Left Behind Pt. 3

Left Behind Pt. 3

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Levi x FemReader

Established Relationship

Concept: You're gravely injured during an expedition that goes wrong, and in the confusion you're abandoned in Titan territory.

Pt. 3 Summary: There are nights it's so cold your skin burns and blisters, other nights the quiet gets to you so much you scream to the clouds just to hear something that isn't your own heartbeat. The silver frozen to your thumb keeps you alive more than the meager morsels of food you ration or the warmth you savor from your titan's flesh. But hey, at least Preston's got jokes.

Warnings (PLEASE BE AWARE): Angst, a lot of cursing, blood, injuries, gore, burns, body horror, infection, fever, hallucinations, mania, dehydration, starvation, mentions of dead animal, dead bodies, Titans, using a Titan to survive, self harm, suicidal ideations (If I missed anything, please let me know)

A/N: This chapter gets pretty rough so please read the warnings above before starting below. I'm absolutely blown away by the support I've gotten for this story, so I want to thank all of my readers, everyone who's liked and reblogged my work, and everyone who has sent me such kind words! I've reached more than 100 followers in only a few days, so thank you to everyone who is sticking around for this story! For those who wanted to be tagged, the taglist is at the bottom. Let me know if you want to be added!

-----

It takes nearly two days to cook, dry, and preserve what you've collected so far of Bully's meat as jerky. The pieces are small for rationing purposes, about the length of your palm but only half as wide. They take longer to dry in the damp and chill of the storm's wake, but you manage under the cover of the trees. You're lucky the inevitable follow-up blizzards haven't rolled in quite yet, but they will, and the wait has the marrow of your teeth on edge.

What's left of Benny's cloak becomes food storage, though sacrificing the extra warmth of a thick cloak unsettles the two pieces of jerky you'd indulged in to curb the stomach cramps. But you can't just let your only food source freeze solid, even when the wind picks up and your skin starts to prickle unpleasantly.

Or maybe that's just the weight of Preston's stare heavy between your shoulders.

Turning your head, you scrunch your nose at Preston's sunken eyes, only now realizing they're a shiny yellow color that you just know Levi would compare to piss. "I'd offer you a piece," you say, waving around a slice of jerky, "but you don't actually need to eat and I don't want to starve. Besides, you didn't help."

His tongue just lolls out of his gaping mouth, lower jaw completely removed and steaming. The upper row of his teeth are deceptively sharp and straight. All pearly white and even. Your own teeth feel fuzzy in your mouth.

Preston still doesn't move, though a guttural growl bursts from his exposed throat that sprays molten blood into the white snow. You scoff with a shake of your head, and low under your breath you mutter a simple, "Drama queen."

In the time it takes you to finish tying off the sack you made from the cloak, you realize three things.

One, Preston graduated from being an 'it' to a 'him' and you're not quite sure when that happened or how to feel about it. You suppose he's sort of a pet at this point, although instead of feeding and watering and walking him, you make sure to sever his joints every few hours and use the heat of his innards to survive the chill. He doesn't seem to mind, just blinks every now and then and stares like he's expecting you to willingly waltz down his throat.

You wonder if he resents you or if he feels anything at all.

Second, you think as you flex your fingers to get feeling back in the tips, you somehow need to find the strength to swing back up to your perch in the trees to protect your food. Besides, your extra gas canisters are still up there. Which brings you to number three and why number two poses a challenge.

You're pretty sure your calf is infected.

It's not really a surprise, you didn't exactly have the supplies to properly sterilize the chain you threaded through your wound so you wouldn't bleed out, not to mention the bandages you fashioned from your cloak were hardly the cleanest. And, to be fair, you haven't confirmed if the gash is infected, so maybe the wound is fine and healing and you're overreacting. You're too scared to look.

But the deep throbbing pain you feel without even moving can't possibly be a good sign. The green of the cloak bandages have long since turned a murky brown color which means you never really stopped bleeding, just slowed down. An experimental flex of your calf has you almost doubling over. You really really can't afford to lose your leg right now, not that you can afford to rot from sepsis either.

Eyeing the fire you've been using to cook your food, you come to a very good and very painful conclusion.

It'll take several minutes for the metal of one of your blades to heat up enough to cauterize your wound. You place two blades over the fire because the gash stretches the whole length of your calf and you'd rather get the burning part finished as quickly as possible. In the mean time, you need to look at it. You need to remove the bandages and the chain and use your knife to cut out the infected flesh because otherwise the sick will spread and you'd die from the inside out without antibiotics.

You're really starting to hate the ideas you come up with.

You take a deep breath and hesitantly begin peeling away the makeshift bandages. They stick unpleasantly and sting like lemon juice in a paper cut, but for the most part the pieces of fabric come off easy. Blood runs anew down your skin when the scabs are lifted, but you're about to bleed a lot more so you don't blink twice at the thick trails of it on your leg.

If anger was a color, you're pretty sure it'd be the pulsing red of infection, something spiteful and entirely unwanted. Or maybe it'd be the blistering green of the puss leaking between your metal sutures. Or the black of your rotting skin and muscles under the dried flakes of blood. Maybe anger is a smell that reminds you of disease and filth and decay. Maybe it's not anger but fear that festers in your skin. Regardless, you know your wound is angry, furious even. You hope your knife is sharp enough to cut the anger out.

You don't have any leather to bite into because your only belt is still wrapped tight around your thigh to stabilize the break in your femur, and you're not about to risk disturbing that healing process for a little pain. Instead, you stuff your mouth with one of the cloths you'd been using for glove wrappings. It tastes like sweat and the blood from your burns that Preston's insides caused, but it'll protect your tongue from your teeth just fine.

Before you can cut away the infected pieces of your calf, you need to remove the chain. You stall as long as possible by deciding if it'd be better to rip the metal out quickly or to gingerly unthread it from your skin. Doing it fast sounds nice in theory, but you're not willing to risk the possible irreparable damage to your leg. Slow and steady and painful works in your favor.

Your muffled curses throughout the process would make even Levi blush, or proud considering you learned most of them from him.

Without pausing to dwell too much on the agony searing through your body, you grab your knife that you cleansed as much as possible in the snow and start cutting. The task is slipperier than you imagined, but the mess definitely reaches your expectations. Blood of course, and the rivulets of green that grossly mix with the red. When you cut away the last of the rot in the wound, you quickly reach for one of the glowing heated blades and press it to your flesh.

The scream you let out even has Preston shifting behind you, garbled as the sound may be behind your gag. You spare a brief glance at your titan to make sure he isn't rearing up to eat you while your back is turned. He's not, but for the first time he's moved to curve his bulbous head down to watch you at the base of his gut. You play with the idea that he's concerned about you for half a second before deeming that thought Hange levels of ridiculous and making a mental note to slice into his spine later as an extra precaution.

Not wanting to bask in the wake of burning your own flesh for long, you reach for the second heated blade and press it onto the lower half on your wound. Your scream this time around cracks in your throat like broken glass and you nearly weep at how much you crave a cup of Levi's tea with a spoonful of honey, as much for the relief as the comfort his tea always brings you.

You probably would cut off your leg if it meant a cup of tea.

You're familiar with the stench of burning flesh, every scout learns the smell early on in their military career. That burnt crispiness of your comrades' bodies, or what could be recovered of them. It's a terrifying reality of your career. But you never thought you'd be smelling your own sizzling flesh, it's enough to make you gag.

Breath stuttering through your nose, you choke on the rag, a disgusting amount of saliva and tears dripping off the sharp curve of your chin. You spit out the cloth and cough through a dozen or so inhales and exhales that have your ribs jostling in a way that reminds you they're still bruised.

"That hurt like a bitch," you mutter, pain now a throbbing ache instead of the initial sharp agony it had been. Your bones feel flimsy now that you're not quite as tense, and your head lolls in the direction of your faithful companion. "Thanks for the moral support, couldn't have done it without you, Pressy."

Your nose scrunches at the name and the weird way it rolls across your tongue. "Pressy? Tony? Esty? No, you're not one for nicknames are you?" Not a twitch from the titan in question, but you expected as much. "Thought not, you're too classy. Right, Sir Preston it is."

Clearly, it's counterintuitive to rebandage your calf in the soiled strips of cloak you had used before, so you decide to let the burns breathe rather than waste more of your blanket supply. In a motion that you imagine is comically fawn-like, you stumble into a standing position with your sack of jerky clutched between your teeth and your hands moving into position on the ODM gear triggers. Nearly all your weight settles on your left leg, but you still have full mobility of your hips, so once you're in the air it becomes second nature to maneuver yourself to your perch of spare supplies. The stack of gas canisters and spare blades are untouched. Despite there not really being anything around to reach your supplies, unless Preston snuck a quick tree climb when you weren't looking, the relief you feel at seeing them unbothered is palpable.

You check your gas and deem them full enough that you don't need to replace them, though you do add two blades to your arsenal before making your way back to the ground. Before you forget, you cut into Preston's joints again.

"This is going to be a long fucking winter," you huff, frowning at the sight of your breath puffing out in front of you. You look to the south, already feeling the exhaustion of the two kilometer trek, but you need the food. Bully's meat won't stay salvageable much longer and your current supply will only last you a month if you're stingy with the rations.

You limp, one of your blades keeping you balanced like a crutch, and throw a last second farewell over your shoulder. "Hold down the fort, Preston! I'll be back tomorrow!"

-----

On the way to Bully, you spot a bloody hand peeking out of the snow that you know belongs to Daryl. Your hearts twists in your chest, and you feel guilt settle heavy in your stomach when your eyes linger on the cuff of his sleeve.

"They'd want you to survive," you mutter, lip quivering despite yourself. "You know they would, that they'd understand." You swallow the lump of guilt in your throat and wonder how long it will take you to dig them up from beneath the snow.

You start with Daryl because he's already close to the surface, and you quickly feel the chill of ice creep into your fingertips through the makeshift gloves you tailored. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," you repeat as you dig, the words heavy in your throat. "I'll make sure she knows, that little Annabelle knows her big brother was kind and strong and helped me survive." You pause, shoulders trembling through your quiet sobs. "I'll make sure she knows you're at peace now."

You wonder if that would be a lie, but decide it doesn't matter. You need to believe it as much as his family does. After all, funerals are for the living.

His skin has gone as pale as parchment, solid like a rock and marred by splotches of frozen black rot. A selfish and sickened part of you is relieved you can't see his deadened eyes because of the snap of his neck. You gingerly recover his jacket and sweater even though both are missing a sleeve, the fabric soaking in some titan's belly somewhere along with Daryl's arm and leg. You decide to leave his pants, but what's left of his belts could be helpful, so you carefully go through the process of unbuckling what you can salvage. When you finish, you use your blade crutch to soften the packed dirt as much as possible and spend the following hour burying Daryl's body.

You can almost remember where Hailey and Benny are in relation to Daryl, a few paces away and tucked deeper into the snow than Daryl had been. You find Hailey first.

Nothing about her uniform can be recovered, other than the cloak you had already taken, because so much of her body had been eaten or otherwise mangled. But she did have a habit of wearing goggles on her head for an extra barrier of precaution from the wind when horseback riding. You carefully untangle the goggles from the brittle curls of her dark hair and stretch them over your forehead.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again, gently placing your palm against her frozen cheek. The chill of her death seeps into your fingertips. "I'll tell your mother how brave you were." You try to close her eyes, but they're stuck frozen in that same haunting expression of terror.

It doesn't take you long to bury what's left of her body, but your shoulders feel heavier than they ever have before.

Benny poses a challenge because of his size. The man is tall and bulky, he'd always been a bit slow on the ODM gear because of it but he made up for it with his strength and accuracy with the blades. You spend a long time staring at the bite taken out of your friend's skull, feeling your spine shiver with guilt and sorrow. His jacket and shirt aren't useable, punctured by the points of his caved in ribs as they are. Like Daryl, Benny's belts are salvageable and miraculously, despite a few blood and dirt stains, his pants, boots, and socks are intact.

"Thank you for saving me, Benny." You dare to touch your forehead to what's left of his. It's stiff and frozen and pulls a sob from your aching chest. "For this time, and every time you've saved me before. You deserve to rest now."

Benny doesn't have any family, except you. Burying his body deep beneath the earth is the hardest thing you've ever done. You pretend it's because you're tired and injured and cold rather than the truth of your own grief. You feel more alone than you have this entire nightmare, and suddenly you're desperate to remember why you're still alive, why you keep going, why you don't just dig a hole for yourself.

Air pulls from your lungs as you try to remember, as you tear at the wrappings around your left hand to see the silver ring on your thumb. Your fingers are a violent red and puffy with swollen blisters, but you only care to focus on the ring.

"I'm trying, Levi, I'm trying so hard," you stammer through the snot and tears of your sobs. "I'm doing everything I can, everything I fucking - " you choke, sucking in air through your hissing teeth. It's not enough, never enough, and you feel a strange haze settle over your eyes.

"I'll come back to you, my love, I promise."

-----

You put Daryl's sweater on backwards over the top of your uniform, and then his scout jacket goes on properly overtop of the sweater so each of your arms has a sleeve. The arms of his clothes are much longer than yours, so you can curl the fabric over your fingers to preserve some extra warmth. You tighten his belts around your wrists, waist, and collar to hopefully curb any cold draft.

It takes you only a few painful minutes to remove your own functional ODM gear belts so you can start layering your legs. Benny's socks go on next, both on your right leg to simultaneously bandage and warm your calf. You use one of the extra belts to seal the cuff of the socks just above your knee. You only need one of his boots, and there's enough room in them that your still swollen ankle, thick layered socks, and throbbing calf are cushioned comfortably inside.

His massive pants work in your favor as they easily go over your boots and the splint on your thigh, though you do have to roll the bottoms up several times for practicality's sake. You use the last of Benny's extra belts to cinch his pants around your waist and each ankle. You can already feel a new and refreshing warmth settling into your sore joints.

You swaddle your head, neck, and shoulders with the cloak you brought with you. It's either Daryl's or Hailey's, but you're not sure which. You leave your eyes uncovered, obviously, but you can insulate the opening in the cloth with Hailey's goggles and still see relatively well.

Fighting the repulsive feeling that hovers behind your eyes at using the demise of your friends for your survival, you reattach your ODM gear with foggy eyes. Lifting yourself to unsteady feet, you look down at the three graves you've now spent hours digging.

You sniff, saluting with a hard fist over your heart and your back as straight as your lopsided gate can allow. "Thank you for your service, your trust, and your companionship. I couldn't have asked for a better squad, better friends. I only wish we had more time together. I'm sorry...I'm sorry we don't get that time. Humanity will honor your sacrifices, I'll make sure of it."

Turning away from their graves towards Bully has you stumbling a few steps, but you right yourself with the help of your crutch and keep going.

Moving forward is the only thing you can do now.

-----

The rest of the way to Bully is uneventful, though it does take you through the night. You manage to recover the rest of her meat without incident. Hiking back to camp the next morning, however, isn't quite so kind. You're attacked by two titans during your trek.

The first surprises you from beneath the snow. It's small compared to most titans you've encountered, just around three meters, and more head than body. It moves quicker than you expect in the cold, and your thigh screams at you when you crash into the snow to dodge its swiping hand. You feel like your win here is almost entirely luck because it seems the beast has used the last of its reserved energy for that desperate grab for your body. Your blades slice through its nape like butter and you take advantage of the steam its death billows in your direction.

You actually see the second one coming, a taller five meter titan that struts chest first and doesn't swing its arms. It's easier to kill than the first just because you had the time to prepare, but you can feel your body strain with every step you take. You need to sleep, but sleeping here is a death sentence.

You take a handful of snow and pull away the bottom of your head covering so you can hydrate. The cold of it makes you shiver, but it's also strangely refreshing on your aching throat.

When you finally stumble your way back into camp, Preston is still waiting despite the cuts you made now almost entirely regenerated. You take the time to cut into those joints again, remembering to sever his spine as well, and pat his head as a small thank you for sticking around. He actually blinks at you, which you take as a gesture of friendship, and you move back to the base of his gut where your fire supplies are.

Before you can sleep, you have to get the meat at least cooked and starting to dry. It takes longer than you'd like, but you're slow from your exhaustion and lingering grief. Preston is warm at your back, and you can't help but feel comforted by the strangely supportive weight he poses behind you. That comfort is dangerous, that comfort could get you killed.

As soon as your final pieces of meat are cooked and set out to dry, you swing back up into the trees and cuddle into your last spare cloak.

Sleep doesn't come easy despite your exhaustion.

-----

A week later, the first of the many blizzards you're expecting this winter rolls in. You wait it out in the nook you fashioned in Preston's stomach, your bag of food cradled close to your chest to keep the pieces from freezing solid. It lasts long enough that you have to keep cutting into the hole you made in Preston's torso otherwise it'll heal over and, even if you could just slice your way out again, you don't particularly like the idea of your only quick exit disappearing.

He doesn't seem to mind, because you know by now the chunks of his joints you removed would have regenerated by now, but he lays motionless. You decide not to dwell on the fact that you're the parasite in this weird relationship you've found yourself relying on.

Despite all of your precautions, you tremble at the cold that sweeps into your warm haven. You groan at the strain in your muscles, but you keep reminding yourself you're still shivering. Shivering is good, shivering means your body hasn't given up yet, shivering means you're alive.

Your teeth clack together. "T-this is g-g-gon-na be a long-g f-f-fuck-fu-fucking w-winter-ter." You wonder if your blood will freeze in your veins.

-----

Two more blizzards hit your camp, lasting far longer than the short days of calm in between. You pass most of your time huddled somewhere close to Preston because you have no doubt he's the only reason you're still alive.

In many ways, your reliance on the very creature threatening to completely wipe out humanity makes disgust bubble in your blood, but in many other ways, he's a much better conversationalist than you expected.

It's during a lapse in another storm that you find yourself sitting in the fresh snow in front of Preston's unwavering yellow gaze. You blink and he actually blinks back. The action has you curious, the kind of curious that would have Hange vibrating in their seat from excitement. You blink again, twice this time, and he blinks once, but that's still a response.

Right?

You tilt your head, Preston blinks again. You can't decide if you actually see any intelligence in his eyes or if you're just fishing for something that isn't there.

"Is there anyone waiting for you, Preston?" You sigh, feeling ridiculous, but the world around you is so fucking quiet. "I bet you have a brother out there somewhere. Someone who taught you all the tips and tricks of hunting down humanity." You laugh under your breath, eyes dragging across the divots you've repeatedly made along his joints. "He didn't teach you very well."

Realizing what you're doing, you scoff and shake away the fuzziness in your head. "Walls, I'm losing my mind." You move to press your palms to your eyes, regardless of the goggles in the way, but something in your left hand feels unnaturally numb and wrong. "Shit, what now?"

You pull back the cuff of Daryl's sweater and start unwrapping the scrap of cloak that has been working well as a glove. Or, at least, you thought it had. The burns you'd gotten from Preston have long since faded, leaving behind the barest of silvery scars. They aren't the problem.

Staring down at the blackened dead tips of your index and middle finger, you think you may have been wrong about your gloves. The frostbite has spread down to the ridge just before your second knuckle on each finger. You have no feeling in those two fingers. You almost want to ignore the implications of your frozen charred digits, but you can't let the frostbite creep any further. Losing your entire hand is unacceptable; finger though, fingers are manageable.

Using your gear is about to get a lot harder, but it won't be impossible. At least, you don't think it will be.

You take a deep breath through your nose and reach for the blade at your hip that you've been using for a crutch. At this point, it's sharper and far cleaner than the smaller hunting knife you've been using for your food. You place your hand flat on a nearby rock and spare a glance at Preston, who is, of course, just watching you.

"This is a cruel fucking world, Preston," you spit between clenched teeth. You don't even bother with a gag this time around. "But, you already knew that, didn't you?"

The blade cuts through your fingers as easily as a carrot, completely severed just above your second knuckle. With a few curses, you press the fresh wounds directly onto Preston's exposed muscle from your most recent disabling of his limbs. You pull back your hand when you think it's been sufficiently cauterized and cradle the limb close to your chest.

Survival is fucking hard, but you've learned a few shortcuts along the way.

Eyes locking on the silver ring on your thumb, you smile sadly and start wrapping your new stumps in the discarded cloth. "Looks like I'll have to learn to fight like you Levi, all backwards and efficient." You grip the handle of your ODM gear, repositioning it in the exact opposite way you were trained. The new position is a little awkward, but it still settles nicely in your palm. Your pinky and ring finger can operate the triggers and you still have enough of your index and middle fingers, not to mention the bracing of your thumb, to keep a solid grip on the handle. You'll have to practice, but you think it's doable. "Maybe you've always had the right idea, I'm not even surprised."

You can practically picture his smug smirk at that kind of admittance. You miss it.

You don't even notice the familiar prickling of tears behind your eyes. You can't remember a time when that feeling wasn't there.

-----

Waking some number of mornings later, you feel uncomfortably warm under your skin and your head is foggy with sleep and dizziness. You stopped counting the days sometime during one of the many blizzards when it exceeded seventy-two hours, but you know enough about how long it's been that winter isn't over yet. Not quite, not...right?

A sharp pain in your stomach has you scrambling to your knees, only vaguely aware of the agony that rips through your right thigh, the sharp cramp in your belly not from hunger but rather nausea. Ripping off your head covering, sending the goggles flying, you retch into the snow with nothing but stomach acid and a half-digested piece of jerky to show for your efforts. You only kind of realize you fell asleep pressed to Preston's side the night before, but you have no time to dwell on that mistake. A wave of vertigo crashes over you and it takes everything in you not to collapse into the measly pile of sick.

The cold snow seeps into your heated skin, soothing the initial ache of what you think is probably a fever. You gag your way through another bout of nausea but there's nothing left in your stomach to throw up, and even if there was, you couldn't afford to lose it. Your eyes seem to pulse in your skull to the rhythm of your heartbeat, which you're pretty sure is too fast. Sweat is freezing to your cheeks and neck in little glass droplets as your body is simultaneously far too hot and far too cold.

The world tilts strangely in your vision, clouds drifting beneath your feet and trees winding unnaturally. You claw your way to your feet only to lose whatever balance you'd scrounged up, stumbling into Preston's arm to steady yourself. Your eyes roll in their sockets and a headache pierces your temples like twisting knives.

You lose consciousness somewhere between your joints locking up and falling onto the padding of Preston's regenerating palm, his yellow sunken eyes doing what they always do. Just watching.

-----

"Pathetic."

The sky is still spinning when you manage to crack your eyes open, crusty at the corners and straining against the light of the dancing sun. You don't understand, but you're pretty sure you just heard -

"You should move." That voice, that - no, wait wait wait, that's impossible, that's - "You should move unless you want to become titan shit."

Wait, just stop, just just hold on - something's pinning you down, trapping your arms at your sides. Your body is burning from the inside out, you choke on the heat, and you just want whatever is gripping you to let go.

"Actually, titans don't have digestive organs so technically you can't - " And that voice is just as impossible as the first, just as mental and wrong and why won't they help you if they're just watching -

"Oh shut up, doesn't change the fact she's gotten all buddy buddy with a fucking titan and it's going to get her killed."

"Sure, I suppose, but you know titans may be capable of more than -"

"Stop stop stop STOP!" Your voice cracks through the air, wide eyes straining to find the voices, to see them, to scream at them to help you, to get you out and take you home. You just want to go home. But you can't see them, only hear them, except now not even that, and nothing makes any sense -

Your rolling eyes connect with Preston's steady gaze and you realize you're trapped in his grip, long fingers curling around your body in a way that's almost...gentle? Your lungs shrivel as you try to take in air, ribs aching, throat clogged, and you don't understand. "Let me go, let me go, let me go, please let me go, Preston please!" You babble, tongue feeling swollen and dry in your mouth. "Please, please, Preston please let me - "

His grip is actually loosening, each finger slowly releasing their hold on your body. As soon as you have the room to move, you scramble off his palm and skid across the snow to put enough distance between you two so he can't reach for you from his reclined position. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with your breaths, right hand desperately grasping for your blade to hold it in front of you as some form of miniscule protection. It rattles in your fearful grasp.

You look for the voices, arms and throat and soul trembling as you scan your surroundings. "L-Levi? Are you - where did - Levi? Ha-Hange?" But you see nothing, nothing but Preston, and you hear nothing. You focus back on your titan, teeth grinding so roughly your jaw has started to ache. Preston's full grin glares back at you, shiny and white and healed. "You...y-you were holding me, keeping me warm. You - I don't understand, why did you...what the fuck? What the FUCK?!"

Fingers tangling into your knotted greasy hair, you pull and pull and pull. You pound a trembling fist against your temple. You're dreaming, you have to be, you're unconscious or sleeping or dying because there's no way...or maybe you're just fucking crazy -

"Not dreaming, jury's still out on the crazy part though."

Your neck cracks as you whip towards the voice, blinking at the flash of green cloak and black hair that has your heart stalling in your chest. On your feet before you can register any kind of pain, you're already ambling toward the tree he ducked behind, confused and scared and losing your mind.

"Levi! LEVI!" You hear a cackle from the opposite direction and spot a wayward brown ponytail. "Hange?! Please, what's going on?!" Something blonde flashes in your periphery. "Mike? Or - or Erwin?! Anyone?!" You're panting like a fucking dog, unable to get air passed the words caught in your throat. Right leg buckling under the strain of your panic, you trip into the snow and cry out at the way your broken femur jostles.

You curl up on your side, arms winding protectively around your middle. Tears paint trails through the grime on your cheeks, and your agonized cries are muffled by the snow.

"You left me." The whisper isn't real, it can't be real. It isn't him. It isn't him. It isn't him.

You curl up tighter. "I didn't mean to go away, my love. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

-----

You still hear them when you shouldn't, still see little teasing glimpses of them in the corner of your eye. It's Levi and Hange bickering back and forth. It's Erwin giving you orders or Mike sniffing behind your ear. It's Hailey screaming and Daryl begging for help and Benny blaming you for all of their deaths. It's Cadet O turning her back on you and running away without so much as a sorry.

It's Levi pleading for you to come back to him.

It's Levi cursing you for breaking your promise.

It's Levi telling you he hates you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, calling you names, spitting venomous words at your back, saying he loves you.

It's Levi who always sounds close enough to touch but is never actually there.

You rewrap the cloak around your head as much for the warmth as to try to muffle the voices. It doesn't work, but you pretend it does and position the goggles over your eyes to protect from the blistering wind.

You've been giving Preston the cold shoulder, unsure how exactly to approach whatever happened with the titan days ago now. He doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, doesn't try to fucking eat you like his nature wills him to.

Even so, you haven't severed his joints since that day, lost in the pounding of very real not real voices in and around your head. Your skin still feels sticky and hot, and your stomach never quite settles.

You sleep up in your tree with the last of your supplies. Only a handful of jerky pieces are left. Rationing what remains of your gas, you take the few minutes here and there where dizziness doesn't curb your balance and practice using your gear with the adjusted handhold you'll have to use from now on. You make sure one canister stays full. Every part of your body is aching and exhausted and withered from the strength it used to have.

Now, in a moment of rest and thirst, you chew on ice and sit several meters away from your titan. You tilt your head, staring directly into the unwavering yellow you've come to know so well. And then Preston does something you haven't seen him do since the day you crashed into him in the snow all that time ago.

He looks away from you.

Following the path of his gaze, you see it. Small and new and blooming from the depths of the snow. A daisy.

Your breath stutters in your chest when you see the flower, a new hope boiling with the fever under your skin. The first sign of spring. You stand and limp towards the flower, kneeling down to caress its velvety soft petals despite the wrappings on your hands.

"Time to go home," you whisper over the cacophony of voices in your ear. You focus on the feeling of the cool silver encircling your thumb. You smile. "Home."

Glancing over your shoulder, you feel something strange settle in your heart. You think you might just miss those yellow eyes. A good soldier would kill it, but he's not an 'it' anymore, and you're not sure if you can still be the good soldier you used to be.

"Goodbye," you offer a small wave, staring into those eyes that have been watching you for months now, "and, thanks for...well you know."

With your handy crutch still steady by your side, you start walking north. You tuck the daisy into the front pocket of Daryl's jacket for safe keeping.

-----

Tag List:

@leviackermanmyhero245 @everything-is-hollow @ashbash2403 @purplecandygerl @roseelilly @barnesbabyy @pissbabybitchboy @ekaymnslvs @dazzling-roaring-20s @iloveinej @gojosbucket @logibearhockey1 @beefcakebarnes

Left Behind Pt. 4

<<< Part Three

Part Five >>>

Levi x FemReader

Established Relationship

Concept: You're gravely injured during an expedition that goes wrong, and in the confusion you're abandoned in Titan territory.

Pt. 4 Summary: Levi doesn't want to learn to live without you. He doesn't want your pillow to lose your scent or you clothes to gather dust or your journals to go unread and unfilled. He's terrified for the day Erwin replaces the you-shaped hole in his strategies with a new Squad Leader, a new set of soldiers in line to replace your subordinates, your friends, who are just as unaccounted for as you. Levi has to learn to breathe without you and, honestly, he'd rather suffocate in your loss than get used to a bed without you beside him.

Warnings: Angst, cursing, depression, angry outbursts, grief, suicidal ideations (but no actions), Levi is a sad boy in this one, graphic nightmares, self-destructive tendencies (If I missed anything, please let me know)

A/N: Part 4 everyone! Sorry it's been so long! We're almost finished, thank you so much to everyone who's enjoyed the series and sent me kind words. If you want to be added to the taglist, comment below! If you're interested in making a request, check out my page for more details (I work with a bunch of different fandoms and characters). This one was a bit of a challenge to write, I hope Levi isn't too OOC. I have mixed feelings about how this one turned out, it got a little away from me sometimes, but overall I'm happy with it! Thanks again! And yes, I have a soft spot for Mike. He died too soon!

-----

Mike comes looking for him first, not that it's an especially difficult challenge. Between the giant man's canine sense of smell and the fact that Levi hasn't been able to leave his quarters since returning from his devastating visit to the infirmary, the biggest hurdle is the lock on his office door.

Which he didn't bother to actually lock, too busy wallowing in the reality of you, your body, crushed beyond the wall. Not buried, not even rotting because of the chill and the ice. Frozen in the last terrifying and agonizing moments of your life.

He doesn't even notice Mike has found him until the taller man sinks to the floor next to him. Levi hasn't been counting the seconds, minutes, hours, days since he sat down against the wall in your...in his bedroom, journal with that damning letter between its pages clutched to his chest and eyes locked on the bed he's too scared to approach.

Part of Levi is surprised Mike came to him before Hange or Erwin or any member of his own squad really. The two of them aren't exactly close, with an introduction stained in threats and gutter water and a deal that got his only friends killed. Levi has obviously grown to respect his comrade, but he can't think of a single one-on-one interaction with the man that wasn't work related.

But then he remembers that the two of you are friends - were friends - even before Levi was bullied into joining the scouts. You were on Mike's squad after Erwin rose to Commander before you graduated to a squad leader position. Any lingering surprise fades, but still, Levi is grateful for the half meter or so of space Mike leaves between them.

It's quiet for what feels like a long time, and Levi can't imagine being the one who breaks the silence. He thinks Mike must realize this because he just sits, heavy and warm and still, and he stares as resolutely at the bed as Levi does.

"Did she ever tell you we were in the training corps together?" Mike eventually asks, his deep voice uncharacteristically soft in the emptiness of the room like he doesn't want to disturb the air if he can help it.

Levi is thankful for the consideration and mumbles a barely-there 'no' in response.

"I joined later than most soldiers, nearly into my twenties actually," the blonde continues, keeping that gentle rumbling tone. "I have a big family back home. The second oldest of five, all boys, all practically carbon copies of me." He pauses here for a long enough moment that Levi wonders if that's really all he has to say. "I fight for humanity, fight as a scout because I believe in Erwin's cause, but I initially joined the military for a much less noble and much more selfish reason. I joined to get away from the plan my family had set out for me. I wanted to break the mold my brothers had all fallen into so easily."

"Tch, why are you telling me this?"

But Mike just pushes on like Levi hadn't spoken - maybe he hadn't, his tongue feels swollen and his throat tight. "Most cadets in the training corps start between the age of fourteen and sixteen on average, but there was this tiny twelve-year-old girl in our ranks that year. I'll give you one guess as to who that little girl became."

Your name gets stuck in his chest, but neither of them need to say it to imagine that small girl. Levi thinks about what you must have looked like at that age, probably too small and too innocent, all baby teeth and pigtails and thin limbs with none of the built up muscle he knows you to have, but still just as passionate and kind and you.

Picturing that tiny version of you standing at attention next to hardened cadets, whatever Commandant existed before Shadis screaming in your face to scare you, break you, mold you into the perfect soldier, and Levi thinks about if he could go back in time to warn that little girl away from her path to suicidal heroism even if it meant erasing all the time you shared together. At least you'd be alive, far away from the tragedy of this life. Maybe married, maybe with kids. Happy and safe.

Nausea crawls up Levi's throat when he realizes that picture doesn't include him. Selfishly, he can't wish for that reality either.

The sound of Mike taking a deep shaky breath brings Levi out of his spiral. He chances a glance to his left and holds back a frown at the despair he sees in Mike's posture.

"She was always the butt of the joke, y'know? Youngest, smallest, one of only a handful of girls. Easy target. Even to our instructors." Mike scoffs, large hand running through his hair. He has a smile curving his lips, but Levi can see the melancholic edge to it. He's never actually heard Mike speak this much before, let alone this familiarly. Levi isn't really sure how to feel about it. "I started eating lunch with her. I think I was hoping if everyone saw me, the oldest and biggest one there, favoring her then they'd back off. I didn't find out until years later that they all just got better at hiding it."

Levi frowns, wondering why you never told him about your time in the training corps, about the bullying, about Mike. But then, he never asked. Too busy wanting to know and love and cherish the you of now that he never thought much about the you of then. The past has always been something he wanted to leave behind, learning about yours prompted the possibility of inviting you into his own. A possibility that held him back from you for so long, too long. Wasted time. He wishes more than anything he could ask why you decided to join the military so young, what you were like as a child, as a cadet, how you became the person he loves so much.

He knows some of it. No siblings, dead parents, the hardest worker he's ever known. It's not enough, it'll never be enough. And now he can't ask you.

But he can ask Mike.

"What was she like?"

"Back then?" Mike seems to roll many possible answers between his teeth before he finally parts his lips. A sad smile pulls at his cheeks. "Small, smart, real quiet at first...so fucking strong. Not just with the bullying, I mean literally strong." He barks half a laugh, covering a sniffle with a swipe to his nose. "She took hand-to-hand combat so seriously during training, more than anyone. A few lessons in and she knocked me off my feet. I would have been embarrassed if she didn't look so proud. Not smug or arrogant. She, uh, she did this little dance, pumped her fist in the air, laughed. Not even at me, just laughed, like she couldn't believe what she did."

Levi can picture it, a smaller you and that little jig you do for every worthwhile accomplishment. You still do it, goofy and ridiculous, and he misses it. Every promotion, every bet you win against Hange, every time your squad comes back with no casualties. That thought has bile churning in his gut.

You did it the first time he kissed you, not that you knew he saw you do it. It's one of his favorite memories.

"I think it was that day," Mike's voice drifts, bringing Levi back into the moment, "she became more to me than just a fellow soldier. She's the little sister I never had and didn't realize I wanted, has been since she smiled and held out a hand like she could actually lift me to my feet and asking me if we could spar again."

"She was."

"Hm?"

"She was your little sister." The words taste bitter and bite like acid from his throat. "She can't be that anymore."

Levi's pretty sure under any other circumstances, Mike would have hit him. He can see the larger man in his periphery, fists clenching and unclenching on his knees, deep unsteady breaths ruffling his chest, eyes glaring hatefully at the floor.

It's a long anger-filled moment before Mike speaks again, his voice carefully controlled - more familiar to Levi than the soft grief he'd spoken with the last several minutes. "What each of us lost out there, it's different Levi. I lost a sister, Hange a friend, Erwin a trusted ally, you...you lost what you lost. I can't speak on that, on how you move forward from that. But me? I don't stop caring just because she isn't here to be cared for."

Levi swallows, eyes stinging as he stubbornly grapples with his grief. Part of him thinks it'd be easier to give up loving you now that you're gone. Because it hurts so fucking much and he doesn't know how to make it stop. The rest of him is terrified of who he'd become without that love. His fingers flex around the journal, hoping Mike doesn't ask about it next.

"She is my little sister, she'll always be my little sister, even if she isn't here to knock me on my ass and laugh."

Mike leaves Levi with those parting words and a brave hand gripping his shoulder, kindly closing the door behind him.

The room feels small without you to warm its corners. Quiet too. He stares at the bed the two of you shared for months now, trying to remember the last thing he said to you, wondering when he last told you he loved you, and realizes something he may have to actually thank Mike for later.

You are the love of his life, and that will never change. A tear warms his cheek, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. Levi wishes you were still here to be loved.

-----

Nothing helps him move forward, but at least training keeps him busy. With the harsh weather wracking against the rickety walls, shuttering the windowpanes, and snow piling high like stones, Levi thrives in the chill settling in his bones amidst the raging storm and the extra challenge of the wind curving his swings unpredictably.

Levi doesn't order his squad to join him - not when his objective has more to do with the emptiness of you at his side than honing any actual skills - but they're behind him anyway. Dependable and strong and showcasing every reason why he chose them in the first place. Your squads were close, elite as they always have been, and he knows they're feeling a heavy loss as well.

He accidently walked in on Gunther comforting a sobbing Petra two days ago, drying tear tracks flashing on the taller man's cheeks. All Levi could do was clutch the letter in his pocket, now wrinkled and soft from being unfolded and read and folded over and over and over, while offering as understanding a nod as he could manage before leaving them to it. Normally he'd have a word or two of support, if not encouragement, but he hasn't managed more than a few syllables since his conversation with Mike.

The wind is sharp like razors, nipping at any weak points of exposure on their skin. Levi knows a kind of cold from his childhood, of loneliness and damp and death and no sun rising on any future days. This cold reminds of that. His heart withers at the reminder of future sunrises without you - the first sunrise without you.

He's grateful the clouds of every storm since their return, blizzards you once told him back when he didn't know what weather meant or how it felt, have blocked the sky and sun and the stars at night. Not ready to see them, to experience them, without you to point out fake constellations or make up stories about the sun chasing the moon, never catching it, but rising everyday to try again.

Somehow, he's become the sun in your relationship, and the reality of that has his throat tightening. Pulling air into his lungs burns more than it soothes.

When he finally notices the chattering teeth of his comrades, following a harsh wind and a fresh drenching of snow, he orders them inside to change, eat, and warm up. Petra asks if he's going inside too. He's never been a liar.

They stay out with him until he decides the chill of ice in his veins and snow in his eyes is no longer cold enough to numb him.

-----

He's somewhere dark, so dark he can't see anything beyond his hand when he lifts it in front of him. Everything is empty, not cold or hot, wet or dry, or anything but the soft tickle of grass between his toes. Levi's brow furrows, looking down at the circler patch of green he's found himself standing in.

Why is he barefoot?

His lip curls at the thought of the filth he'll have to scrub away later. He's dressed in the pajamas you often coax him into wearing instead of his uniform to bed. Plush long pants, low on his hips with a drawstring and a material that feels just as good against your skin as it does his own when you twine your legs together throughout the night, and a simple t-shirt he tends to forgo in exchange for the relaxing tingle of your fingers dancing doodles onto his chest.

You.

Where are you? Why aren't you here with him? In this dark empty place. A place seemingly untouched by bad or evil or tragedy, but also unknown to goodness. Maybe that's why you aren't here, chased away because of your kindness and compassion and smile. The possibility has panic twitching under his skin. His fingers flex at his sides, itching to lace with yours and trail loving touches down your cheeks. He needs to find you, to see you.

Levi takes a cautious step forward, dew drops soaking into the soles of his feet that has his nose scrunching distastefully. He takes another. And another. And another.

Nothing changes. Not the light, not the grass, not the pitch blackness that seems to be drawing him in as much as it's pushing him away. But he's moving forward, or...it feels like he is.

There's a sudden pressure on his shoulder, but when he spins around, nothing is there and he wonders if he imagined it. A few more steps and then it's back, a gentle press of what feels like a hand between his shoulder blades. It's familiar and comforting and reminds him of a home Levi never thought he deserved, let alone could actually attain. He knows it's you.

It's you pressing into his back, now both of your hands kneading into his muscles, molding the sharp edges of his bones. His eyes drift closed. He feels a warm gust of your breath against his neck, instinctually tilting his head to give you more access, to feel you as much as you're willing to give him. A ghost of your lips brings goosebumps to his skin. Levi doesn't turn this time, doesn't open his eyes, terrified you'll disappear and he'll lose your touch, your breath, your warmth.

Your hands wind around his chest, tracing your name onto the spot his heart beats for you, the shape of your body he's come to learn so well pressed wholly against his back. A scent so uniquely you surrounds him, drawing him further into your arms that now cradle him so so perfectly. Your lips reach his ear, breath fanning across the ridge and he sighs in contentment, waiting for your voice to reach him.

"You abandoned me." It's a whisper, intimate and soft in his ear, but the words grate along his skin and make him freeze. "You left me to die." It's your voice - the voice that soothes him to sleep, that laughs at his jokes, that sobs and screams and sings and melts into his heart - but they're the wrong words, the worst words. Words you would never say because they could never be true.

Why are you saying those awful words? Why are you driving a blade into his chest, squeezing his lungs, tearing into his heart until his bleeding soul is exposed?

Levi's eyes snap open and he whirls around, but you're already gone and that same dark emptiness seems to expand around him, suffocating in a way it hadn't been before. He falls to his knees, trying to draw in breaths as he chokes on your name. The air feels heavier, pressing him down into the grass, snapping at his joints and crushing -

Crushing. That's right, you were crushed. You were alone and scared and crushed beyond the wall. And he left you out there.

Levi hears what sounds like a horse's hooves thundering on the ground, a sound as familiar to him as his own footsteps. He manages to look up despite the pressure of the air on his neck holding him down, gritting his teeth at the effort it takes.

He sees Bully. He sees you, fully decked out in your gear, rain plastering your hair to your skull, fresh blood steaming on your blades and your hands as proof of a recent kill. You don't see him, riding Bully directly passed his kneeling point, but he sees you and he screams. He screams so agonizingly his throat splits and blood pools on his tongue. He screams for you to stop. Stop stop stop STOP! Don't go! DON'T -

Levi sees the titan before you do, but the air is pinning him down and he has no gear, no horse, you're too far away, and the titan is raising its fist. The world cracks beneath him when the fist comes down, your blood and Bully's blood spraying the titan's skin in a macabre painting of gore. Nausea and horror attack his stomach, but nothing comes up except his pleas for you to come back to him.

The hoof beats start up again, Bully running by with you riding strong on her back. Levi fights against the air, clawing at the ground and his skin and wailing at you to slow down, to wait for him. He'll save you, he'll protect you, he'll -

The ground beneath him cracks again as the titan stomps on you this time, your limbs stuck between its toes and blood leaving prints in the grass as it runs.

And then Bully is back, coming from another direction, only to pass by Levi's begging pitiful form again. The earth splits a third time when Levi is forced to watch the titan grab for you, squeezing until you pop between its fingers and dribbling your remains down its throat.

He has to watch again and again and again as you're crushed over and over and over. With every death a new crack severs the ground below him, the air pushing him down and down and down.

Kicked into a tree.

Flattened between two heavy hands like a bug.

A casualty of a clumsy titan's tripping body.

Slapped into the ground.

Chewed and split between a titan's teeth.

He's forced to see every way your death could have happened, fingers knotted in his hair, his voice raspy and broken from his screaming, begging and begging and begging.

Eventually there are too many cracks, and the earth opens up below him, swallowing him whole.

Levi welcomes the fall, wondering if he'll see you at the bottom.

He blinks awake, a heaving breath expanding his chest and fingers grappling for some kind of purchase. Levi's nails dig into the plush blue arms of your reading chair he's taken to sleeping in on nights he can pull himself from his desk and dare to rest in the room you shared. It still smells like you, holds the shape of you in a way that's strangely comforting.

The bed stays untouched, gathering dust because Levi can't even bring himself to shake out the sheets.

He has this nightmare every time he sleeps for more than an hour. It tears into his heart and lingers, blackening any solace he tries to find in his days. He pretends a large part of him doesn't look forward to the dream because at least he gets to feel you, to see you, even if it kills him a little more each time.

Levi doesn't know how it happened, but he knows you were crushed. There are so many ways to be crushed.

He doesn't bother to wipe away the tears on his cheeks until the sun rises and the day starts, even though they make his skin sticky and his eyes crusty.

-----

Levi is unwilling to risk the health and safety of his squad more than he has already - Oluo had a cold for days after the last impromptu training session in a blizzard - so instead he splits his knuckles in the gym and perspires enough that his sweat drips like fresh rain.

The sand bag is stained with his blood since he hadn't even bothered with wrappings to cushion his fists. He thinks his pinky might be broken on his right hand, it's purpling and bruised, but the pain spurs him on because you're not here to scold him or fix him or spot him when he trains. Maybe if he keeps going, you'll come barging in with a lecture on your lips and bandages in your hands because, no matter how angry you are, you would never leave him hurting.

Except he's hurting now, and you're nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Hange steps into the gym, a flask of water and a small bag under their arm that he knows is a first aid kit. They don't approach him. They don't stop him. They take a seat on one of the benches lined up against the back wall, set aside the supplies they brought, cross their arms and legs, and they watch him. They wait.

Levi pummels his knuckles until they're raw and numb and more red than flesh. He eventually drops down next to Hange when it takes more effort to breathe than it does to punch, bracing himself on his knees with his elbows. His hair has grown too long, untrimmed bangs hanging in front of his eyes when he leans forward, but he's more grateful for the barrier than he is annoyed by the length.

Without a word, Hange opens the kit they brought and pulls out some cloth, alcohol, and bandages. They soak one of the cloths in the alcohol and reach for the hand closest to them, which also happens to be the one with a broken finger.

Levi hisses between his teeth at the sting of the alcohol on his cuts, but otherwise doesn't protest or complain. Spotting the bright bruising on his pinky, Hange again reaches into the kit, and pulls out supplies for a small finger splint. The clean white bandages are speckled with his blood, but the process overall doesn't take long when neither of them are talking.

When Hange is finishing the wrappings on his broken finger, they sigh and gently hold his damaged hand between their ink stained palms. "I saw Oswin this morning too," they murmur, brow furrowing and rare frown pulling down their lips. "I wanted to tear her hair out as much as you probably did. I'm only half glad neither of us followed through."

Theodora Oswin had been reassigned to a new squad considering she was the last surviving member of yours and still far too green to take on any kind of leadership role. He hadn't seen much of her since the expedition, which he's grateful for, but that morning in the mess hall...

He'd gone for a fresh cup of tea, foolishly hoping this time it wouldn't be bitter like ash in his mouth, when he'd seen her with her new squad mates. Laughing.

The mental image of her jaw cracking under his fist was enough to have him turning on his heal and seeking out the gym, forgoing the tea because the cup would have shattered in his grip anyway.

Levi rumbles a noncommittal sound in his throat and lets Hange finish tying off the bandages on his other hand.

Neither of them move to stand. They sit until long after the sun has set and dinner is over and curfew is in effect. Levi doesn't say anything about the occasional sniffle that shakes Hange's shoulders. Hange doesn't say anything about the way he laces his fingers, gripping so tightly the bandages stain red.

-----

Sometimes he stands in front of your collection of journals, itching to read them, to know parts of you he shamefully never asked about. Wanting to hear your voice in the words you wrote. But he doesn't because you never gave him permission into that part of you, not explicitly, not beyond a few pages. It feels like an invasion of privacy, and really, he would be disappointed no matter what he finds because it doesn't matter. Not when you aren't here to read the passages of your life to him. Not when you aren't here to add to the collection. Not when he can't be a part of every passage in your future.

But he does stare at them often.

-----

When the snow starts melting and there are no clouds to block the sunrise, Levi hides away in his office so he doesn't have to watch it. Curtains closed, head in his hands, your goodbye letter unfairly crumpled in front of him. He's thought about burning it, about tearing it up, about writing back to you. He does none of those things and just reads it again.

There's a knock on his door, so he calls out a gruff, "Name and business," while frantically folding the letter and tucking it in his breast pocket.

No one answers him, but when Erwin walks in, any irritation on that matter fades quickly.

"The snow is melting," he says like Levi hasn't nearly slipped in the sludge and barked orders at fearful cadets to shovel the pathways. Levi nods at him to continue. "The next expedition is planned for three weeks from now so that enough of the excess water either dries up or soaks into the ground so our horses can travel safely."

Levi knows this procedure, it's the same every year. He's confused why Erwin feels the need to spell this out for him.

Absentmindedly, he thinks about how three weeks from now will be exactly three months since you...didn't come home.

"What's the point of this, Erwin? I already know all this shit."

"We're taking the same route as the last expedition." Levi's jaw locks, air stalling in his throat, and he barely hears when Erwin goes on. "It's still the quickest path to Wall Maria and Shiganshina, if we can make it work safely in our favor."

"We lost a third of our soldiers going that way, Erwin. We lost - I lost - "

"Which is why," Erwin interrupts with a condescendingly raised hand that has Levi curling his lip into a snarl, "you and your squad are staying behind. I can't afford you being distracted by what we might find."

Eyes wide in disbelief, Levi's on his feet and rounding his desk to spit fire at his Commander. "Are you fucking crazy? We're your best defense against those shit-ugly fucks and you want to bench us because you think we can't handle seeing our dead comrades? Like we haven't seen enough of them anyway."

"It's you, Levi. I don't think you can handle seeing her."

Levi shakes his head, willing his composure back into place. He can't prove Erwin right, he needs to calm down, needs to square his shoulders and hide the agitated trembling in his hands. "Leaving us behind is a death sentence for the rest of the battalion. Don't do it, Erwin, don't risk the lives of all those kids on some misguided feeling about what I can and can't handle." He takes a deep breath, meeting his Commander's eyes with a defiant jut of his chin. "Trust me, the way you have since the beginning."

A moment passes with Erwin studying Levi's resolve, eyes trailing across every twitch and line of his face in scrutiny. He eventually seems satisfied with his assessment, gives a final nod, and turns to the door.

But Levi has one last thing to say, something that he needs to spit out before it rots and spreads in his chest. Something he needs to ask his friend, not his superior. "Do you even care?" He doesn't have to say about what for Erwin to understand.

He eyes the way Erwin's hand tightens on the doorknob, the way his shoulders wilt the slightest bit. "Of course I do, Levi. You forget I knew her long before you did," he says softly, a deep sadness in his gaze that surprises him. "But someone in my position doesn't get the luxury of grieving. I thought you would have figured that out by now."

Levi knows that, of course he knows that. But this is you, and he can't imagine anyone not breaking under the oppressive weight your absence has caused. Maybe Erwin's broader shoulders are just better under the strain. Maybe the weight Levi carries is greater because of what you mean to him.

Maybe he's just so fucking tired and wants to know how Erwin keeps going each day like nothing happened while he can't even sleep in his own bed.

Maybe convincing him that he can hold it together on the expedition was a mistake.

-----

It's not a mistake, but it feels like one.

Three weeks went by in a blur of training, prepping, and choking awake from nightmares before almost every dawn. Now they're outside Wall Rose, nearly halfway to the point of disaster that hit them last time, no rain in sight. They've managed to maneuver the formation around all but three titans, taken care of easily and quickly by the outer reconnaissance squads.

Levi can't decide if he's anticipating or dreading the inevitability of sinking his blades into a titan that gets too close. Energy is buzzing under his skin, the kind that shifts unpleasantly and threatens the stability of his hands.

He's not sure what he wants to find. If he even wants to find anything.

A purple flair in the direction of Erwin's squad at the front of the formation has Levi dialing in his focus, signaling his subordinates to make haste towards their Commander. His brow furrows, however, when they see two fallen and long since steaming titans. Erwin's squad stands unharmed but stationary between the two disintegrating corpses, Erwin himself looking rather contemplative with his arms crossed and his prominent brow angled harshly.

"No one looks like they're being torn apart," Levi grunts as he sidles up next to Erwin. "What's the situation?"

"There's someone alive out here."

"Tch, what the hell are you talking about?"

Erwin gestures at the two dead titans. "They were already down and steaming by the time we got here."

"You sure a squad didn't just break formation?"

"Pretty sure, we would have seen them pass. This is directly on the route we planned."

"That's definitely our gear though." The napes are sliced cleanly, clearly done with ODM equipment.

"It is."

Before Levi can say anything else, Eld gains their attention with a resounding, "Captain!" He's pointing towards the east where a cloud of steam rises from nowhere near any of part of the formation at its current pace.

"Guess we should go say 'hi' then, eh Erwin?" Levi grumbles, already directing his horse when he doesn't here any orders to stand down. His squad follows close behind, a brace against he's back that he's grateful for. He carefully smothers the warm feeling threatening the shield he's put around the pieces of his heart that are left, unwilling to allow even a drop of hope to settle in his eyes.

Hope is cruel. It will tear him apart from the inside out if he lets it. He can't afford that kind of devastation, not again. Putting himself back together won't be an option anymore if his pieces are dust.

They're coming up fast on the billowing ribbons of steam, two more titans having been felled by whoever got their hands on their gear. Both on the larger side, more than ten meters most likely, and pearly wild grins jutting towards the sky. Levi meticulously surveys the area as they get closer, narrowing his eyes at the flash of dark green through the thick rivulets of steam. He holds up a hand for his subordinates to wait as he dismounts his horse.

"Hey! Who's out here?!" He calls, one hand drifting to his holstered swords as a precaution, the other waving away the steam as he ventures further. "Think it's fun? Playing the hero with stolen gear!" Levi taunts, eyeing the veteran looking slices in the napes of the corpses. Another scrap of familiar green catches his eye. "Hey! You!"

A few quick steps and another wave of his hand because of the steam and he spots a figure messing with one of the blades for their gear. Maybe trying to decide if it's still useful as they swipe it back and forth, carefully looking at the now jagged edge. Must be too dull because the next second, Levi watches as they toss it too the ground and go for what looks like their last fresh blade.

"You're out of formation, Cadet," Levi chastises, raising an annoyed brow when whoever it is just ignores him in favor of replacing the blade. Confusion has him frowning when he eyes their uniform, because it's clearly the same pieces of the scouts uniform, but they're all out of order. Boots, one larger than the other. White pants cinched over top the boots instead of inside, obviously too large for the slighter frame of the wearer. More belts than the normal uniform calls for and in all the wrong places. Big sweater - backwards he notices - and the cropped scout jacket only has one sleeve. Green...gloves? He's pretty sure those were pieces of a cloak, though not the same one they're wearing. The cloak is bundled up around their shoulders and over their head, goggles hiding their eyes.

Familiar goggles. His breath catches in his throat, disbelief bleeding into his eyes.

"Mitchell? That you?" No response, but he can tell whoever it is is listening. "Hailey? Hailey Mitchell? It's Captain Levi," he holds up his hands placatingly, wracking his brain for some details you shared with him about the girl. "C'mon brat, let's go home, yeah? See your mom?" The figure seems to pause, and he's almost sure it must be her when the cloth covered head nods weirdly after a few muffled murmuring sounds. But then she plants the blade in the ground like a cane and starts limping away from him. Levi is shocked still, not understanding why she's moving in the opposite direction, away from him. Away from help.

He doesn't know how she survived out here, but it's just one of the many questions speeding behind his teeth at the moment. They'll all have to wait.

"Mitchell stop! I order you - tch, Hailey!" He chases after her, easily catching up when she has the obvious mobility disadvantage. Impressive really, that she managed to kill at least four titans with a busted leg. You'd be proud of her. When he reaches Hailey, he grabs for her wrist to stop her little adventure away from the people trying to help her. "Fucking brat, where do you think - "

Levi pauses, feeling the poor girl go completely rigid in his grasp. He curses himself for not thinking because, Walls, she must be so scared, so weak but -

But she's reaching for the goggles and the cloak. He doesn't know why he's holding his breath, but he is and his chest is burning and there's a stinging threatening his eyes and now he suddenly never ever ever wants to let go because...because...

He’s staring into a face he never thought he'd see again.

Hope is devastating, but it's also the only reason any of them have made it this far.

-----

Taglist:

@everything-is-hollow @ashbash2403 @purplecandygerl @roseelilly @barnesbabyy @pissbabybitchboy @ekaymnslvs @dazzling-roaring-20s @iloveinej @gojosbucket @logibearhockey1 @beefcakebarnes @lilshades @leviackermanmyhero245 @mochalate @whattheheckmidoriya @ursa-the-stranger @answer-the-sirens @levibabe20 @otomaniac @roseelilly @mmo1997 @macehysteria @lqme @snailsposts @kiss4kazu @isabellawigginss @lawlerek @sluttydarlin @zirbsy @tsukilover11 @ekaymnslvs @saturnsjustabouthadit @madmadamemimble @kamizama @geese-goose18 @fckwritersblock @skeletondeerart

Slugger

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [1.8k] prompt: patching up and raising a hand to kiss

“Babe, you gotta sit still.”

You squirmed, lips twisted into a pout as you tried to shy away from Steve’s hand. The boy sighed, disgruntled to say the least, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck.

“Baby."

“Steve,” you replied, with just as much emphasis. You were sulking, perched on the boy’s kitchen counter and feeling far too sorry for yourself. “It stings.”

You weren’t really sure what possessed you to punch Cindy Robertson in the face an hour earlier. Sure, you knew why you did it… you were just surprised you actually did it. Your hand was sore, knuckles swollen, one split and bleeding and you had a nasty scratch running down your right cheek, courtesy of Cindy’s fresh manicure.

You’d never gotten into a fight in your entire life.

“Yeah no shit it stings, Rocky,” Steve told you, coaxing your face back to the cotton ball he was trying to soothe over your cheek. “But you gotta let me clean it.”

The antiseptic nipped and burned and you whined, a little pathetically you were sure, but the small noise seemed to soften something in the boy and he tutted, sighed one more time and rubbed his thumb over your unscathed cheek.

“Baby,” he said again, more gently, less admonishing.

You leaned into his touch, hand wrapped around his wrist and you tried not to look guilty, like a kid who knew they were going to get in trouble.

But Steve moved closer, dropping the blood stained cotton into the sink and tapped at your knee. You obeyed immediately, spreading your thighs so the boy could move into the space between them, his thumb and finger catching your chin.

He was still taller than you, even as you sat on the countertop, your legs wrapped around his waist in an attempt to be even closer - maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the words that Cindy had baited you with, but god, you were desperate to feel him.

Robin had called Steve from a pay phone by the mall exit, much to your despair. You’d been too busy cradling your sore hand and scowling at your reflection in the toilet mirror to notice. And when you walked back to meet your friend, Steve was already there, clambering out of his car with a look on his face that couldn’t discern from worry or annoyance.

You really hoped he wasn’t annoyed with you.

“Are you mad at me?” You asked and your voice came out quieter than you would’ve liked.

Steve’s eyes softened, lips parting, the set of his jaw relaxing as he pushed his thumb to your bottom lip. The touch was all fond, the hand on your chin tilting your face so he could take another look at your cheek and then he was pushing his lips to your forehead.

A kiss. Finally.

“M’not mad, baby.” Steve tucked your hair behind your ear, pushed a hand back to your good cheek until it squished softly under his touch. He smiled at the sight, his eyes dripping with affection and concern. “Just not like you to start throwing punches in the mall bathroom.”

He was right, of course. But you shrugged, embarrassment taking form over your cheeks in a warm flush and instead of responding, you let yourself drop into his frame, face pushed to the crook of his neck, your scratched cheek protesting at your carelessness. You let your good hand wind around his waist, fisting at the the cotton of his shirt, greedy as you pushed it out of your way so your palm could smooth over the slope of his back.

Your other hand lay cradled in your lap, bruised, sore and more aware than ever of its own strength.

Steve didn’t push you away, in fact, he dropped his hands to your hips and pulled you closer, chests flush, his lips brushing over the baby hairs on your temple as he spoke. He was careful with his words, voice soft, quiet.

“Why’d you hit Cindy, huh?”

The kitchen was silent except for the drip drip drip of the tap. You shrugged, tired and lazy, body feeling slack now that the rush of adrenaline had worn off and Steve was against you.

You pushed your nose to the collar of his shirt, breathing in mint and cedar and Steve. He patted at your hip, leaned back from your embrace, just enough that he could fit a hand back underneath your chin again, encouraging you to look at him.

“Robin said she was saying stuff to you.”

There it was.

That hot prick of tears at the corners of your eyes, the overwhelming upset at what had transpired in the first place. Water gathered at your lash line and you blinked furiously, willing them away before Steve could see but then he was swiping his thumbs underneath, catching them before they could fall.

“She’s just a bitch,” you mumbled, eyes downcast, your fingers twisting around Steve’s belt loop. “She’s always been a bitch.”

Steve pondered your statement for a second or two before deciding he really couldn’t argue with it. He’d dated the other girl at the beginning of high school, only for a few weeks, a month maybe.

So he hummed instead, hating the way tears were still making your eyes glassy and you winced when you sniffed, the motion making your cheek scrunch up and god, that scratch was nasty.

“What’d she say to you?”

You refused to look at him when you spoke, eyes on the kitchen tiles at Steve’s feet, your fingers still working furiously at anything you could attach yourself too, anything that could be used as a distraction. The belt loops, the hem of Steve’s t-shirt, his fingers when he pulled at yours to stop working yourself up.

“That you’d get bored of me,” you mumbled, voice thick with the emotion you were trying so hard to keep in. “That you’d move onto someone else soon.”

A tear spilled over, past your wet lashes, onto your cheek, stinging at the cut, salt and blood and an overwhelmingly upset.

“No, baby, no,” Steve was hushing you, all soft voice and softer hands, petting over your jaw, the length of your neck, thumb pressed to the spot between your jaw and your ear. “Don’t cry, please.”

You only sniffed more, an ugly lump in your throat, a burning behind your eyes that you hated. You weren’t even that sad, you didn’t really believe the girl and her horrible words, not really. Not anymore, not with the boy between your legs and his hands lovely on your face. But you were still angry.

Angry at Cindy and her pitying stare, her callous words dressed up in a simpering, sticky sweet tone of voice. Angry that for just one second, you thought she could’ve been right. And then you were angry at yourself, for ignoring Robin, pushing away her hand that clasped your wrist in warning.

Punching someone in the face seemed to hurt you just as much as it hurt them, you'd learned. Or maybe you weren’t doing it right. You'd have to ask Nancy. Your knuckles stung when they hit against Cindy’s nose, a white hot burn that ricocheted through your hand and up your arm.

You couldn’t deny that the ugly crunch felt satisfying. Especially after what she’d said to you as she cornered you against the bathroom sinks, cruel remarks bouncing off of the baby blue tiles.

“You said it yourself, sweetheart,” Steve murmured to you, lips at your cheek, the corner of your mouth, pressing to the tip of your nose as he tried to kiss away each tear that rolled down your face. “She was just being a bitch.”

You shrugged, breath catching in your chest before you winced at the throb in your hand, the knuckles cracked and nipping. Steve tsked, taking your palm soft in his and he raised it for a kiss, lips pressed warm to the inside as he tried his hardest to keep his fingers gentle around your own.

But then he was trailing his mouth over your wrist, a whisper of a kiss into the sensitive skin on the inside of your elbow, loving on you until his face was pressed into your neck and his arms were back around your waist.

“You know that it’s not true, right? What she said?”

“I know.” You still sounded sad, petulant almost, feeling too sorry for yourself and the pain in your hand was a throbbing reminder.

“Tell me?” Steve pulled back, squished at your poor cheeks again with finger and thumb, gentle but enough to make your lips push out into a pout. “Lemme hear you say it, hmm? Little slugger.”

“I know it’s not true,” you mumbled, words a little clumsy from his touch but it made the boy go all fond, eyes soft, the lips that fell onto your own even softer.

There was a little heat behind his kiss, one that was a slow build, a simmer that lingered on your lips, that told you exactly how the boy wanted to make you feel better. But then he was pulling back, lashes fluttering, lips glossy and parted.

He sighed again, eyes on your scratch, your sore hand but the sound was much softer than before.

“Can I please clean you up, babe?” Another kiss, a soft push over your lips, your chin, your jaw. “I’ll be gentle, promise.”

You nodded, clinging to him still, eyes still wet but not crying. You watched the boy as he methodically dabbed at your cuts, cleaned up your knuckles and kissed each one better. He kept true to his word, softer than ever with you, letting you melt into him until he was cradling your bad hand between your chests so he could see each cut.

When he was done, he produced a Band-Aid with a flourish, a bright pink thing with dinosaurs on it and you were rolling your eyes when he stuck it over your cheek, lips pushed into a pout that he promptly kissed away.

“Look at you,” he cooed, voice sticky with sweetness and maybe even a little pride. “My little badass.”

The purple and pink dinosaur on your face seemed to suggest otherwise but you flushed anyway, groaning and pushing your face into his solid chest when he laughed.

“I definitely won,” you mumbled.

Steve let out a snort, pressed kiss after kiss into your hair and pulled you off of the counter, groaning dramatically as you kept hold of him. He tucked his arms under your legs, carried you without complaint out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.

“Oh I don’t doubt that, baby. But Christ, no more brawling. Hopper will have to lock you up.”

You huffed out a laugh, tried to look downtrodden and sorry for yourself still, but Steve's hands moved to your ass and patted, eyebrow's raised until you smiled and he kissed you sweet once more before he started to climb the stairs with you.

"Love you, you little delinquent."

Mad Woman

Hufflepuff!Reader X Draco

No one likes a mad woman

You made her like that

And you’ll poke that bear ‘til her claws come out

And you find something to wrap your noose around

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4

Chapter 5   Chapter 6   Chapter 7   Chapter 8

Chapter 9   Chapter 10   Chapter 11  Chapter 12

Summary: All good stories have a summary built in right before the final climax. All good authors can redeem any character. All good mothers sacrifice everything for the success of their daughters. 

A/n: So… this has been a long time coming… BUT HEY IT’S HERE!! I’m so sorry for making you guys wait so long, but here we are. A new chapter, some more angst, some more heartbreak, some redeemed characters. But you guys tell me when you’re done what you think. (Also thank you for all of the support and patience along the way, it means the world to me)

“We… we need a Pensieve,” I breathed out, looking at the small vial that came with the letter my mother had sent.

“Are you sure about this?” Draco asked, a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I have to know…”

“Then we’ll go to Snape,” Draco nodded and stood.

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girl friend (draco malfoy x reader)

summary: dating draco malfoy was always within pansy’s plan to ensure her future. there’s only one problem; she underestimated just how intertwined (y/n) was on draco’s life.

or

pansy tries to ensure her relationship with draco but he always seems more interested in his best friend.

warnings: none

i. Prologue: a match made in hell.

Draco Malfoy and (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

Prince and Princess of Slytherin.

A match made by the devil, Weasley would mutter under his breath whenever he caught a glimpse of them walking through the corridors.

(It was rather much a match crafted by their parents, but same difference really.)

Families that belonged to the sacred twenty eight tended to stick together— with fake smiles and the desire to keep their bloodlines pure acting as the glue— so it was only reasonable that (Y/N) and Draco would grow up together. After all, in the words of (Y/N)’s mother, “keep your friends close and your possible suitors closer.”

Keep reading

three taps (kaz brekker x reader)

summary: kaz taps three times. it’s his way to say i love you, i care.

or

the three times it took jesper to realize that three taps were something more than a meaningless habit.

warnings: violence, blood, implied se*ual as*ault (not detailed at all and very brief)

a/n: did i write this in less than a day? yes. did the inspiration come to me at six am? also yes. what about your other 50 wip, anna? did you write anything for them? nope.

hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

i. tap, tap, tap

Jesper had seen him do it more times than he could count. It was Kaz’s thing. Three taps, index finger hitting a wooden table, thumb brushing against a map or cane harshly meeting the floor. Most times they were fast taps, like a subconscious action, coming and going before anyone could give it any mind. Other times, however, they were slower, more emphasized, as if trying to make a point. Jesper was used to the taps, as he imagined (Y/N) and Inej also were. The sound came prior to every heist, prior to pronouncing the words of luck (no mourners, no funerals).

It was Kaz’s habit, something he probably did without even realizing, and Jesper couldn’t help but find it oddly comforting, a routine that somehow eased his nerves. (The world could be going to war, Ketterdam could be crashing down in flames, and Kaz would still tap three times. There was a sense of safety in that.)

It wasn’t until Jesper had a closer look that he realized the action was perhaps not as meaningless as he believed.

ii. cane meets ground three times: come back to me, i’m here

(Y/N) had known Kaz the longest out of all of them. Jesper hadn’t known the Slat without her, he hadn’t known Kaz without her. She’d always been there, a person in which the Dregs often found solace and always obtained an ear to listen without judgment. (Y/N) was a walking contradiction, soft around the edges yet powerful enough to bring the toughest people to their knees. She was everything Kaz wasn’t, maybe that was the reason they complimented each other as well as they did.

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