frame up by her neck until her toes are hovering inches above the floor, weakly kicking at him as she struggles to breathe.

Levi throws Erna onto the bed so hard that she bounces against the mattress, and in that one bounce he flips her over and lifts her hips, quickly hooking his fingers into the waist of her shorts and pulling them down. He smirks at the white, lacy underwear as she tries to get up and turn around. It's cute. He hopes she has more of it as he easily rips it down the seam and discards it to expose that smooth, round ass he noticed even on his first day of training. He reaches over her and pushes her shoulders down, flattening her face and chest to the bed and keeping them there as his other arm lifts her hips a little higher.

He takes his time, as if she isn't fighting him to try and get free. It's easy to hold her down as he runs his hand over her ass and then lower, searching between her thighs and finding her wet and hot. His fingers push and rub around the outside of her lips so her curses turn into resentful moans bitten back and always half-finished, because she hates that she loves what he's doing to her. He coats his fingers in her wetness without even pushing them inside her, and he smears them on her ass, before moving the hand between her shoulders into her hair, tangling his fingers in it and twisting her head to face him with her cheek pressed against the bed. The wet fingers of his other hand roughly push into her mouth and force her to taste herself.

He smiles condescendingly at her as he feels her soft tongue lap at her own wetness. Then, the little bitch bites him—should have seen that coming. He retracts his fingers and gives her a quick slap against her face and moves behind her again. He grunts as he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her ass and slaps it much harder than he did her face, feeling his cock jump when he watches it shake. He bites her back, right where he smeared his fingers on her, and then swipes over the mark with his tongue. She flinches and squirms, but she can't do much with his fingers roughly digging into her thighs and holding her hips up for him. He spreads her legs forcefully when she tries to close them, and he palms at her shaved mound, spreading her lips with his fingers, playing with them as he sucks a bruise on her ass. She calls him a fucking prick even as she pushes against his hand, seeking more pressure, like her mouth isn't even aware of how badly her cunt wants it.

He stretches up to stand with one hard, parting smack of his hand to the wet bruise now marking her. As soon as he releases his hold on her, she moves to get up, to what end he doesn't know, but he quickly grabs her by the hair and throws her back against the wall that her bed is pushed up against. He growls at her, "Don't fucking move."

She obeys, though she glares at him hatefully, drawing her knees up and clamping her thighs tightly shut. Satisfied, he leaves her be for a second, just to look at her. He drinks in the feral way her nostrils flare and how her chest rises and falls with deep breaths. Her hair is mussed from being pulled at, and a strap of her tank top is hanging loosely off her shoulder. The flimsy robe fell somewhere in the struggle on the floor. Her shorts still sit loosely around her ankles. His cock hardens at seeing how he's wrecked her.

He finally tears his eyes away and grabs her pillow, tossing it to the floor and finding exactly what he was hoping for: a small knife. He'd be disappointed if she weren't at least that smart. He tests the edge against a callused finger and finds it razor sharp. He praises her admiringly, "Good girl."

This time she resists the urge to tell him to fuck himself, though he can still see a flash of defiance in her eyes.

He holds the blade in his teeth for a moment as he strips off his clothes, not stupid enough to let his guard down again and set it where she could reach. He takes his time. To rush would make it seem like he didn't think he had her under control, but he's secure in the feeling that he has her adequately subjugated because of the way she looks at him with hunger. He stares at her as he peels off each article of clothing, and only after he's folded each one and set them on the bedside table neatly does he take the knife from his teeth, gripping it tightly in his hand again to join her on the bed.

She doesn't move while he makes himself comfortable, but she tracks him with a fire in her eyes. He sits up against the headboard and then suddenly, violently reaches and takes her by the hair again, pulling her over to him and positioning her between his legs. He tells her, "Now you're going to suck me off. " He pauses to make sure his next warning sinks in. "And if you bite me again," he holds up the knife, "I have no problem fucking you with this."

As she watches wide-eyed, he trails the blade gently down her neck. She closes her eyes and bites her lip as he comes close to nicking her collarbone with it. His hand reaches for one of her breasts and kneads at it through her top, finally eliciting a moan that she doesn't stifle and bite back. From the way her eyes close in ecstasy when the knife travels back up her neck and caresses her cheek, he almost thinks she likes it better than his hands. For that, he takes it away just before slapping hard at the curve of her tit and making her cry out and flinch from him. Before she can even finish her cry of outrage, he's fisting her hair again and pushing her face down as he tells her coldly, "Get to work."

He sighs quietly when she flattens her tongue against his cock and laves over the length of it. She licks another stripe up the side, but it only makes him impatient. He isn't here for foreplay. He lets go of her hair, holds the knife behind her ear, and growls, "Stop wasting my time and put it in your mouth before I start cutting shit off." The cold blade presses against the skin behind the appendage to show her how serious he is. Without further delay, he's enveloped in the warm, wet heat of her mouth, and, automatically, his hand goes back to her hair, desperate to not let her escape or come up for air and deprive him of how good it feels. His eyelids flutter closed, and he groans as she sucks him down to the base, her tongue curling and licking as she bobs her mouth up and down like a starving whore.

He lifts his hips and pushes up until her nose is pressed against his pubic bone, expecting her to cough and choke, but, instead of spasming and trying to push him out, her throat relaxes and becomes more pliant against the abuse. She moans with his cock deep in her warm throat and pushes down harder, rubbing her nose against his trimmed patch of black hair. Her tongue darts out to lick at his balls, her throat tightening around the head of his cock as she strains to reach with her wet tongue.

"Oh, fuck," he moans, marvelling at her technique, though trying not to sound too surprised or impressed. He hums and tightens his grip on her disheveled curls, beginning to thrust in a shallow, easy rhythm. "Little slut likes choking on cock," he notes, cruelly pushing in so that she can't breathe and holding her down until her throat spasms and he feels her gagging. He still holds her down, just because he can, and because the panicked constriction of her throat feels so good around his thick cock. He ignores the pain when her nails dig and scratch at his thighs, and he smiles callously at her as she looks up at him with wild eyes, glaring at him through an involuntary veil of tears. She can hate him all he wants. She's going to have to fight harder than that for air.

He makes sure every inch of his cock stays buried in her while she starts to struggle harder. Her muffled howls of exasperation and fury only make him harder as her entire body starts to spasm with reflexive coughing and gagging. Her black nails draw lines of blood on his thighs, but he doesn't care.

He smirks and only decides to let her up when the fight starts to die out of her and her eyelids flutter over irises that are slowly starting to roll back. Her head lolls as he lifts her by the hair, and she falls bonelessly onto her side when he lets go. She lies there next to him with glazed-over eyes, gulping down air hungrily, the way he was a few minutes ago when she almost choked the life out of him. Turnabout is fair play. That's why he moves behind her and flips her onto her stomach while she's helpless, and it's why he hooks an arm under her waist to lift her hips up to the level of his achingly stiff cock shining with her saliva. Without waiting for her to get her breath back, he pushes into her shockingly tight cunt hard and fast, fucking her from behind like an animal, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her ass, his thighs staining her skin with the blood she drew fighting him for her life and failing. He wants to make her feel more worthless and more degraded with every thrust for all of the hell she's put him through in the past six weeks.

There's barely enough breath in her to sigh and whimper with as he tears into her, treating her like a weak little rag doll, watching her ass jiggle with every vicious thrust of his hips. Her body sags, still weak from choking, and he has to lift her falling hips with a grunt and pull them forcibly to him. For all of her loose limbs, her cunt still feels like a tight fist around him trying to push him out.

It's important to him that she gets her strength back before he finishes, because he wants to break her more than this. Pressure starts to build under his abdomen, and he has to stop moving altogether to keep himself from teetering over the edge and coming before he can properly ruin her. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, trying to make his mind a blank, but the animal inside him tells him to look down at that delicious ass and stare in awe at the way his cock is stretching her pretty little cunt. Foolishly, he makes an experimental push forward, rocking his hips into her, seeing if the building pressure in him has faded away enough to keep going, but, immediately, he feels himself on the brink again and pulls out until there's only a couple inches unsatisfyingly buried inside her. He holds still and mutters under his breath, mostly to himself, "Fuck… You're so tight."

It's been a long time for him. He's astonished that he's even lasted this long, especially with how good it feels and how deep the need was in him. He wonders how long it's been for her until she, unfortunately for him, recovers enough strength to push back against him and whine lazily, "Harder."

He hisses and quickly digs his fingers into her to hold her still. She struggles uselessly to move her hips and fuck herself on his cock for a moment, but when it becomes clear that he isn't going to give in and let her move, she instead quickly hooks her legs behind him and pulls him into her with her heels against the backs of his thighs until he's buried in her tight heat again. The overwhelming feeling of having his cock suddenly gripped tight inside her silky walls makes him lose control for a second and his grip on her slackens while a shaky moan escapes his throat. The little bitch grinds against him and complains, "Give it to me."

The temptation to give in is killing him while he uses every ounce of willpower to fight the raw want coursing through his veins. He's able to push her away after an internal struggle and growl out, "Hold the fuck still."

She does not hold still. Instead, her pussy clenches around him, and she tries to undulate her hips and fuck herself on him, so, even though it's the last thing he wants to do, he pulls out.

Her hips stutter unevenly at the sudden empty feeling. She throws a little tantrum and snaps impatiently, "Give me your fucking cock."

Levi growls as he grabs at her and flips her onto her back, one hand pushing her shoulder straight down, as if to bury her into the mattress. "You're going to have to ask much more nicely than that," he sneers.

Erna's keen eyes drill into him, and she smirks like she finds something about all of this funny before saying, "I'm not in the habit of begging," and reminding him, "but you've been very good at following orders until now, Snowflake."

She opens her legs and tries to trap him between them again, but her action is cut short when he suddenly slaps her across the face, making her head snap to the side. She turns to face him as soon as the shock of the unexpected blow fades, her lips curling up at the edges, her eyes black with thirst for more. His fingers wrap around her throat, and he growls at her. "Say my name before I crush your windpipe."

WIth a demure sarcasm she declines, "I'm not even sure I remember it after all this time, Snowflake."

Through gritted teeth, he warns her, "You better remember it fucking quick." He presses down on her throat. "And start begging."

WIthout breaking her eyes away from challenging his glare, her hand suddenly reaches for the knife he'd discarded at the side of the bed when he'd started fucking her. He silently curses himself again for letting his guard drop and getting too confident.

Lev has never been in a fight that lasted more than a few seconds. He's never even needed to be on the defensive side of things until his encounter with Smith, and that was more for show. He was trying to get caught without making it look like he was trying to get caught, so this is the only time he's had a decent back and forth, he thinks, as he dodges the razor-sharp blade aimed at the map of veins under the smooth skin of the inside of his forearm. She takes the opportunity of his necessitated change in balance to buck him off of her and sit up, slashing toward either his ribs or his heart. She doesn't get close enough for him to find out which. She gets her knees under her and lunges at him. Time slows down as he keeps dodging and defending and trying to get the knife away from her, and, the whole time, she doesn't scream, doesn't flail. She measures her movements and regards him coldly and calmly, trying again and again for an opening until finally he catches her wrist and twists it just shy of snapping a bone before she finally drops the knife.

He picks it up. He should kill her. Killing her would be the sensible thing to do.

Instead, he grips her shoulder and throws her back down to the bed. Rather than bleed her out, he uses the knife to slice her top in half before throwing it far behind him to clatter onto the floor near the front door. He lines his cock up with her wet folds and murmurs, "Keep fucking fighting me."

He drives himself into her harder than before and fucks her at a relentless pace while she digs her nails into his chest. The slapping of his hips against her is almost drowned out by her moans. She pulls him down by his shoulders and bites his neck harshly. Without breaking his brutal pace, he grabs her hair and pulls her head back, freeing his neck from her teeth and baring her throat. She claws at his back instead, making stinging red lines over his skin.

He tugs hard at her hair and tells her in between her moans, "Say it."

"Hah, fuck! Levi!"

His teeth flash in a feral grin. He slaps his hips against hers especially hard and makes her yelp in shock, only to hook an arm under one of her knees and lift her leg up, trying to get more access, get her legs out of the way, get deeper inside her.

She babbles as he keeps thrusting into her deep and hard, her growing wetness doing nothing to lessen the friction. She says his name again and again until her thighs are shaking. He grunts and groans as his cock rams into her, and her walls convulse and contract around him. He hadn't even thought about making her come. He wouldn't have cared less if she didn't have an orgasm at all, but feeling it, watching her come undone underneath him while screaming his name, just from getting fucked by his cock, makes him tip over the edge as he impales her, spilling his cum inside her, desecrating her with it.

He curls over her and rests his forehead against hers while he struggles to catch his breath. She sounds just as breathless as she says to herself in disbelief, "Holy fuck…"

He agrees. He pushes himself up to sit next to her, not feeling like the kind of sex they just had really calls for cuddling. He simply asks her, "Can I use your shower?"

"Please," she sighs gratefully before draping her arm over her eyes and murmuring, "Fucking earned it."

As he walks towards what he assumes is the bathroom, she calls after him, "Can you grab me a towel?"

When he comes back with a hand towel from the bathroom, she takes it and sits up. She looks down at her thighs and makes a disgusted face. She murmurs, "Cum is so gross," and wrinkles her cute little nose as she wipes away anything that's leaked down her legs.

It's disorienting to see her being…cute. Like she's human, or something. Levi looks pointedly down at her thighs and asks, "Is that going to be a problem?"

"What?" she asks. "Coming inside me?" She tosses the towel carelessly onto the floor and lies back down. "Nah."

Her fingers lightly trace over a raised, jagged line of white and light lavender over her lower abdomen that he didn't notice before, and she says, "Hysterectomy scar…"

He looks closer. The scar looks brutal, like her surgery was in a back alley, not a hospital.

On his way back to the bathroom, he pauses and looks over toward where he threw her knife. He finds it on the floor and thinks about grabbing it. She sees him and can read what he's thinking even with one sleepy eye open. She tells him, "Easy. I'm not going to try to kill you again."

He hears the lazy contentment in her voice as she says quietly, "You feel too fucking good." She pulls the sheet over her hips and murmurs, "Never came with a man's cock inside me before."

That might make his chest puff out a bit as he leaves the knife and goes to take a shower. Once he's finished using up all the warm water and helping himself to her soap, he takes a look in the mirror and assesses the damage. Visible bite marks, bloody scratches, and a dark bruise all the way around his neck. Then, he looks down at the vanity and notices something odd. He picks up the small, glass dildo and smirks.

When he comes back out, Erna's just waking up from her fucked-out coma. She starts to sit up in bed when he waves the smooth piece of glass at her and says, "Really?"

"What?" she laughs, "It was a gift." She takes it from him with a playful pout.

She watches him as he takes his clothes from the bedside table and he says casually, "I want to watch you fuck yourself with that next time."

"Oh," she says brightly. "There's going to be a next time?"

"If you don't have me court martialed and executed."

She doesn't confirm or deny any plans for that. She only stretches out on the bed like a content cat, picking her pillow up off the floor and pressing her cheek against it as her eyes start to close again. He looks down at her as he gets dressed and starts noticing details he missed before in a frenzied haze of lust, like the white scars painted all over her back in messy, jagged lines. He reaches down tentatively and lightly runs his fingers over them. She flinches and turns away.

"How did those happen," he asks while he puts his shirt on.

At first, she doesn't say anything, and he thinks she isn't going to answer him. Then, she says bitterly, "Another gift."

Without a straight answer he can only imagine, and his mind goes straight to someone else hurting her in similar ways to what he just did. He'd hated her hours ago, but now that he sees her docile and vulnerable, adorable, even if she's probably a little mad. A territorial feeling of possession makes his blood boil at the idea of anyone else touching her in any way.

He pushes her hair away from her face and just looks at her, until she peeks an eye open to see what he's up to. "I have to go," he says, as if she didn't know. It's her own rules that make it so that he has to get his ass out of there and sneak back to his bunk. "You okay?"

She snorts back a little laugh. "Okay? I feel better than I've felt in a long time. You should be rougher next time." She turns over and away from him. "Fuck off so I can sleep."

He starts to move to do just that until she sits up suddenly, saying, "Shit! Wait." She gets out of bed and softly pads on bare feet over to him, avoiding broken glass.

The sight of her uncovered and naked body stirs his cock to life all over again, and he wraps his hands around her slim waist, ready to push her back into bed. Her eyes twinkle, and she slaps one of his hands away, scolding him teasingly, "I'm still sore, you fucking pig, so calm down. I think you sprained my cervix."

Her fingers card into his black hair and she tilts his head back, clucking her tongue at him. She wonders aloud, "How are you going to explain that bruise?"

He shrugs carelessly about the bruise from the belt on his neck that is only going to get darker before it fades and answers with some cheek, "Nobody would think it was strange if I told them you tried to choke me to death."

Her lips curl up skeptically to one side. She looks away and hums, biting at her lower lip as she thinks to herself. Then, suddenly, she goes over to her dresser. She opens a small upper drawer and digs around, seemingly searching for something in the bottom of the drawer. Finally, she takes out a simple, white strip of fabric. She tells him to hold still as she lifts the collar of his shirt and ties it carefully around his neck.

He tries to look down without moving. "What's that?"

"A cravat," she says simply as she finishes folding it over in the front and taking a half step back to make sure it covers the whole strip of bruising around his neck.

His eyebrows crease and knit together as he looks down at it and asks curiously, "Why do you have this?"

"I stole it from a nobleman in Sina," she says, leaving out the part about taking it off the man's body as a trophy after she fucked him and killed him.