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You wake in the small hours to dawn sprawling in through a cracked window, soft as spilt cream, dust motes lazily twisting in its beams. You blink, throat parched, mind fuzzy with sleep and something worse—a guilty ache. The barracks are too quiet. You know, even before you reach for your boots, that you’ve overslept.
The quarters are empty except for the remnants of sleep—rumpled blankets, the lingering scent of sweat and linen, your own weight pressing the mattress thin. The only sound is distant—a hum of orders barked across the training yard, the hiss of ODM gear, voices calling to aim left, pull higher, hit the nape.
You roll from your cot, legs bare beneath the length of an oversized shirt, the fabric creased, collar slouching against the line of your throat. Your hair’s a mess—sleep-tangled, half in your face. There’s a sharpness to the morning, cold floor biting your soles as you pad out into the common area, rubbing sleep from your eyes.
You mean to slip away unseen. Join the others before anyone notices you're missing. Instead, you walk straight into him.
Levi stands by the gear rack, half in shadow. He’s wearing only dark slacks, belt hanging loose. His chest is slick with sweat from drills, hair plastered to his temples, the deep hollows of muscle and scar thrown into stark relief by the morning light. He wipes his neck with a threadbare towel, jaw set, eyes sharp—almost feral, you think.
When he looks up, his mouth flattens.
There you are, half-naked, unwashed, blinking at him with the startled guilt of a recruit caught sneaking rations. His gaze drops—quick, unsparing—over your bare thighs, the lines of your blanket still imprinted into your skin.
His eyes narrow. “Didn’t know we were taking a day off,” His voice is a gruff rasp, still thick from barking orders. He doesn’t mask his irritation. “You planning to sleep through drills every damn morning?”
You freeze, stammering some excuse—late night, a headache, meant to wake up—but his expression doesn’t soften. He sets his towel down with a dull thud, moves toward you with that deadly, silent grace that makes his subordinates flinch and his enemies die.
He sweeps past you, into your corner of the squad quarters. In a blink, he’s in the mess of your space—blanket twisted, uniform half-stuffed beneath the cot, boots haphazard. He stands, arms folded, chest still rising and falling with leftover exertion.
“Tch. Disgusting brat,” he says, cool as a slap. “Maybe if you spent half as much time cleaning as you do sleeping, you’d be less of a pain in my ass.”
You duck your head, heat prickling your cheeks, and drop to your knees, scrabbling to fix the mess. Your fingers fumble, folding uniform, smoothing sheets, fighting to tuck in the corners the way he's drilled into you a hundred times. You’re so flustered you barely realise how exposed you are—shirt riding up as you reach, the curve of your ass bare to the air, thighs flexing as you kneel, legs parted; the sight unintentionally obscene.
You hear him shift, a subtle scuff of boots on floorboards, a low hiss of breath through his teeth.
“Pull your damn shirt down,” he snaps. “Drills finish soon. You planning to give the whole squad a show?”
You mutter an apology, fumbling desperately with the hem. Levi stays by the doorway, arms crossed, jaw set hard. But as you bend over again, gathering up your uniform, you feel his eyes boring into you.
He huffs, the sound sharp as flint. “Idiot recruits. Can’t even dress yourself in the morning.”
You pause, heart hammering, risk a glance back—just enough to catch his eyes, dark and blown, fixed on you. He looks like he might eat you alive, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s enjoying the view or because he’s so irritated.
“You going to finish, or are you hoping someone else will do it for you?” he barks, but his tone is off now, unsteady, frayed at the edges. It’s a crack in his usual composure that sends a shiver up your spine. For the first time, you find yourself questioning what exactly you’ve stirred in him.
He takes a step forward. There's tension in his shoulders, a muscle ticking in his jaw—he looks like a man losing a fight with himself.
You try to stammer yet another apology, but he doesn’t let you finish. Suddenly, his hand is on your ass, kneading, testing its give. You gasp, frozen, heart racing so loud you can barely hear him as he kneels beside you. His palm slides under your shirt, up your spine, bare skin meeting bare skin. The contact is electric, sending a jolt of heat low in your belly.
“I should toss you out,” he growls; he’s even closer now, almost folded over you, breath hot at your ear, chest ghosting the length of your back. “Send you off with the other brats who can’t follow orders. But you—” He breaks off, as if angry at himself, at you, at the whole damn world.
His hand fists in the fabric at your waist, dragging your shirt higher. You feel the outline of his cock, hot and thick, straining against the front of his slacks. The knowledge makes you tremble, your body betraying you.
He’s your captain. You’ve never dared to think of him like this. You’ve learnt to be a little scared of him, to keep your head down, follow orders. But right now, with his hands on you, the fear knots into something hotter, stranger—something you’re not sure you want to fight.
“You know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he whispers, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard. “Since the first time you mouthed off at me in drills. Little shit, never could keep in line. Maybe I should just fuck a brat into you—give you a reason to stay in bed all fucking day.”
His words are half-snarl, half-confession, but his actions are pure need—urgent, clumsy, fingers tugging your panties down with a snap, legs pushing your knees apart. You gasp as the cold air hits your cunt, wet and ready, the sight of you mirrored in his ragged breath.
He frees himself—belt clinking, the soft slide of fabric, then the heavy heat of his cock slapping against your ass. He drags the head through your slick folds, groaning low at the sensation, and then—without warning—pushes in, forcing you open, every thick inch making your lungs burn.
He fills you, relentlessly, the stretch deep and dizzying. He doesn’t move for a breath, just stays buried to the root, hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll wear the marks for days. His face is right at your ear; you can hear the way he bites back a moan, teeth gritted.
“Messy little brat,” he says, and there’s awe in it, buried somewhere deep. “Taking me so well. You like being caught like this?” He draws back, thrusts again—harder, rougher, the slap of skin loud in the hush of the squad room. The force of it shoves you up against the edge of the cot.
You can only whimper, press your face into the sheets, the sound muffled as he fucks you—making you feel every stroke, every withdrawal a promise, every push a threat. He fucks you like he means to break you in, hips snapping forward with bruising strength.
“Hold still,” he grinds out, his control hanging by a thread. “Let’s see if you’re half as stubborn when you’re full. If you can’t keep up with the squad, maybe this will make you useful.”
You can't help yourself. You shatter for him, pleasure ricocheting up your spine, your body milking him, desperate for more. He chokes, stutters, and then you feel it—his cock pulsing, spilling molten and thick inside you. He stays deep, pressed flush, as if he could will his seed to take. His hands don’t let up, palms flat against your belly as he empties, possessive, ruthless, determined.
The room is silent except for your mingled panting, the sound of your blood thundering in your ears.
After a long, shuddering breath, Levi pulls out, cock slipping free with a slick noise, cum already seeping from you, warm and slow, drooling between your thighs. Your knees are trembling, arms weak as you cling to the cot for support.
He stays kneeling behind you, staring at the mess he’s made. He catches your gaze, and there’s something animal in his eyes—territorial, feral, like he’s claimed something no one else can touch.
Then, he rises, pulls you up roughly, and turns you to face him. You’re reeling, dazed, raw. Your eyes flick down to find he’s already half-hard again, cock shining with your slick, jaw clenched like he’s fighting the urge to tear the world apart.
“Get on the bed, brat,” he orders, voice like gravel.
You stumble back, thighs sticky and collapse onto your cot. He follows, climbs over you, and pins you down—shoulders caging your head, hips settling between your thighs. He glances down, eyes fixed on the spill of cum dripping from you, marking the sheets. His hand moves between your legs, fingers catching his own release and pushing it back in, messy and unashamed. His thumb circles your clit, wet with it, until you’re whining, hips rocking up.
“Don’t think this gets you out of anything,” he warns, but his tone is softer, almost reverent. “But I’m not done until I’m sure it takes. Not letting you out of this bed until I know you’re full of me.”
He lines up again, pushes inside, and this time the sensation is blinding—slick, hot, your body quivering with how sensitive you are, how full. The pressure forces what’s already inside to overflow, his seed leaking out around him as he fucks you slow, deep, grinding in with every thrust, the head of his cock dragging over the spot that makes your vision blur.
You cling to him, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. He doesn’t look away; his grey eyes are locked to yours, sweat dripping from his brow, every line of his body coiled, hungry.
“I like you better this way,” he pants. “Full of me. Gonna watch you get round. Watch you swell with me. You belong to me now, get it?”
You nod, dizzy—so undone you can barely think, every word sinking into your bones, the heat of him pressed so deep inside you it’s hard to breathe. The weight of his cum leaking out, his cock grinding it back in, the harsh possessiveness in his voice—all of it pushes you over. Your body arches, trembling, a sob torn from your throat as you break again, chanting his name like a plea.
He groans, voice fractured, and fucks you through it—faster, deeper, fucking his seed back into you until he’s shaking.
When he spills inside you a second time, the sound he makes is like something torn out straight from his core, ragged with relief and ache, as if the pleasure borders on pain. His cock twitches, so deep you feel every pulse, every thick wave of him pouring into you. You’re stretched, impossibly full, whatever was already inside you doubled, hot and heavy as he grinds it deeper, refusing to let a single drop go to waste.
He collapses over you, hand splayed wide over your belly, his breath ghosting hot and unsteady against your cheek.
Neither of you speaks. There's nothing to be said. The sun crawls higher, washing the room in gold, lighting the sweat and the bruises, the marks of your nails on his back, the tremble in his hands as he strokes small circles over your skin.
When he finally speaks, it’s rough; a secret pressed against your ear. “If you’re late tomorrow, I’ll do it again.”
He stays inside you until your heartbeat slows, holding himself there like he can lock it inside you—refusing to let any slip out, not just yet. You lie still, savouring the steady rise and fall of his chest.
A secret smile curls on your lips.
Tomorrow, you’ll be late again, only this time it won't be a mistake.