A/N: Because I should write more non-angst canon stuff.
He should really be at his desk.
He isn't just writing any old letter—this is to Darius Zackly, head of all three military branches. Levi normally has no occasion to say anything whatsoever to the man, but Erwin is really pushing for more funding, something about updated gear, and apparently having humanity's best user of said gear vouch for his case will help.
So Levi finds himself staring blankly at his paper, wondering how the hell he's supposed to start writing this letter, and Petra is not helping at all.
"Can you move your head?" he says when he tries for the fifth time and fails to form a proper word on the parchment, because his pen keeps getting caught in her hair.
She inches her head perhaps two centimeters forward—and further under his chin. "Is that better?"
She's smiling—he can feel the twitch of her lips against his collarbone. "No," he snaps, but his voice comes out less gruffly than he intended as she curls more tightly around his left arm. It's starting to go numb, but he can't bring himself to move it.
"Mmm," she sighs happily, wrapping her arms around his waist and closing her eyes in contentment. Her eyelashes tickle his neck and he coughs, the movement of his throat further pressing into her hair.
He puts his pen to the paper just as she shifts against his arm, jolting his hand and turning the word into a messy scribble. "Fuck," he mutters, and tries to flip to a new page, but Petra's head—arms—body—whatever—is in the way. "Can you just move?"
She peers up at him from where she lies on his bed, firmly latched onto his side. "I'll just leave then?"
Her presence is comforting, so nice and warm that he doesn't even think before responding. "No, never mind."
She smirks and snuggles more closely against him and he resigns himself to getting nothing done that night. Again.