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aphroditaeon · 4 days ago

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Ships: Levi x Reader, Levi x You

Summary: You make one critical mistake in the field—and Levi doesn’t let it slide. Discipline is part of the job. So is humiliation, if he deems it necessary.But beneath the scolding, the spit, and the boot pressed firm to your chest… there’s something else. Something only the two of you will ever understand…

Warnings/Themes: Rough sex, domination, boot worship, boot licking, discipline, punishment, angst, internal conflict, insubordination.

It's just past noon when you push open the heavy door to Captain Levi's office. The hinges creak like they're tattling on you. Sunlight floods the room in golden streaks, falling across the wooden floor and catching the sharp edge of Levi's desk. He's already seated, posture rigid, a ceramic cup nestled neatly in one hand. His eyes stay trained on the papers in front of him, not sparing you even a flicker of attention as you step inside.

"Hello, Captain.." you murmur, your voice embarrassingly unsure as you make your way toward the chair across from him. It scrapes quietly when you pull it out and sit, but the sound feels deafening in the heavy silence that follows.

The room smells like paper, old wood, and the faint, clean bite of his tea.

You sit. Your fingers rest on the desk’s edge, the wood beneath your skin warmed by the sun. You wonder just how long Levi’s been sitting here in silence, brooding, probably thinking about what you did. About what you didn’t do.

You almost got someone killed out there today.

There’s no soft way to say it. You made the wrong call. You hesitated when you shouldn’t have. You were careless. And now you’re here, waiting to be ripped apart by the one person you desperately didn’t want to disappoint.

His voice slices the silence.

“What happened today was unacceptable.”

Finally, he looks at you. Grey eyes meet yours with that cold, assessing sharpness that’s always made your spine straighten. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a weariness tucked deep in the corners of his face. Dark smudges cling stubbornly beneath his eyes—fatigue, stress, anger, maybe all three.

Your chest tightens.

You nod, because there’s no point pretending. It was your mistake. You already replayed it in your head a hundred times on the walk over. It doesn’t matter how hard you’ve been trying. It doesn’t matter that your heart was in the right place. You failed.

But it still stings—hearing it from him, in that tone. You and Levi… it isn’t just a Captain-and-scout situation anymore. Not really. Not after all those nights, all those quiet moments when rank and reason slipped away and you were just two people finding comfort in each other. Kisses that turned into something deeper. Looks that lingered longer than they should’ve. He let you in.

You’d give anything not to be sitting here right now, across from him like this—another name in a report, another mistake for him to shoulder.

“I apologise, Levi… I—”

His hand lifts.

Not quickly. Not harshly. Just enough to stop the words in your mouth.

His eyes narrow.

“Right now, it’s Captain,” he says, cool and low, as if the word should taste like discipline. “And there’s no excuse.”

The sentence lands with a thud in your chest.

You swallow hard, throat thick with guilt and something else you can’t quite name. Something that sounds a lot like please don’t shut me out.

You nod again. Smaller this time. You don’t speak. You just brace yourself—for whatever comes next.

Your eyes flick down to the papers in front of him, and there it is—your name. Staring back at you in black ink, tangled up in the words like a stain he can’t scrub out. It hits harder than the lecture. He’s got more work tonight because of you. More explaining. More responsibility. More mess to clean up, and all of it your fault.

The guilt creeps up your spine, warm and choking.

Quietly, almost without thinking, you reach across the desk. Your hand moves slow, unsure, until your fingers settle over his. His skin is warm. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch—but when his eyes lift to yours, there’s something in them that stills your breath. Not anger exactly. Something sharper. Deeper. It pins you in place.

Your lips twitch as you try to form words. They come out in a whisper. “I know. I just… I didn’t want to let you down.”

Levi’s eyes soften, barely, and he lowers his head. One hand drags up to rest against his temple like the weight of everything—command, mistakes, consequences—is pressing inward from all sides.

“Erwin says I’m to punish you,” he mutters, the words heavy, low, as if they don’t sit right in his mouth. “But… it’s you.”

That lands harder than anything else.

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. You feel it in the pause, in the way he won’t look at you. This wouldn’t be a conversation for anyone else. For any other soldier, it would be a formal reprimand, a cold order, maybe a few days in the cells depending on Erwin’s mood. It wouldn’t matter if it was just a mistake—especially not one that landed a fellow scout in the infirmary.

It wasn’t malicious. You weren’t reckless on purpose, but you weren’t sharp either. You missed something. You slipped—and someone paid for it.

He finally lifts his gaze, firm again. “You’ll clean. The barracks. My office. Erwin’s too. I want everything spotless.”

You nod, grateful and guilty all at once. It’s a punishment, technically. But you both know it’s merciful. If it had been anyone else…

He pushes his chair back slowly, the legs dragging against the floor, and walks around the desk until he’s beside you. You don’t look up. You don’t need to. You can feel him—his presence, the quiet tension in the air thickening like fog.

And then his hand is on you.

His fingers slide beneath your hair to the nape of your neck, warm and deliberate. They curl around the soft skin there, not gentle, though he doesn't hurt you— there's pressure, measured and meaningful.

You don’t flinch.

It’s not just a warning. It’s not just touch. It’s Levi.

There’s frustration in the way he holds you, but there’s heat too—coiled just beneath the surface. He hasn’t let go of how angry he is. But he hasn’t let go of you, either.

And that alone makes your pulse spike, your thighs press together under the table.

He’s pissed. You can feel it in the way his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw. But he’s still here. Still touching you like he can’t decide whether to scold you or pull you closer and forget the world for a moment.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers—slow, deliberate—and leans in until his face is level with yours. His eyes roam your features like he’s memorising them all over again. They flick from your eyes to your mouth, lingering there a little too long before he finally moves in and kisses you—hard.

It’s not soft. It’s not kind. It’s something raw, something steeped in frustration and desire all tangled together.

His tongue parts your lips and forces its way in, claiming the inside of your mouth like it’s owed to him. It’s messy, wet, and far too familiar. Your tongues slide together like they’ve done a hundred times before, but today there’s an edge. A need sharpened by discipline.

Your head is spinning.

You’re still wrapped in guilt, every part of you heavy with it, but your body betrays you anyway—squirming under the heat of his mouth, the taste of mint still clinging to his tongue. Probably from the tea he was drinking, cool and sharp now against the warmth of your own breath.

When he pulls away, your lips feel colder for it. Slick and sensitive in the sunlit room.

Then he lifts you—effortless, like you weigh nothing—and your chair scrapes back with a violent clatter. Before you can steady yourself, he’s holding you close, chest to chest. You feel him. Hard. Pressing into your stomach like a silent warning.

Your breath hitches.

“Kneel,” he says.

You drop slowly, easing onto your knees in front of him. The wooden floor bites a little through your uniform, but you barely register it. Heat is building low in your belly, rushing between your thighs, pulsing with every second he stares down at you like this.

Your eyes blur slightly—maybe from the shame, maybe from the pressure. Gratitude? Fear? You’re not even sure. Likely all of it. You glance up at him through strands of hair that have fallen across your face, wide-eyed and waiting.

You trust him.

But you know he’s still mad.

Levi leans back against the desk and lifts one boot, pressing it firmly into the center of your chest. The weight of it pushes you slightly, grinding the dirty tread into the front of your uniform. A dusty imprint spreads across the fabric. For one fleeting second, you think he might knock you flat—but he doesn’t. The pressure eases.

Instead, he lifts the boot and brings it to your face.

“You see how filthy these are?” he mutters, tone low but steady. “That’s hard work.”

He nudges your cheek with the edge of his boot—gently, almost teasing. But there’s no mistaking the message underneath.

“This is what it means to be a soldier. Blood. Grime. Discipline. Not weakness.”

You blink up at him, the words sinking in somewhere deeper than you expect. Still confused. Still ashamed. But arousal hums through you like static, a flush climbing your neck as you shift on your knees.

You look from his boot back to his face. His eyes are narrowed—stern, unreadable—but there’s something else flickering behind them too. Unmistakable arousal, but controlled. Maybe even a sliver of something softer, buried under all that iron.

You nod. Barely.

“I said you’re to clean,” he repeats, tilting his boot just slightly. “You can start here.”

You reach for the hem of your shirt with shaky hands and lift it, bunching the soft cotton in your palm. Pressing it gently to the toe of his boot, you start to buff the scuffed leather like he told you to—awkward and obedient, your heart pounding loud in your ears.

But before you can even make a second pass, he jerks his foot back and crouches suddenly, swift and sharp. His hand catches your face again—this time rougher, more urgent.

Then his mouth is on yours.

This time, it’s not a kiss meant to linger. It lands like a bruise—fast, hard, and gone just as quickly, but his face hovers close after. You can still feel the heat of it, the pressure ghosting on your lips. His breath is shallow. So is yours.

His eyes are locked onto yours—unyielding, dark, commanding.

“With your mouth,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You blink.

Your stomach flips. Seriously? The thought crawls through you. That’s filthy. Disgusting. Your lips part as if to protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

He squeezes your face tighter, thumb pressing near the hinge of your jaw, tilting your head just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“‘Yes, Sir,’” he mocks softly, his voice low and dry, mimicking the way your voice usually sounds when you’re trying too hard to please.

You swallow hard, throat thick, and nod faintly. “Y-Yes, Sir.”

He lets go.

You inhale shakily as he straightens up and resumes his position, lifting one boot again—offering it to you, waiting.

Your gaze flickers to the floor, then to the black leather in front of you, then back to him as if waiting for him to break and say that he’s joking.

Hesitantly, almost trembling, you lean forward. Your tongue brushes against the toe of his boot. The taste hits immediately—mud, dust, maybe a trace of old blood baked in by the sun. The bitterness coats your mouth, and your body tenses with a dry gag. It’s awful.

But you keep going.

Because this is what he’s decided you need. Not pain. Not yelling. This.

It’s punishment—degrading, humiliating—and exactly what you deserve. Not something Erwin would ever hear about, not officially. But Levi’s temper has always been sharp, his standards even sharper. And clearly, this was the only thing that felt satisfying enough to make a point.

And somehow, it’s working.

You squirm slightly, the heat between your legs thickening the more you taste the grime. The leather warms under your tongue, the rubber trim catching slightly against the softness of your lips as you work. You’re drooling without meaning to, saliva dripping down your chin, trailing along your throat. You probably look pathetic.

Levi shifts above you—barely. But you can tell. There’s tension in the way he adjusts, the slow strain in his trousers unmistakable. He’s hard. Watching you do this to yourself for him. For him alone.

And it only makes you try harder.

You swirl your tongue along the sole’s edge, pressing in deeper, collecting every bit of dirt and swallowing it down like it might earn you some kind of mercy. When you finally dare to look up at him, hair clinging to your damp face, you meet his gaze again—waiting. Hoping.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, chewing lightly at his bottom lip, eyes smoldering with something that burns right through you.

You feel it everywhere. Shame, need, pride.

And you don’t stop.

The praise slams into your chest like it’s been hurled from a rooftop and it does something to you. Anchors you. Unlocks something. You straighten a little, not in pride exactly, but in purpose. You know your place right now. You know what he expects.

With trembling hands, you cradle the toe of his boot, both palms small around the rough edges of it. You tilt your head and let your tongue flatten against the rubber sole. It’s gritty. Bitter. Damp in places you wish weren’t. Your stomach clenches, but you push through the instinct to recoil. This is part of it. You deserve this.

More dirt clings to your tongue as you work the tread, grime catching between the ridges and smearing across your lips. It drips in streaks from your chin to the floor—silent evidence of how low you’re willing to go for him. For forgiveness. For that sharp, rare flicker of approval in his voice.

“You’re such a pathetic little thing, aren’t you,” he mutters, the edge in his tone curling hot through your spine.

You glance up at him without pausing your work. His eyes are hooded, dark with something unreadable—but not indifferent. Never indifferent. The outline of him through his slacks is obvious now, undeniable, and your whole body pulses in response, heat blooming so fiercely between your legs it borders on painful.

You’re a mess. Eyes glassy, mouth filthy, chin streaked with spit and dust and humiliation. And you don’t want to stop.

He sees that look in your eyes—the wordless pleading, the desperation—and finally pulls his boot away. You exhale without meaning to, dizzy from the loss of contact, but he doesn’t keep you waiting long. He presses the sole between your thighs, just enough to feel the pressure, and you nearly arch into it.

The heat inside you surges.

“That’s enough,” he says quietly, adjusting himself with a flick of his wrist, casual and commanding all at once.

Then, unexpectedly, he crouches. He takes a small white cloth from his pocket, and with an almost jarring gentleness, he wipes your mouth clean. His thumb grazes your cheek. Not rough this time. Reverent. Like he’s proud of you. Like you’re his.

And then the toe of that same boot presses forward again—this time slower, more deliberate—nestling into the space between your thighs.

Your breath catches.

Even through layers of fabric, it’s unbearable how sensitive you’ve become. The pressure alone makes your head spin, your lips parting on a soft, involuntary sound.

His hand curls into your hair and yanks, tilting your head back, his boot grinding forward just a little more.

“Quiet,” he says, low and rough. “This is punishment. Those little noises you’re making don’t sound very sorry.”

You bite your lip so hard it stings, desperate to hold it in. The pressure, the heat, the shame—it’s all tangled together now. You’re pressed to his thigh, your whole body trembling under his grip, and his boot continues its torturously slow movement against you.

You should care about the mess. The wetness soaking through your uniform. The dirt staining the fabric of your trousers.

But you don’t. You just want more.

You start to grind against him, instinctive and unthinking—chasing the edge like a starving thing. Every movement of his boot against you sends another jolt of heat spiraling through your core. Your body knows what it wants now. What it needs. And it’s humiliating how easily you’re unraveling under him.

Your clit is swollen, throbbing with need, and the toe of his boot becomes the center of your universe—rough, solid, relentless. You press your face into the crease of his slacks, your breath catching in the fabric as you rut like a creature starved, chasing that high with every roll of your hips.

“Pathetic little thing,” he growls above you, voice full of contempt and heat. “Getting off on my boot like this…”

He pushes harder, crueler, and your body trembles—so close now, right there, your orgasm clawing its way to the surface.

So he stops.

The boot vanishes. The pressure’s gone. You’re left suspended in that unbearable space between almost and nothing, heart pounding, breath shallow.

Before you can even whimper, he tightens his grip on your hair and shoves you backward. Your spine hits the wooden floor with a jolt, the grain cool against your bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. You look up at him, dazed, mouth parted and panting.

He undoes his slacks slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact.

His cock springs free—hard, flushed, already glistening at the tip. His hand wraps around himself, a slow stroke to ease the pressure, the thick slide of skin teasing his own edge. You don’t dare ask for it. Not with him like this. He’s in control. He always is.

“Take off your clothes,” he orders, voice sharp enough to slice through the air.

You strip—quickly, nervously. Shirt, trousers, everything. Goosebumps bloom across your skin, even with the warmth of the sun spilling through the window. You lie there exposed, aching, and burning with a cocktail of shame and anticipation. He watches. Intently. Every inch of you.

A rough, guttural sound slips from his throat, half-choked, and he moves toward you.

He places his boot on your chest—just enough weight to remind you who’s in charge. You inhale shakily, but the pressure keeps your lungs from filling completely. He can feel it, the way your body rises just slightly beneath his foot. He doesn’t move.

“You need to be taught a lesson somehow, don’t you?” he murmurs, his words low and biting.

You can’t answer. Your throat’s too tight, your breath too shallow. All you can do is lie there, heart hammering.

He moves the boot higher—slowly, purposefully—to your throat. Just the soft press of the tread there, nothing dangerous… but it leaves your head spinning. Then he shifts it again, to the side of your face, tilting your head away so you can’t see him anymore.

Your gaze fixes on the bookshelf across the room, blurry with tears and overstimulation, as his boot begins its descent once more—dragging down your chest, your stomach, then lower.

You flinch when it brushes your bare heat. Not pain—never pain—but from the flood of sensation that hits all at once.

“Fuck,” you breathe, helpless.

“I said quiet.” His voice snaps through the air. “Not another sound.”

You nod faintly, biting the inside of your cheek hard, drawing blood inside your mouth.

Then he begins again—slow circles of rubber against your soaked folds, your oversensitive clit catching on the tread every time he presses in. The dirt still clinging to the boot smears with your arousal, a messy, humiliating mix that coats your thighs.

Your hips lift of their own accord. Your whole body burns.

And then—

You break.

It’s not gentle, not quiet. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave—hot, fast, and unbearable. Your back arches off the floor, every muscle seizing, your mouth falling open in a gasp you weren’t allowed to make. Pleasure tears up your spine, through your chest, out of your throat.

You feel yourself dripping, spilling, soaking the leather, the floor, everything.

You try to pull back—too sensitive now, too raw—but his boot holds firm, keeping you grounded in the aftershock of your own destruction.

And you lie there, panting, dizzy and ruined.

Exactly where he wants you.

“I told you to shut up,” he growls, voice sharp and cutting. “And you still can’t manage that, can you?”

The words sting, but they also stir something deeper—something hot, humiliated, and hungry. Before you can even react, he’s lowering himself over you, pressing your body flat to the floor with the weight of his own. His mouth crashes against yours again—no finesse this time, just heat and teeth and need.

It’s messy. Desperate.

His tongue forces its way in, claiming every inch like he’s trying to crawl inside you, to own you from the inside out. You gasp into the kiss, but he doesn’t let you breathe. Doesn’t give you space. Just devours.

And then you feel it.

The blunt heat of him, thick and unrelenting, pressed at your entrance. Your cunt still pulsing from release, too raw, too sensitive—but your body opens anyway, aching for more, your thighs already parted for him.

He doesn’t move yet.

He holds himself there—just barely above you—his muscles taut, one arm braced beside your head, the other exploring your body with rough, possessive palms. Over your hips. Your stomach. Your breasts, his grip bruising and unapologetic. You writhe beneath him, aching, aroused; all of it tangled together in a blur of sensation.

His hand closes around your throat—tight enough to control and ground you.

He breaks the kiss.

Then, without warning, drives into you.

Your mouth drops open in a silent cry as your body stretches to take him. It’s not gentle. There’s no buildup. Just a single, brutal thrust that fills you to the hilt and knocks the air from your lungs. You’re slick from before—filthy and soaking—but still the stretch burns, your walls fluttering helplessly around him.

He stays buried deep, moaning low in your ear, a sound torn straight from the base of his spine. His hips roll forward slowly at first, grinding filth deeper inside you, dragging the mess of your desire through every inch of your body.

You feel everything.

Every twitch of him. Every inch.

The force of each thrust nudges your entire body across the floor in small, helpless shifts, like he’s trying to fuck you straight into the foundation of the building. You dig your nails into the floorboards, desperate for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing. Just him. The weight. The pressure. The heat.

And the awful, beautiful truth of how much you want this.

You are stretched to your limit. You are trembling. You are wrecked.

And it’s only just begun.

His thrusts shift—no longer slow, no longer calculated. They grow wild, ragged, like something inside him has broken loose. Each one punches the breath out of your lungs, steals what little control you had left. You arch beneath him, mouth searching for his—but he denies you. One hand catches the side of your face and turns it away, forcing your cheek against the floor.

No kiss. No softness. Not now.

He’s something else in this moment. Not the man you whisper to in the quiet dark. Not the quiet, sharp-witted captain with calloused hands and rare tenderness. He’s raw need. He’s fury. He’s fucking you like he’s trying to erase every mistake, every weakness—yours, his, the whole damned world’s.

And god, you take it.

You take every bruising thrust, every punishing slam of his hips, your body rocked into the floor with each one. You’re wrecked and stretched, a mess beneath him, but all you can do is cling to the sensation of being his. His to ruin. His to remake.

Then it happens.

A sound tears from his chest—low, harsh, desperate—and he drives into you with one last, guttural thrust. You feel the hot, heavy flood of him fill you, thick and searing as it pulses deep inside your body. His release settles in your cunt like a claim, warm and dizzying.

And just like that, the storm passes.

He doesn’t move right away.

He collapses against you, all his weight pressing you flat to the floor, chest heaving against yours. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and for a moment, there’s only silence—your breath, his breath, tangled like your limbs.

Then, finally, he begins to kiss you again.

Softly and carefully, as if afraid you’ll disappear beneath him.

The gentleness disorients you. His lips ghost over your neck, your collarbone, your jawline—sweet and slow, like whatever darkness was inside him just moments ago has drained out with his release. It lingers in your cunt, but not in his hands. Not in his mouth. Not anymore.

You start to come back to yourself. Slowly. Your body aches, your legs tremble, but the haze is lifting. His presence feels like an anchor now instead of a weight.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look at you, pressing his nose against yours. His eyes—steel-grey, unblinking—search your face like he’s looking for something he lost.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb gently swiping the wetness that’s gathered at the corner of your eye. Maybe from the sting, maybe from something deeper. He doesn’t ask. He just holds you.

Then, finally, he kisses you—slow and deliberate. There’s a tenderness now. Completely human.

“So,” he whispers against your lips, “have you learnt your lesson?”

A tiny giggle escapes your throat before you can stop it. Inappropriate. Ill-timed. But real.

He watches you, and a flicker of something soft tugs at the corner of his mouth. The faintest smile—barely there.

But then it’s gone.

He pulls back a little. Lowers his eyes.

And that’s when you see it.

The shift, like a shadow. That guilt he carries like a scar you can’t see. His voice is quiet, shaky in a way that doesn’t match the man from minutes ago.

“I’m sorry…” you say, barely above a breath. Your hand reaches up to cradle his face, mirroring the way he held yours.

He doesn’t look at you yet. His jaw flexes, and he swallows hard.

“This never gets any easier…” he murmurs, and his voice breaks just slightly.

You lean up, pressing a kiss to his mouth—soft, slow, full of everything you don’t quite know how to say.

“I know,” you whisper back.

And in that stillness, in that warmth, you hold each other like you’re both trying to remember who you are.

You stay like that for a while—his body warm against yours, his breath soft and steady at your temple. For a few precious minutes, the world is quiet. Still.

Then, muffled noise seeps in through the walls—the shuffle of boots, the clang of trays, the low murmur of voices. The trainees, probably breaking for lunch. Reality knocking gently at the door, reminding you both that peace is always temporary.

This war never gets easier. Levi was right.

But as he holds you a little tighter, fingertips brushing the back of your neck, you know one thing for certain.

At least, despite all of it—despite the blood, the weight, the grief—you still have each other. And right now, that’s enough.

#AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH read this on ao3 earlier and my goddddddddddd #reading this fic isn’t enough i need to print it then eat the pages

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