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summary: ellie and sarah set joel up on a tinder date.
word count: 6k
warnings: smut, fluff, sarah and ellie are both 16 + joel’s daughters in this, age gap (joel is 50 + reader is 28), mutual pining, oral (m receiving), fingering, come eating, dom/sub dynamics.
A/N: tbh this was so self indulgent and of course ty to my daddy @chloeangelic for always helping me and inspiring dirty talk. they will be fucking in part two.
“Joel, why don’t you make a Tinder?”
He peers at Ellie through his lashes, looking up from his newspaper with his eyebrows furrowed. There’s an undoubtedly mischievous smirk on her face, her hands press together in front of her like she has some master plan.
“Yeah, dad. You should make one.”
Joel’s eyes shift to Sarah who sits opposite of Ellie on the couch. Her voice wavers as if she’s holding back a laugh while she glances at Ellie knowingly. He sighs and puts the newspaper down, fully ready to listen to whatever nonsense his girls are about to say.
Sarah and Ellie grew up together in the neighborhood, always attending the same schools and becoming practically joined at the hip. Ellie was spending most of her time at Joel’s place; mostly due to her rough home life (and because she totally loved Sarah). She’d even slept over for days on end when she got to middle school. It was no wonder that her and Joel’s relationship had grown just as if she was his own daughter. Joel vowed he would do whatever it would take to keep her safe — to make her happy. It was easy for him to sign the adoption papers that her neglectful parents had handed over when she turned thirteen three years ago. Since then, his girls had taken a liking to teaming up and keeping him on his toes.
“What’s the Tinder?”
The girls give each other another look, swallowing their giggles and demanding that Joel give them his phone. He groans reluctantly and gets up, making himself comfortable between them on the couch and pulling out his phone. Joel holds it in his left hand, using his right pointer finger to tap the screen and download Tinder from the App Store.
“Okay, just follow the instructions now,” Ellie says, helping him click through the app faster.
They watch excitedly as Joel enters his name, his job, a picture of himself that Sarah suggests as well as a picture of the three of them together. He hums, stumped on the part where he has to create a bio. For some reason, Joel can’t really think of a single interesting thing to say about himself.
“I don’t know what to put.” Joel frowns, scratching his head.
“Something about being a girl dad,” Sarah suggests, resting her head on his shoulder as she looks down towards his phone.
“Really?” He chuckles, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
“Seriously, women love that shit,” Ellie confirms.
“Hm, okay, then.”
They watch Joel type, hitting finish and taking a quick glance through what others would see when they come across his profile. They nod to each other in success, knowing that despite what Joel thinks about himself — he’d be getting matches in no time.
Throughout the week, Joel has spent some time fiddling with the app, but not giving it too much effort as he can’t understand how it could actually be beneficial to him. As much as the girls disagree, Joel is content with being single; he doesn’t feel any need to throw dating in the mix. Plus, it’s been so long, he feels incredibly out of practice. The thought of committing to a date makes him nauseous.
“Come eat, girls,” Joel calls.
Sarah pauses the movie they’re watching, heading towards the kitchen for dinner. Ellie trails behind her, then comes to a halt and grabs Sarah’s hand before they get any closer.
“Dude, have you asked Joel about any matches?”
Sarah smirks. “No, I think he’s avoiding it.”
Ellie huffs, rolling her eyes. “We need to take matters into our own hands at this point.”
“Agreed.” Sarah chuckles.
They join Joel at the dinner table, taking their usual seats and digging in. He takes pride in making nice, home-cooked meals for his girls — another reason why they know he’s a total catch. They eat in silence for a few minutes, only speaking to compliment Joel’s cooking.
“This is really good, Joel,” Ellie says, shoveling the roasted potatoes in her mouth.
His heart instinctively swells, a bashful grin crossing his face as gives her a nod. “Thank you, baby.”
Joel gets up to grab some juice that he’d bought for them from the fridge, turning his back to them for a quick moment. Ellie peers at Joel, then to his phone that sits next to his plates. She gives Sarah a look, then grabs the phone, holding it between her hands that rest on her lap underneath the table. He turns back with some glasses, pouring them each juice and settling into his seat again.
Joel begins to eat, not realizing or caring that his phone is no longer next to him. Sarah grabs the glass of juice, turning her head away from him and taking a sip to try and cover her amusement. Meanwhile, Ellie guesses Joel’s password instantly – the year her and Sarah were born, of course. She opens the Tinder app, disappointed but not shocked to see that Joel isn’t chatting with anyone. He has a few matches; no conversations started and – Oh, this one catches her eye.
She peeks up at Joel, setting the phone on her lap and taking a couple more bites of her food. She tilts her head at Sarah, widening her eyes towards the phone and then back up at her.
Sarah nods back and gets her dad’s attention. “So, soccer tryouts are next week.”
Joel hums. “That’s exciting. Do you need me to get you anything? Maybe we should head down to the field and Ellie and I –” He pauses when he catches Ellie on what he thinks is her own phone, fingers moving rapidly over the keyboard. “Ellie, let's mind our manners.”
Ellie swallows, resting the phone back into her lap and picking up her fork again. “Sorry. You were saying?”
“Yeah, that would be great,” Sarah pulls the attention back towards her, going on about the times he would need to drop her off and pick her up for the weekend of tryouts.
Ellie takes the opportunity to slowly unlock the phone again, tapping on the profile that she was about to scroll through. 28 years old, huh? Damn, Joel. She snickers to herself quietly, eyebrows raising at the fact that this girl is actually really pretty and – wait a second, she’s already messaged Joel. 5 days ago. Is he out of his mind? Why hasn’t he answered? She’s too distracted to hear when Joel calls her name.
“Huh?” Ellie flinches, eyes snapping up.
“What did I just say?” Joel asks, glaring at the phone in her hand. His eyebrow cocks in confusion. “Is – is that my phone?”
Her eyes shift towards the hall, making a split decision to book it to the bathroom. The chair screeches loudly as she gets up, clutching his phone tight while she sprints to the bathroom. She’s fast but Joel is right on her heels, almost making it to her but the door gets slammed in his face. His jaw is dropped, chest heaving and blood boiling while he begins to pound on the bathroom door.
“Ellie, what the hell are you doing?” His voice booms through the house, the banging of his fist getting louder as her giggles spill out from underneath the door. “Open this door, I’m not playing around.” Joel’s angry eyes meet Sarah’s and her smile drops, she turns to mind her business and keeps eating.
In the bathroom, Ellie sits on the covered toilet, swinging her feet happily despite Joel’s tone and thinking of something to send back.
The message reads a simple: heyyy! how are u?? :))
Ellie replies: Hello! Doing well, and yourself?
–
You’re sitting on the side of the porcelain tub in your underwear, face-mask on while you rub lotion over your freshly shaved legs. You’re humming along to the music flowing from your speaker when your phone that’s on the sink lights up. You turn your head towards the screen, seeing that it’s a Tinder notification and lazily leaning over to unlock your phone. Your heart skips a beat when you see that it’s from Joel.
Let’s be real, most people spend hours swiping through Tinder, rarely finding people up to their standards – let alone really hot people. Guys especially. You find the girls to at least have some personality to them. That’s why when you were swiping through Tinder a few nights back, you were shocked when you stumbled upon a particular profile. Joel, 50, 10 miles away. You were nearly kicking your feet when you swiped right and the word MATCH! appeared across the screen. You sent that first message almost immediately.
You click on the conversation, smiling like an idiot at his formally crafted response with perfect grammar.
Joel: Hello! Doing well, and yourself?
You: good now :)) i’m having a lil self care night. what’re you up to?!
–
Ellie’s face lights up at the fast response, quickly sending another message in an attempt to get a real conversation going.
She sends: Just had some dinner with my daughters.
She types again: That sounds like a good night. What else do you like to do?
Joel’s on the other side of the door in a total panic. After 10 minutes of pleading with Ellie, he gives up, sliding his back down the door and resting his head between his knees. His eyes are closed, but he can hear the sink turn on in the kitchen – probably Sarah cleaning up in an attempt to make him happy. His body falls back slightly when the bathroom door opens and Ellie lowers the phone down to his position on the floor.
She says nothing as he snatches it from her hand, scowling as his eyes adjust to the brightness and the messages on the screen. He reads it over, cheeks tinting pink in embarrassment.
“I give you your own room and this is how you repay me,” Joel mutters, staring up at Ellie with a frown.
She laughs, leaning down to give him a wet kiss on his forehead. “You were never gonna do it for yourself. Plus – the messages I sent sound just like you.”
He softens at that. “You don’t fight fair.” He glances at the messages again. “I guess this does sound like something I would say.”
Joel watches Ellie join Sarah in the kitchen to finish her food when his phone buzzes in his hand.
The message reads: that’s sweet! i love kids!! i looove going to the movies, trying new foods/restaurants, comedy shows!! i like to go running (boring ik HAHA) also as you can prob tell, i also love staying home to chill. hbu??
He’s replying before he can stop himself.
Joel: What kinds of movies do you like? I’m a big horror fan. And, running isn’t boring! I work out a lot myself.
He reads the last sentence of her message, hesitating before sending another one.
Joel: Also, what does “hbu” mean?
–
You stare at his message that innocently asks what your abbreviation means. You nearly moan at that, thighs clenching at the response. So clueless and so hot. With your lip caught between your teeth and a goofy smile on your face, your fingers move rapidly across the keyboard.
You: haha it means how about you!
–
Joel: Oh! Sorry… dumb question. I work a lot, honestly. Most of my free time is spent with my kids, so I’m pretty happy doing anything they’d like. We tend to have movie nights and go to baseball games a lot.
Ellie and Sarah peer over at Joel who’s still sitting on the floor, holding his phone in his hands as he waits for another response.
She replies: noo it wasn’t dumb :)) that sounds fun! what are their names?
Joel’s attention is pulled from his phone when he hears Ellie and Sarah snickering to each other, their little whispers being heard from across the room.
“Look at you,” Sarah teases, “Already smiling like an idiot.”
Joel makes a face, an annoyed grunt. “Shut up.”
After cleaning up, picking up some ice cream for the girls, and making sure they’re both set for the night, he finally turns his attention towards his Tinder messages. He lays on his bed, legs crossed, one hand behind his head and the other holding his phone up to his face as he awaits your next message. He chats about anything and everything, feeling warm at how many questions are asked about his daughters, his cheeks becoming sore at how much he’s smiling.
–
You lie on the comfy chair in your room, legs tossed over the armrest as you talk to Joel. The conversation flows so easily and it makes you feel like there’s no way he’s real – there has to be some sort of catch here. You’ve been texting since 9PM, and you smile at the clock that now reads 2AM. Both of you were responding quickly, taking interest in even the smallest things the other said.
Reluctantly, but wanting to be respectful of his time, you send: it’s lateeee, i don’t wanna keep u up if u’ve got work tom.
Joel: I do have to be up at 7…
You: omg Joel!!! go to sleep
Joel: But I don’t want to.
You feel like a teenager, clutching the phone to your chest and silently screaming before pulling yourself together.
You: sleep! i’ll be here when u wake up :)
Joel: Hm… convincing.
You: here take my number so u can text me
Joel: I definitely will. Good night :)
You die at the smiley face he’d added since you’d sent one in nearly every message that you’d sent him. Shaking your head in disbelief, you begin typing again.
You: goodniiiight <3 sleep well!
You don’t text Joel first the next day, of course, you don’t want to seem too desperate or too interested – but in reality, you’d been glancing at your notifications all day to see if he’d sent you a message. You get home from work at around 5PM, setting your stuff down and getting ready to unwind for the day. You know it’s silly, that you’d only just started speaking to Joel, but you couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed that the entire day has gone by and still nothing. You take a long shower this night to pass the time, frowning at 7PM when your phone is as dry as can be.
It’s not until 9PM when you’re curled up on the couch, an old horror film playing in the background as you’re scrolling through your social media, that your phone begins to ring, an unknown number lighting up across the screen. You hesitate for a moment, then pick up at the familiar area code.
“Hello?” you say quietly, unsure.
“Hi.” A gruff voice, and you know it’s him. “It’s Joel.”
You can’t help but giggle at the sound of him. Of course, his voice is deep, velvety, and makes your belly tighten in need.
“Hi,” you greet him again, shyly, your arm resting over your eyes.
“What’s funny?” He asks, amusement in his tone.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Okay,” Joel concedes. You imagine that he’s smiling just as you are. “I’m sorry, I didn’t reach out earlier. I figured a phone call would be better.”
“That’s okay,” you affirm. “I’m glad you did. How was your day?”
He sighs. “Same old thing. Work was okay – I just finished cleaning up and saying goodnight to the girls. How was yours?”
“I worked too, it was a pretty easy day,” you tell him.
You hear the low humming of his voice over the phone. “So, I wanted to ask you…”
“Yeah?” you encourage, sitting up.
“Well, I was gonna ask if you’re free Saturday night… maybe we could – we could go out? I was thinking I could take you to dinner.”
You breathe out in relief. “Of course, I’d love to.”
–
Joel chuckles, hand holding his upper abdomen as all the anxiety that built up there finally releases. “Oh, good. I’m excited.”
“Me too,” you reply softly.
His breath hitches in his throat at the sound. There’s a moment of comfortable silence.
“So, just wondering… no pressure,” you begin, “Are you talking to anyone else right now?”
His head tilts in bemusement. “No, just you,” Joel tells you.
“What the fuck, really?” you laugh.
“Why? Is that surprising?” He asks curiously.
“Yeah, I don’t know, you’re pretty cute.”
“Shut up,” Joel mumbles into the phone, pink creeping up on his cheeks as his face heats up.
He talks to you for an hour or so, rambling on and pressing questions about your favorite foods and activities so that he can plan the perfect date for you. He hangs up, phone resting on his chest with a boyish grin on his face. It’s been a long time since anyone’s shown him this much interest — let alone someone so beautiful and charismatic. He reminds himself to thank his girls in the morning.
—
As the week goes on, you and Joel talk every day, sometimes sending a few texts here and there but he mostly waits until it’s nighttime to call you — and then he’s all yours. You find your heart pounding, your thighs clenching as he talks to you. There’s something about him; so respectful, so caring when it comes to his kids and so utterly attractive. It’s hard to believe he hasn’t been scooped up by now.
On cue, Joel calls you again around 9:30 PM.
“Hi, Joel,” you say softly, still looking through your closet for something to wear.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets, some rustling on his end of the phone.
“What’re you doing? How’s your night going?”
“Just here on the couch, the girls are out watching a movie so I gotta stay up to pick em’ up later,” Joel tells you. “What about you? What’re you doing?”
You groan dramatically, “Trying to find something to wear for our date.”
He chuckles through the phone. “You’re gonna stun me, regardless.”
“You’re sweet,” you mutter, finally picking a cream colored sun dress from the clothing rack.
Joel bashfully ignores the compliment. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course,” you say, smiling as you flip back onto your bed.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” he says, sounding reluctant. “I’m nervous.”
“You have nothing to be nervous about, Joel.”
“Of course, I do.”
“I’m nervous, too, if that makes you feel better,” you say truthfully, stomach swimming at the thought of finally meeting him in person.
“But I can’t wait at the same time.”
You hum happily. “Me either.”
After talking for a bit more, you say goodnight and reluctantly end the phone call. You lay there, dazed for a moment before opening up the camera app. You take about 15 pictures of yourself, doing your best to look nice and then picking your favorite one. Debating it for a few seconds, you wonder if he would find it weird.
Deciding to commit, you send it with a message that reads: goodnight! counting down the seconds until tomorrow!
He replies quickly: You’re so damn beautiful.
—
“Are you nervous? Where are you taking her? Are you gonna buy her flowers? Is that what you’re wearing? What are you gonna talk about? Make sure you ask her good questions — oh! and open the door for her —”
“Ellie, please.”
“Oh, you should definitely get her flowers,” Sarah joins in on the torture.
Joel rolls his eyes at the both of them, hand on his hip and weight shifted to one leg. “I am going to buy her flowers.”
“You’re gonna do great, dad,” Sarah says, patting his back.
“Thank you, baby,” he mutters.
Ellie nods, pinching his cheek. “She’s gonna love you.”
Joel huffs, holding onto his abdomen. “I guess I better get going now.”
Sarah claps her hands, guiding him to the door. “Yes! Don’t be late, that’s a bad look.”
“Okay,” Joel grumbles, both of them leading him outside. “There’s dinner on the stove, dessert in the fridge — I shouldn’t be out too late. Please call me if you need anything. You can call Uncle Tommy if you want him to keep y’all company —”
“Yes, yes.” Sarah chuckles. “Go have fun!”
Ellie gives him a final slap on his arm, sending him off. “Not too much fun, though!”
He turns back with a scowl, then heads towards the car. He gets seated, sighing nervously to himself before opening up his conversation with you and sending a message.
Joel: Be there in 25!
You: sounds good :)
—
You stare at your reflection in the mirror once more, trying to walk calmly to your front door after you heard the knock. You smooth your dress over, taking a deep breath before opening the door. Joel stands there, broad shoulders, scruffy beard, his lips quirked into a smile with a bouquet of roses in his hand.
“Hi,” you say, astonished at the sight of him. You can already feel your panties getting slick as he towers over you.
“Hi,” he repeats, licking his lips. “You look so beautiful.”
“Thank you,” you blush.
You’re both standing there for a moment, taking each other in.
He stutters, a small laugh. “These are for you.”
“They’re really pretty, Joel, thank you.”
After quickly putting them in a vase, you walk down your front steps, arm laced with Joel’s. He walks to the passenger side of the truck first, opening the door and holding his hand out for you. You hold onto him, touching him – feeling him for the first time. Getting into the car and releasing his hand, you do your best to memorize the way he feels against you; his calloused skin, how small your hand feels in yours, the way his fingertips linger against your hot skin for a few seconds too long.
You break eye contact as he shuts the door, walking over to the driver's side. He’s so fucking big, he looks so good, it’s making you feel crazy; the summer heat not helping as you take a deep breath and do your best to push your filthy thoughts away. It doesn’t work as he gets in, sitting next to you, and you think about climbing over the seat and straddling his lap. The best part of it – he has no fucking idea how soaked you are for him.
“Did you tell Ellie and Sarah about our date?” You ask, doing your best to distract yourself from the pressure increasing between your legs.
He shakes his head in amusement. “Oh, you have no idea.”
You tilt your head to the left, taking note of his sharp jaw, his lips, his eyes when he glances over you as he talks. The smell of his cologne begins to fill the car and fuck, it’s making you dizzy. You lick your lips, inhaling deeply as you cross your legs and shift your eyes towards his crotch as he speaks. Your hands ball into fists at the bulge in his jeans – he’s not even hard, he’s just driving; you imagine his cock must be so big. You think about how it would feel hitting the back of your throat and your mouth begins to water. You can barely hear what he’s saying anymore.
“...I feel a little bad for leaving them alone but they insist they don’t need a babysitter…”
Fuck, he’s such a good dad, and he’s so fucking hot, and his dick looks so big in his pants and you can’t hold it in anymore.
“Joel.”
He stops speaking, a concerned look at your sudden interruption and wavering tone.
“You okay?” He asks.
“You’re so hot,” you blurt out, heart pounding.
Joel clears his throat, smirking at you. “Shut up.”
“No – I,” you stutter, gulping. “I’m fucking wet right now.”
He does a double take, eyes shifting quickly between you and the road. “What, now?”
You fucking whimper. “Don’t make me say it again.”
“No, I don’t think I heard you,” he says, eyebrows cocked as he shakes his head.
“Joel,” you say his name again, letting your hand fall gently against his thigh, testing the waters. “I’m so horny.”
“What – what do you wanna do about it?” His voice is deep, faltering as his cock starts to strain against his jeans.
Almost a whisper as your fingertips press into him, “I want it in my mouth.”
Joel looks at you, hooded, low eyes. “Are you sure?
You nod quickly, chest heaving. “Look at me. Don’t I look sure to you?”
He huffs, head cocking towards his lap. “Come on, then. Help me undo my belt.”
You moan at that, rapidly reaching for his belt. Undoing the clasp and pulling the zipper down, you wrap your hand around his clothed cock, hearing him suck in a breath of air. It’s only semi hard, and you can barely fit it in your hand. You feel your arousal pooling in your cotton panties, wet and sticky against your skin and you pull him from the confines of his boxers. It slaps against his abdomen, hard and thick, the tip red and glistening with precum. You mewl at the sight of it, eyes wide.
“Think you can handle that?” He mutters, hands gripping the steering wheel.
“I like a challenge,” you tell him, leaning forward over the console and shifting so that you’re leaning on your knees in the passenger's seat, your ass exposed as your tiny dress lifts.
Joel keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other one slowly rubbing your back as you let the spit pool in your mouth. Gripping the base of his hard cock, you let the saliva spill from your mouth, dripping over his tip and coating his shaft. He curses quietly as you kitten-lick the tip, savoring the salty taste of him. You allow the first inch to slide past your lips, sucking on the sensitive head and swirling your tongue around it.
“Fuck, take it deeper,” he grunts low as you pump your spit covered hand up the part that isn’t in your mouth.
You pull it out, a wet popping sound. “Focus on the road, Joel.”
He chuckles under his breath, almost as if you have no idea just what he’s capable of. You allow it to slide halfway into your mouth, already swallowing around the tip. Your hand is moving in tandem with your mouth, head bobbing up and down as you set a medium pace. He’s groaning above you, hand shifting from your back to your hair and tangling his fingers at the base of your neck.
“Come on.” His voice is stronger now, more confident. “Take the whole thing in your mouth since you want it so bad.”
You moan into him, sending vibrations down his shaft. He pushes your head down as he rocks his hips up, the tip hitting the back of your throat while you start to gag loudly. He breathes out at the sound of you, keeping his hand steady and forcing you to hold it fully in your mouth.
“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”
You whimper, doing your best to nod your head as he chokes you with his dick.
“So keep sucking it. I want it deep – just like that.”
You lift your head slightly, allowing his cock to repeatedly enter and hit the back of your throat. Your left hand is gripping his thigh to steady yourself while the other moves to his balls, rolling them between your fingers, squeezing them gently, and getting them wet with your spit. Your breathing is heavy as your eyes squeeze shut, doing your best to relax your jaw and allow space for his strong cock to thrust inside your mouth. You’re whimpering, gagging, obscene slick sounds echoing in the car.
“Oh, fuck,” Joel groans, you feel the car accelerate. “Sweet little thing – fuck, feels so good, baby girl.”
Groaning at the pet name, it encourages you to suck faster, hollowing your cheeks and allowing your spit to make it even messier. You feel his large hand trail from you back to the curve of your ass, pushing the slip of your dress up as his hand trails over your cheeks, grabbing at them and slapping in approval. Tears are pooling in your eyes at how badly your cunt needs him, you push your ass back into his hand.
He hums, grabbing a handful again. “I know, baby, I know.”
Joel slides his hand towards your center, cupping your pussy and feeling the wet spot on the soft fabric. He sighs in delight, rubbing two fingers over the spot very gently, barely applying any pressure at all. You let out a pathetic noise at that.
“Right there? Want me to rub that little clit?”
You pull back, out of breath to mutter, “Please.”
His hand slaps lightly over your cunt. “No one told you to stop.”
His dominance has your pussy leaking, his light ministrations over your clothed clit making you see stars. He’s in your mouth again, his cock fills you up so nicely, your jaw completely relaxed as his hips buck up and you let him take everything that he needs from you – because he deserves it. You want him to have it, and you want more than anything to be the one that gives it to him.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ cum,” he grunts, fingertips still petting your clit softly. He curses and you whine as his hand moves from your pussy back over your ass, gripping roughly. “Get off,” he strains, “Get off unless you want a mouthful.”
You respond by groaning around his dick, swallowing and fondling his balls. He’s a mess above you, letting out a string of curses as he begins to cum in your mouth. You feel his hot, thick release hit the back of your throat, and you swallow willingly, feeling like you could cum in your panties from it.
“Attagirl,” Joel whispers. “Take what I give you.”
Joel gets his breathing under control and you release him from your mouth, just as he’s pulling into the restaurant. You suck him dry, cleaning up your mess as his hand continues to rub over your ass in praise. Pulling back and sitting up again, you sigh, a smirk hinting at your lips as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
“How was that?” you mutter, almost shy at the fact that you’d just done that.
He gives you this look that makes you nervous, and he’s parting your thighs before he can even say anything. You whimper, letting your feet rest against the compartment, your legs spread and your dress draped beneath them. Your head is tilted to the side, watching as he leans forward to get a better look at you. He pulls your panties to the side, shaking his head and biting his lower lip at the sight.
“Your cunt is so wet, baby,” he teases, eyes flickering to yours and then back to the messy spot between your legs. “Can I play with it?”
“Please.”
He uses one hand to keep your panties out of his way, the other reaching to allow two fingers to rub little circles over your clit. His fingers become sticky fast and they dip down to your hole to gather more slick and then bring it back up. Your eyes stay on his face, the way he focuses as he starts to pinch at your clit, sighing when your arousal begins to drip down onto his seats.
“Look at you,” he repeats your words from earlier, admiring the way you become undone for him. “Does that feel good?
“Yes – fuck, Joel,” you cry out as his fingers inch towards your clenching hole, and he pushes two fingers in at once.
Joel’s fingers are so big and rough, stretching you wide open and making you wonder how he’s gonna fit his thick cock inside of you. He thrusts them rhythmically, palm brushing over your clit every time he takes them out. You’re gripping the arm rest tightly, the other hand grasping onto his bicep. He often looks to watch your expression to make sure you’re enjoying yourself, but it’s hard for him to keep his eyes off the way your little hole opens and cries for him. Joel curls his fingers upwards, pushing into that soft spot that pulls your orgasm forward like nothing else.
“You’re gonna make me fuckin’ cum,” you whine loudly, pussy tightening up as your lower belly begins to burn with pleasure.
You knew it would be this good, knew he’d be big and know now exactly how to work his fingers to have your eyes rolling back into your head. The feeling is overwhelming, the sweat beginning to drip from the nape of your neck, your hips rocking forward as he fucks you deep onto his fingers, and the adrenaline pulsing at the fact that you’re in the fucking parking lot of a restaurant. He’d wisely parked in the corner, near some bushes – he wouldn’t dare let anyone else see you like this.
“That’s the goal, baby,” Joel whispers, lips grazing your shoulder. He breathes you in, lightheaded at your sweet scent and glistening skin. “You can cum, sweet girl. Come on, I can feel it. It’s right there, isn’t it?”
You feel your release hit you as his deep voice speaks gently into your ear, your eyes squeezed shut and blood pulsing through you. It feels too good, and it’s only his fingers, he’s barely done anything and all you can think about his how utterly fucked you are.
“Yeah, you’re cumming, aren’t you?” He coaxes. “Feel that pussy getting tight on me. Are you gonna squeeze my cock like that, angel?”
“I want it so bad, oh, please” you whisper desperately, not even knowing what you’re begging for.
Joel hums, pumping you through your orgasm as you relax back into the seat, resting your feet on the floor. He brings his two fingers that were stuffed inside of you up to his own mouth, sucking them clean while you watch, your mouth slightly agape. Your eyes shift to the big bulge in his jeans, his cock hard again already, and even better it’s because of the pleasure he was giving you.
You hold eye contact for a few moments, caught in blissful silence until you feel a laugh bubbling in the back of your throat. He breaks at the hiccup, biting his lip to keep from laughing until he hears your giggle. There’s this moment where you’re both snickering hysterically, his hand clutching his abdomen while tears threaten to fall from the corner of your eyes.
The laughter dies down, you two breathing deeply before both your smiles drop and you’re leaning in. He wraps his arms around you from across the console, pressing his lips to you hungrily. You moan into him, allowing his tongue to softly lick, tasting you and nibbling on your lower lip. The kiss is frantic, so desperate, so needy for each other – it’s not close enough, fuck, you want more.
You reach for the bulge in his pants and he smiles against your lips, clutching your hand in his wrist. Joel pulls away softly, gripping your jaw and leading your eyes to his.
“Enough now, baby,” Joel says. “I want to do this right, won’t you let me be a gentleman?”
You blush, gulping as you try to squirm away from him.
“Hey, look at me,” he calls softly, “I just don't want you to think that’s all I want.”
“I know.” You smile. “It’s not all I want, either. Want so much more, Joel.”
“Me too, sweet girl.” His forehead rests against yours for a moment as you savor the sweet feeling of each other. “Don’t worry, though. Later on, I’m gonna make your pussy cum until you’re begging me to stop.”
“Jesus,” you mutter, a needy sigh.
“Now, let’s go eat,” he perks up, releasing you. “Cause I’m hungry as hell.”
There he is again. This is the third time this week that you see the same male cervitaur pacing anxiously near your house. You don't think he knows you see him-- after all most cervitaurs avoid any interaction with humans and he'd most likely be spooked if he knew. So you just keep your distance, watching him through your window while you wonder what he's up to. Judging from the different flowers in his hand each time you see him, you'd say he's trying to court someone but perhaps he is too shy to actually approach the person. Is it someone from this village? It probably is since he’s here. If that’s the case then he probably never did give the flowers to them as you seem to be the only one who’s aware of his existence in your village.
A sigh left your mouth as he has this defeated look on his face, probably from talking himself down from actually approaching this person yet again. It was disappointing when you first saw it and it is still disappointing now as you’ve been itching to see how it’s going to go when he finally decides to go for it. You really wish you could help him either by giving him love advice or by being a bridge between the two of them should he feel too anxious to visit them in person but unfortunately for you, you also need to be realistic. You know that he's barely out of the woods for a reason and you’re almost certain that if he even sees you walk out of your house while he’s around, he'd immediately retreat back into the woods. That said, you’re not sure there's much you could do if you can't even approach him to talk to him about it. Unless...?
You rushed to your desk as a brilliant idea popped up in your head to take one of the papers and your quill. Maybe if you leave a note for him to find, he'd be less likely to be spooked when you try to interact with him and you could offer him your help. This is a small village so there's no one you don't know and if he allows it, you might be able to give him some insight about this mysterious person. That way, maybe you could be a witness when he finally gathers his courage to give this person the flowers since you'd have a reason to be there. It's a win-win situation! Just the mere thought of it made you feel so excited, you couldn't stop smiling even if you wanted to. What can you say? You’re a hopeless romantic, after all.
The note was simple and straight to the point. You wrote that you live in the house near the woods and you've noticed that he wanted to give someone flowers so now you’re offering your assistance should he need any help or advice as you’ve noticed how nervous he seemed. Nothing less, nothing more, but enough to convey your intention and hopefully wouldn't alarm him. You even drew some cute doodles on the note to make it look as not threatening as possible so he would know that you have no bad intention at all.
This should be fine, right?
Now all that’s left for you to do is to find somewhere to put the note and wait for him to find it. Somewhere that's easy for him to find. You place it on one of the bench on the side of your house and put a rock on top of it so it wouldn't be blown away by the wind. To top it all off, you also wrote "to Ser Cervitaur" on the front so he'd know that it's for him, just in case he spots it but decides to leave it alone as he'd have no idea who's it for. Yes, this should be enough to tell him that you’re here to help.
A giddy smile found its way to your lips, your excitement oozing out from every bounce of your steps as you go back inside. You really hope he'd allow you to help, after all such a romantic situation like this don’t come as often as you’d like around here. Gosh, you get butterflies just from imagining about it! In the same time, though, you can't deny that you feel this slight tinge of jealousy. After all, you found his shy personality very endearing and you could only imagine how lovely it is to have him as your lover. But as lovely as it is, realistically speaking what are the chances that he is here for you?
You shook your head, pushing away the thoughts. Better not imagine things that would only disappoint you later.
The next three days couldn’t show up soon enough. He hadn’t showed a day after you put the letter on the bench or the day after, which admittedly really disappointed you. You almost wondered if he really gave up as he’d shown no sign of returning but much to your relief, he shows up again today.
As always, he walked out from the woods already looking like he’s been scolding himself in his head, this time with bunch of fresh sunflowers in his hand. He nearly turns back-- which is something he always does while he's having inner fight against himself to either go for it or to just go home-- only to stop on his track when he spotted the note that's neatly tucked under a rock. You hid behind the curtain, covering your mouth with your hands to prevent yourself from making any noise as you watch him look around like a scared rabbit before he carefully approached the bench, his expression curious but wary. One of his ears twitches slightly as he tilts his head to examine the writing on the front of the letter and the way they went up in surprise when he realized that it’s for him nearly made you faint from how adorable he looks.
Not wanting to startle him, you decided to get away from the window as quietly as you could and pretend to be busy just so it wouldn’t seem like you’ve been waiting for him. The last thing you want is for him to think that you're up to no good so you decided that pretending to be nonchalant about this is the way to go. Still, despite your best attempt to appear unbothered by his decision, you can’t help but feel a bit impatient. Seconds feels like hours when you’re waiting, after all, but you know you shouldn’t be too pushy about it lest you want to scare him off since he’s obviously very skittish.
Now it’s your turn to be pacing around, although it’s because of impatience instead of anxiety.
One minute turned into five. Still no knock on the door or window. The corners of your mouth curled into a frown as you’re beginning to wonder if he perhaps doesn’t want your help. Is he even still outside right now? What if your letter did scare him off despite your attempt to make it look as friendly and harmless as possible?
With a soft groan of frustration, you decided to you should at least check if he’s still here.
You walked back to one of the windows, looking through it to see if he’s still there. Much to your relief, he is, but he’s pacing around anxiously yet again although now his demeanor seem more panicked than usual. You also noticed the unmistakable hint of pink on his cheeks while he reads the letter over and over again, disbelief written all over his face. Why does he look so flustered? Is he embarrassed that someone noticed? You hope that’s not the case, after all this is nothing to be embarrassed about.
You were going to back away from the window to wait once again when he turns his head to the window, his ears went up in surprise as his eyes meet yours, his eyes widening with this deer in headlight look on his face. For good few seconds the two of you just stared at each other while the red on his cheeks became even darker before it spreads to the rest of his face. Not wanting this to be even more awkward than it already is, you finally decided to put an end to this by opening the window before offering him a sheepish yet (hopefully) friendly grin.
“Uh, hi!” you chirped, trying to sound as friendly as possible to show that you truly mean no harm. “In case it’s not obvious, I’m the one that left the letter. I wanted to help. Only if you’d allow me, of course.”
Seeing him from this close, he definitely looks more breathtaking. He still looks sweet and somewhat delicate, but you also realized how tall he really is even if you ignore his antlers. You also realized that there are a lot of details that you wouldn’t have noticed if you didn’t see him this close, such as the faint freckles that adorn his nose and cheeks, the small beauty mark on the the left side of his neck, the long eyelashes that made him look quite pretty… you wish you have your pencil and notebook with you so you could at least sketch him. Truly, just the sight of him alone gives you a lot of inspiration for your next painting. Alas, this is not the time for that although you do take this chance to memorize everything so you could paint him later, unaware how your gaze made him feel.
He was silent for a moment, not responding to your friendly greeting and just stayed like that as if you wouldn’t be able to see him if he stays very still. He doesn't even blink, his gaze following your every movement silently while his brain slowly processed that this is really happening. You’re really talking to him. You tapped your fingers on the rim of the window, your smile slowly turning into a grimace as you wondered if you should say anything else to fill the silence. Thankfully, you didn’t have to as he finally snapped out of his trance and shook his head lightly.
“Oh! I’m sorry for staring…” he apologized, his voice sounds sweet yet bashful. “I’m just… I didn’t expect this, is all.”
“No, no! It’s fine!” you quickly reassured him. “So? What do you say? I know everyone in this village so I’d say I could give you an advice or two if you want.”
“Why…” he paused, his eyes darting to look around as to make sure there are no one else around. When he’s sure there’s only the two of you, he decided to be a bit bold and take a few steps forward toward the window. “Why would you help me?” he asked, only to realize how rude his question sounds a moment later, which caused him to quickly add: “Not that I’m not thankful, of course! You are very kind for even offering! But… I guess I just don’t wish to burden you with my troubles.”
“Well, I’m a hopeless romantic and sometimes it gets boring around here so believe me, it’s no trouble at all,” you tell him honestly, followed by a slightly nonchalant shrug. “ I also want to know who’s the lucky person that gave you courage to approach this village. I rarely see cute romantic interactions in person, you see, so I’d love to see you finally interact with this person.”
He slowly nods as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his demeanor somehow got even more shy after hearing your honest answer. There’s this contemplating look on his face for a moment before he clearly said “fuck it” in his head and decided to just go for it. It's now or never because he's pretty sure if he doesn't do it now, he wouldn't have the courage to do it later.
“Uh, here, then!” He blurted that out so quickly you could barely heard what he said before he decided to practically shove those flowers to your face, causing you to lean your head backward subconsciously. You look at the sunflowers in front of you with this puzzled look on your face before you glance at him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, however, as he’s averting his eyes, too nervous to look at how you’d react. Unfortunately for him, you don't understand what this really means so you just assumed he's trying to get you to give this person the flower for him.
“Do you want me to give it to the person or…?” you asked curiously as you take the flowers from his hand, your fingers ever so slightly brushed against his when you did, causing the butterflies in his stomach to go absolutely wild.
For a split second, he’s almost tempted to just play along. Really, it would’ve been the easiest thing in the world to just say yes and avoid any further embarrassment. But in the same time he also knows that if he says that then your first interaction with him will be tainted with dishonesty and he really doesn’t want that. So he swallowed thickly, ignoring that lump in his throat as he gathered his courage to look at your confused face, encouraging himself in his mind to just go for it. He’s gone this far. It’d be a shame if he chickens out right when he finally gets the chance to talk to you, right?
“No,” he replied, his voice tiny and timid, almost shaking from how nervous he feels. “It’s for you.”
Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. Although you did think about this possibility once or twice before, you never really considered that it might be true so this caught you off guard. “For me?” you asked, unable to hide your disbelief.
“Yes. I, uh… I didn’t know what kind of flowers you like so…” he trailed off, offering a bashful smile as he shifts nervously on his feet. “I hope you like them.”
Your hopeless romantic heart nearly combust and you’ve never been happier with your decision to insert yourself to someone else’s business. Who knows if this would ever happen if you didn’t? Perhaps it’d take weeks before he even decides to knock on your door or maybe he wouldn’t at all. Nevertheless, this is something that you thought only happens in those romance books you read so now that this is actually happening to you, you could barely contain your excitement and delight. Now you don’t feel as bad for not having your pencil and notebook with you. After all, if this goes well, you can draw him anytime you wish, perhaps even makes him your muse if he allows it.
“Actually,” you finally said, barely able to remain calm and collected on the outside while fighting the urge to let out a gleeful squeal from how ecstatic you feel, “Do you want to come inside? I’ll make us some tea.”
BEG, BORROW, & STEAL - levi ackerman/f!reader (aot)
NSFW 18+ MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT
wc: 13k
tags: enemies to lovers, neighbours to begrudging friends to lovers, food and wine writer!Levi, catsitter!Levi, Pancakes is the Real Star of this show, frequent and gratuitous descriptions of food and drink, frequent mention and consumption of alcohol, singular mention of loud domestic argument, smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, sensory deprivation play, blindfolds, hair pulling, no mention of condoms, honestly i'm not sure if fire escapes are actually safe to hang out on so tw for that too
crossposted to ao3
Nestled in a quiet corner of Mitras’ budding east end, there’s a little five-storey building.
It’s stout, brick, and decorated with ivy that creeps up along the mortar and underneath its windows. Along the side of the building not facing the two lane street, running just above a narrow back alley, there’s a labyrinthine set of old metal fire escapes—rusted and weathered but still sturdy, a standing testament to bygone craftsmanship. It all comes together in stark juxtaposition to the design of the towering structures of concrete, steel, and glass that have been steadily cropping up in the neighbourhood as of late.
The architecture feels almost out of place among these new developments, understated and old among all the shiny and new, but it certainly has a lot of character.
The residents who inhabit the apartments inside are respectful, polite people, who mostly tend to keep to themselves—though they’re as a eclectic of a bunch as any, to be sure. Most have lived in their rent-controlled units for decades, made homes for themselves that they never plan to leave.
Since moving into the little brick building two years ago, you haven’t had any notable issues with any of your neighbours.
Well, except for one.
The miserable guy in apartment 304—one unit down and slightly to the left of your own, 405. He’d nearly chewed your god damn head off for using his trash can one time when you’d first moved in. His trash can of all things. It had been an honest mistake on your part, and you’d sincerely apologized for it when he all-but cornered you in the mail room off the lobby a few days after the fact. But after the unpleasant exchange, the curmudgeon bought himself a padlock for his trashcan and has sent withering glares your way ever since.
It’s been well over a year since then, but the chill has never quite broken between the two of you.
The dark haired man, who seems to be perpetually suit-clad—or at least he has been in all the times you’ve spotted him—is easy enough to avoid given the floor’s difference between your units. But sometimes ill-fated meetings are inevitable in such close quarters.
Your building (regrettably) only has one rickety old elevator. It’s an original feature from when the complex was first built, and it’s undergone minimal maintenance and sum total zero upgrades since it was installed decades prior.
All of which is to say: it merits nothing less than being called a complete and utter death trap.
And, as though the sluggardly descent from your apartment on the fourth floor down to the lobby isn’t harrowing enough, your ill-tempered neighbour standing less than a metre away from you in a tightly confined space surely makes it worse.
The elevator is old enough that it has two doors—an automatic door that opens on each floor, as well as a manual interior door that the passengers in the elevator are responsible for opening and closing themselves. Initially you’d found the antique system charming, quaint even, but after realizing that the interior door weighs about thirty pounds and only likes to open half of the time, it quickly lost its charm. You stare pointedly at the cursed iron grate of the aforementioned interior door as the elevator makes its slow downward journey to the lobby, cursing yourself for not just taking the fucking stairs.
The lights on the side panel tell you you’re only one single floor away from your destination. If you just hold your breath and pray hard enough maybe everything will be fi—
“If you and your boyfriend plan to continue going at it like animals until four in the morning without any consideration for your neighbours, you should at least have the basic human decency to close your bedroom window.”
The elevator makes it to the ground floor just as his eviscerating remark draws to a close, the car dipping slightly upon arrival and sending your stomach sinking with it. Without missing a beat, your sour-faced neighbour pulls the confounded metal door open like it weighs nothing. You, in contrast, are frozen stock-still in shock, reeling in the wake of his words with a singeing heat flooding your cheeks. He steps off in the lobby without so much as a momentary glance in your direction, and you watch his back (in a crisp navy blue suit jacket) as he walks away.
You’re so completely stunned that you almost forget to get out too.
Oh, you hate him.
You swear that you’ll forsake the cursed elevator entirely for the rest of your life, if only to avoid ever crossing paths with that bastard again.
Or, so you may have thought.
Weeks later, you find yourself on the fire escape outside your living room with tears drying on your cheeks. You sit quietly in the wake of a long, heated argument with your boyfriend. A loud argument. A relationship ending argument.
Things have been bad for a few months. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. He’s always been a bit mean, a little careless, a little wrong—and you knew he probably wasn’t the one. But that doesn’t make the sting of yet another relationship crumbling in your hands any more bearable.
And so, not for the first time, you find yourself drowning your sorrows in a bottle of cheap, overly saccharine white wine and hiccuping in breaths of the fresh air as you try to soothe the ache while the sting of alcohol sears down your throat.
“Your boyfriend sucks.”
You jump a little, looking down the stairs to your right only to see your most loathed neighbour on his own fire escape with a glass of red wine in his hand.
You’re not sure how long he’s been there, but you’re sure he heard most (if not all) of what had transpired in your living room if he had been home at the time. Your windows had been open, you realize too late to do anything about it.
“Yeah,” you scrub at your swollen eyes with the back of your knuckles, “he kinda does—”
You take a long, inelegant swig from the bottle of wine in your hand at the same time your neighbour lifts his own glass. This mouthful tastes more bitter than the last.
“—and he’s not my boyfriend anymore, in case it needs to be said.”
Your neighbour pauses with his glass at his lips. Based on the fact that your window had been open to the world at large, and your conversation with your now-ex had been less that even-toned, you doubt the point really stands to be highlighted.
“It doesn’t,” he replies, confirming your suspicions. “But sorry to hear that.”
You snort mirthlessly. “Are you really?”
The man tuts, a little click of his tongue behind his teeth. But it’s not a sound that implies that he cares, just one that says he’s been found out.
“No.”
You can’t help but laugh at his candour. It’s a nice reprieve from the tears.
And, strangely, things are almost… amicable after that.
Now in the evenings when both of you sit quietly on your fire escapes, where once you’d skitter back inside to avoid his cold glare and oppressive aura, neither of you moves to silently retreat.
Sometimes you even chat, as unlikely an occurrence as it once would have seemed to you. You talk about basically nothing—the weather, a new building that’s cropped up a few streets away, a noisy neighbour, the moon—and it’s usually just for a few minutes before you head to sleep. You tend to be early to bed and early to rise, but Apartment 304’s lights seem to be on at all hours.
Part of you wonders just how long he stays out on his balcony after you retire for the night. But, it’s sort of nice—this unlikely armistice you seem to have unspokenly signed.
You stick your head out the window one evening, a few months in to your ill-begotten amity, a little earlier than you normally would since you got home from work ahead of your usual return.
He’s already there.
“Hey—”
Your neighbour lifts his head to peer up from the pad of notebook paper he’s scribbling away on. He’s wearing glasses today. You’ve never seen those before.
“—what are you having for dinner?”
304 looks at you with a quirk of his brow.
“A 2001 Cabernet Sauvignon.”
You lean your elbows on the windowsill, angling yourself a little further out of it. “I just made a fuckload of food. If you split that red with me, I’ve got a plate for you.”
He eyes you, and seems to be considering your proposal.
“What is it?”
“Roast chicken, some vegetables. Nothing fancy.”
“This wine pairs better with red meat.”
“Yeah? Well my last bottle of wine cost me 8 dollars and a 2-day hangover. Do you want the food or not?” you ask him, rolling your eyes lightly at his comment.
There’s a long pause.
A sigh.
“Fine.”
You meet on the metal stairs halfway between your respective fire escape landings on the third and fourth floor; you're perched a few steps higher than your neighbour closer to your home, and he to his.
He pours you a serving of wine into a spotless glass that he must have retrieved while you were inside plating up the meal, having evidently tucked his eyeglasses away at the same time as they’re nowhere to be seen. He accepts the plate of food you offer him and hands you the drink in exchange. Your plates are mismatched, so is your cutlery, and they clash with the delicate wine glasses he’s brought to your unexpected soiree.
You watch cautiously as he takes his first bite, silently scrutinizing the way his brow furrows as he chews. After a moment the crease in his brow softens, and he seems content—or at the very least not repulsed. You almost laugh into the brim of your wine glass as you quietly read the expressions on his face.
You tip your glass back and take your first sip.
“Holy shit, this is great,” you say, the flavour of the wine lingering on your tongue even after you’ve swallowed it down. It’s neither too dry nor too sweet, evenly balanced, and it doesn’t have the lingering tannic bitterness of the reds that you’ve tried before. Theres something rich but not heavy in the notes that first touch your palate, fruity but on the right side of neutral. You reach a hand out for the bottle and he passes it to you—albeit hesitantly. Reading the label, all you’re able to surmise is that it’s french. “This must not be cheap.”
“It certainly cost more than eight dollars,” your third floor neighbour snorts. He catches the flat look you shoot him, and suddenly is very preoccupied with cutting into his next bite of chicken.
And so from that point on you continue your evening chats, and even eat dinner together on a semi-regular basis. Apartment 304 has yet to turn down your offer of a free meal—and he always supplies the wine.
You’re not friends per se, but you’re certainly no longer mortal nemeses either.
“Oi! 405!”
You hear your neighbour call to you late one afternoon, the sun rapidly slipping away along the city skyline outside, and rush towards your open window. You stick your head out onto the fire escape curiously.
Your neighbour is standing on his landing, staring up at you with a quirked brow.
“Did you lose something?”
That’s when you notice the bra dangling off his outstretched finger. Your eyes shoot to your laundry rack where that very bra had been previously pinned to dry, as though you really need to confirm where it had come from. There’s a clothespin resting on the grated metal deck of the fire escape beside the wire rack, having clearly blown off in the wind.
You swallow a mortified groan.
“How do you know that’s not Misses Miller’s from upstairs?” You sniff, unduly defensive. The argument is weak and you know it; Misses Miller occupies apartment 506, the unit at the top of the fire escape stairs connected to your own—she’s nearly 80 and likely requires a bit more support than what the dainty lace bra looped around your neighbour's index finger offers.
The dark-haired man’s lips quirk into something you might think vaguely reminiscent of a smirk if you believed him capable of it.
“I’m happy to go ask-“
“You’re a real jerk, y’know that, Third?” you cut him off before he can finish the thought, pulling yourself out through the window clumsily in your newfound haste.
He seems to be contemplating what you’ve said as you make your way down the fire escape stairs towards him, footfalls heavy with your indignation.
“Third?” he asks, peering up at you with his head titled inquisitively to the side.
“Third floor,” you explain, like it should be obvious.
“I don’t own the entire third floor.”
You lean down from your place on the stairs and snatch your bra from his hand. “Well you sure act like it.”
You turn and stomp your way back up the fire escape towards your own apartment, bra clutched in a tightly clenched fist.
“So, should I let Misses Miller know you’re returning that to her, or—“
You slam your window shut behind you before you can hear the end of his comment.
A few nights following The Bra Incident—or the deBRAcle as you’ve come to refer to it in your mortified inner monologue—you wake to the unpleasant sound of toppling aluminium in the back alley. Sleepily, you shuffle out into your living room and lift your window, peeking your head out into the cool night.
A quick glance to your right tells you that 304’s lights are off. It’s late, admittedly, and this should be normal—but you can’t recall a night you’ve peeked down towards his apartment and seen the window dark. It’s all a bit unusual.
What you hear next even more so.
“God fucking damn it—shit, fuck—mother of—“
“You alright down there?” You approach the railing of the fire escape and lean over the edge to peer down towards the ground.
Below you, beyond all odds or reasonable explanation, is your third floor neighbour. He’s dressed in a nice suit as usual, with his hair neatly slicked back, and he’s standing beside a knocked over garbage can with trash strewn about.
He blinks up at you owlishly.
It’s quiet for a moment as the two of you hold eye contact.
He speaks first.
“I forgot my house keys in my office.”
You raise a brow, propping your chin in your hand as you lean against the metal railing. “And so you picked a fight with an innocent trash can?”
304 narrows his eyes up at you, a resentful squint. The sharp line of his jaw becomes even more pronounced as he grits his teeth. “I’m trying to reach the fire escape.”
The ladder that connects the fire escape to the ground is retractable, and has to be pulled from the second floor. He’d clearly been trying to use the garbage cans as leverage to reach the lowest rung of the ladder and yank it down—a security measure that had clearly done its job.
You purse your lips, fighting back a laugh. “Are you drunk?”
Silence befalls the two of you once more, and your neighbours eyes only narrow further.
“A bit.” Reluctance weighs heavily in his monotonous words.
You push yourself off from the railing, heading back towards your window.
“Where are you going?” 304 calls indignantly after you, like now that you’ve spotted him you’re somehow obligated to come to his aid.
“I gotta grab something!” you chirp dismissively as you crawl back inside over the edge of the frame.
Something being your cellphone. Specifically to take a picture and commemorate the ordeal.
“You’re cruel,” your neighbour snarls from his place on the ground as you gleefully snap a few photos with flash, quickly turning his back to you in an attempt to preserve whatever remaining shred of pride he has left.
“And if you want me to drop this fire escape ladder then you’re at my mercy—so smile!” you cajole with a giggle as you lean precariously over the railing, pinching the screen of your cellphone to zoom in on his figure.
He flips you off over his suit-clad shoulder and it makes you laugh again.
Once you’ve had your fun, and taken (conservative estimate) 400 photos, you climb down the stairs all the way to the second floor balcony—creeping across the grated deck as to not startle your unsuspecting lower-level neighbours—and finally push down the fire escape ladder.
304 makes short work of clambering up the rungs, pulling himself onto the balcony with a heaving sigh. He stumbles slightly, and you grab him by the lapels of his suit to steady him.
“Take it easy, Third,” you say quietly, letting your hands unfurl from his suit jacket once you’re sure he’s regained his balance.
He rolls his eyes and pulls the creaky fire escape ladder up behind him once more. You both wait with bated breath, pulse spiking, to see if the lights inside the second floor apartment turn on. Mercifully the windows stay dark.
The two of you make your way back up to the third floor, and you’re just about to step onto the stairs towards your own apartment and return to the call of your bed as 304 move towards his window. He places both hands flat against the glass and pushes up.
Nothing happens.
It’s locked.
“Oh my god,” your neighbour groans miserably, letting his forehead rest against the fingerprint-smudged glass, his dark hair hanging around his eyes.
“Holy shit, did something just move in there?” You gasp in fright, spotting something streaking through the darkness of his apartment through the pane.
“Yes, the fucking beast that’s taken over my home.”
You tilt your head. “I’m lost.”
The man before you sighs, turning over so instead of resting with his forehead against the glass his shoulders are pressed to the brick just beside the window frame. He tilts his head back, and a strand of hair falls from his slicked back style and curls in front of his eyes. He breathes out frustratedly into the night. “I’m currently babysitting my acquaintance’s evil cat.”
“You have a cat?” you ask excitedly.
“No,”—he shoots you a pointed, irritated look—“it’s my acquaintance’s cat. And it’s the weirdest creature on earth. She can open windows and eats all of my bread.”
You press a hand to your mouth to try and hold back your giggles.
“Bread?” you ask him incredulously.
He nods solemnly.
“Well,”—you drag the toe of your fluffy slipper idly against the grating beneath your feet—“what’s her name?”
He stares at you blankly. Utterly unenthused. “Pancakes.”
And at that you have no choice but to openly and unreservedly laugh.
When you finally manage to get your giggles in check—exceedingly conscious of how the sound of your laughter seems to ricochet down the narrow, brick-lined alley you find yourself in—you manage to ask him a pertinent question.
“Does anyone have a spare key to your place?”
“My colleague, Erwin,” the man in front of you mumbles.
Acquaintance. Colleague. You’re starting to wonder if 304 has no friends, or just refuses to refer to them as such.
“Ok, so call him,” you encourage.
He shuts his eyes, his head still pressed back against the wall of brick behind him.
“…My phone is dead.”
You wince.
“Christ, third strike you’re out.”
Your neighbour looks ready to pitch himself clear off the edge of the fire escape.
“Get it? because you’re—“
“I got it.” 304 finally opens his eyes to shoot you a glare.
You do him the favour of not openly laughing in the face of his misfortune again, wracking your brain for something that may actually be helpful.
“Er, do you wanna come up to my place?” you ask. “I probably have a charger you can use for your phone, or you could just use mine to call. What kind do you have?”
The man in front of you rifles through the inside pocket of his suit jacket and hands you the dead device.
You survey it for a moment, turning the bottom of the phone up towards you to squint at the charging port in the dim night. It’s different from yours but all hope isn’t yet lost. “I think that ex of mine you liked so much had the same one, he left a charger up there. It’s all yours if you want it.”
It’s not like he really has any other choice.
As 304 follows you up the narrow fire-escape stairs towards your window on the fourth floor, you realize it’s the first time your neighbour has ever been to your apartment. Or even crossed the halfway point on the stairs, for that matter. You turn just before you get to the window, and suddenly realize how close you are on the narrow balcony outside of your home.
You pause.
“You know, I really shouldn’t be inviting a stranger into my apartment.”
Third tuts admonishingly. “We eat dinner together once or twice a week.”
“I don’t even know your na-“
“Levi.”
You’re a little taken aback in the wake of his offering, your eyes widening slightly.
“Levi,” you test the name over in your mouth like the wine the two of you so often share, and then you shrug. “Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Third, but I guess it’ll do.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?” he huffs.
You turn to crawl through your living room window when you feel a gentle touch on your hip calling for your attention. You look back, and Levi pulls his hand away quickly, like he’s realized what he’s done.
You can’t help but think he doesn’t need to seem so suddenly abashed.
He clears his throat a little as you look to him inquisitively.
“Your name?”
You smile a bit, your nose scrunching up at how shyly he poses the question, and you tell him.
He nods curtly, like he accepts it, and it almost makes you laugh.
You go about making two cups of tea while you wait for the phone to power back on once he’s plugged it into the charger—which you dug out of a box you keep shoved in the back of your coat closet full of things your various exes have left in your apartment over the years. Thankfully it is the right fit for the device.
A quick glance at the time on your stove clock as you’re boiling the kettle tells you it’s already well past two AM—far later than your usual bedtime, though you don’t feel particularly sleepy.
Once the tea has been prepared, you tote the steaming mugs into the living room where Levi is waiting. You sit curled in an armchair, while your unexpected guest rests perched on the very edge of your sofa closer to the outlet where his phone is plugged into the wall.
“So, what had you out so late tonight, Thir-Levi?” you ask, correcting yourself last minute from using the nickname you’re so used to. You blow over the surface of your very hot tea as you wait for his reply.
“Work thing,” he grunts dismissively, his knee jiggling impatiently while he cradles the still-dark cellphone in his hands. He picks up his own cup of tea and takes a sip. He seems pleasantly surprised by the taste.
“Okay,” you draw out the word, “and what exactly do you do for work?”
Levi looks at you over the brim of his mug, an almost skeptical expression on his face.
“I’m a writer.”
Your eyes widen. “No shit! Like a novelist?”
“Journalist,” he corrects you, his lips pursing forward like he’s contemplating whether or not to divulge any more. He decides to indulge you, evidently, when he further supplies: “I’m a food and wine writer.”
“Really?” You lean forward in your seat, suddenly very interested. “A critic?”
He looks like he wants to correct you, but doesn’t. “I write reviews among other things, yes.”
You slump back in your chair a little bit, kicking your legs up to loop over one armrest.
“Wow, a guy who writes about food and can’t even cook.”
“I can cook, I just choose not to,” Levi says defensively, his tone sharp.
“Sounds like something someone who can’t cook would say,” you say, punctuating the statement with a long sip of tea.
“I’ve eaten at some of the nicest restaurants in the world—there’s nothing I can make myself that could compare, so why try?”
“How fatalistic of you,” you say with a snuffle of a laugh against the edge of your mug. “You know, if I’d known you had such a refined palate I might have been a bit more self-conscious about serving you my cooking.”
Levi rolls his eyes. “You’re a decent cook.”
Your brows lift in surprise. A compliment?
“But you use too much salt.”
You bark out a defensive laugh. “I do not!”
You hear a subtle buzz of vibration and a soft chime as Levi’s phone, left momentarily forgotten on the arm rest of the couch, powers on. It seems to take you both by surprise.
“Well then, time to call your colleague in shining armour,” you say with an encouraging wave of your hand.
Levi leans forward to set his cup of tea down on the table in front of him.
“Coasters?” He pauses, looking around the room.
“I found this coffee table on the curb outside my dorm in college, I promise you it’s seen worse than a hot mug.”
Levi’s face pinches slightly before he sets the mug gently down atop the table’s edge.
You watch as he picks up his phone, tapping around the lit screen for a moment before holding the device up to his ear. He’s curved a little awkwardly towards the end of the sofa due to the power cord connecting the phone to the outlet, the material of his dress shirt pulling taught around his frame. His suit jacket hangs on the back of a chair at your kitchen counter, the knot of his tie is loosened at his throat.
It’s quiet for a moment, and then Levi pulls his phone away from his face and ends the call.
“He’s not answering,” he says with a frustrated huff, as though not answering a phone call in the dead of night is somehow unreasonable. He dials the number again.
“Well,” you say slowly, watching as the same series of events plays out once more, “it’s late. He’s probably asleep.”
“Oh, fuck,” he groans quietly, slumping back into your sofa.
“Do you think the building Super would be awake?” you ask. The Superintendent has keys to every unit, so he’s the next most viable option. He’s a nice, helpful man, and only lives down on the first floor, but you suspect a knock at the door in the dead of night would be worse than an impromptu phone call.
“No, but he’d probably wake up if I called him,” Levi mumbles. He clicks his tongue behind his teeth in irritation. “How humiliating.”
He looks miserable at the mere prospect, but still reaches for his phone.
And maybe it’s because of how late it is. Maybe it’s how warm and dozy and pliantly agreeable the tea that you’d prepared for the two of you has made you feel. Maybe it’s just because there’s something inexplicably comfortable about being around Levi that has your guard lowered.
“You could always crash on my couch,” you find yourself saying before you really think it through. He looks up at you, clearly taken aback by the offer. “Then you can call your coworker in the morning and get your spare key.”
Levi appears uncertain. “You’d let a stranger crash on your couch?”
“We eat dinner together once or twice a week, Levi,” you remind him with a little smirk, using his own words from earlier in your defence.
You bring out a pillow from your own bed covered in a fresh pillow case, and a blanket from your linen closet. You hand them to Levi, still seated in the same place on your sofa though a bit more at ease, and he dips his head in thanks while holding both items atop his lap.
“I have some clothes my ex left here that I would offer you, but he was a bit, uh…”—you make a vague gesture in roughly the same stature as your last boyfriend—“he had a different build than you.”
Levi looks at you flatly.
“You’ve already done enough,” he says, though not altogether unkindly.
“Alright, well… g’night,” you say with an awkward little wave, shuffling off in the direction of your bedroom.
Levi calls your name just as you step across the threshold, and you peek back through the doorway towards him. His face is illuminated only by the glow of the lamp atop the table next to the sofa, and he’s looking at you with an unexpectedly earnest expression as he undoes the top button of his dress shirt, his tie resting undone around his collar.
“Thank you.”
You smile, dipping your head in a little nod, and shut your bedroom door behind you.
When you wake the next morning, it takes a few languid blinks against the morning sunlight streaming in through the curtains and a couple moments more of proper consciousness to remember the events that had transpired the night before.
Well, that and the distant shuffling outside your bedroom door.
You pull on a sweatshirt, pat your hair down into something you think (hope) is a little less dishevelled, and amble sleepily out to your living room. It’s empty, but Levi’s suit jacket is still hanging on your counter stool, his tie neatly rolled up on the corner of your coffee table, and your window is open. You can see the edge of his back seated just beyond the open pane.
You poke your head out to see Levi on the fire escape. His button up shirt is undone to reveal the tight white t-shirt he wears underneath it, and his slacks are slightly creased from sleeping in them. His hair is messy—a hybrid between the loose hanging style you’re accustomed to, and the slicked back fashion he’d had it in the night before. He must hear you coming, because he turns to face you as you arrive. You look at him curiously as if to ask why he’s sitting outside.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he explains without you even vocalizing the question on your mind. His voice is still a bit hoarse from sleep, deeper and rougher than its usual smooth tone.
You crawl through the window, yawning a little as you take a seat cross-legged on the little balcony behind him. Levi turns to face you properly, shifting his whole body in your direction where he sits at the top of the stairs leading down to his own apartment.
“Any word from your spare key courier?” You blink through the tears that sprang to your eyes in your yawn, rubbing them away with your fist.
“He’ll be here in half an hour,” Levi replies.
You nod, a little tug at the corner of your mouth. “Thank God. Pancakes must be so worried all alone in there.”
Levi’s lip curls in an unhappy sneer. “I watched her eat half a loaf of three-day-old brioche through the window this morning. I’m sure she’s having the time of her life.”
There’s no choice but to giggle at the image of a cat ransacking your excessively type-A neighbour’s home, even if he can’t see the humour in it.
“D’ya want some coffee?” you ask, pushing yourself up towards the window again.
“I’d take another cup of that tea from last night,” Levi replies, his tone almost hopeful, and you nod before pulling yourself back inside.
You return to your place on the fire escape a few minutes later, this time with two mugs in hand.
It’s quiet while you sip your drinks, listening to the building hum of the city waking up around you.
“You always up this early?” you finally shatter the stillness with a question, but it’s not intrusive—slipping easily into the comfortable air around you.
“Yeah, usually,” Levi says, peeking over at you. He holds his mug a little strangely, you can’t help put notice—fingertips gripping the brim rather than the handle. It seems unduly precarious. “You wake up early too, huh?”
You tilt your head, wondering how he might know that.
“You sing a lot in the morning,” he explains, looking away by turning his gaze back towards the alley. “You’ve got terrible pitch.”
“Hey!” You reach out and swat at his shoulder. He’s warm to the touch, and even though it’s so basically human it still feels almost unexpected.
He huffs a little, neither a laugh nor far enough from one to discredit it; the sound is smug and indulgent.
“Yeah well you stay up too late,” you counter his observation with one of your own.
This time it’s his turn to be curious, lifting a dark brow as he peeks back at you over his shoulder.
“Your light’s always on,”—you tilt your head in the direction of his apartment down the stairs he’s seated at the top of—“and I don’t really take you for the nightlight type.”
“I don’t sleep much,” he admits.
You scoff. “What do you to with all those extra hours in the day?”
“Writing, editing, researching, emailing my editor,” he explains with a shrug.
You roll your eyes a bit, taking a sip of your coffee. “So you’re a real workaholic, huh?”
Levi drains the last mouthful of his tea, setting the mug down with a little clink as the porcelain meets metal. “There are worse things to spend your time doing.”
“There are better things too,” you counter.
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, socializing? Relaxing? Going out on a date?” You gesticulate with the hand not holding your mug as though to say ‘so on and so forth.'
“You think dating in this day and age is a fun way to pass the time?” Levi remarks flatly.
“Fine,” you concede, a sudden memory of your last ex coming to mind unwelcomely. You can’t help but note he doesn’t make mention of any partners of his own. “Don’t you have hobbies?”
Levi purses his lips, and seems to be wracking his brain. It takes a while.
You stare at him, unimpressed. “When was the last time you went to a museum? An art gallery? A play? The movies? Anywhere that wasn’t work related?”
“I went to the National Gallery downtown a while ago,” he offers.
“Oh yeah?” you ask, disbelievingly. “When?”
“A class trip in ninth grade.”
Your laughter echoes through the alley as it spills from your lips.
“You know they’ve always got new exhibits on display,” you say, gathering your composure. You lean forward, knees pressing into your chest. “You should visit again, I’m sure something has changed in the past eighty years since you were there last.”
Levi watches you curiously, a little too intently to be considered casual.
His phone jingles.
He blinks, and there’s a brief delay before he looks down at the device in his hand.
“That’s my key,” he says quietly.
You nod, standing. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blares. You hadn’t even noticed how noisy it’s gotten in the time the two of you have been sitting together, but the city is well and truly awake now.
One at a time, you both climb back in through the window—him letting you go first—and once you make it back into your living room you take Levi’s empty cup from his hand to take it to your kitchen sink and wash while he collects his belongings.
Levi steps towards your front door as you dry your hands off on a towel hanging from the handle of your oven. You watch as he buttons up his dress shirt—though he leaves it untucked from his wrinkled trousers.
“Thanks again for… y’know”—he stops buttoning once he gets about half-way up the row and gestures vaguely—“all of this.”
You lean your hip against your kitchen counter. “I’ll slip a bill under your door for room and board.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a soft sort of exasperation to his expression as he does it.
“You could just knock.”
You smile, and you feel a pinch in your cheeks from how wide it spreads. “Well, where’s the fun in that?”
You don’t see Levi again in the week that follows, as you’re stuck working late each night as you slog towards a project deadline.
You leave for the office in the morning when the sun has barely crested, and come home long after it’s set. You’ve been eating mainly takeout from restaurants near your work, and whatever happens to be hiding at the back of your pantry since you haven’t had the opportunity to grocery shop—all interspersed with whatever mediocre, half-stale baked goods your coworkers have brought in and left in the staff kitchen for everyone to share.
After one particularly brutal day, you shuffle in the door with nothing but a day-old donut and three coffees in your stomach, though the clock has ticked past eleven. You drop your belongings on your kitchen counter and wonder if you still have that old bag of microwave popcorn kicking around in the back of your cupboard. You ponder this question as you cross your living room to crack the window and let in a bit of fresh air.
Outside, perched unexpectedly just below the window frame on the fire escape, is a brown paper gift bag.
You glance to the right and see Levi’s lights are still on, as usual, but his window is closed.
Hm.
You pick up the bag and retreat inside, peeking at its contents as you go.
Inside you find a bottle of white wine—a nice bottle of white wine—along with a little piece of notebook paper, ripped along the edge and folded twice in half. You peel the edges of the page back to reveal neat scrawl in black ink.
This didn’t cost 8 dollars.
Thanks again for putting me up.
—3rd.
(Levi)
It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, what with all the late nights you’ve been pulling at the office, and you realize that your last encounter was the morning after he spent the night at your place.
You smile to yourself, shaking your head, and tuck the note back into the bag.
The next Saturday morning, mercifully freed from the project you've been slaving away at, you have every intention of sleeping in to makeup of the overtime you've been banking. Instead, you wake to a strange rustling sound.
It takes a moment for it to register to your hazy, barely conscious mind—a sound so gentle you hardly process that it’s unusual until it’s been going on for just a few minutes too long.
“Mrrrrphm!”
Your eyes shoot open.
Now that noise, you immediately know is out of the ordinary.
You creep out into your kitchen on your tiptoes, towards where the rustling seems to be originating from.
Perched atop your kitchen counter, you see the tail end of a four-legged, ginger-furred little creature—with its head tucked into the rumpled paper bag containing the croissant you’d been planning to eat for breakfast. Its long, bushy tail sways back and forth happily as it rustles around inside.
“Hey!”
The beast—soon revealed to be a cat once it pulls its head from the bag—has the remnants of your (now mostly-shredded) croissant hanging out of its little pink mouth. One of its ears is folded unnaturally, the fur around its neck is scruffy, and you realize upon closer inspection of your half-eaten breakfast that it has a snaggletooth.
The cat seems fairly sociable though, as it makes no move to run as you slowly approach.
“I’m guessing you’re the illustrious Pancakes, huh?” you say as you reach up to scratch gently behind her ears. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”
The cat lets out a cheerful little chirp, your ill-fated croissant still hanging from her maw, bumping her head against your wrist. You pluck the bit of bread from her mouth and quickly scoop her up in your arms, heading towards your door as she squirms unhappily—you don’t quite trust yourself to descend the fire escape with such precious cargo in-hand.
Down on the third floor, you rap sharply against a door.
It swings open moments later to reveal Levi’s perplexed face. Glasses on.
“Your demon cat ate my croissant,” you say, holding the offender out towards him.
She meows innocently.
“Not my cat,” he replies flatly, taking Pancakes from your hands and setting her down on the floor just behind him. She hits the ground on all fours with a little thump, and trots off happily into the apartment out of sight.
“But you two look so much alike.”
Levi responds only with a narrow-eyed glare.
Then he sighs.
“Sorry… she must have crawled out through the window when I wasn’t looking,”—Levi reaches up under the lenses of his glasses, pressing the tips of his fingers against his shut eyes as though they’re aching—“I’ll buy you another croissant.”
“It’s fine,” you assure him with a little laugh, and his fingers splay under the metal frames of his eyeglasses to peek at you through the gaps. You wave your hand dismissively. “It’s my own fault for leaving my window open last night.”
“That’s a good way to be home invaded,” the dark-haired man chides you sternly, a little furrow of disapproval making itself known between his brows. His hands drop from his face, only for his arms to cross over his t-shirt clad chest.
“Yeah, well they’d have to pass your window first—and it’s not like you wouldn’t spot them Mr. Sleep-When-I’m-Dead,” you say, shooting him a bemused look. “At least you’d have a description to give the cops.”
“All you care about is the killer being caught? Not avoiding being murdered in the first place?” Levi drawls.
“Well, at least I could end up on a true crime podcast, so long as you agree to be a good samaritan and assist the authorities in their investigation,” you joke. You peek over Levi’s shoulder to where his curtain is ruffling in the morning breeze. “Hey, do you mind if I just go out through the window?”
He shrugs, pulling his apartment door open a little wider to let you through. “Be my guest.”
Levi’s apartment is tidy and sparsely decorated, but it’s nearly identical to your own in terms of general construction. Your eyes can’t help flitter around the space as you shuffle through it towards the open window, your nosiness getting the best of you. There’s a steaming mug on the edge of his kitchen counter that he must have set aside when you came knocking at his door, a closed laptop resting on the edge of his coffee table next to a notebook, and there are bookcases lining the walls as you walk through the living room. You can’t resist pausing to take a closer look as you pass by one, and find a diverse variety of cookbooks and reference books on food, as well as beer, wine and spirits on the shelves.
Your fingertip traces the gold lettering adorning the thick spine of an immense tome—V I N.
“May I?” you ask, peeking over your shoulder as you pry the book from its place on the shelf.
“You already are,” Levi replies from the kitchen where he’s retrieved his mug, taking a sip. “But sure.”
You let out a little laugh, cracking open the inordinately heavy book.
“You speak french?” you ask, your tone lilting in surprise as your eyes trail over the language on the page in front of you—foreign, but distinguishable enough thanks to a few words you recognize from classes you took back in high school. The book seems old, antique possibly, and evidently well loved.
“Only a little,” Levi says noncommittally, but judging by the notes scribbled in the margins of the pages (in the same neat script scrawled on the scrap of notebook paper tucked into the gift bag on your kitchen counter) you suspect he’s underplaying his abilities.
You close the book and slot it back into its place on the shelf.
“Thanks for the wine by the way.”
“Did you enjoy it?” he asks.
“I haven’t cracked into it yet,” you admit, making the last few steps towards the open window. You tap your hand idly against the spotless frame, turning back to look at where Levi is leaning against his kitchen counter. “I had a big deadline this week at work so I’ve been staying late every day. By the time I got home it was all I could do to force myself to eat something before I’d pass out on my couch.”
Levi’s brows lift, though the rest of his body seems to untense a bit for reasons you can’t quite place.
“I’ll be sure to give you a full and comprehensive review of its bouquet—or whatever—once I finally get the chance to enjoy it,” you remark, half-teasing, and he rolls his eyes.
He takes another sip from his mug. He’s still holding it in that peculiar way he held your mug the morning after he slept on your couch. There’s something about it that you find almost endearing.
You lift your hand in a little wave, he nods in acknowledgement of the gesture, and then you crawl out through the window without another word.
You’re on the second step up the fire escape when Levi pokes his head out after you.
“Do you have breakfast plans?”
You pause, turning back to look at him.
You find him peeking up at you with an unexpectedly hopeful look on his face, if not a little guarded.
“Well, my plans are currently partially digested in your feline ward’s stomach, so... no.”
Levi blinks.
“Can I take you out for breakfast to make up for it, then?”
You tilt your head to the side, a flutter of something keen and eager tickling the pit of your empty stomach.
“Fine,” you concede, feigning as though you’re hard done by. “But I get to choose the place.”
Levi’s lips pull down in an unsubtle expression of his displeasure. “You know that it’s literally my job to—“
“I don’t care,” you interrupt him, waving your hand as though batting his interjection out of the very air into which he spoke it before it has the chance to reach your ears. “I don’t want some fancy micro-meal from whatever masters of gastronomy you write about. I want waffles. A lot of ‘em.”
Levi huffs, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath before replying a single, reluctant: “Fine.”
“Meet you in the lobby in 10 minutes?” you ask, your lips stretching in a grin.
His own lips purse, and you almost think it might be halfway to a smile. “Sure.”
The two of you wind up at an old greasy spoon diner two blocks away that you’ve been going to since college, where the staff always make sure to give you an extra perfectly golden-brown waffle. Levi sits across from you in a dark green knit sweater that looks incredibly cozy and, to your utter surprise, a pair of jeans. He looks more comfortable and casual than you’ve ever seen him.
“It’s good, huh?” you ask over the table as Levi bites into his own breakfast: 2 eggs, over easy, bacon and toast. You notice he’s carefully separated all three components of the meal on his plate so none of them are touching, and has liberally applied black pepper to the semi-firm yolks of his eggs.
He swallows the bite he has in his mouth, wiping the corners with his white paper napkin. “It’s food.”
You snort a little, shoving another piece of waffle into your mouth. “Are your reviews always so inspired?”
Levi shoots you an unamused look.
“C’mon, don’t tell me you only eat at fancy fine dining places?” you say, waving your fork around demonstrably. “This is what real food’s all about; little family run joints like this.”
Levi purses his lips.
“Have you ever even been to a fine dining restaurant?” he asks you skeptically.
“No,” you admit, drowning your plate in more of the cheap table syrup. Levi’s nose crinkles in disdain at the sight. The waffles are the same as always: just the right crispiness on the outside to not grow soggy too quickly under the river of syrup you douse them in, perfectly fluffy on the inside.
Fine dining, irrespective of being well outside your budget, has just never been your style.
“So who are you to judge?”
Now it’s your turn to purse your lips.
You stab your fork through a piece of waffle and syrup drips, slow and sticky, as you hold it up above your plate. You lift a brow challengingly as you stare him down across the table. “If you want to take me out to a fancy dinner so bad, all you have to do is ask.”
Levi’s expression doesn’t change.
“Fine.”
“Huh?” you nearly choke, though you haven’t yet put your next bite in your mouth.
“Go out to dinner with me,” he says.
“That’s not a question,” you remark, shoving your waiting forkful into your mouth just to give yourself something else to focus on.
Levi huffs exasperatedly. “Will you go out to dinner with me?”
You take your time to chew, the syrup making everything in your mouth indistinguishably cloying, and then swallow. “I’ll think about it.”
Levi’s jaw gapes, a look of betrayal flittering across his usually impassive features.
You laugh.
“Fine, fine. But only if we can go to the national gallery first,” you say, enjoying every moment of Levi’s palpable misery, setting your fork down and reaching for your mug and taking a sip of coffee. It’s tempered down to a drinkable heat, a little bitter and burnt tasting just like it always is, and there’s something nostalgic in that.
Levi fiddles with his fork, cutting into his egg so the sunny yellow yolk runs across his white ceramic plate. “…I already went.”
“Huh?” You place your cup back down atop the table, on the edge of your paper placemat.
“I went,” Levi repeats himself, though nothing is made clearer through the repetition.
“When?”
“A couple days after you mentioned it. I was reviewing a bistro down the road—terrible by the way—“ he interjects, though you didn’t ask, “and I had some time to kill afterwards.”
“So… what was your verdict?”
“Boring.”
“Oh, come on!” you say with a warm, pealing laugh, throwing yourself back in your seat. “You’re so uncultured! Didn’t you like their new installation on expressionism?”
“It was a mess.”
“That’s the point, it’s abstract!”
“If I wanted to see a disaster on canvas I’d look at those sneakers you’ve got on,” Levi says with a click of his tongue, but his eyes are bright and mirthful.
You peek under the table at your well-loved tennis shoes, gaping but still laughing. “You are so—!”
“Can I get you two some top-ups on those coffees?” The waitress who has been serving the two of you steps up to the table, coffee pot in hand, but she seems almost apologetic for interrupting.
It’s the first time you remember you’re in public, and you settle down a bit, covering your mouth to clear your throat bashfully.
“I’m alright, thank you,” Levi declines politely with a dip of his head.
“I’ll take a little extra please,” you say, and the waitress smiles and adds another bit of steaming, bitter coffee to your cup. It darkens the last few mouthfuls left from your already milk-and-sugared first drink; the deep brown of the fresh brew swirling into the tawny room-temperature remnants of the last.
Your eyes meet Levi’s over the table, and both of you quickly look away, fighting back your smiles.
The two of you walk back home once your meal has concluded and your bills have been paid—split at your insistence, though Levi seemed prepared to physically fight you on it.
Back at your building Levi gets out on the third floor after a brief goodbye, but before the door to the elevator can slide closed behind him, and you can close the steel grate of the interior door, his hand shoots out to keep them open.
You look up in surprise at the sudden gesture.
“I’m not kidding about dinner,” Levi says, standing just beyond the threshold to the ancient elevator, staring at you with an almost unnerving sincerity.
You blink, taken aback by how serious he is.
“What’s your cell number?” he asks when you can’t seem to find anything to reply.
You relay the digits to him and he scribbles them down into a little pocket sized, softcover notebook he produces from his jacket pocket. You’ve seen him scribbling in it before out on the fire escape, and realize he must take it with him everywhere he goes. Given the shape and size of it—only a little larger than the palm of his hand—you don’t doubt it’s the very book that the note he’d left with your bottle of wine had been torn from.
“I’ll send you a message and we can make a plan,” Levi says, tucking the notebook back into his pocket.
“Alright,” you agree and finally Levi lets his hand fall from where he’s keeping the doors open.
He steps away in the direction of his apartment.
“Be careful, Levi,” you say to his retreating back as you pull the grated metal door on the inside of the elevator car closed, “or I might think this is a date.”
He pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. Your eyes meet through the gaps in the metal, and in spite of the distance you can see the mirth in his gaze. “That’s exactly what it is, and it’s what breakfast was too.”
And with that, the door slides shut between you.
One week to the day later, you find yourself sitting across from Levi in a restaurant that feels almost too nice for you to be patronizing. Levi is dressed in a nice suit, as ever, and you’re wearing in the only truly nice dress you own—one you’d bought for a friend’s wedding a few years prior and never had the occasion to wear again.
Until now.
It’s nothing like the meals you’ve shared on your fire escape, or the boisterous breakfast at the diner on that Saturday morning. There’s no bitter coffee or table syrup to be seen, no mismatched plates and cutlery. It’s quiet, ambient even. All hushed conversation and warm candle light.
But you still enjoy yourself all the same.
And the food is really fucking good.
“I’m devastated,” you breathe out miserably into the cool night air as the two of you walk side-by-side along the quiet sidewalk in the direction of your little brick building.
Levi had offered to flag the two of you down a cab, but the evening weather was actually quite nice and the restaurant wasn’t far from home so you’d instead suggested to walk. Your heels are starting to hurt your feet a little bit, a pinch in your toes and the early-makings of a blister forming at the back of your ankle where the strap of your shoe rubs against your skin, but you still can’t quite bring yourself to regret anything about the evening.
Not the walk, not the dinner, not the company.
“You didn’t like it?” Levi asks, a lilt of concern in his voice.
You shake your head emphatically, turning to look at him with a grave expression. “It was too good.”
“That’s a new complaint,” he muses, his mouth pulling at the corner in thinly-veiled triumph.
“How am I ever supposed to enjoy any food again now that I know it can taste like that?” you complain, tossing your head back to look up at the night sky and passing streetlights overhead. Your shoes click against the pavement with every step, but otherwise it’s refreshingly quiet.
Levi laughs into his closed fist. “Now you see my problem.”
“Hey,” you say suddenly, bringing your chin back down so you can look at him, “can you bring me home your leftovers when you go write your little reviews for places like that?”
“No,” Levi replies immediately, decisively shaking his head.
You pout, sucking in a sharp breath as you prepare to plead your case.
“But I’d like to take you out again, if you’ll let me.”
He’s not looking at you, his eyes fixed ahead on the pavement as the two of you walk side by side, but you can tell he’s anxiously awaiting your reply with the way his hand is flexing and unflexing at his side.
You feel heat climb in your cheeks.
“Well, if it’s the only way to keep access to that kind of food, I guess I’d be stupid to say no.”
Levi hums, his gaze sliding to meet yours from the corner of his eye.
“Yeah, I guess you would.”
The elevator ride up to the third floor is quiet but not uncomfortable, though you both seem to be keeping your distance in the confined space—relegated to opposite sides, not dissimilarly to so many months ago when he was calling you out for fucking your atrocious ex-boyfriend too loudly. You could almost laugh at how much things have changed since then.
He says goodnight as he pulls open the grated door, sending you a brief look as he steps out.
“Goodnight, Levi,” you return the sentiment, hesitating to close the inside door between the two of you once more. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, and there’s an almost disappointing finality to his words, though you don’t dwell too long on it.
And then he’s gone.
Upstairs in your apartment, you kick off your heels as soon as you step through the door. You stretch your toes against the cool hardwood floor to let the blood flow back into them before padding into your kitchen. You drape your coat across the back of a barstool, and drop your purse on counter, pausing momentarily to eye the gift bag with the wine Levi had given you tucked away in the corner.
Maybe it’s time to crack it open—if for no other reason than to try and drown the niggling feeling of dissatisfaction you have squirming in your chest.
But first, you pad across your living room to open up your window.
At the very same time that Levi opens his, a floor away.
You pull yourself through without thinking, shivering a little bit against the cool breeze as it meets your exposed skin. Levi—his suit jacket shed, his tie loosened and collar unbuttoned—does the same.
You kneel at the top of the stairs, the metal of the fire-escape digging into your knees, and peer down at him.
“Y’know, I still haven’t opened that bottle of white wine.”
Your fingers fidget with the hem of your dress—it’s crept a bit further up your thighs thanks to the way you’re sitting. Levi’s eyes have caught the subtle rise, and through you see his gaze on your exposed skin, it soon flickers up to meet yours.
“It’s not really a nightcap,” he says quietly.
You huff, half frustrated and half amused, but the sound is entirely too fond.
“Are you coming up here or not?”
Levi climbs the stairs slowly towards where you’re seated at the top. That same feeling underneath your ribs that had once been dissatisfied blooms into something else entirely, crackling like a flame inside your chest as you catch his tie between your fingers.
You pull him down with your grip on the dark green silk—slowly, slowly, slowly—to press your mouths together.
The kiss is sweet. Unhurried. Decadent.
Levi cranes down a little further, his hands settling on the landing behind you, caging you underneath him. His proximity is more intoxicating than any of the wine you’ve ever shared. The feeling of his lips parting against yours and the gentle imploring sweep of his tongue is more satisfying than any food on earth could hope to be.
One of his hands trails up along your thigh, across that same skin you’d caught him eyeing moments prior. His touch is cold but still it burns. He gives your flesh a firm squeeze.
“Inside now,” he murmurs insistently against your mouth, “unless you want the neighbourhood to hear this.”
You pull away, peeking up at him through your lashes innocently.
“And what if I do?”
He swallows visibly, his tongue darting out to lave across his rosy lips before it disappears once more to click behind his teeth.
“Knew you were an exhibitionist.”
There’s a graceless, frenetic climb back through the window—with Levi’s hand cradling the top of your head all the while so you don’t knock it against the frame—and then the two of you are toppling down onto the soft cushions of your couch.
Levi’s body weight presses into yours as he hovers over you, mouths rapacious, your hips flush and hands greedy. You’re grabbing anything and everything that falls within your reaches: his hands on your waist, your thighs, your heaving chest; your own hands in his hair, cupping his jaw, fisting the fine cotton of his dress shirt. Your dress has rucked up around your waist in the excitement, and after a few moments of exploration Levi slowly breaks your kiss.
He sinks to the floor on his knees, and your thighs part for him without thinking.
His eyes trace the dark spot on the centre of the delicate lace over your aching cunt, his thumb soon stroking against it with the exact same eagerness as his eyes.
“Levi,” you say his name pleadingly as your hips wriggle to get closer to his touch, squirming further down the couch cushion towards him. “Please… more.”
Levi huffs a little; not a laugh, but something a little more chiding—a little more mocking. He leans forward so you feel every hot breath break against your skin on his exhales, his eyes still fixed to that little patch of wetness that’s caught his attention, the spot only growing larger the longer he toys with you. “Let me savour this.”
“Like a nightcap?” you ask him, aiming for levity but toeing the wrong side of breathless as his fingers follow the lace trim of your panties up along the curve of your thigh.
“An aperitif,” he rasps as he snaps the elasticated band against your hip, a sharp crack as it hits your tender skin, and his eyes flicker up to meet yours when you hiss. He smirks. “It makes you hungrier.”
Not once in all the time you’ve known him would you have denied the truth that Levi’s tongue is quick and vicious, but never would you have imagined its sedulity between your legs.
The flimsy material of your panties tugged swiftly down and kicked away, it’s as though the meal the two of you had shared that evening has been forgotten, a thing of the past.
Levi devours you like he’s been starved.
“Fuck, oh—“
Your hips jump on the sofa but his strong forearm slings across your lower abdomen to pin them down and keep you at his mercy. Levi glances up at you from his position on his knees, his head bracketed by your thighs, his eyelids hanging low over his hungry gaze. The tip of his tongue flicks against your twitching entrance, laving back up to your clit. The cycle repeats. It’s filthy and fascinating to watch.
“—Levi, nggh—oh my god.”
You grab for anything, borderline delirious. Your nails on one hand dig into the throw pillow at the end of your sofa while the other knots itself through Levi’s dark hair. You grip both with an equal roughness, but Levi doesn’t seem to mind—suckling with a renewed insistence at the swollen bundle of nerves between his lips.
He reaches up and pries your hand away from the strands of his hair, twining your fingers with his own as he pins it down to the sofa beside your hip. Levi pulls away from your pussy with a string of saliva keeping you connected, slick smeared along his mouth catching in the light of the lamp.
“Be gentle, would you?” he rasps, “I’d like to keep my hair for the foreseeable future.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, your chest heaving from the way your breaths come ragged. “It feels good.”
“Yeah?” he asks, slipping two fingers into his mouth. They shine with his spit when he pulls them from between his swollen lips. He leans back down towards your cunt. “How good?”
“So good,” you whine, his two saliva-slicked fingers slipping inside of you at the same time.
“God,” you toss your head back and gasp, those two fingers inside of you crooking in a way that makes you feel so good.
“You’re close,” Levi hums, not a question but rather a factual observation, before dragging his tongue up towards your clit again. His fingers keep curling against your walls with an almost unfair degree of skill, leaving you shaking and breathless.
“Y-yeah, gonna cum,” you whimper.
“You’re gonna cum for me?” he mumbles against your clit, goading you as he carefully watches the expressions on your face.
It's not as though you have any other choice with the way he’s playing you like an instrument he’s long-mastered.
“Yes, fuck Levi, there.”
One last gasp and the lewd, pointed suck with his lips wrapped around your clit has you melting, your thighs clamping against his ears as your back bows up off the sofa. A strangled, desperate little sound tears out of the back of your throat, and your fingers tighten around his own—still entwined beside you on the sofa.
As you come down from your high, you drag his hand up with yours to your chest, pressing his palm flat against your sternum so he can feel how fast your heart is knocking against your ribs underneath the fabric of your dress.
Your heart rate has nowhere near returned to normal when Levi stands from his place on the ground, wiping at his wet mouth with the back of his hand as he takes in your spent, trembling state. In one fell—impossibly deft—swoop, he picks you up and carries you off towards your bedroom.
“How the fuck are you so strong?” you gasp as you wriggle in his hold—but his grip is tight and he doesn’t waver.
He drops you down onto your bed, and you bounce lightly as you come in contact with the springy surface. You fall back, staring up at him as he peers at you with affront.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You giggle a little as he crawls over your splayed form, his body warm as his lips find their way back to yours.
He kisses you again. And again. And again.
Your pretty dress comes off, finally—left discarded in a hapless puddle on your bedroom floor to be dealt with later. It's an end unbefitting of the nicest garment you own, though you can’t begin to bring yourself to care.
Levi’s fingers trace along the delicate lace of your newly revealed bra and you feel his lips curl up into a smirk against your own. He inches away, peeking down at your chest.
He dips down to mouth along the swell of your breast, his eyes still impossibly trained on yours, and your fingers tangle into the soft strands at his crown as you moan lightly at the gentle touch.
He sucks against the soft flesh, before pulling off with a little pop!
“Does poor Misses Miller know you kept her bra?”
You laugh in response to his teasing words, a reference to the early days of what you’d now call a friendship (if not something else entirely), tugging him away from your chest by your grip on his hair.
He quirks a brow at you with his head tilted back in your hold.
You pout playfully, slackening your grip on his hair and letting your hand slip down along the front of his dress shirt, petting over his chest. “You know, I think I liked you better with your mouth full.”
Levi clicks his tongue behind his teeth, watching raptly at the flash of pink as your own tongue peeks out to moisten your swollen lips. Something shifts behind his gaze, and he leans back on his haunches beside you, reaching up and fingering the loosened knot of his tie.
“Do you trust me?”
The question is a little bit out of the blue, and relatively unwarranted considering only moments prior he’d been three knuckles deep inside of you, but you entertain it nonetheless.
Your head lolls to the side on your bedspread as you look at him curiously. “I let you spend the night on my couch when we barely knew each other.”
He rolls his eyes at your intentionally indirect response, leaning forward until your entire field of vision is filled with nothing but him once more.
“Do you,”—Levi pauses with his lips ghosting over yours, soft as they brush—“trust me?”
A beat of tense silence stretches between you.
“Yeah.” You swallow lightly after murmuring the word. “I do.”
Levi pulls back again, and reaches up and tugs on the knot of his tie until it comes completely undone, hanging in two separated halves against his chest. Slowly he draws it out from under the fold of his collar.
“There was a trend in food criticism years ago,” he says, his grey eyes tracking up, up, up along your exposed body while you wait like eager prey beneath his gaze, “where critics used to think that you could taste better in the dark. Like the dulling of one sense would somehow improve the others.”
You swallow hard as he leans forward, moving slowly up the mattress towards you.
His tie is still in his hand.
He dips down and kisses you.
Brief. Teasing.
“They thought you could taste more…”
Levi loops his tie around your eyes, and your breath hitches. You feel the soft slip of silk against your skin, the pressure tightening (though not unpleasantly) as he knots it at the crown of your head to keep it in place. You see only darkness.
“…hear more…” Levi’s lips are right next to your ear; just a ghost of warm breath and his rich, deep voice that seems a little more strained than it had before.
You’re breathing heavier now, or maybe you’re just more painfully aware of the rhythm of your own respiration.
“…feel more.”
Warm fingers dance up along your ribs and you gasp aloud, not expecting the sensation. But as quickly as it appears, that feeling of his skin on yours, it’s gone again. You swallow. His touch continues in much the same way, fingers disappearing and then reappearing somewhere else, leaving you guessing. Leaving you wanting.
You feel goosebumps prickle up along your skin.
“Is that true?” you whisper as you push yourself upright and reach out blindly in search of Levi, though you aren’t quite sure where to find him.
“I don’t know—” Levi admits airily from somewhere before you, both nearer and further than you expect him to be. He takes your outstretched hand in his, pressing it to his cheek. It’s warm to the touch, and he turns his face towards your palm, pressing a barely there kiss to it.
Unexpectedly your bra falls forward, cool air kissing heated skin as the straps fall down your shoulders, thanks to a talented hand that had slipped behind your back unnoticed. You feel Levi’s lips curl into a smirk against your palm.
“—but let’s find out.”
Next is an obscured, indecipherable blur of hot, open mouthed kisses; of gentle grazes and rougher gropes; of moans, and groans, and needy whines that you aren’t sure are even yours anymore. Your pussy’s left a wet patch on the thigh of Levi’s slacks that you can’t see but that you can feel as the sticky fabric ruts against your clit, your hips grinding desperately against it as he consumes you and whatever senses he’s left you.
It’s infuriating.
It’s immolating.
It’s divine.
“Are you ready for me?” Levi pants against your stinging lips, his hand cupping your chin to keep your face tilted towards his even if you can’t see him.
“Yes,” you mewl debauchedly, rolling your hips against that same crease in his pant leg that’s been tantalizing you for what feels like hours. You should be ashamed—of your words, of your tone, of your actions—but you aren’t.
You feel every second of the stretch as the head of his cock presses inside.
You wonder what it looks like, what he must look like right now, but you’re left only to feel.
“Oh,” he groans, the deep sound sodden and drunk with pleasure. “Amazing. Fuck, you’re taking me so well. You’re perfect.”
The first proper thrust—the in and the out—almost pulls you under like the currents of a tide. You’re fighting a losing battle to keep your head above water, to keep air in your lungs.
The springs of your mattress creak as Levi picks up the pace and mercilessly fucks you down into it, your breaths coming in pants broken by moans. You feel your sheets against your sticky skin, his hands twining with yours, his breath against your lips.
“Is it good?” he asks, mouthing clumsily along your jaw as his hips rail down against yours.
“So good,” you babble in agreement, nodding dumbly as much as you can with such little control over your own body. “Feels so good.”
“I love hearing you say that,” Levi rasps, tucking his face into the crook of your neck and letting his teeth graze over your racing pulse. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of it."
He groans as you clamp down on him involuntarily.
You’re close, and think he must be too when you feel the way his cock throbs inside of you.
“Please,” you murmur, voice breaking pathetically as you beg. It sounds like you’re near tears but with the silk still covering your eyes it’s impossible to tell whether or not it’s true. “I wanna see you.”
“Make a deal with me,” Levi grunts, his pace suddenly slowing to a torturous grind. You’re sure that you must be crying now with how devastating the change in pace is—still deep, but just languid enough that the cresting pleasure in the pit of your stomach threatens to recede.
“A deal?” you ask, gasping as your nails drag along the musculature of his back.
“I’ll take it off,”—Levi’s touch trails up to your face, the tips of his fingers ghosting over your spit-slicked chin and searing cheeks—“but only if you let me take you out to breakfast.”
You’re in no position to be making counter-demands, or returning repartee.
“Anything,” you sob, clinging to him desperately. Your hips tilt up in a fruitless search for friction, your nails scrabble along his skin. “I’ll do anything. Please, Levi.”
He tugs the tie down, and your bleary eyes sting as they adjust to the light.
Finally, you see him.
Levi is practically glowing, bathed in a sheen of perspiration that you can feel when your skin slips against his own. His dark hair is pushed back, away from the lines of his devastatingly handsome face; his strong cheekbones and the sharp line of his tensed jaw. His abs flex as he carves his way inside of you in that impossibly slow grind, a little trail of dark, coarse hair spanning from his navel to his cock, where you see a glossy ring around the base from you.
He’s a feast to behold. To taste. To feel.
“S-so?” he stutters, half-hissing from how viciously your core has tightened around him. His eyes search yours, avaricious and wild. “How does it compare?”
“Better,” you moan, a tear tracking back towards your hairline as you throwing your head back into your pillows, fighting as much as you can to keep your eyes open, “this is better.”
Levi laughs, breathy and wanton as the sound might be, and his hands grip behind your knees before peeling them away from their vice against his waist and pressing them back into your chest.
He kisses you again—your mouths meeting desperately though they haven't long been parted—first chaste but then sloppily, bullying his way into your mouth like he wants to taste how sweet the words you’ve just said are off your own tongue.
He pulls back, a string of saliva stitching from his mouth to yours.
The corner of his lip ticks up in a smirk as his hips draw back, not in punishment but in preparation.
“Good.”
You wake the next morning with an ache humming in your bones and an effervescence sizzling in your chest. It takes you a moment to rouse, properly anyway, but when you do you feel the unmistakable weight of an arm curled around your bare waist, and a warm pressure perched atop your feet.
You open your eyes, blinking against the light that streams in through the curtains over your bedroom window—billowing gently in the morning breeze. You peek down towards the end of your bed, and see a little fluff of ginger fur sprawled out across your ankles. When you listen closely you can hear the little rumble of a purr.
Finally, you glance over to your side, and find Levi blinking back at you.
He looks sleepy and dishevelled, a sort of pleasant exhaustion in the rings beneath his eyes that you’re sure is mirrored in the shadows of your own skin. His hair is sticking up unkemptly at his temple, and there’s a line imprinted into his cheek from where it's been resting against your pillow. It’s a version of himself that you suspect Levi rarely shows to anyone, and right now it’s all deliriously, deliciously yours.
“Good morning,” your voice is so quiet when you finally risk shattering the stillness of your bedroom with a greeting.
“Good morning,” Levi rasps with a commensurate tenderness, even through the hoarseness of his groggy morning voice.
The city is waking up outside your window, the steady build of noise that will crescendo to a dull hum once the world gets underway. But for now it’s still quiet. For now you can still hear Pancakes’ slightly-wheezy purr.
Levi’s arm around your waist tightens, shifting you a little bit closer to him under the soft cover of your blankets. The gesture is hesitant. Half-committed. Like he’s still leaving himself open to be rebuked.
You smile, and close the rest of the distance yourself like crossing that final step along the fire escape. Traversing that halfway point. You curl into him and tuck your head underneath his chin as you rest your cheek against his chest.
Levi seems to soften slightly. To ease. To welcome your intrusion.
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…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
as sure as the plants that cherish the sun (masterlist)
a genshin impact x reader soulmate au series
Soulmates are said to exist in all manner of forms. The way we find ours in this world isn’t always easy, but what if fate was a little more obvious with its choices? What if there were things set in stone to tell you who your soulmate is - and all you have to do is go out there and find them? A word of caution, though. The fates still work in strange and mysterious ways, your soulmate will not always be who you expect them to.
[genshin masterlist]
fics will be linked when they’re posted! additional notes are under the cut 💜
be careful, he’ll steal your heart - childe - same fingerprints au
In a world where everyone has the same set of fingerprints as their soulmate, you’ve drawn the short straw. It just so happens that your soulmate is a master criminal who has never once been caught, and you keep getting the blame for his actions all because you’re on the system from a silly misdemeanour as a teen.
incomprehensibly bound to you - diluc - red string of fate au
As a Fatui agent looking to go rogue, the only thing that could possibly mess up your plans would be outside interference. As (bad) luck would have it, a stranger from across the continent has shown up in Snezhnaya… and the end of the string tied around your pinky finger is looped and tied in a neat little bow around his.
stop eating spiders, please i’m begging you - albedo - shared senses au
Your friends tell you that their soulmate loves chocolate, or lives near a flower shop. They have some clumsy moments, but they’re all otherwise relishing in the sensations that come with sharing their soulmate’s senses. Your soulmate is clearly a psychopath, as he delights in eating the strangest things and you’re made to smell the most awful chemicals every single day.
on the outside - tighnari - bodyswap au • bonus!
Living in Inazuma during the height of the Sakoku Decree’s enforcement leaves you yearning for a taste of the world beyond the seas. Even the soulmates of the people you know all live in Inazuma too, perhaps some twisted way of fate aligning with the will of the archons. That is, until the first day that you wake up in your soulmate’s body- deep in the heart of the Sumeru forests.
cruel mark of fate - dottore - soulmarks au
You hate the insufferable doctor that lives across the hall from you. He’s selfish, obstinate and teases you far too much. So when you find out one day by chance that he’s your soulmate, you start looking for ways to defy your own fate. Unfortunately for you, fate can’t be persuaded that easily. And you suppose he’s not that bad when you get to know him.
rinse, die and repeat - kaeya - timeloop au
When you come close to meeting your soulmate, you’re thrown into a timeloop- doomed to repeat the same day endlessly unless you finally cross paths. You’ve got your work cut out for you when you realise that the soulmate you’re trying to meet is the same man you see on the news every evening who was killed in action trying to save someone else.
pen and paper would be an improvement - kazuha - writing on skin au
Anything your soulmate writes on their skin will show up on your own body within moments. You’ve been blessed with an incredibly poetic soulmate who scribbles down haikus when there’s no paper to hand, warming your heart every time you see them… but he never responds to you. Looks like you’ll have to find him the hard way.
if i have to keep losing pens to find you, i will - ayato - lost items au
Whenever you lose something, your soulmate inexplicably ends up with it. This has been incredibly fortunate for you, whose mysterious soulmate appears to be filthy rich- if all of the jewel-encrusted gold pens and other miscellaneous knick-knacks you end up with are anything to go by. You can only hope that he likes the little wooden trinkets and paraphernalia that he gets in return.
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(ideally, you shouldn't even be studying if you're burned out but we live in a shitty world and sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do)
don't look at your assignments as something you have to do. that leads to frustration and constant anxiety over procrastination. instead, think of them as something you want to do!! do them well for the sake of doing them well, not because you have a deadline in two hours.
start with the least emotionally taxing stuff first, like readings or some math warm-ups to get you into the groove. it'll help you ease into the right mindset so you can work properly.
use lifeat.io if you're on a computer!! they have amazing virtual study spaces which have helped me focus whenever i'm in a less-than-ideal situation with a lot of noise and distraction.
listen to calm music if you're the type that needs headphones in to do anything. a good example would be lofi hip-hop or some uplifting classical music. angsty indie is fine, but crying in the middle of your economics essay probably isn't the best use of your time.
if you've been working on something for a few hours and don't understand the topic, take a break and do something else (don't scroll through social media, you'll end up losing an hour or so procrastinating). recharge with a warm drink and let your brain reset. you're more tired than you know.
khan academy and photomath are your best friends. use any and ALL online resources you have, it'll save you a lot of energy!!
if you absolutely can't cope up/know you can't prevent the inevitable, please, please email your prof beforehand!! state clearly the reason why you're not able to complete the work they assigned and what you're going to do to make it up. most of the time they'll be understanding and extend your deadline.
but if your prof is that 5% which doesn't care about your mental health and/or thinks you're slacking off, you probably should have a conversation with your mentor and re-evaluate whether being in that class is the right thing for you.
stay safe and take care of yourself lovelies, you'll make it through this!! <3
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
