Chapter 19. The Lemon Song
A/N: Oookay I don't know why I'm sweating over this chapter so much. Maybe because it's like a big ass chapter––19 pages for chapter 19, y'all. I went through it over and over, but undoubtedly some things slipped through the cracks. So sound off in the comments if anything is too egregious! Thank you, thank you, thank you as always for your continued support. You guys are just the greatest. Needless to say, this chapter is NSFW.
The first time Rikard visited, she'd been moved from the cell and into a room.
The conversation lasted maybe five minutes, completely one sided and consisting of him making anemic inquiries into her general well-being and level of comfort as if he actually cared, as if this was some kind of getaway retreat for her. She suspected he was trying to earn her favor, going as far as to apologize for the meagre victuals afforded to her. "I can assure you, there's no slight intended. We've had a shortage of food." Fucker.
The room was indeed much larger than the cell, and yet it felt, oddly, more confining. Not to mention it isolated her from Levi. Maybe that was the point. He was still nearby—their proximity to each other the only answer she could come up with for why the bond wasn't working—but she had no idea where. Still in his cell, perhaps. That made the most sense.
There were no windows or any source of natural light in this place—a fact she'd registered before during her initial visit to the Underground but had never truly appreciated. It left her with a keen mix of chagrin and rising panic. Any sympathy she'd maintained previously for Levi and his circumstances increased ten-fold, because it was so utterly stifling here.
By the second day, she was convinced something had gone horribly wrong.
They'd been found out. Killed. They can't find the camp. The reasons continued to pile up in her mind, each one more disastrous than its predecessor. The only consolation was the lack of comment from her captors—if Hanji's squad had indeed been compromised, she doubted the waters would be as calm as they were.
Rikard continued his act, going so far as to remove her manacles upon his second visit. She wouldn't voice how nice it felt to have her wrists free of the unforgiving metal.
"If this is some kind of ploy to get me to trust you, it won't work."
"No ploy. I just don't think chains are necessary."
"I could kill you."
"Oh, I know." Rikard uncapped the tankard at his belt and handed it to her. She stared at him, unblinking. "Here," he said, taking a few gulps before proffering it again. He passed a hand across his mouth, wiping away the moisture clinging to his stubble.
The cold water was blissful on her dry throat, but Mikasa forced herself to take slow, deliberate sips, never breaking eye contact with the red-haired man. He eventually looked away.
"Mind if I sit?" He gestured to the space beside her.
Well, that was...that was unexpected. He was either trying very hard at a specific angle, or he severely underestimated his prisoner. She doubted it was the latter. "It's your house."
He chuckled softly, taking a seat on the floor. He left a few feet between them, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. For a moment, she wondered if he was sleeping. The tension in his brow and jaw belied the relaxed cadence of his breathing, as if he were mulling over something heavy in his mind. There was a lack of pretense to him, an absence of the tightly-controlled charade his sister maintained, and Mikasa found this disturbed her more. There was a test here. A trick.
"What do you want?" she ventured, continuing what little of the masquerade remained. Rikard didn't reply. Didn't even budge. "Where is...Captain Levi?" The use of his title almost tripped her tongue—she couldn't remember the last time she'd addressed him as such.
"Do you know," he began, and it was like he hadn't heard her queries, "how extremely rare you are?"
Spoken like a casual inquiry, no trace of awe or wonderment in his voice, yet Mikasa still found a familiar sense of irritation welling up inside her. He certainly wouldn't be the first person to fixate on her unusual heritage. "I don't need a reminder." She wouldn't mention how extremely lonely it was being the sole remaining member of a race.
"That's not what I'm referring to," Rikard mumbled under his breath. She quirked a brow, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn't, just exhaled deeply and ran his hands down his face before pushing off the wall to standing. She watched his movements, beyond perplexed. He regarded her from over his shoulder, expression unreadable. "I'll have the guard bring you something to eat."
"Wait." It had been involuntary, perhaps born out of a slight exasperation for his cryptic manner. "What the hell is this?"
He lingered by the open door, and at first she thought he would ignore her. "I don't rightly know anymore." And then he left.
The unease that had been kindling in the back of her mind only grew after that. She didn't know what to make of his abstruse behavior. It would be too easy to write it off as some kind of gambit on his part. Needless to say, she didn't sleep much that night—or, what she assumed was night. She didn't know up from down anymore.
A female guard arrived on the third day bearing a basin filled with water. "There's soap on the bottom," she muttered, indicating the bar lurking in the depths of the basin. She removed a towel from across her shoulder and threw it at Mikasa none too gently. "Wash up quick. I'll be back soon to retrieve this."
Bathing proved difficult, as the basin was not large, and most of the water ended up on the floor by the time she'd finished. But it felt nice to be clean. Her mind felt clearer. No sooner had she dried and clothed herself did the Redeemer make good on her promise and return, only this time with Rikard in tow. The woman sent a pointed look to the excess water surrounding the basin, grabbing the used towel and mopping it up with her foot.
"Sorry," Mikasa muttered, her tone anything but.
The woman cornered her gaze to the red haired man, clearly second guessing whatever snide remark she'd been prepared to say. She cleared the bath supplies and left the room without a word.
Mikasa sat on the cot, waiting through the heavy silence for him to speak. Conflict and incertitude was evident in his features. From here, she could see the differences between his eyes and Eren's, and she found that to be strangely comforting.
"I haven't really been doing this right," he murmured, voice nearly inaudible. "At least, I haven't been doing this how she wants me to."
The words rang like a confession, and the tension in his brow dissipated some. Did he expect her to buy into the sympathy act? Perhaps he had underestimated her. "Your sister calls all the shots, then?"
A pained smile crossed his face, another confession writing itself out on his features. "It's an odd feeling, trusting someone for so long and with so much only to one day disagree with them entirely."
Mikasa kept her features carefully blank.
"I suppose it was the opposite for the two of you. Spending that much time together on that mission of yours probably brought you closer, am I right? Old grievances aside." His voice was low, indirect, as if he were orating his thoughts instead of speaking to her. Like he was fleshing out an idea he'd been ruminating on for some time.
"I'm not sure what you're insinuating," she began, playing affronted. "While it's true that Captain Levi and I have a history of contention, we willingly put it aside for the sake of our mission—"
Rikard held up a hand, silencing her. "Stop. Just stop." He tilted his head back, staring up at the low ceiling with tired eyes. "Drop the pretenses, Mikasa. I'm dropping mine."
Something about the moment seemed inherently off, like they'd somehow deviated from a plan—mummers forsaking their script. He was calling her out, that much was apparent. But on what? "So you're embracing your role as the man who kidnaps and tortures children, then?"
He actually flinched at that. "Look, I'm not trying to plead my innocence here." He came to the cot and knelt before her, green eyes bright and intense. "But you can't win this fight, Mikasa. Neither of you can. Rubie's gambling on your relationship, and believe me, she will use it."
Dread sunk low into the pit of her stomach, playing out across her face before she could tame it. Rikard nodded, jaw set, and the sincerity in his eyes only made her gut churn further. "Why are you doing this? Why…" Well, it wasn't help, was it. "...go to these lengths?"
His gaze fell from hers, finding some place on the wall. "Can you feel him now? This close to him, does your connection still work?"
And she was thankful his eyes were occupied elsewhere, because Mikasa's composure shattered. He knew. Did his sister? A new wave of panic crashed over her as she tried once more to fruitlessly engage the bond. It surged, supple against her efforts, but there was no give. Rikard returned his gaze to her just as she rallied the splintered pieces of her comportment. For a moment they only regarded each other, daring one to give first.
"How long have you two been bonded?"
This was what it truly meant to be backed into a corner; in every sense, he had trapped her. Something told her that Rubie wasn't wise to the bond like her brother—he seemed rather unsure himself, as if he were just piecing it together. Her enduring silence wasn't doing her any favors, however. She needed to speak, but what she chose to say could easily decide their fate. "Since the cave."
Rikard's brows inched up his forehead. "Well, shit. This whole time, then?" The answering silence made him chuckle. "Oh, baby sister, you may have finally lost a round."
This was completely unraveling, and she had absolutely no idea when it started. And by God he was pulling the truth directly from her. She was better than this. Just for a moment, her gaze flickered to the knife hilt protruding from his belt. He was still kneeling before her—she could have it between his ribs before his next breath.
But.
"Does your sister know?"
"No."
"Will she?"
He leaned back on his heels, eyeing her down the aquiline curve of his nose like some kind of massive vulture observing its prey. "You're very good at keeping lies, Mikasa. You can take a lie to your grave. But you're shit at telling them." He rose from his crouched posture. "I suggest you reconsider your obstinacy before it's too late. It's not just your life on the line."
He rose and turned to leave. Mikasa scrambled off the cot. "What do you want with the girl? Why are you torturing her?"
Rikard paused, nearly to the door, and even with his back to her she could tell he was contemplating something. He spoke without turning, "she won't transform."
Realization struck like a blow, and Mikasa's jaw dropped involuntarily at the barbarity of it all. "Have you stopped to consider that maybe you have the wrong child?"
She was surprised by the ease with which he nodded in affirmation. He turned from the door but remained in place, expression guarded. "But you and I both know there's something about this girl. She won't transform. Not because she can't, because she's resilient. And smart. She'll wait for the right moment. Just like you Ackermans."
Mikasa took a small step in his direction. "That still doesn't explain what you're doing with her. Why this Titan?" She faltered, steeled herself again. "Why not Eren?"
"Because Eren would have been impossible to get to and even more difficult to control."
"Your sister already got to Eren, believe me. And I was stupid enough to let it all play out right under my nose."
His eyes broke from hers then, something akin to shame evident on his face. "He's also the wrong gender."
The truth behind his words hovered before her, but it took her a moment to grasp it. Maybe she just didn't want to. "Are you saying…" He kept his eyes averted. A wave of nausea consumed her, and she very nearly retched. "You don't want a Titan. You want an army."
"By the time the girl is even fertile enough to conceive, she'll be more familiar with the Redeemers. She'll understand her duty in all this—"
"Duty?!" Mikasa screeched, taking another step toward him. "Listen to yourself. You can barely stomach the words they make you say. That she makes you say. You want to rid humanity of tyrants and restore the clans, but how are you going to do that? By becoming tyrants yourselves?" Her head was pounding, her voice too loud even for her own ears. She brought it down, growling out the word from somewhere deep in her chest, "coward."
That struck a chord, and she saw the long anticipated anger light up his face. "I'm beyond caring what you think of me, Ackerman. Just know that I tried to save you."
"Save me? I would rather die than align myself with you." It was no hollow pledge, but the severity of it still hung heavy in the air.
"And Levi? You're condemning both you and him. You know that, right? Something tells me he's not going to let you go where he can't follow."
Just the mention of his name induced a dull twinge in her chest. This had suddenly become a gambling game, a test of willpower where her duty collided against her fear. What if Hanji wasn't coming? What if the worst had come to pass and this really all was resting on her decision? The impenetrable yet ever present bond hummed in her ears, mocking her with its presence. She could picture his voice, the timbre of it, but in a moment when she desperately needed him, he was just out of reach.
"You need to choose, Mikasa, because my word in your favor means nothing if Rubie loses patience."
A very Levi-like response flitted across her brain, pulling an involuntary chortle from her. Shove your word up your ass, prick. No, she'd settle for something less incendiary. "I've made my decision, Rikard."
The use of his name seemed to startle him more than her actual answer, and for a moment he just stood there blinking at her. Then he nodded, his angular features suddenly appearing older, more sunken. She waited until the door had shut and bolted behind him before stumbling to the cot. Another ripple of nausea sent her curling up into a fetal position. The panic was there, and the doubt, but they both paled in comparison to the unremitting guilt she felt—she couldn't help but feel that she held some fault in this, that it all could have been avoided if she'd just been smarter about things. Stronger.
And then there was Levi. If she lost the gamble, she would be taking him down with her. He's not going to let you go where he can't follow. And deep down she knew it was true—because it went both ways, really. She knew him well enough by now, knew his pride; there were some things worse than death for a man like Levi.
A dry sob forced its way out of her throat and into her hands. Eren's face came to mind in the tented darkness of her fingers, and the memory of their last interaction drove the tears from her eyes. Unable to stop the flood, Mikasa reached up to grasp the pillow and pull it across her face. She failed to recall a time she'd wept this hard, the shame of it only adding to her outpour of emotion.
Some indeterminate amount of time past, and she was vaguely aware of drifting in and out of sleep, sometimes finding fresh tears on the pillow. Eventually, it seemed she'd cried out all she could—the empty feeling inside of her was far from relief, however. She maneuvered onto her back, oscillating once again between dark thought and convoluted dreams.
What finally snapped her to wakefulness was the metallic clang of the door being unbolted. Mikasa was on her feet before the hinges even began to speak.
Rikard entered, expression unreadable. The jailor—the snuffling one—followed after, pulling the chain in his hands and propelling a grim-faced Levi into the room. The four of them stood there for a moment, a note of uncertainty hanging in the air. Rikard gestured vaguely for the guard to remove the manacles. "Make it count," he muttered to Levi.
What...was going on?
Levi paused midway through rubbing his wrists to look at the man, some unspoken message passing between them before he nodded once, sharp, and averted his eyes. Rikard passed his gaze over Mikasa for the briefest of glances and then made another gesture for the guard to follow him back through the door. Then they were alone. For a brief moment, she wondered if she was still sleeping, if this was some feverish dream her mind had created in its crisis.
The tension in the air was too thick for this to be a dream, though. Levi was here, in the room with her. No bars. No bond.
His slate gaze found hers, and he inhaled as if to say something but then hesitated. She should speak. Ask if he was alright. The words were caught in her throat.
"Did you ever finish that book?"
The question was almost as surprising as the quick, gasp of a laugh that hiccupped out of her mouth. Of all the things he could have asked her—and it was just so him. Her chest spasmed, and when she inhaled to speak, all that came out was a choked sigh. His eyes widened, and then he was advancing toward her. His figure blurred in her vision, but she managed to stumble forward and meet him halfway.
And he had her. She could feel his arms and his breath and the heat from his body. The bond was a hurricane in her mind, all her senses alight and overstimulated by his presence.
"Are you alright?" His voice was quiet, eyes roaming her face, the tears on her cheeks.
"I'm fine," she croaked, willing herself to pull it together. "You?"
He didn't reply immediately, just continued staring as if he was witnessing her for the first time. He leaned in, cheek against hers, nose to her jaw. "I'm fine," he whispered, his warm breath sending goosebumps up her neck.
There was something in his tone she recognized, however, and it made her pull away to search his face again. It was faint, but there—the well-tamed anxiety she felt in her own chest.
As if sensing her thoughts, he murmured, "Hanji's cutting it close. Then again, she's always been one for theatrics, so maybe she just wants a grand entrance." It was his attempt at lightening the mood probably, but the tension was still there on his face.
"Yeah," she muttered, and his eyebrow twitched—just the faintest quirk. Her answer was not exactly inspiring hope.
He pulled away completely from her, eyes tracing the room. "Just exactly how far off-plan are we?"
When she didn't reply immediately, his face became stony. "I'm not sure," she said.
"You're not sure."
She'd heard that particular tone of his multiple times in her head—that carefully enunciated delivery in the bottom of his register—but had forgotten just how intimidating it was in person. It certainly didn't quell the roiling anxiety in her gut.
"You're not sure," he repeated, more to himself. She knew it was untimely, but a familiar spark of irritation flared in her gut.
"I don't exactly have an unexplainable mental connection to everyone in the military, so updates are a bit difficult."
A low chuckle. "I'm quite aware of that. But, in case you didn't know, we're probably getting executed first thing tomorrow."
The nausea was back. "Tomorrow?" His expression faltered, something close to chagrin there, and she banished the girlish trepidation from her voice. "I thought we had more time."
"Yeah, well shit out of luck we are."
"What would you have me do?" Mikasa hissed, casting her hands up. "Tell me, what should I do about any of this?"
Levi took a step toward her, his voice lowering. "I told you not to come here."
"And I told you that it wasn't up to you." Panic was beginning to mingle with frustration, and a very unwelcome feeling tightened around Mikasa's throat.
Levi ignored her comment and set to pacing, deep in thought. He was thinking aloud—the closest to prattling she had ever heard from him. "Erwin knows about the vision. He'll want to get you out of here as quickly as possible. He can't risk you." He halted his stride when she didn't answer, and then turned completely to look at her with that same questioning gaze. She only stared at him, outlining the shape of his face and watching it slowly form into an expression of disbelief. "You didn't tell him."
Mikasa sighed and sat back down on her cot, exhaustion pressing itself against her awareness. "No, I didn't. Look, Erwin's plan is sound, as it usually is. But I am an integral component to that plan, and telling him about this wasn't going to change—"
Levi was before her in one stride, hauling her to eye-level by her shoulders. "That was not your decision to make." His gaze was livid beneath messy fringe—she had never seen him so impassioned.
Mikasa recovered from the shock of his behavior, rising to her full height and pushing him away with a rough shove of her hand. He hardly moved, despite her strength, but it allowed her some breathing room. "I wasn't about to sit on my ass just because I'm indispensable while my comrades risked their lives! It's we who can put a stop to this whole thing." She gestured between them. "Bond, abilities, doesn't matter the reason. It's the two of us, Levi!"
Of course he was right; she knew she'd made a selfish decision by going around authority. Not to mention foolish.
But.
"You would have done the same if roles were reversed." She cleared her throat against that irritating waver. "Don't deny it."
He was silent for a moment before murmuring a short, "I don't."
"I thought you trusted me."
The anger on Levi's face faltered, momentarily replaced by a look of mild surprise. "Mikasa…" He pressed his lips together, exhaling through his nose and carding both hands through his dark hair. Then he chuckled—a tired, mirthless sound. "You have much more than my trust."
The words hung in her mind, repeating like a riddle—one that didn't need to be solved but she insisted on analyzing all the same. It was a statement of fact, no confession or proclamation—he'd already moved on from the topic, sitting down on the cot with a tired sigh while she remained standing, pondering.
Observing.
Levi pressed his forehead against his palms, slender fingers curving, and her gaze traced over his hands—his nails, astonishingly neat despite the circumstances, the veins winding down his wrists and forearms, the abrasions left behind by the cuffs encircling his wrists.
"This place…" She nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. "I never thought I'd come back here." His eyes were hidden beneath his bangs, but she could see the tension in his jaw. "And if I get out…" He dragged a hand down his face, clearing the reverie. "I'm worried not all of me is gonna come back."
Some point on the floor held his focus, and for a while, neither spoke. He rubbed absently at a scuff on his pant leg, the blank look on his face unmistakable. If a man such as Levi was capable of breaking down, this was probably what it would look like. He thumbed the spot on his pant once again, and Mikasa's eyes were inexplicably drawn to the motion.
Dirt. It was dirty.
Everything was filthy—they were surrounded by dirt, buried hundreds of feet below it. Mikasa's gut twisted with a strange, vicarious revulsion, as if she were witnessing it all for the first time—the dirt, the soil and rock and clay, were not organic compounds in his mind but bars on a cage. This place held history, and it held filth. He wasn't afraid of leaving a piece of himself behind, he was afraid of bringing something with him—something that wouldn't wash off.
"I told you I was going to get you out of here." Her voice came out firmer than intended—commanding. "That means all of you."
Gray eyes drifted to her for only a moment, and she hated that hollow look he gave her; he didn't believe her. Or perhaps he thought she didn't understand. "Maybe I made a mistake." The ground captured his attention again. His voice had never sounded so lost to her, so hollow. "She gave me a choice and I should have..."
Mikasa thought she understood, vaguely, and it filled her with a strange emotion. "How did you convince Rikard to bring you here?
His head moved, as if she'd called his name from far away, stirred him from a dream. "I didn't. He came to my cell." He rubbed at the dirt on his pants again. "I guess you could say he felt guilty or something."
"He knows about the bond," Mikasa ventured, steeling herself for his reaction. To her shock, he only nodded. "I didn't tell him," she quickly added.
"I know. He was pretty forthright. About a lot of things."
He worried his lower lip between his teeth, and her eyes fell to the movement. He was entirely walled up, barricaded in with his thoughts. She could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, as if he could think his way out of their situation.
It wasn't until that moment that she actually registered how good looking she found him. She wasn't going to deny the mutual attraction between them, but she'd never consciously considered how physically pleasing he was. Possibly even handsome. How odd.
Mikasa wondered then what he thought of her. She wanted—no, needed to know. Their reunion hadn't exactly gone the way she would have liked. Then again, most if not all their interactions tended to devolve into an argument.
He made space on the cot for her to sit when she began to remove her boots. She didn't take it. It was only at the sound of her blouse being unbuttoned did Levi slowly turn his head and really look at her. The blouse joined her shoes.
"What are you doing?" he whispered, expression no longer hollow.
"What does it look like?" She stood there for a moment, oddly feeling like she was preparing for a sparr. He made to stand, but her hand shot up. "Stay."
There would have been a time when he'd have riled at her tone, and a time before that when it was considered backtalk. Any lines delineating such boundaries had since been well beyond blurred. And they were well beyond caring.
The bond crackled—stronger than ever, yet just out of grasp, stretching out and out. Levi's slate eyes roamed over her face, expression softening as he took her in. Mikasa's entire frame trembled, and every bit of control she possessed went toward masking it. The bond flexed and pulled, stretched taut like a drum, urging her toward some form of release—to fight, to run, anything. "Take off your shirt."
His brow did arch at that. At her brazenness, most likely, because surely he wasn't surprised by where this was going. He didn't react immediately, his eyes leaving her face and trailing down in a shameless examination of her form. Then his hands went to the hem of his shirt. "Brat."
"Shorty."
The barest hint of a smile ghosted across his mouth, and for some reason it gave her confidence. Then, as if to rebel against her orders, he forsook his shirt and removed his own boots instead, that barely-there smirk still clinging to his mouth.
"Why do you always fight me?" she asked, voice coming out as a whisper, heart hammering like mad in her chest.
His eyes burned a trail across her exposed skin, and she was relieved to see something in their depths other than that bleak emptiness. "I could ask you the same thing." The muscles of his sides flexed as he finally lifted his shirt over his head. "In fact, I'd say you're usually the one to start it."
The thrill of competition made Mikasa's chest flutter. She'd seen him without a shirt during training or on exceptionally hot days, but this was decidedly different—the moment suddenly seemed very real, and it left her feeling stranded. Indeed, she'd started this, but she was unsure of what to do next. Before nerves could get the best of her, she unzipped the front of her pants, hoping he couldn't see the tremble in her hands as she slid the garment over her hips.
Now in nothing but her underthings, she stared him down. He would have to stand to remove his own pants, but she'd told him to stay, so he wasn't moving. The notion of him obeying her words was strange, and somewhat thrilling. He was waiting. The restless feeling in her abated some—she felt more in control of the moment, and considered that maybe he was just as wired as she.
It was her move, then. She called the shots and it was her move. Levi's face was controlled as ever, but she could see the tension in his body, the way he held himself literally at the edge of his seat. She watched him breath in as her hand reached behind her back to find the fastenings—
The bed creaked beneath Levi as he shot to standing. Mikasa faltered, bindings held in place by her hands. He was before her in a heartbeat, fingers hovering but not touching, the heat of his body like a furnace. She kept her gaze on his mouth, the spark of a challenge still burning in her belly but tempered by that earlier trepidation. His thumb slid across the hollow of her throat, his long fingers tracing feather-light over her clavicle and down to where her hands still clasped at her chest.
A soft exhale left her as the cool air kissed her flesh. His dark gaze flicked up to her face, her mouth, and then back down. Her head spun with a lightness that was not from the bond—her skin was aflame. His oh so light touch left gooseflesh in its wake, and she shuddered as a finger caught along the peak of her breast.
"Levi," she breathed, his name half a moan.
Something deep resonated in his chest—a growl, a groan, she didn't know—and then his arms were around her, pulling her against him, and she could have wept because it was too fucking perfect the way his mouth molded over hers. His hands were everywhere, scorching her—down her back, the sides of her breasts, the tender flesh of her hips.
Another groan rumbled in his throat as her hands tangled in the soft strands of his hair. She was unabashedly pressing herself against him, as if she wanted to meld their bodies together. Finally, because even this wasn't close enough, Levi grabbed the back of her thighs and brought her legs around his hips.
For a moment, their kiss broke, and he all but tossed her onto the cot. Then he was over her, surrounding her with his body, his lips, his breath, and she met him with equal frenzy. Her heart was an erratic thing in her chest, thrashing against the confines of her ribs and threatening to split her open.
"You were right," she said between kisses. He brushed his lips along her jaw, listening. "It's not the same."
The faint curve of his smile pressed against her neck, quickly replaced by the blunt edge of his teeth as he retraced his path across her jaw. "No, it's not," he agreed, fingers sliding across her clothed sex and making her shiver.
"Take off your pants," she gasped.
He pressed the heel of his hand against her. "Quit bossing me around." Clever fingers curled beneath the fabric of her underwear, and the slick heat he encountered there made him hiss through his teeth. "Fuck, Mikasa."
They were kissing again, his tongue emulating the strokes of his fingers. It was slow—rhythmic and gentle. And it wasn't nearly enough.
"Please," she rasped, fingers scrabbling at his belt. "Please take off your fucking pants."
His hand emerged from between her thighs and met hers at his belt, and she felt the rush of success in her gut...and then he was stopping her. His hand was over hers, very clearly calling a halt to the moment.
"What are you doing?" she whined, arching against him in frustration.
He rested his forehead against her shoulder, breath hot against her clavicle. "Not like this," he breathed, grasping her hip firmly when she tried to move against him.
Mikasa threw her head back against the pillow, groaning in frustration. "Then how else would you like to do it."
"I'm not gonna frantically fuck you on some shitty mattress in a shitty room. Especially if this is...this we don't…" He didn't really need to say it, because that dread was looming like a dark cloud above their heads. And suddenly they had so much more to lose.
"Is that was you think?" She carded her hand through his hair, the other going to his jaw as she forced his face to her. "No," she growled, and suddenly he was on his back—which was some feat, considering the narrow acreage of the cot. He tried to sit up, but then she was moving and his mouth parted ever so slightly. "I told you I'd get you out of here," she said. "We aren't fucking dying," a small gasp of breath left her as her hips rolled forward, and she faltered for the briefest moment, "you understand?"
Those gray eyes burned, his jaw tense as if he were clinging to the vestiges of his control. She ground her hips once more and his eyes fluttered. "Fuck."
She caught his jaw again, and his own hand leapt to her wrist upon instinct. Always a battle, and she liked it because she could see how clearly he did too. She could feel it. "Stop. Fucking. Thinking."
He shot to seated, hoisting her backward onto his thighs to then fumble open the front of his pants. Her hand dove between them and found his firm flesh, driving a strangled groan from him. His grip on her hips was verging on painful, and she could feel the taught restraint in his body as he tried to keep still.
"This…" she began, and he tensed for a new reason, sensing her hesitation. Her face heated, aware that she was now the one over thinking. "It's been a while." Indeed. A long while. She'd done this once before and that had been a few years ago.
Levi's hands were warm and steady against her waist, thumbs pressing ever so lightly—a wordless conveyance—and he leaned forward to press his forehead against her sternum. She felt his breath between her breasts, down her belly, felt him nod softly. "Yeah, me too."
It was a strange thing to think about—if she let herself think about it—that the two of them should be here, so intimate and connected. The man beneath her seemed a different person from the man she'd known as her superior or captain—then again, she hardly recognized herself. How could they be the same after the experiences they'd shared over the past few months? It seemed like a different life, a different reality. And pulling him to her now, shifting to connect their flesh so it matched that bridge in their minds, she didn't know how things could ever be the same.
Oh, and that was fine with her. The feeling of him inside her was fine too, and the way he grit his teeth against her throat and surged beneath her. If she angled back, she discovered the delightful press of his lower abdomen against that most tender place on her sex as she sunk down. She felt powerful moving upon him, meeting him again and again and then catching his mouth with hers—he made her feel powerful.
They should slow down—her release was more in her mind still, but it was there, beckoning like a distant flame. Levi seemed to be growing wise to the effectiveness of this angle, and he tilted her hips with a firm grip so she rubbed more directly against him every time she shifted down. The flame was now not so distant, and she suddenly couldn't recognize the sound of her voice—the breathy sighs, torn from her throat and mingling in part with his name, and she loved to say it, over and over again, and he shouldn't stop because it was right there—!
And then she was consumed, burning and twisting in the flame, her words no longer real but something foreign—glossolalia. His mouth arched over her own, swallowing her cries as she spasmed around him. The world shifted, and suddenly the cot was against her back, her knees to the air, and he was moving again, desperate. The feeling of him moving in her made her sigh and open more for him. She wanted to remember the feeling of his hair between her fingers, his waist held captive in her thighs, and then the heat of his breath against her neck, her jaw, the way his hands gripped at her legs and sides and breasts. She said his name again, and then whispered in his ear like a confession, and entirely unthinking, "let me feel."
Her head was wrenched back by the sudden, unexpected force of it—waves of coiled feeling furling and unfurling, and she didn't know where she began and he ended. He gave a stifled groan against her neck, thrusting into her once, twice, and then she didn't know if she was coming again or just feeling him. And then it was gone, too soon, but it left her boneless.
"Did that just...work?" she panted, hoping he'd assimilate her meaning—he'd shared something with her through the bond.
Apparently he did understand, because of course he did. "Whatever the it was, it worked very well."
They lay there, breaths returning, bodies cooling, and Mikasa felt enough of her senses revive to lift her hand and find his face where it rested near her breast. His fingers stirred beside her hips, hands curving to the shape of her. There was no rush to move, to speak. She combed through his hair, lulled by the tantric rhythm of his ribs expanding above her, and she thought the lump in her throat was at odds with the fullness in her chest.
His mouth moved against her skin, and there was something significant in the press of his lips, something that branded and marked. "This," he said, indicating the white scar on the outer side of her right thigh.
"Rikard. The knife he threw at the cave."
Dark fringe obscured his face from her as he bent his head down, and for a moment he just stayed there. His fingers were light against the faded wound, moving to trace the lines left behind by her gear—markings he too bore. "I'm sorry about earlier. Fighting with you was the last thing I wanted."
A coy smirk worked its way to her mouth. "I thought you missed fighting with me." He was serious though, and she sobered, reaching out to pull him over her again. "We're getting out of here. Even if we have to fight our way out."
Gray eyes roamed her features, fluttered shut as she shifted his hair away from his face. He nodded, and then he leaned in to claim her mouth. This kiss was different, slower and softer than any of the others, and she thought a lot of things were worth it just for this kind of kiss.
They knew this was temporary—there were other things, less pleasant things, looming in the distance, and time was one of them. Even this development in the bond—was it something in the moment, or was the inexplicable barrier between their connection gone? And if Hanji and her squadron really had been compromised, then capitulation was not an option. The promise of a fight perhaps roared the loudest among the fray of troubles.
But for a moment they just lay there, cradled in some kind of half-daze, half-euphoria state that thrummed like the bond, sharing in what little time they did have. Suspended.
A/N: Thoughts? Also, thank you to my wifu Madam Muffins, who doesn't even ship Rivamika but has been like a total supportive hero babe throughout this whole thing. Check out her fics if you want some good writing and plot and strong female leads.