#Jonathan levi angst | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

faretheeoscar · 6 months

Text

SWEET LIES

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x Reader

--Warnings: 🔥18+, nsfw, oral sex, mentions of unprotected sex (take care of yourselves guys), lots of angst(Jonathan is a soft jerk), praise kink, contextual/ small? spoilers of scenes of a marriage (read under at your own risk if you haven’t seen it), age gap, sub-ish Jonathan (?), student/professor relationship (so much warnings omg)--

A/N: English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there’s any mistakes

Thanks to vin for her insights on Jonathan 🫶🏼

Word count: 2.1 k ~

You knew he was trouble, with all the backstory this man had; two failed marriages, two families to feed, and an inflated new ego due to his new success on his study field that led him to do international Ted talks amongst other things; this man exuded powerful energy from wherever angle you saw him, although that may be the case when he was in public; when you saw him giving lectures or speaking amongst his peers, but you knew other sides of Jonathan, he showed you a different side of himself when he was alone with you, you very well knew how this man could became all mushy and needy after a single peck on the lips, but also he could be dominant, specially when he had you bend over his desk as he pounded relentlessly deep inside you from behind late at night on a dark classroom after finishing the lecture and making sure to lock the door.

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This was your routine with Jonathan, every Wednesday you had your after hours session with your professor after his lecture, it all began when you started to stay after class to ask him about everything and anything you could think, not even really caring on his answers or the extra homework and research he sometimes gave you just because you asked something so rhetorical that he didn't even had the answer but he hid it in a very smart way making you do a 100 page essay about the topic just for you to "figure the question out for yourself", all that extra work only for you to stay on his presence for a few more minutes after class and please your dumb college crush with your professor.

Eventually one thing led to another, Jonathan was a very smart man and he started to notice the way you carried yourself around him and he liked it, A LOT, he noticed the longing gazes you gave him whenever he was giving a lecture, the dumb smile and pink hue your cheeks turned every time he praised you for answering a question he asked to the class, the lingering touches on his arm whenever you said goodbye to him, and finally those tiny tight little skirts you always wore to his class even if it was freezing outside, those things slowly started driving him crazy for you, feeling the need to bury himself deep inside you and fuck you senseless until you got so cock drunk on him that he'd ruined sex for you, you wouldn’t even turn your head around to be with another dumb college boy who couldn't satisfy you the way he would if he had the chance.

Those thoughts lingered in his head every time he saw you, his cock would get hard at the slight sight of your thighs when you moved in your chair at class, all that sometimes giving him embarrassing boners he couldn't hide unless he sat down behind his desk or excused himself to the bathroom to try to calm himself down, that kept happening until one day he couldn't handle it anymore and he took you for the first time after class. That day he noticed that after he was explaining to you a random question you had about the meaning of life, you opened slightly your legs for him to catch a glimpse of your wet panties below your loose skirt.

Soon after the class ended he went mad, his desires possessed him over when you came to his desk and leaned a little bit closer to him, giving him the opportunity to devour your mouth as if he was famished, drank your juices as if he was dehydrated and pounded into you in a way that it left you with a small limp the next day.

At the beginning it was only the rush of rough needy sex and the excitement of experimenting with one another, but when you started to get little hints of Jonathan’s life, of his real essence when he decided to share a little bit of himself when he was on a post nut clarity after filling you up with his cum until it leaked down your thighs like the pretty little girl you were for letting him do it, you started to fall for your professor, and you were falling hard, it wasn’t on your plans at all, to fall in love with a man that could be easily your father or a really young uncle? Definitely not what you had in mind, you always tried to push away your feelings for him, but you couldn’t help yourself , every time you walked into the same room as your professor the air got thicker, heavier, an invisible force always pulling you towards him, and the small little glimpses he gave you of his life, those were a lifeline to you.

-------

And that’s how you always fell into the same situation, by couldn’t focusing on the bigger picture, on what was best for you, to avoid the lies, because each time he had his two fat fingers deep inside your pussy while he was eating you out like a starving man from below your skirt, not even worrying to pull off your panties from you and just pushing them to the side when his eyes went crazy after he felt how wet you were for him, you couldn’t help but feel like you were in heaven, like you were the most desirable creature in the world.

He knew about your developing feelings towards him, and boy did he took advantage of your sweet little innocence, always praising you and letting you hear what you wanted in exchange for you to give yourself fully to him, to keep you hooked on a non existent developing relationship as he kept making you empty promises.

“We’re gonna be together soon, I promise."

He mumbled as his digits went deeper inside you, touching your soft, velvety walls in ways that made you shiver.

“I’m gonna leave her, I'm gonna leave everything behind for you, baby."

You knew there were all lies; they had to be; this man was deprived from all sense of loyalty a long time ago because his demons haunted him until this day and he let himself be consumed by them, but that didn’t impede you from clenching around his fingers so hard as he tried to push them into you so deep that he could barely move them.

"God, you’re so beautiful; I’m gonna be with you forever.”

Lies, lies and more lies, sweet little lies that drove you mad as you squirmed under his touch, you knew he’ll be gone as soon as he finished with you, like always, he’ll go back to take care of his family, he’ll tell you he is going to leave them and then come back next week with the same lies but with the same starving and lusty look whenever he looked at you that made you clench around nothing, that made your knees go weak, until you knelt down in front of him forgiving every single false promise and sucking his cock so hard he’ll came in just a couple of minutes, Jonathan, sweet, but intelligent jerk Jonathan the man you loved, that will never be yours fully, you always tried to extend your time together as long as you could, you would taste him and love him as passionate as you could, although he told you over and over again that this was not passion, he didn't believed in that, he told you this was something deeper, a true connection between the two of you, but yet again you knew he was lying, he always lies, still you believed him when you kissed him and his tongue danced with yours, for just a couple of hours he was yours, and only yours, he loved you, but it was fleeting, just as the time you spent with him, his love will fleet and yours remained so deep inside you sometimes it hurt to even breathe.

Even though he was lying to you, saying all those things for your enjoyment, to keep you on the edge and hooked on him, when the opportunity of being with him presented itself to you, it didn’t really matter cause of Jonathan's skillful hands and tongue always moved so in and out of sync, giving you something that no one else has given you before, as his big fat digits always teased your hole, curling upwards just in the right way to reach your G-spot over and over again as his tongue flicked your clit in the most hypnotic way.

“My sweet girl, my sweet, beautiful, good girl.”

He ate you like a starving man, his licks and sucks on your clit becoming more enraged as he got lost in your scent and taste, making him moan and grunt as he reached for his pants with his free hand and started palming himself through his corduroy khakis.

“Oh god-You drive me crazy, baby”

He grunted as he kept palming himself in rhythm with his fingers that were thrusting into you, attacking your G-spot as he kept on abusing your clit, with his tongue feeling how tight your little hole was getting as you went close to your release.

“F-fuck baby girl...God, I-”

Jonathan kept moaning for you, it almost sent you spiraling at the sight of how ruined and pathetic this grown ass man sounded, desperately whining while drinking your juices, with messy curly hair thanks to the hard tugs you did to it as you tried to hold him as close to you as possible, not that he wanted to be in another situation, cause that man, he was so pussy drunk, he was almost coming in his pants at the mere scent of you.

“I- I love you.”

Jonathan whispered softly against your core, and with that, you came undone. Your legs shook, and you contorted your face in ecstasy as your climax hit you hard, leaving you seeing stars. Your mixed moans, along with Jonathan's, echoed in the room as he also embarrassingly made a mess out of his corduroy khakis, a big stain of cum now seeping through the fabric.

Jonathan got his head out of your skirt and chuckled softly as he saw you were as ruined for him as he was all ruined for you. He brushed the slick of your juices off his beard with the back of his hand and gave you a soft smile while a pink blush colored his cheeks because of his little incident on his pants, something different was different that day, some sparkling in his eyes.

You looked up at him with a stupid, dumb smile, hopeful about what just happened between you both and the deeper meaning of it. You wanted to ask him about what he said to you just seconds ago, his words ringing and repeating inside your head over and over again.

You wanted to speak, but words didn’t come out, getting trapped in your throat as you looked at him dumbfounded, something he mistakenly took as a look of pure ecstasy after taking care of you, lifting his ego more, as if his ego wasn’t inflated enough already.

He chuckled at your lack of words and pinched the side of your cheek before speaking.

“See you next week after class, then? Hm, same time?”

Your head still in a stupid post-orgasm haze and lost in the sweet words he told you, made you nod your head softly to him, without being able to say anything you wanted to tell him, he gave you a soft peck on the lips just before running his hand through his messy curls to arrange them, tucking out his shirt from his pants to hide the mess he made of himself, and picking up his bag to slouch it over his shoulder, trying to look as presentable as he could on the way from the classroom to his car. You wished he would stay and talk to you softly, to talk about your feelings, but instead he was again leaving you alone in the dark classroom with your heart on your sleeve.

You thought you had it all figured out when you saw there was a spark in his eyes; it was different from other encounters you have had with him before, but you couldn’t quite put the words to what it was.

Maybe he was truthful with his words? Or maybe he really didn’t care at all. Either way, you’ve fallen for Jonathan’s sweet, sweet lies.

Again...

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Reblogs and comments are kindly appreciated 🫶🏼

#jonathan levy #jonathan levy x reader #scenes of a marriage #jonathan levy fiction #jonathan levy x you #jonathan levy smut #I'm sorry for all the angst #I swear I don't hate jonathan that much

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h0unds-of-h3ll · 2 years

Text

Lover’s exchange

After submitting your final. Jonathan’s more than intrigued as to where the inspiration comes from.

Jonathan Levy x reader smut.

Word count: 8k

Viewers beware you’re in for a scare with the: fluff, smut, rough smut, VERY EXPLICIT, age gap, fingering, blow jobs, eating out, unprotected sex, gagging, anal play, ass eating, overstimulation, coercion, consenting adults, power control, breeding kink, recorded masturbation, explicit language & themes, dark themes, drinking, smoking, rough smut, hair pulling, scratching, Jonathan is not as innocent as he seems, teasing, porn? Porn, teacher x student, somnophilia, implied face sitting, sensory deprivation kinda.

A/n: I literally took the idea of him being a professor and fucking ran full throttle with it. Can be an au! I guess. Head empty just him. Just a disclaimer that I’m not in college and nor have any idea what consists there. I apologize for any misconstrued ideologies! Most is written in the 3rd pov.

“A passionate encounter, one that has never been replicated since. That is what I want you to write about.”

He rolls the sleeves of his cardigan up to his elbows. The few students scattered throughout the small auditorium. He knows they’re not listening, but he continues nonetheless.

“It can be with a spouse, a stranger, anything really. I’m giving you the freedom to express a feeling only you have felt so incomparable to anyone else.”

The electronic bell he’s grown to despise rattles. His students billow out into the side door, to their next seminar. He plops into the wheely chair with a long elongated sigh. He hopes it came across well, the prompt of their final. A feeling twists in his gut, not even half listening to him. He wants to help them prosper. He’s a lenient professor, one of the most laid back on the board. But there’s only so much he can brush past. Late work that’s a month overdue, students pleading for him to turn an F into a B- is exhausting. He takes his glasses off, hanging his head into his palms. He’s trying desperately to wipe away the misery that's clinging to his features. The soft sounds of shoes patting the ground. The loud chit-chat of the pupils communicating through the corridor. He fails to hear you sneak up on him.

“Professor?”

His head whips upwards to the chirp of your elegant voice. Your hands tied around your school bag. A gentle smile creasing your cheeks. Hair flowing like a drape of a veil. Easy going on his aging eyes. His brain inputs into hyper drive, admiring you. You’re the only student who cares about their work. Who asked questions, who listened intently to the subject he taught. He’s taken a kindness to you that he has given no one else. Rounding up those fives into one hundred.

Giving you that plus you didn’t need, but makes your transcript look more polished. You never spoke to him about subjects outside of education. But you always came to him to broaden your knowledge to keep your work proficient. You’re smart and charming. Pulchritudinous even. (A word that he came across in your work that means beautiful.) He feels immense guilt. Pushing his blurred gaze to the side of his desk. More suitable for the atmosphere. He shouldn’t think of you in such a way. He can’t help it now matter how hard he tries.

“Yes? What is it?”

His voice is short and snappy. Cutting the rope that he’s tethered to. He punches himself for how your smile drops to a vacant expression.

“I was wondering how uhm,”

You pause. Brows knitted on your smooth forehead. You look for the words that aren’t immature in the phrasing.

“How much vulgar use you would allow.”

There's that sheepish smile again. He chokes on his saliva, blind eyes widening. The long curve of his nose is where he pushes his glasses back. He sees your unmasked beauty, and he’s sputtering. An unknown speech impediment develops as he racks his dumbfound skull for an answer. He loses the suaveness of a preceptor and the eager man he truly is comes to play.

“I-, as long as it’s a salient contribution to the plot. As much as you’re comfortable with, I suppose.”

He applauds himself for coming off the slightest bit as composed. What do you mean by vulgar? Maybe you wanted to include paraphernalia or explicit language. But what if- you wouldn't, you are too put together to even indulge. But what if? You nod swiftly. Brightness swims in your eyes.

“Thank you, pedagogue.”

Your idyllic body pivots walking through the big twin doors. He lets out a heavy heave exit his lungs, one that he didn’t realize he was holding. He leans down, pressing his febrile forehead onto his desk. He’s stupefied by the title. Pedagogue, really? He praised himself for being benevolent and you thought that he was austere? A new, fresh hoard of scholars enter his domain. He groans, wanting to bash his cranium into the wood. He doesn’t know how to feel. But the only thing he can think about while teaching his course is feeding you grapes in a lavish room in Israel.

~~~

A week and a half later, Jonathan is sprawled out on his couch. A wine glass in hand, shitty cable on demand playing some nonsense. A pair of grey joggers low on his hips, a dark earthy tone sweater on shoulders. All wrapped together with a thin white chain with the Star of David draped on his sternum. He doesn’t really know why he wears it anymore. He doesn’t feel like he treasures his faith, cast from the religion. He doesn’t hold the practice to his heart. Especially not after the occurrences with Mira. The exact reason he sits alone in this big empty house.

Longing for Daughter’s presence. A distant glow of his laptop on the coffee table in front of him, pleading for him to do something, anything. His heart torn from the absent wishes of wanting his life to be different. Filled with artificial happiness. Loneliness puts him in a corner with no escape. He’s grown accustomed to the feeling, throughout his failed marriage, he knows it all too well. Ridden by the pain of it, something unfamiliar takes its place. Something stronger than isolation. Desolation. He’s felt like this for so long that he’d forgotten that there are other emotions. Like jouissance, similar to having a penchant for something. To have it for you. He knows deep down that it’s wrong.

Fuck he knows, he does and it will kill him. Shouldn't think of his student in such a desirous manner. But he can’t stop. Ever since you walked yourself into his class, he hadn’t gotten you out of his head. Daydreams he's living in with you. Different past lives he could’ve had with you. Every waking moment you’ve plagued him. Every off hand hungry exchange with Mira, he imagines you. He can’t get away from you. A deep breath emits from him. He scratches his forehead, lost in the thought of you. His laptop pings with a buzz. It seems that the universe has answered his prayers. He straightens his posture, setting the glass on the table before pulling the computer on his lap.

He adjusts his glasses; the glow glares off the glass spheres. His house is pitch black other than the distant television and the radiance in front of his face. He sets it flat on his lap, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater. He uses the track pad and finds his notifications. You. You’ve sent him something, your email in his inbox. A pdf. Your semester final. You work his schedule like clockwork. It wasn’t due for another week and yet you’ve already finished. He’s already gotten a few messages from other disciples needing the date pushed back, but you’ve completed it. His heart soars, resembling something along the lines of being proud? No, appreciative. He remembers the words you spoke to him the day he gave the prompt. Vulgar.

How lovely you looked that day, but in his opinion you always looked like that. Somehow you looked even better that day. Chipper and gleaming like a morning dew. The cursor hovers over the link. He clicks, opening the document. The black words on a white sheet were gifted to him. Your introduction and citations at the top corner. The title in the middle. Lover’s exchange. He scrolls to the first paragraph, with a heavy heart and high hopes he begins.

Act I

It’s midnight when they meet. A dark sky with twinkling stars. A lamppost with a spotlight they run through. An older man and a younger woman trailing after him. It’s forbidden among the laws of society because of the taboo. The way they dance through the night to his house. The two disregard the dirty looks. They only existed with each other in their world. They lied to one another, saying that the energy shared is just an exchange. An exchange of passionate encounters.

The feel of his salt and peppered beard on her skin, the marks he gives her after the exchange. In the end, it’s what they both wanted- needed. His prolonged fingers tied around her wrist, tugging. She sees his house. White picket fence almost as much as her tuition. In a diverse neighborhood with economic growth. The older man modeled an image of what an established man should be. Bittersweet. Reminds her of a family of four with a dog. Stability isn’t what this was. Unbridled lust is all it was. They go against the formal casualties of dinner. They run up the stone onto his porch. He fumbles with his keys to unlock his door. He’s nervous, twitching with excitement. He inserts the key, then he’s tugging her again. Into his home. The smell of spring and hominy hits her.

He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it into the distant living room. Turning to throw keys into a bowel. He pivots, his glasses glimmer with the faint light of the dark night. Concealing his dark eyes from her. He smiles, big and toothy. Imperfect teeth rewarded her. He curls a finger under her chin. His other resting on her shoulder. He tilts his head to the side, slotting his lips into hers. Rhythmic and precise. Walking her up into a wall, hands slithering under the jacket and peeling it off. He moves his head back, the coat that dwarfs her in hand. Long feathered lashes fan across his crimson cheeks. He puffs. His hands leave to discard her jacket. Only for one of them to wrap around her wrist to pull. Long strides bound her up his stairs, to the landing. She’s amazed how he didn’t trip and fall face-first into one of the steps.

He’s running up them and she’s trying her hardest to keep up. He barely opens his door before he pushes her inside. There’s no time for delicacies. He’s pulling at a ravenous pace at her clothes, her the same. They scatter like leaves throughout his bedroom. It wasn’t the first time this has happened and sure to be the last. But the way he looks at her is like a groom looking at a bride. Dopey eyed and filled with emotion. His fingers run up her arms, the hair standing up as he goes. The skin is as soft as velvet. She reaches, fingers touching his temples before removing his specs. He hates himself for gazing at her breasts. Watching the flesh, crease and undulate. The color of her nipples easily begins to fight for his favorite. She leans up on her knees, the bed pulling inwards by his thigh. She kisses the space between his brows.

His heart picks up at a speed a horse would gallop, and he begins to question everything. Such a pure girl is with him to do unspeakable things. She’s his first after the split. So why is he starting to develop feelings if all of it is just raw fucking and emotionless? But what if it wasn’t, what if he wanted something a little dangerous? Something he can’t bring up at those shitty dinner parties Mira dragged him to. The conferences among the board asking his marital status, he can’t and he won’t. His dirty secret in the hands of a younger untouched girl. In all honesty how can he not get attached? He remembers reading something years ago. An article about how the chemicals match and sync with the counterparts.

How it’s simply science to get attached. He shakes his head, dark curls painted grey moving on his head. He rids himself of his thoughts. One night a month, he has to make it good. The moon shines through the big window in the middle of the room. He lays her down, peppering kisses on her neck. Finding the places he knows she likes. She was so easy to him, he knew her like the back of his hand. Yet, he always seems to find something that he never knew. There were never fights or grudges between the two. They fuck like they actually like each other. His large hands grope at her sides. Making her squirm in his grasp. His knees pinch at the bottom of her thighs. Her legs wrapped around his long waist. His semi hard erection laid in the crevice between her thigh and mound. Her hands tied in his curls. Twisting and pulling at the follicles. She didn’t have to tell him what felt good, he can tell by the pulls. His nose skims across her skin, tasting and lapping at the saltiness.

Worshipping each inch with the utmost delicacy. He kisses down her sternum. Purposely avoiding her peaks. Down her stomach and there. He parts her thighs, crawling down her body. Wedging his broad shoulders between her thighs. His beard burning caresses into the inside. His curls are a soft contrast. His plush lips press a kiss on the few scars he can find. His hands go to the sides of her hips, under her thighs. He wiggles on his chest to grow closer to her wet heat.

She’s glistening, poor thing. He flattens his tongue from where her entrance is to her clit. Over her slit, not entering her folds. Oh. So he’s going to be a tease tonight. She can’t complain from the whimpers he’s getting from her. The jut of her hips grinding on his face. The soft shake of her thighs on the sides of his face. His hands come back to her cunt. His thick thumbs, coming to either side of her lips. Pulling them apart. He’s enamored, watching her contract then dampen. His breath fans over the expanse and she’s shivering.

Her grip on his hair tightening. His tongue snakes out from behind his lips. His nose brushed along the hood of her clit. He pushes the tip of his tongue onto her bundle of nerves. Kitten licking the bud. It’s so meticulous and thought out for no error that she knows he's planned this for a while now. This encounter was planned to a t with no spontaneity. His tongue pulls back and she whines. But his mouth doesn’t move, he shakes his head to plunge his head into her. He sucks through his teeth, pulling her clit up. The sharp pain makes her yelp, her back arching off his mattress. His chin digging into the lower half of her cunt. The wiry hair of his beard tearing into her sensitive folds. The hair most definitely being soaked with her arousal.

Her stomach churns and hot pleasure pools into her lower back. Her knuckles turning white, she’s only half sure that she’s pulling clumps of curls from his scalp. It’s just so thick and full of hair that she doubts anyone will notice. She’s close, too close. Been waiting for this moment since the last time she had seen him. Those tight khakis and the fucking cardigan she knows that are hiding stretched muscles. Toes curling into his sheets. One of his hands leaves, shifting his body to accommodate. Two fingers enter her rigid hole. She’s moaning high in her throat. Jerking her hips up into his stupidly sculpted face. Trying to leave his face only results in him lapping more feverishly. He just moves with such elegance that she’s hurting. Just from his mouth.

She’s bruised from his teeth never leaving her clit alone. He curls those protracted fingers in her cunt and she’s seeing stars as he pumps them. Her legs are tightening around his head. The thickness, the stretch of it all has her crumbling. Spasming on the coarse hair of his face, he coaxes her through it. Even if his jaw is cramping she doesn’t know, he just continues to drink from her. Spreading her open to devour farther. His fingers leave only to be replaced with his mouth. His tongue intruding her hole. Plugging her up with the muscle. He stays there until it seems she has calmed and she’s not scalping him. He shifts to pull up on his knees. His hands leave soothing circles on her hips.

Her eyes are closed and she almost looks like she’s sleeping but her panting chest he knows she’s in the sky right now. Like an angel, his angel. He lifts her, flipping her on her stomach. He lowers on his stomach. Pushing her legs apart. His fully hardened cock pushed into the mattress. He spreads the globes of her ass. Listening to that keen gasp. His lips part and a string of drool falls on her puckered hole. When his saliva meets the ring, she clenches and he’s groaning. His face meets between her cheeks to lick at the flesh. His nose went into the divot. His beard scraped her. The smell of her heavenly.

The feeling of being suffocated by her has him thrusting into the plush mattress. She fists her hands into the pillow by her head. Enthralled by the foreign feeling of his tongue digging into the forbidden part of her. He moves his face down to lick at her slit to bring it up to the dry hole. His tongue moistions his lips. He huffs before delving in once more. One of his hands is coming to knead her cheek. His thumb slowly pushed into the hole carefully. Drool runs down her face. She’s too tired to even move. The intrusion has her thighs slicked. He feels his cock pulsing when he has her take the first knuckle. He doesn’t care if she cums again, he's just eating to devour. Eating from the purest of fruits. His sac tightens up. A couple of shallow thrusts and he’s done. The stickiness caught between the sheets and his paunchy stomach.

He moans, his mouth leaving her. During his onslaught he didn’t realize that his thumb was fully inside her. His palm pressed flushed to the curvature. He’s amazed at the sight. Saddened when he pulls the digit out of her. He lays on his back by her, on his side of his bed. Skin damp with sweat. Dark skin filled with precipitation. He knows that he just committed a crime. That if someone finds out he’d be in a penitentiary. That he couldn’t go back to whatever the fuck normal was in his life. He couldn’t go back into the comfortable life of not sleeping with his student. So he ponders the question as to why it feels so good if it was such an incriminating thing. He comes to the conclusion that being a saint only lasts so long. And he has to admit that this feeling of being a sinner provides so much more exuberance.

Interlude I

Jonathan has to take a step away. He can feel his lungs closing in. He’s wheezing, his face buzzing under his glasses as he grows light-headed. Fuck. Why is his mouth so dry? He pushes his laptop to the cushion beside him. Lifting with the crack of gas between his bones. He walks into his kitchen, standing tall to grab a clear glass. He returns to his fridge, pushing the lip into the fridge’s mouth. The dispenser spews cold water. His chest heaves as he can’t breathe. Not now, please, not now.

His head hurts, his temples tingling. His vision waved in and out. He placed the glass on the island. Hastily pulling open drawers. Panic brews in his stomach. A stone dropping his heart to the ground. Fuck, where is it?! He curses himself for never leaving it in the same spot. His ego was too inflated to believe he needed to know where it was. That he didn’t need it to live. His hands blindly pulled junk out, throwing it onto the tile. In the very back of the sinks cabinet he finds it. He pulls the inhaler between his lips. Pushing the top down for ten seconds, inhaling. Keeping it in for fifteen, then exhaling. His frame deflates with the small thing in hand.

He smiles with sharp pearls up at his ceiling. Trying to push the feeling of a hysteric laugh boiling up his throat. Down to his belly. How fucking absurd this was! He almost went into an asthma attack because of some erotica. Reading erotica that you wrote. His eyes fall to the open drawer that pushes into the bone in his hip. He cranes his neck, finding the pack of cigarettes. Now it makes sense. The inhaler and smokes shoved into the back so an eager eye couldn’t easily find them. Even himself. He trades the inhaler for the pack. It hits the back with a thud. He flips the tab open, only finding two white sticks and his lighter shoved into the side. Thank fucking god. Taking one of the cigarettes between his fingers, he slots it onto the top of his ear.

His curls are trying to push it free, so he pushes it down. Throwing the pack that he’d go back to later on the marble. He’s so warm. Almost burning with sweat. His fingers tie around the bottom of his sweater. Lifting it over his head and tugging off the sleeves. He hisses at the cold air hitting his bare skin. His chain hitting his chest. He tosses his sweater onto the island. He takes the cigarette back behind his ear to his parted lips. Grabbing the lighter, he cups the flame; the embers alighting. He shoves the lighter in his pocket. Inhaling for ten seconds, holding it for fifteen, exhaling. The taste and the scent makes him wonder why he’d ever try to stop. Mira and his kid, but now that they’re both gone.

Leaves him with no excuses. He doesn’t have to half step out the door because of the pungent smell. Doesn’t have to hide his habits. His stomach contracts with each breath. His mind slowly easing into standby. He’s thinking about emailing you back. Asking how you came up with this explicit idea. Did you experience it first hand? Did you want to? He smiles, he thinks of himself as more than a willing candidate. He wanted to say that he absolutely seethed the fluids that you explained so beautifully. But he couldn’t. The way you painted the actions wasn’t humanly, it was mystical.

He’s impaired with his way of thinking. He’ll never think of such acts as he used to. The cigarette burns the pads of his fingers. He takes one last breath in before flicking it into the garbage disposal. The flame dies instantly. He sighs out a gust of smoke. Grabbing the glass of now lukewarm water and sitting on his couch. Almost groaning as he spreads out. The tv plays some superhero movie that he’s never seen. One of the Wolverine ones. He watches the claws swipe through what only he can presume is a villain. Taking a swig of the water his chest erupts into shivers. He places it by the wine. Rubbing his palm on his sweats, he attempts to regain his consciousness. With a deep sigh he grabs his computer by his thigh and reads.

Act II

The call rings on his computer. A loud pinging noise with an incessant buzz fills the room of his study. He nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s going to get caught by her invitation. Soon he accepts. It’s in the middle of the night and Mira is up in his room, his Daughter fast asleep. She was a mess that one, not willing to sleep if he didn’t act out her stories. He was a knight in tonight’s redemption. His heart hurts. Fuck, he’s going to have to be careful. Since Mira came back from her trip, he has been paranoid. He honestly didn’t give a shit about her relations.

He was too invested in talking to his inamorata. Because of Mira’s arrival, he hadn’t gotten to in half a month. Missing their encounters. Yearning for them. It’s driving him insane, losing contact. She smiles up at him through the viewfinder. It’s pitch black and he can only make out her face. The light from her screen is the only one emitting luminosity. She’s under a surface. A blanket? He smiles. How perfect. Such a rellrounded girl hiding like a child. Although, he pouts solemnly, craving to see her beauty forthright.

“You’re like Batman brooding in his cave.”

He stifles a laugh, biting his lip. Smiling wide he nods.

“Maybe I am. You can’t debunk it.”

She smirks, eyes lighting up at the playful banter. He’s missed this, missed the poking at each other to receive a reaction. He’s always surrounded by chaos and fighting. Being around her, it seems that such things don’t exist. Their world is a utopia, and he’s happy if it’s only them who survive there.

“Pretty sure that Batman isn’t a professor.”

He nods. She’s as quick as ever, keeping him on his toes. It’s a battle to make her not quirk a response. There’s always a reply. She’s just so responsive. He licks his lips, throwing in the bait to see her riposte.

“Pretty sure that Batman’s cock isn’t as big as mine.”

Ah, yes. He brings out the grotesque themes of their relationship. The meaningless fucking that has blossomed into a desire to see her. Kiss her lips and cheeks. Cradle her head into his chest, wondering if she can hear his heart soar. He needs to remind himself that he can’t mingle with her. Be treated like he's twenty years younger. Maybe his response is ludicrous and she will be turned off from the bluntness. She’s so detached from it all that she doesn’t even blink an eye.

She barks out an electronic laugh before clamping a palm over her mouth, eyes wide. Now he wants to know why his cock is growing at the sight. A fetish he didn’t know he had, most likely. He wonders if her roommate is there. The idea has him hardening instantly. Trying to keep quiet for him, like he is for her. He sees her shift, leaning over the camera to retrieve some earbuds she’s used in his class. Her breasts were hidden under a baggy shirt. He can see the outline however and he’s filled with out righteous lust to find that she’s not wearing a bra. She sits back on her thighs, inputting the wire into her laptop. Two white wires lead into one connected source.

“So dirty, old man.”

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Forearms broadening. His white tee hugging his muscles. The Star of David necklace wrapped around that thick neck. He quirks up a thick eyebrow on his forehead. Questioning her status. He takes quick notice of the way her eyes flick downwards on her screen. She’s never had a problem with his age before, and now she has something to say about it? He’s taken aback. He remembers her saying something that him being older was alluring. That she values the intellect he holds. He turns it onto her.

“Should be worried about what this old man is going to do to you, little girl.”

He says, voice dipping an octave lower. His arms uncross and a hand goes to cup himself over his clothed cock. Teasing himself. His hair pushed back carelessly. Not in his pristine style. It’s nice seeing him in such a way. Laid back and careless. Only wanting to talk to the girl he’s interested in. She bets he smells so divine. Like honey and milk. Her thighs seared with ripples of pleasure forming. The domestic life he's letting her glimpse into. It’s been too long since she’s last had him. She hasn’t even looked in any other male presence since him. She needs him to let her release the pent up frustration. But she can’t, not without his help.

“Such as?”

She pries. Sitting cross-legged on her twin bed. She moves the monitor up her body to her face. His mouth waters. One of her hands plays with the loose shirt she has on. She’s toying with him and he’s not stupid. He knows how the younger woman plays but he bites, anyway.

“I had this dream about you.”

She tilts her head to the side, hands skimming flat up to her breasts.

“Oh?”

She whispers and he wettens his lips. The hand that was cupping his length runs up his torso. Under the loose waistband of his sweats. Toying with the ribbon like ties.

“Yeah, thinkin’ about it a lot, actually. We were in Israel,”

“Israel?”

She asks, shocked. Eyebrows rocketing across her forehead. His hand follows downwards to the expanse of his plush thigh. Close to where he needs, but sweeps the thumb by the side of his sac. He refrains himself from rolling his eyes in the back of his head.

“Mhm. In Israel, in a mansion.”

“A mansion?”

She questioned again. And there’s that quick thinking he loved. Her lips perk into a smile as she rolls a bud in her fingers. A frown deepens on his face. His fingers scratched at the base of his cock.

“Yes, now shut up so I can finish.”

He spits out sternly. Not an ounce of jest in his words. Her mouth closes immediately, hips bucking at the tone. Similar to the one he uses at work when a student did something wrong. Fuck, she should do something bad that would make him use it more. He cups his balls, and he’s stretching the elasticity of his joggers. The head of his cock pushing up at the side, begging to be let free. He doesn’t reprimand himself.

“In Israel in a mansion. I and you, on the silk sheets of a bed. However, I was on my back and you were,”

His lips part as he pants. His hand wraps around the base, holding himself. His head leans back, and he sighs. He builds up suspension with his little groans. He knows that she’s hanging on every single breathy moan. On every word he’s ridding her of.

“You were dripping on my lips.”

His hips thrust up into his hand. Her eyes widen and she pulls at her nipples. Breathing fastening to where she’s gasping for breath. Oh. Then a thought runs through her pretty head. What if he was sleeping next to his spouse. Dreaming of her while he rests. Shivers run up her spine.

“I could smell and taste you, your thighs around my head. And pretty girl, fuck-“

As he starts to fist himself, finally jerking himself off at a rapid pace. He’s lost for words, utterly and completely. His thumb traces over his head and he’s almost crying. God, he misses her. Not just her cunt that’s too tight, but the smell of her. The softness and linen smell of her. The taste he can’t have. He lifts his hips up, pushing his sweats down his broad legs. Encompassing her a view, he knows she’ll be appreciative of. She always praises his cock. Always wants to have it in her, near her. He didn’t know if he corrupted her to be such a filthy girl or if she already was. He doesn’t know, but he mumbled praises about how good she looks.

“I miss you.”

He moans heavily, almost where his scrupulous voice lives. One of her hands travels under her panties. Quickly rubbing short little circles on her clit. Her head hits her wall with a soft thunk. He wants to know why he wants to kiss it, to say that she’s okay. Treat her like a child. The muscles in his thighs draw up and he’s whining.

“I miss you most. Making me stay in this hell.”

She gripes. He should’ve known she would say something like that. The college was below par, to say the least. The people were insane. People desecrate in the halls, let alone fornicate. She was close to finishing, about a semester off. So she shut her mouth and lived through it. He made it less horrible, worthwhile. But without him there, it hurts more so than she wished to admit. He was her saving grace, and he wasn’t here, so who was going to save her?

As much as she hid the yearning feeling, he knew and felt similar, if not intensified. If he could do it without being expelled from the system of education, he would take her away. Move out of this godforsaken place and start fresh, with her by his side. But the world wasn’t promising. His eyes soften from the cold black coffee to a warm, hot chocolate. Swimming in remorse behind the clouds of glass. His throat tightens up as he yanks languidly at himself. He feels like shit and it was hard to tiptoe around Mira. He wants better for the young girl in front of the screen. She deserves better than him. He swallows the boil down his throat.

“I’m sorry. I really am, sweetheart. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

He sees the way her body grows stiff. The way she usually does when she is close to her orgasm. The calm before her thrashing chaos. His hips buck instantly at the sight. He can feel his cum rolling down his fingers, getting caught in the webs of his fingers.

“Oh, yeah? How’re you going to do that, old man?”

He sighs, shaking his head. Hiding a smile. She tears him up through and through. Done to the bone. That sharp mouth of hers makes his skin crawl. Every time he lives in fear of her response. He thinks of his answer. How was he going to make it up to her? Before he knows it, he’s babbling.

“Next weekend, the paperwork will be served. You can ngh-“

A specific tug has him on the verge of flying head first off into his peak. The fantasy of her in his house parading around in one of his sweaters that is no doubt too big for her has him rolling. He pants furiously, in need of his inhaler.

“Y-you can stay with me until graduation.”

Time freezes as his voice gravels out those precious words. Her heart picks up and the world swirls around her. Such a funny thing, this occurrence. Her huddled under a blanket, laptop sat on a tiny bed that barely fit her. Earbuds tangled, and her voice was barely audible trying to keep quiet to not awaken her roommate. But she’s fingering herself, hand grabbing at her tit. Her shirt rose on her waist. And him. Hiding from his not so secret family. In his den, half curled over, biting his fist as he cums so hard it’s spurting onto his white tee. Her saving grace has offered her salvation. Out of this horrid place. For a limited time. She can’t think straight, but she’s jumping on the promise.

“Deal.”

His heart grows too big for his chest. His tawny cheeks burned red. He only half thought she would agree. The haven he's going to reside in with her has his cock twitching. A few pearls leaving his tip. He watches her face turn into a masterpiece. Eyes closed, mouth open, fingers curling. Legs parted wide. He tugs off his shirt. Careful to not let his face touch the dampness on the surface. Brown skin with defined lining, tufts of dark hair across makes her cross-eyed. Legs spasming closed and a harsh bite onto her bottom lip to stifle the too obscene whimper. He wipes himself off with his once white shirt, tugging up his sweats. He smiles, a crooked grin. His index points at her half-lidded eyes. Her fingers pulling out as a pool forms under her hips. He pushes an eyebrow on his forehead. Pointing a finger at the screen. In his authoritative panty dropping voice he says.

“Under one exception: you can’t call me old man unless it’s under adulation.”

Act III

The first night was torture. He didn’t even cum, just toyed with her body into the multiple she’s given him. She’s a rag doll at this point. Her body is limp to where she can’t even lift a finger without her pussy fluttering. After she physically could not give him anymore of the high. With eyes dumb and cunt sore, she laid there.

He kissed her forehead, whispered sweet words, and left. Leaving to grab a washcloth, made sure the water was warm, not hot. Pressed it between her thighs that had dark sores where his beard had been. Carefully swiping up and down to capture the essence of her. He threw it into the hamper beside his bed, opening a drawer to grab a fluffy blanket. The soft material made his palm tickle. He guided her to lift her hips up so she wouldn’t have to lay in a puddle. He didn’t have the heart to make her stand on wobbly legs. If she could stand. By the way, she’s wincing at his touch. He’s not so sure. She turns on her side, reaching up to press a soft kiss to his lips. Whining when he leaves but shortly falling asleep after. Her face to the side of the bed.

Mouth parted, eyebrows pinched as she dreams. He raises the duvet onto her scorching hot skin, tucking the hem under her chin. There’s nothing sexual about it but his heart bursts. He smiles to himself before walking into the bathroom. Shutting the door the quietest he possibly can. He opens the shower door, turning the faucet on. The pellets hit the tile with a heavy splatter. He takes his glasses off; the steam fogging them up, anyway. Putting them by the sink before stepping inside. He closes his eyes, basking in the warmth. The dampness on his skin exudes now being cleansed. He doesn’t know why he feels like it’s necessary, why he’s obligated to bathe after. He just feels the need to. He can’t have her lingering on him; it'll drive him crazy. Even the aftershocks he gets after eating her cunt stay in his beard for weeks after. It’s almost haunting him. Taunting him with her absence. But if he could, he would live between her thighs. The cloth in his hands starts to soak up the grime off his chest. The suds of his soap coats him, making him glimmer with bubbles.

After he’s imagined what he’d do if she was occupying the small rectangle with him, he turns the faucet off. Stopping to grab a towel, dabbing over the falling droplets. Running the fabric over his crevices. He wraps it around his long torso. One hand holds it in place, while the other grabs his glasses. He pushes his wet hair off his forehead, a few straggling curls stay sticken to his face. He looks fucked, to say the least. Streaks of red run down his chest, to his lower stomach. Just a few inches away from his cock. He knows it’s worse on his back. He can feel the welts as he moves. His beard glistens with the water that’s still captured there. He’s enamored by how lean he’s gotten. The muscles in his body are growing taut. He’s astonished since he hasn’t done anything out of his regimen. The only thing he has change was the amount he’s been fucking her. With his now ex spouse out of his house he can do whatever he pleases whenever he wants.

The only thing stopping him is himself, the salt in his hair isn’t just for the looks. His libido is high but his body can’t keep up with him. With one more quick glance he strides out of his bathroom. Seeing the soft inhale and heating her snore does something to him that’s inexplicable. That thing makes his cock harden. A tent forms in the towel and he rolls his eyes. Maybe his body was intact with his drive. His grip on the towel grows. The fucking things this girl makes him do will be the death of him. He walks to the side she’s sleeping on. Cherishing her beauty to mind. A strange idea comes to his head during this viewing. He slips his glasses off his face, precipitation stains the glass. He pauses, thinking momentarily before slotting them onto her face.

In his opinion the thin wired frame with the hazy specs suits her better. They’re awkward with how they’re perched since she’s asleep but he likes the look of it. She shifts and her mouth falls open wider. He’s a bad man, he tells himself as he drops the towel to the floor. His cock in hand, he works himself. His eyes blurry without his prescription, nonetheless he focuses on her face. He runs his thumb over the tip and he’s groaning. He leans forward slightly. Positioning himself over her lips. He rubs the ruddy head over them. Smearing his pre-cum on the bow. He bites his lips, brows furrowed as he pushes in. He’s only sitting in her mouth, unmoving. So much for that shower.

He ruts his hips so half of his length is laid out on her tongue. She’s asleep, he reminds himself. But with the way her lips are curling around him makes him think that he’s wrong. His hand remains wrapped around the hilt. Trying to restrain himself. He pushes small thrusts into her mouth, half in, half out. His other hand pushes her hair from her face. He loses himself and finally pushes his length fully into her mouth, and down the back of her throat. She gags around him and pulls back startled. But surely she’s awake by now. She’s sputtering around him and pulls his sloppy wet self out of her mouth. Her eyes blink dreamily up at him under his glasses, her eyes magnified. He smiles, only one of the sides of his mouth peaking up.

“Mornin’ pretty girl.”

She looks at him, still disoriented. Her head whips to the window. Dark as ever.

“It’s not?”

His head tilts downwards as a nod. Agreeing with her.

“I know. Just go with it, yeah?”

She bows her head. Smiling up at him. He walks over to his side of the bed, laying down by her. He scoots until his chest is pressed against her back. She can feel how hard he is on her ass. His arms wrap around her waist, under her breasts. Hands flat and fingers spread. She pulls a hand up to his hair, scratching her nails lightly on his scalp. Her fingers damp from how saturated his curls are. She wonders if he’s making a wet spot on his bed, similar to hers. He nuzzles his face into her neck, his beard brushing her. He kisses along her shoulder, craning his neck.

“I honestly don’t know how you can see.”

He snorts a laugh. He can’t really. Without them, he can barely make out distant shapes.

“With practice makes perfect.”

She scoffs as one of his hands travels down her stomach. Playing with the short hair on her mound.

“Do you honestly believe that?”

He thought about his answer for a moment. Before nodding into her shoulder. His fingers cupped her thigh to lift it over his hip.

“Can I kiss you?”

He asks softly, almost a whisper. She grants him his wish. He lays flat on his back, pulling her to his chest. Her legs were on either side of his waist. Her face to his. Noses brushing.

“Hi.”

She smiles widely. His hands cup the side of her face before kissing her. Long and slow. Full of insecure thoughts and emotions. He still hasn’t come to terms with how he feels about her, but all he knows is that he cares deeply about her well-being. And if he makes her happy, then he’s glad to be of use. He doesn’t want to say he loves her, because the word doesn’t match with how strongly he adores her. What he thought was love with Mira was the complete opposite of his flower. Every breath, every beat of his heart, belongs to her. He’s not a sap, but if it were to ever come to it, he’d die for her. His beard scratches against her face.

He simply lives for her. He feels her fingers in the wefts of his hair, massaging the thickness. He pouts everything he feels about her into the kiss. He hopes that she’ll understand, and the grinding of her hips. His work is being taught. As her tongue touches his, she can taste him. Marlboro cigarettes and coffee that he probably brews himself. The scent floods into her. Cinnamon and lavender, she wonders if that’s from his soap or his cologne. His hands flatten over her back, pushing her down to him. Her breasts are full against his chest. He’s kicked into a part of his brain that’s primal. Eyes locked on her nipples that barely peek out from beneath her. She pulls away, both parties huffing for air. The glasses slipping off her face.

“How do you do anything with these?”

She pulls herself up on his chest to slide them up the bridge of her nose. He tilts his head to the side, admiring her. She’s just so alluring. The way she holds herself to the divots in her skin. He loves all of it. She lifts an eyebrow, confused.

“What?”

She asks, and he shakes his head. Wet curls swaying.

“Nothin’, you just look beguiling.”

She rolls her eyes, scrunching up her nose. She slaps his chest, laughing. He smiles.

“You think I’m deceptive?”

He blinks cluelessly. Her face snapping into a pout.

“That’s mean, ya know, calling someone a liar.”

His lips twitch up into a ghost of a smile. He tries to hide it but she’s so adorable when he gets under her skin.

“Remind me to never compliment you.”

He mumbles, he pokes fun at her, and she groans. Exaggerating an eye roll.

“Could've said gorgeous or something.”

He shakes his head. In an instant, she’s on her back, and he’s hovering above her. His cock seated over her core. It quivers by the touch. She’s more stunned at how hard he is. It seems that he’s never soft.

“Those don’t suit you, little cherub.”

His nose nudges into her jaw as he kisses her neck. Sucking the marks he wanted for the past half year so she can’t hide it. What spurs him on is the thought that when the questions arise as to how she got them. She can’t say the older professor who fucks her until she can’t walk. He wonders what her answer will be. He kisses down her neck.

“I enjoy beguiling. Bewitching even.”

He kisses her collarbone, nipping. Before licking the skin.

“Body and soul.”

He grins when she hits him on his shoulder.

“What a fraud! Stealing from Austen.”

He sighs, laying his head between her breasts. He wraps his arms around her. She massages his back. His breath fanning on her chest.

“I can’t win, can I?”

He sighs, kissing the side of her tit.

“Afraid not, poet.”

He leans up, his forearms on either side of her head. She pulls her legs up and over his hips.

“If I’m a poet, then you shall be my muse.”

She nods, agreeing.”

“So it shall.”

The end of her sentence turns into a breathy whine as he enters her. The ruddy head splitting her open. His length is halfway before he moves out, then pushes more. His face pushed into the side of her neck, continuing to mark her, then soothe her wounds. She’s crying, loud yelps and pleas for him to fuck her. To use her. He rolls his hips subtly, long languid strokes. Never pushing into that spot deep inside her. He doesn’t need to with the way she’s contracting around him. Her cunt gulped him up with the loudest squelch. The hair around the base of him scratches along her folds.

“So noisy, neighbors are going to hear.”

She cries louder, and he smirks. Slotting himself fully into her, all the way down his shaft. His balls up against her ass, her legs crushing him. And then he moves. His hips lifting back, the only thing in her pussy the tip. He rams his hips back into her. Pushing her up the bed. She yelps, clawing at the bruises on his back. It was hot and electric, bounding the two. Emitting a currency shared. Pulling and taking. He lifts himself on his hands, flat by her head. Pulling his knees under her thighs. He pulls her ankle to his shoulder. Holding it between his shoulder and neck.

His hair hides his eyes, but she’s sure that they’re wild with lust. His hand wraps around the bones in her ankle. He thrusts deeper and shallow into her. He can feel her walls convulse around him, signaling that she’s close. The cacophony of the clap and shared moans has him nearing, too. His mouth was hot and soaking on her ankle. When she cums, her already abused cunt pushes his cock out. He stills, sitting back on his calves, waiting for a reaction. He lets her leg fall. He watches her cum pour onto the blanket and between her thighs. She pushes a hand to his abdomen, telling him to wait. Her pussy fluttered.

“You want me to stop?”

He asks, running the crown of his cock over her folds.

“No.”

She whimpers, and he growls. His glasses on her face a-skewed.

“What do you want, pretty girl?”

“For you to cum.”

He pistons his hips into her in one fluid thrust. Buried himself in and out of her rapidly. He bends her leg to her chest. He kisses her as he floods her pussy. His lips leave as he pants for air. He mouths at her jaw, his eyes closed. He fixes the position of his glasses on her nose. Letting your leg to fall to his side. He doesn’t pull out; he lets the fluids sit in her. Marinating in her womb. He lays his feverish forehead on hers. Breathing her in, basking in the feeling of her. Afraid that if he moves, he won’t have her anymore. So he stays, cock inside her. Body collapsed like a weighted blanket on her. She plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. As he kisses the bruises on her neck. He knows he is a sick man, hoping that her reproductive system takes.

Interlude II

Jonathan takes his glasses from his eyes. Staring blankly at the last sentence. Trying to wrap his head around. What exactly did he just fucking read? There’s an italic at the end at the bottom. His stomach churns and twists disturbingly. There’s no way you didn’t write this about him. Most of it was unnervingly accurate, things he hadn’t told a single soul about. But you did. You knew everything. Was he really that easy to read? Before he can even recoup, his fingers are typing in a three digits of one hundred. In the suggestions, he writes:

“Meet me at the coffee place on Broadway at ten am. I’d like to discuss your afflatus.”

And with that, he shuts the brim of his computer. His head tilted to the ceiling. Dreaming of what he was going to talk to you about in the morning.

The end?

#jonathan levy #scenes from a marriage #jonathan levy x reader #Jonathan levy x reader smut #Jonathan levy x reader fluff #Jonathan levy x reader angst #Jonathan levy x you #Jonathan levy x y/n #oscar issac x reader #oscar isaac fanfiction #oscar isaac x reader angst #oscar isaac x reader fluff #oscar isaac x reader smut

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sweetly-yours-and-mine · 10 months

Text

Summary: Sipping from the other's drink

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x Reader

Warnings: author makes certain claims about academia that may or may not be true and are entirely biased because of her own experience with it (and a huge thanks to @pennyserenade for reading this over for me)

Word Count: 2.3k

Jonathan’s brought you to a summer mixer at the Department Head’s family home, designed to maintain connections through the faculty during the slow months of the summer as well as create new ones with the incoming graduate students to the department.

A newly-minted associate professor for the fall term, Jonathan at least doesn’t have to worry about students of his own.

Really, he’s only here for the drinks.

Academics’ pockets, though they don’t usually run deep, are quite generous when it comes to their alcohol, perhaps a sort of defence mechanism when it comes to dealing with the stress of their way of life.

Everyone, however, seems to be at ease. It’s a late afternoon sort of function in order to encourage them to drink as much as they would like without feeling guilty about it, and loosened from the heavy burden of tweeds and thick wools, the faculty are clad instead in linen, cool and airy.

Tongues are loose, smiles are quick to be given. People have forgotten the relentless competition they’re usually in when it comes to funding, to office space, to good class slots.

All in all, he thinks that today has been a good day to introduce you to the people he’s going to passive aggressively work with for the rest of his life.

He gazes across the room and finds the blue of your shirt, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of neutrals and whites. You’re talking to one of the faculty spouses, nodding your head and laughing. There’s a glass of pink lemonade in your hands, your hair falls around you as if you’re holding a secret within your chest.

Jonathan yearns for you to be by your side again, to smell the perfume he bought for your six-month anniversary, the one you always spray into the crook of your neck because that’s always where he likes to press his face whenever he’s deep in thought.

As if on cue, the conversation dies down and you drift back to his side.

He marvels at how easily you’ve managed to fit yourself into this new crowd, how you laugh as the department fart tells you some lame joke that he’s probably told millions of others before you. You brush it off with grace and ease, I’ll talk to you soon, alright?

It had taken him almost five years before he’d mastered that skill. The gentle brush off that made the other feel like you were doing them a favour.

He loves you, that much he knows for sure.

After the storm cloud of Mira and the past twenty years of his life had passed, he’d met you. As simple as that, as if the universe was only waiting for him before they let him hold onto the rest of his life like a delicate crystal glass.

“Hi,” you come up close to him and Jonathan can smell your perfume and the strawberries on your breath. He wonders if he’ll be able to taste your drink if he kisses you long enough.

He also wonders, as an addendum, how quickly he would lose his position if he did that. Despite all the shouting the university did about being progressive and open-minded, the tenured faculty members were still dreadfully hard-headed, old-fashioned.

Jonathan supposes that he was too. Maybe he still is, simply by nature of his daily proximity to him on the same floor of the social sciences building, crumbling at the seams since the last of its renovations in the seventies.

“Hi,” he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you in close to him. There’s a glass of whiskey in his other hand that he doesn’t care much for anymore now that you’re here. He kisses the side of your head, brushes away some of your hair from your temple, “Enjoying yourself?”

You giggle, it rings out like a fairybell. You lean up close to him and murmur in his ear, “You work with some very strange people.”

He can’t help but laugh at that, turning his head to meet your sparkling eyes. “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

“Very strange,” you muse again, looking out across the room. “And I thought you were the strange one.”

That hits him in a funny way he wasn’t planning on it doing. He remembers once in high school his cross country running coach said she’d stepped, wearing thick-soled hiking shoes, on a pebble the wrong way and ended up having to go to physio for six months.

He supposes he feels a little like that pulled muscle.

He hums, tries to push down the blow you’d struck at him without realising it.

“Strange?”

“Mmhm,” your fingers drift around his waist and rest on top of his tummy, the one Ava had pointed out the other day in passing. “Strange, yeah. You got the whole, mysterious, hot, brooding professor thing going for you.”

“And that’s strange to you?”

You shrug. Jonathan feels the heat of your gaze against his face and he doesn’t feel like turning to meet it. Instead, he favours the sharp burn of whiskey. He ended up with a glass in his hand because some snot-nose had offered to pour him a drink and he’d been too much of a pushover and too concerned about what other people thought of him to say he preferred a red wine.

You’re never like that.

You were never like him; either because that’s who you were at your core, or because you’d manage to escape the way academia chipped away at one’s soul, until there was an empty, arthritis-ridden husk of a person by the time they reached tenure.

Opposites did attract, he supposes.

You were different from him. You weren’t afraid to drink the pink lemonade that had been left out for the few kids running around in the back garden, you weren’t afraid to call him weird if that’s what you thought of him.

Jonathan wonders why it took you so long to say it to him.

He’s about to try and pry the answer out of you when someone else approaches the two of you together. A newly-tenured professor whom Jonathan never really did get along with, particularly when he was working his post-doctorate and the guy had picked up an obnoxious habit of hanging around the kitchen coffee-maker and smacking his gum as loud as he could.

There couldn’t have been anyone worse that could have showed up at the time.

“Jonathan!”

Something inside him curls into himself at the thought, and as if you could feel it, your arm wraps around him a little tighter.

The man’s trying to make some small talk, the bare bones of it before he surely starts to boast of himself and his students and the latest hotshot fund he got because of his new tenure.

“Hi,” you smile at him sweetly and make a green little sprout of something bad shoot up inside his stomach, a bitter taste lingering at the back of his throat. You introduce yourself as Jonathan’s partner and are just about to move to go away when he speaks up again, cutting you short.

“I liked Mina more, Levy,” he grins and shows off his teeth like a predator. Against the off-white of his linen suit, they look even whiter, standing out like a sign against his tanned skin. “Shame you two had to end it the way you did.”

Jonathan tries to remind himself that he doesn’t know how things ended with Mira. That it’s just another poke at him and his life to get a rise out of him.

You smile at the guy again, there’s a sharper edge to it. His prickly rose. “Well, if you’ll excuse us.”

Then you’re guiding him away from the stuffy room and towards a bench against the side of the house. There’s a full view of the backyard, the sloping apple tree and whispering aspens all around, the toddlers playing tag in shrill shrieks.

He sits down with a low exhale, you follow beside him, slouching and shucking off your shoes. “Christ,” you mutter under your breath.

It’s probably the most genuine thing he’s heard all afternoon and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Yeah, sorry.”

“You deal with that everyday?” It sounds like you’re pitying him. He wonders if that’s ever what Mira thought of him whenever he took her to these events. If she ever raised her eyebrows in surprise at each precise way you had to deal with everyone in the department.

He swallows back his thoughts and nods, “More or less.”

“Jonathan,” you shift and face him again. Still, he can’t bear to look at you anymore. Strange and Mira have started to float around his head like a crib mobile. “I…and you…” the rest of your words are lost to your breath as you turn around again, swearing quietly before reaching for his drink and taking a sip.

He likes how your lips were on the same place where his was.

The alcohol burns your throat and you grimace at him, “I didn’t know you liked whiskey.”

“I don’t.”

“Huh,” you seemed to have heard something stitched and laced into his words that he hadn’t noticed he’d put there in the first place.

You weren’t much of a drinker. Yet another thing that Jonathan noticed when he started dating you. At New Years’ you had some champagne, small sips whenever you clinked glasses with the people around you before you’d pass your flute onto him to finish.

Now that he thinks about it, that may have been your first sip of whiskey ever.

Quite early on, once he’d taken you out on your fifth date and it was shaping out to be something serious like a marble statue carving, Jonathan had cracked open his ribs and showed you the bleeding insides of him.

You’d taken some steps together quickly, probably too quickly if it meant that he doesn’t know now if you’ve ever had spirits before.

That had been another thing he’d noticed when he’d started dating again, seriously and for real this time. Twenty years with a person leads to a tremendous collection of trivial information that he’s not sure he’ll ever fully be rid of again.

It was strange to sit across from someone at dinner and not know how they took their coffee, what side of the bed they liked to sleep on, what order they unloaded the dishwasher and if they had a dishwasher anyways because the renting market is growing out of control.

“Did you like it?” he asks suddenly, hoping to catch onto a trivial fact of yours, like collecting baseball cards or butterflies with a net.

“Hm? Oh,” you look down at the whiskey glass and shake your head, handing it back to him. “Not really my thing.”

Something still nags at him. Maybe it was a mistake bringing you here. You’re the only sober one out of all the guests. Even the host himself is growing rosy and red. It didn’t really look good to see that all your partner’s coworkers were borderline alcoholics, that they dealt with a tremendous amount of repressed trauma and stress and didn’t seek any help for it because of the size of their egos.

Right then and there he vows to do better for you. He throws the rest of his drink out onto the garden, sets the glass down on the wooden bench with a heavy thud of well made crystal.

“Do you really think me strange?” he asks you suddenly. Finally, after a long while, he meets your eye.

“I…well,” you shrug and take in a slow breath. “Yeah, in certain ways. I think I do.”

“I see.”

Your words imbed themselves into his skin like shrapnel.

“But…I don’t have a PhD, I can’t really…” you let out a breath and look out at the garden and the children playing. “Besides, I haven’t been divorced…I haven’t been in your shoes.”

“I trust your opinion of me.”

“It’s not that I think you’re strange necessarily,” you gesture back to the house and the rattle of chatter that keeps growing louder with each drink getting poured. “I…this is all very new to me. And I’m trying to understand what it’s like for you.”

Jonathan starts to smile, “And how’s that going?”

“Not very well,” you laugh and run your thumb against the rim of your glass. “I just drank whiskey for the first time.”

He starts to laugh as well, and wrapping his arm around you, he pulls you into the side of his body. His other hand comes and takes your lemonade from your hands, sipping from it as well.

It tastes like his childhood and hot summer evenings spent with his mother and his aunt, listening to gossip he shouldn’t have been listening to as their nimble fingers worked away with their knitting needles.

“Do you wanna go home now?”

“You still need to show face,” you muse quietly, tracing the outer seam of his pants with your finger. “They’re probably already starting to wonder where you’ve gone off to, and it’s going to hurt their frail little egos.”

He barks out a laugh, and kisses the crown of your head, “God, I love you.”

“I do too,” he hears the smile in your voice and it goes straight into his chest, wraps a couple pieces of his heart together and puts them back into place. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll entertain myself.”

Jonathan kisses you this time, properly, the way he wanted to. Your fingers run through his beard and trace his jawline all the way around his ears and back down.

Thanks for reading, if you liked it, please consider leaving some feedback! I don't usually respond, but I obsess and re-read reblogs and comments constantly.

Masterlist here. Summer Drabbles here.

#jonathan levy #jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy x you #jonathan levy x y/n #jonathan levy x female!reader #jonathan levy fluff #jonathan levy angst #jonathan levy fanfiction #jonathan levy fanfic #jonathan levy fic #jonathan levy x f!reader #jonathan levy imagine #scenes from a marriage fanfiction #scenes from a marriage #scenes from a marriage imagine #scenes from a marriage fic #oscar isaac

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winniethewife · 3 months

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I made you my temple, my mural, my sky (Johnathan Levy x reader)

Warnings: Implied Age gap, angst ending in fluff.

Words: 738

They were fighting again. She was tired of the fighting. It felt unfair, he had so much more experience, He having been married and divorced, this being her first serious relationship. He wasn’t even sure why they were fighting, what started the fight, was he just used to fighting? Is this what he thought love looked like? She gave up and left the room in tears. He takes a moment, has a cigarette break before going to join her in the other room.

“I sit and watch you, I notice everything you do or don't do, I feel like I’m analyzing your every move, waiting for some inevitable betrayal.” He says softly as he leans on the doorway. She’s looking out the window as she sits on the couch, her chin in her hands.

“I don’t know what you’re looking for…You're so much older and wiser and I…I don’t know what I’m doing…” She looks over at him, she can see the tears in his eyes. She feels guilty, maybe the fights are pointless, maybe she’s just missing something. She lets out a soft sigh and moves over so he can come sit with her. He doesn’t move. He runs his hand over his beard and tilts his head to the side.

“If it's all in my head tell me now, That, I’m looking for something that isn’t happening. Tell me I've got it wrong somehow.” He says, the slightest bit of fight still in his voice, but most of it was heartbreak and assumptions. She runs her hand along her arm and shakes her head slightly.

“You can’t be more wrong Jon. I don’t think I could leave, even If I wanted to. Every day I wait by the door like I'm just a kid, for you to come home. Everything I do, I do it for you, I feel like my every waking hour is in dedication to you.” She looks up at the celling. “But none of it is enough is it?”

“Honey I…god I’m an idiot.” He half laughs, half sighs in exasperation. “You do some much for me and I act like it’s nothing. You lay the table with the fancy shit, polish plates until they gleam and glisten, Take care of Ava, you do everything… While you were out building other worlds, where was I?” He shakes his head before walking over sitting down next to her, leaning over, putting his head in his hands. She puts a hand on his shoulder and softly squeezes him.

“Jonathan, you know I love you. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to be begging for footnotes in the story of your life. I just…I feel like I’m taking up too much space or time.” She says softly. He sits up and looks at her. A soft sad simile on his face.

“How can you stand to be around me? I’m always assuming the worst about us, like I expect it all to go up in flames at any time. As if everything is just a time bomb, I just assume it will go to shit…” He leans back resting his head on her shoulder, She instinctively nuzzles into his mess of curls finding comfort in his scent.

“You’ve spent a long time thinking everything was okay and wonderful and great to have the worst happen. I don’t blame you for thinking that way.” She says as they curl up together on the couch.

“I always thought you assume I'm fine, when I’m so obviously not.” He grumbles softly. She rubs circles in his back as she holds him close

“What would you do if I told you that, I think the same way? That I’m just…damaged goods to you.” She asks. He takes her hand in his.

“My love, if you’re damaged goods then, I am far beyond repair.” He chuckles softly. She takes his chin in her hand and turns his head to look into his dark eyes with a loving look on her face.

“Just a couple of broken toys no one wants to play with…” She leans into kiss him, her soft lips against his as he scoffs slightly at her remarks.

“Likely story.” He mutters against her lips.

“Would you rather I try to fix you? Believe me, I could do it…I think…I know how.” She moves her kisses from his lips down his neck….

“That…Just might work.”

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lesuccube · 6 months

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➚ 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐊 𝐃 : ᴀᴜ-ᴄᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ʙᴏᴏ !

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — wanting to be with someone so bad you bring them back from the dead should be a superpower .

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 — dark trojan [ read at your own risk ! ]

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 — not beta'd , constructive criticism is welcomed . reblogs and comments are appreciated .

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 1.7k

jonathan levy wasn't the most social person. he has friends yes but a very small and tight knit one. he's made friends throughout his life, a few long lasting relationships and some cut short, some drifted apart, others were drawn closer. jonathan levy wasn't the most social person but he knew how to hold them close to his heart.

when jonathan was 16, he made a friend in highschool. she was in some of his classes, a quiet soul. he's never seen her with a circle of her own, oftentimes seen alone and within herself only. he's never dared ask anyways but he still made friends with her. after much difficulty attempting to get more than a word as an answer.

she was silent, almost mute if not for her snarky one liners. but she was kind. he didn't have to see it to know, he just did. he can feel it behind the seemingly impenetrable wall of sass.

nobody else in class would approach her or talk to her unless they were forced to. the odd number of kids in his class made it so she was usually just by herself but it's never as if she minded it. if anything, she looked happier that way not that he'd seen her actually happy. always scowling, lips curled downwards to a frown.

but they were friends. at least jonathan liked to think they were. and they stayed that way for some time, friends, save for the budding seed of love in his heart. he liked her. he likes her a lot he thinks.

she'll never say it back. she never really says much of anything back unless it's a groan or a huff, a yes, no or maybe but never a proper sentence. all throughout highschool they stayed that way, unchanging. for her part mostly. jonathan liked her too much, his childish crush too intense for his teenage heart.

and graduation happened, a new chapter waiting for them already and he's not ready yet. he hasn't told her yet, he hasn't felt her yet. unable to move past the final sentence unless he's said everything that needed to be said. but ultimately, he's a coward. too scared of rejection, of hearing that cold tone of her voice as she tells him no.

so he does something else.

slipping an envelope that contained a few pages of his love to her bag. a proclamation, a dedication. his heart was hers even if she didn't want it. but he never got an answer back. not after the ceremony, not during summer vacation, not while he was in college, not even while he got married years later.

she stayed a ghost in the back of his mind. a haunting. a silhouette that passes through his neurons and shifting his train of thought to her station. daydreaming, wondering. how was she now?

maybe she got married too. maybe she's got her whole life ahead her now. she was a promising student after all despite her silence. does she think of him too like he thinks of her? he hopes so. he really does.

does it count as cheating that he thought about her even when he has a wife? a child of his own? he never told mira but he made her a godmother to ava. her daughter calls her her invisible auntie. or a ghost. she's never seen her, but she's heard stories. on nights her father would tell her about his past. she was always a part of it somehow, this mysterious woman. ava wants to meet her, her daddy does too.

jonathan realizes quite late in life that he's never had a picture of her. even if he scours the internet, scrolling hours and hours through old classmates' facebook profile or old albums of his time as a teen. not an image, not a trace. a ghost. like she wasn't even real.

maybe she wasn't. the way he can't find her facebook profile, nor instagram. he'd ask around but he thinks that might send a wrong message. he's got a lot on his plate already with his wife's affair and everything. plus he has a daughter.

so why was he trying so hard? why did he still preserve her in his memories? why can't he let her go?

was it because she listened to him despite never sharing things of her own? or that she'd correct his answers by showing her paper to him during an exam? or because even after all these years he longs for her silence? a peace of mind he only ever knew when he sat next to her. he still wants her. even after all this time. maybe she's all he ever wanted, his little ava too of course.

maybe he thinks about her too much that he's seeing her while he was awake too. that's why he's seeing her standing in front of him in the darkness of his living room. hasn't aged a day, still so beautiful, still so quiet.

maybe he's just tired. yeah, maybe. but then why does he approach her figure? hell, why doesn't he question how she even got in? but all that faded from his mind as he stands in front of her. a few inches taller, enough for him to have to look down to see her.

angelic, he'd describe her. unreal.

"where have you been?" was all he could ask her, voice hushed to a whisper as his wife and daughter slept in the floor above them.

a period of silence falls between them, jonathan refuses to blink or she'll be gone. she will be. he's thinking her up, a figure of his imagination for sure. and in a way, he was right.

there's so much he wants to tell her, enough that his mind fumbles for the right words to say but they never arrive. his voice stuck in his throat. instead she hears her, that same cold voice, just one word, one line. never two or three or too much to call it a sentence. but to him, her voice was sweet like a treat he can't get enough of. the word was bitter but to him it sounded much like salvation.

'where have you been?' the question hangs in the air longer than it should.

"dead."

he knows it's in a literal sense, not one for humor. it's dark out, well past midnight. unable to sleep with his thoughts plagued by the woman in front of him, thinking about her so much she's here now. she was a ghost, she haunts him, follows him from the corner of his periphery. a blur in the background but he knew it was her.

for the first time though he hears her talk longer than a word. her voice cuts in the silence like a knife to his wounded heart but he doesn't mind. he doesn't seem to mind a lot of things when it comes to her.

"you haunt me." she tells him. angry, spiteful. "i can't leave because of you. you're cruel, jonathan." oh how his name sounded so good when she says it. addictive, he wants to hear it again. "let me go."jonathan levy wasn't the most social person. he has friends yes but a very small and tight knit one. he's made friends throughout his life, a few long lasting relationships and some cut short, some drifted apart, others were drawn closer.

he made his heart her home. a place she didn't want to be, she never asked to be. she's chained, trapped in the memory of his past. he'd never close this chapter. he's bookmarked it to read back through.

she took the space in his heart for anyone else, not even mira. he packed her bags up and threw her out just so she could have it all to herself, his heart. it's hers, he's hers.

she didn't want it, not back then and not even now. her heart burdened for long enough she quit. her heart was vacant for long enough, for lease, for sale, for bulldozing. her heart can't be a home even if she wanted it to be. she was young but she wasn't stupid. to let him in was to stay, she didn't want to stay. she left, permanently. but she's back because he's tied her down, chained her to his soul.

"let me go." she repeats. he should, he couldn't, he wouldn't. "never." he answers. confident, unyielding.

"i will haunt you." hateful almost as she speaks, eyes squinted to a glare. but jonathan was a hungry man, starving for a love can never have in life or in death so he'll take whatever crumbs he could get his hands on even if it was only a memory of her, even if it meant her soul stayed in this world. he'd take anything as long as he can see her, remember her. he wanted her, jonathan needed her. desperate and clawing at him, tearing down his logic and reason.

crazy. insane. out of his mind. she spewed harsh insults he takes as sweet compliments. anything that falls from her lips are anything but sweet, in his mind at least. she can hurt him all she wants, however her ghost wanted, but he'd still say thank you. like hansel and gretel, he'll eat her up, craving her hate wrapped as a sugary treat and swallow it whole and still want more. unhealthy and yet too good to not have.

"then haunt me. stay with me. even if you're not real, a ghost or an image my mind conjured. be with me however you are, i'll take what i can get my hands on so stay."

#👤 — user : kira #💾 — local disk d : anastasia #scenes from a marriage #jonathan levy #jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy fanfiction #jonathan levy imagine #jonathan levy angst

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spacecowboyhotch · 2 years

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By Chance: A Taste

summary: jonathan makes it clear that whatever this is between you two isn’t just physical.

pairing: graduate assistant!fem!reader x jonathan levy

content: 18+/nsfw/MINORS DNI, pining, infidelity, kissing, oral (fem receiving), spit kink, angst (internal), feelings, breaking up again (sort of)

an: part 3 coming at yall. really grateful for everyone who’s been reading, i didn’t expect any traction on these so i’m glad y’all are enjoying. gif credits @breakfastonuranus.

word count: 2.9k

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In the end, the two of you do fail.

You’re like magnets drawn to each other. You try, you really do. He does too, but in the end, it’s not enough. You make it two months before it happens again. It’s been weeks of ruminating on your experiences together. Weeks of you squirming in bed, thinking of him as your hands slip into your panties. The days drag and the only thing Jonathan truly enjoys is thinking about the way you smell while his hand is tight around his cock.

You’ve seen each other three times since agreeing to stop, and each time it takes all of his willpower to let you walk away. Your feelings of guilt about being the other woman and destroying a family make it easy enough. Though, they don’t take away the longing, or ease the ache that’s been settling into your chest. You’re somewhat confused, unsure of why a man you hardly know evokes so much emotion. But then you walk into his office, and when he glances up from whatever he’s working on and his face lights up everything in your life just feels brighter.

Warmer.

Today is one of those days. You’re bringing him more rough drafts of questionnaires from the joint project. You step into his office, decidedly keeping the door open as you clear your throat.

When he looks up at you the sweetest smile spreads across his face, “Hey you.”

“Professor,” You nod stiffly but a smile is pulling at your lips.

“New rough drafts?” He rises from his desk, moving around it to stand in front of you.

“Mhmm. Hopefully the last. I’m gonna gouge my eyes out if I have to reword one of these fucking questions again,” You joke, and he laughs which in turn makes you laugh as you hold the folder out to him.

He takes the papers from you and as you turn to leave he grasps your hand gently, “I have a late-night here. Would you…want to stay for dinner?”

You give him a sad smile. You want to, you haven’t stopped thinking about being with him for weeks now but it always comes back to what you should do, “I shouldn’t.”

He moves closer to you, squeezing your hand, “You shouldn’t but do you want to? Because I want to.”

“Levy, come on. Don’t do this.”

“I miss you.”

You scoff, pulling out of his grasp as you roll your eyes, “You miss what you got to do to me. You don’t even know me well enough to miss me.”

“That’s not true,” He retorts, and you raise an eyebrow, questioning his rebuttal. He takes a deep breath, glancing behind you at the door before crossing his office to close and lock it.

“That shouldn’t be closed, you know what happens when it’s closed and we can’t,” Your voice cracks with alarm and desperation. You’ve been trying so hard and your effort seems irrelevant all because he’s closed his office door.

Because you two are officially alone again.

He ignores you, rolling his eyes in annoyance, “You think I don’t know you?” It must be a rhetorical question because he doesn’t give you time to answer. “You’re strong and driven, and you fight for what you want. Your laugh, it’s gorgeous, as gorgeous as you. And you’re witty. You love trashy reality tv and read a lot of poetry. You prefer tea over coffee and you don’t eat enough which is even more of a reason for you to stay for dinner. But most importantly, you’re compassionate and you care.”

“You got all of that from sitting in meetings where I berate people on my supervisor’s behalf?”

“And the meetings with your supervisor. She talks about you a lot, she’s fond of you,” He takes in another breath, teetering on the edge of if he should say the words on the tip of his tongue. But he wants you to know what he’s harboring for you, even if he says it in lighter terms. “I’m fond of you.”

“You’ve made that clear,” You can’t help but tease and the smile on his face makes it all of whatever this is worth it.

“Stay,” He puts his hands up in surrender. “I’ll try to be on my best behavior.”

“Dinner and then I’m leaving,” You say firmly to not only convince him but yourself.

He mentions an Italian place that you frequent and isn’t too far from campus. When he asks if you want to pick it up together you shake your head, looking down at your feet, and offering to pay for the delivery fee. He looks at you like you’ve grown an extra head before asking what you want, and getting everything ordered— including your favorite dessert— tiramisu.

It’s the first time you’ve ever spent time together like this. He makes you both a cup of tea while you wait for the food to come, and it’s almost domestic, the way you two sit together on his couch and talk about anything and everything. The idea that his wife gets this every day starts to spin in your head but then he grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together. He asks you about what your life looked like before graduate school, and you talk about your parents and younger sister who you practically raised as your own.

Once the food arrives, you continue to talk, and he can’t help but think about how tender you look as you talk about your childhood and how much you’ve overcome to be where you are now. It makes him angry, and he feels this urge to find everyone that’s ever hurt you so that they can apologize. A sobering thought strikes him like lightning; he’s already on that list even if you don’t realize it. You distract him with some questions of your own, staying in safe territory by keeping it to his childhood and why he got into academia.

The two of you are sharing dessert when his eyes flicker to the corner of your mouth a few times, mirth in his eyes. “What?” You ask, squinting at him in confusion.

“You’ve got something here,” He motions to his face, chuckling.

“Oh, thanks,” You wipe at your face and he laughs again, shaking his head.

“It’s still there, baby.”

You pout, wiping again, this time in a different spot, “Now?”

“Just let me,” Before you can agree or protest he brings his thumb up to his lips, his tongue darting out to get it wet. He’s slow as he wipes away the mascarpone that’s on your cheek, his eyes traveling from that spot to meet yours. You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze, and for a moment you want to take his thumb into your mouth and suck. You watch in a trance as he pops his thumb between his mouth, taking the cream as his own.

“You okay?” He murmurs, scooting closer to you on the couch.

The scent of his cologne makes the alarm bells in your mind go off and you lean away. “You’re venturing into sketchy territory, getting close to me like that,” You stand abruptly, grabbing your take-out container and walking over to dump it in the trash before perching on his desk. Hopefully putting some space between you would keep you apart. Your resistance is hanging by a thread.

“I was just helping,” He follows after you, placing his hands on either side of your waist.

“You weren’t just helping, I know that you feel it too,” You look up at him, eyes transfixed on the curl that falls into his eyes sometimes.

“I do,” He murmurs as one of his hands slowly comes up to retrieve his glasses. He leans in as he tucks them in his back pocket, his nose tracing the edge of your jaw before he straightens to look at you.

“We can’t,” You breathe, but you lean into his proximity, bumping your nose against his.

“Say the word and I’ll let you go.”

“You know that I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Say it, and I won’t.”

You stare at him for what seems like an eternity. It is an eternity, minutes for by, but it mostly feels that way because he stares right back at you, waiting for you to make your decision. He won’t cross the unsteady line that you’ve put in place first though he’s standing right at it. Without realizing it, you're the one who leans in and crushes your lips together. He reacts immediately, grabbing your head with his hands and kissing you with a desperation that you match. Both of you sigh into the other’s mouths, a sort of relief coming from the act of your lips and tongues meeting.

He breaks the kiss and drops to his knees, smoothing his hands up your thigh highs and lifting your skirt up. He groans before leaning in and nipping at your thighs and the curve of your ass.

You twirl around quickly, cupping his face in your hands, “Wait, what are you doing?”

“I’m…” He mouths at the skin of your thigh before pressing his nose into your panties and taking a deep breath, “going to eat your pussy until you cum all over my face.”

You look down at him, partly turned on by how drunk he looks just from the smell of you, partly alarmed, “No, wait, don’t, it's pointless.”

“Pointless?”

“It's never felt good, it won't do anything.”

He tilts his head, rising to his feet, “You doubt I can make you feel good?”

“It has nothing to do with you, this way is just impossible.”

“Let me prove you wrong,” He says with confidence but you still regard him skeptically. “Please? I haven’t stopped thinking about how good you’ll taste,” He almost whines, and you feel your resolve crumbling.

“Professor,” You breathe, your hands on top of his as he explores every inch of your skin.

“About how wet I could get you,” His words are just a whisper as he kisses your neck, sinking his teeth into the skin there

“Show me,” You breathe, tilting your head back so that he has more access to your skin.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, please, I want you to prove me wrong.”

“Then let’s get you out of these panties and bent over for me.”

He twirls you around but your hips, before hiking your dress over your ass again and peeling you out of your panties. You’re already incredibly wet, and when he sees the wet sheen of your pussy he makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat and bends you over his desk with haste.

“You’re so fucking perfect bent over for me like this,” His breath hitches when you whimper at his words.

He’s unhurried with his tongue at first, exploring every inch of you. He spreads your cheeks with his hands, allowing his tongue to easily slide through your folds. With every swipe of his tongue, your body gets heavier and succumbs to the pleasure that builds in your lower abdomen. You can’t help but moan, loud and wanton, completely surprised by the way he’s making you feel.

He lets his spit get everywhere, eating you out as wild and wet as he can, like a starving man at a buffet. Eventually, he guides your hand into his hair, helping you get them into the base of his curls. He rocks your hips back against his face before tapping your hip and you immediately understand. He wants you to use and lead him however you see fit. You tighten your grip on his hair, simultaneously pushing him further into you while pushing back against him. You're so close, and if he can just keep flicking his tongue like he is right now, you'll spiral into your orgasm.

It comes quickly; with the wiggle of your hips, the blur of his tongue, and the constant moans pouring out of him. You can tell he’s enjoying this just as much as you are from the hunger in his moans and the way he’s truly devouring you. All of it comes together to push you over the edge and you’re overwhelmed with a pleasure that radiates through every cell in your body.

Before you can fully come down from your release, he raises you off the desk, sitting down and placing you in his lap. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, breathing deeply to return your heartbeat to normal. He kisses the top of your head, running one of his hands up and down your back.

His lips fall to your ear, “Do you think you could give me one more, baby?”

Leaning away, you look at him with eyebrows raised in surprise, “What about you?”

“I just wanna make you feel good. Let me?”

You nod slowly, caressing his cheek, “Okay, I can give you one more.”

“That’s my girl,” He plants a kiss on your temple before gathering you in his arms and moving you both to his couch.

The leather is cool on your bare skin. You watch as he drops to his knees, his hands running up your legs and parting them. It's different this way, you can see how eager he is to have you, his eyes glossed over and zeroed in on your wet pussy.

“I don’t think I’m wet enough. Do you?” You look at him through your eyelashes, trying to keep your face as innocent as possible.

He closes his eyes, letting out a soft groan as if he’s in pain. He shakes his head, happy to play along though, “No, baby, I don’t think so. Can I get you wetter?”

“Yes, please Professor.”

He pushes forward on his knees, a tight grip on your thighs to keep them apart as he sucks your clit into his mouth once more. You buck against him, crying out as you’re overly sensitive from your first orgasm. He’s ravenous and sloppy, not only moving his tongue but his head, almost savagely.

“Fuck, yes.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you, a proud gleam in his eye.

“Yeah,” You run your hand over his sweaty brow affectionately, a weak smile on your face.

He kisses the inside of your thigh and sits back on his heels. His eyes don’t leave yours as he collects all the spit in his mouth with his tongue, leaning in to hover over your pussy. Slowly, he lets the spit spill out onto your clit, wet and thick. When his mouth is empty, he collects more spit, this time spitting it directly onto your clit in a move that makes your legs fly together.

“Open for me baby, it’s okay, you can handle it.”

When he leans in to lick at you once more, it’s even better. You’re slicker and wetter, almost slippery and with the combined lubrication his tongue moves even easier than before. It takes no time for him to bring you to the precipice again, your body tightly wound already from your first, earth-shattering orgasm.

“You’re so fucking good,” He mumbles against you, and that’s what sends you into your second release. While you spiral you can hear a fountain of praise falling from his mouth. It doesn't stop as he kisses and gropes his way up your body, “You okay?”

“I’m okay just…never cum twice that closely together,” You give him a weak, satiated smile.

“Somehow you’re even more beautiful when you cum,” He looks down at you, his eyes full of something you can’t quite place.

“And somehow you’re cornier when you’re horny,” You wink at him, and he bends to give you a playful bite at your collarbone, sending you both into a laughing fit. The bubble of happiness you two are in is popped when his phone starts to ring.

“I’m sorry, it could be Mira,” He gives you a kiss and pushes himself off you. Your heart drops into your stomach at the gesture; how could he say her name and kiss you all in the same moment?

“No don’t apologize, I should go anyways,” You try to keep your voice light as you both stand to your feet but the guilt and disappointment are back. It’s easy to forget the implications of what’s happening between you when he makes your body feel incredible. Admittedly, they weren’t in your mind during dinner either but that’s something you aren’t ready to fully explore yet.

“No, don’t, I’ll wrap this up quick.”

“It was just supposed to be dinner, Levy,” Your voice grows thicker with every word and the shrill of his phone seems to be getting louder. Like it’s screaming at you, telling you to leave.

He wants to continue to encourage you to stay but he doesn’t want to miss Mira’s call. Unsurprisingly he chooses her, and while you feel a twinge in your heart, you know it’s for the best. You gather your panties from the floor, sliding into them as he reassures her that he’ll be home in a couple of hours. His eyes plead with you to stay as you grab your things but you give him a small wave and smile before practically flying out of his office.

As you walk back to your department, you begin to formulate a reason why someone else needs to take Professor Levy any further paperwork.

It’s the honorable thing to do.

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jonathan levy taglist: @giona45-5, @angelfxllcm, @sweetascherrylies, @hotchs-bitch, @jakelcckley, @mrspector, @jitterbugs927, @myorestes

#fem!reader x jonathan levy #jonathan levy x fem!reader #reader x jonathan levy #jonathan levy x you #jonathan levy x y/n #jonathan levy angst #jonathan levy smut #jonathan levy #scenes from a marriage #scenes from a marriage fanfiction #arson writes randos #by chance series

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andr0medafallen · 2 years

Text

Baby, It's Halloween.

A/N: Made with the help of @foxilayde and with @alwritey-aphrodite 's marvelous taste in music in mind. I love you guys!!!!

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x Reader

Warnings: P in V, porn with plot, unprotected sex, descriptions of Jonathan carrying reader, I mean reader fucks her Professor, so., you can let me know if there is anything else, not beta read

Description: You hadn't been planning on fucking your professor. You really hadn't; sometimes those things just happen. You also hadn't been planning on him crying in your arms, but those things also sometimes happen.

Word Count: 3.1k

Additional note: if you like Jonathan Levy and also sex, read Danny's Putz and the Perv fic. If she is at all more mentally sane than me, she probably wasn't projecting onto one of the references on her resume while writing it.

Why is it that Universities never give days off for Halloween? You get Thanksgiving and fucking Presidents' day, but not Halloween? As if that weren’t bad enough, of course it lands on a Monday this year. Your busiest, boringest day of the week; Only made up for in part by Professor Levy’s class at 12:45, to which he always shows up just disheveled enough to look class time appropriate and hot.

This strays drastically from the point, though, which is this: Halloween is on a Monday this year, Halloween is a much better holiday than Thanksgiving, and you need to maintain a professional GPA if you want to keep the fantastic lineup of Pell Grants and scholarships sitting in your Financial Aid portal. It was the accumulation of all of these fascinating tidbits of information that led to you showing up to every one of your scheduled classes in a thrift-store Indiana Jones cosplay which you and your roommates had drunkenly put together Friday night.

Despite the fact that it had been made by a gaggle of drunk college students, the costume stood strong through the test of soberness. The playfully ripped up khakis, the leather fedora that for some reason you already had lying around, the linen shirt with one too many buttons undone, and the makeuped on grime all shouted “yeah dude, it’s halloween, fucking fight me about it”, but in a fun, kind of hot way. This was an opinion you had Friday night while making the damned thing, and your confidence certainly wasn’t dimmed after sitting through your first couple of compliment filled classes.

Still, sitting through your Anthropology class–the very 12:45 lecture previously mentioned, had proven to be…not as you had expected. You had still received the “bro, you look so good”’s and “Oh my god, that’s great, I should have dressed up”’s from your friends and acquaintances in the class, but you also noticed that about every 7 minutes, Professor Levy would pause his lecture on the progression of agriculture through the anthropocene to look at you. Part of you felt like you were going crazy, because no one else seemed to notice, but what you could have written off the first time kept. fucking. happening.

At first you thought that your Professor had somehow figured out that you’d been switching tabs between your notes and the videos of your friend’s cat which she had sent you, but the glances kept happening long after you’d closed the kitten tab as discreetly and quickly as possible.

Despite your urge to uncomfortably wriggle in your seat, you were still able to pay some modicum of attention, occasionally jotting down fragmented notes of “adapted land to their needs” and “Europeans destroyed ecology and then were confused when other people didn’t cuz british ppl are stupid”. You even managed to get a head start on the homework. That is to say, you got a head start on finding out the link to the homework template was broken. Either way, though, keeping busy kept your mind from jumping to conclusions about the glances.

You breathed a sigh of relief when Professor Levy finally said, “Alright, that's all for today. We don’t have class until Wednesday, but don’t party too hard.”

The class broke into chatter, jokes about “Grandpa Levy” telling you all “not to party too hard” and idle conversation about various forms of debauchery going on that night tossed around.

You turned as Marissa, the girl who sat next to you poked you and asked, “Are you going to the library today?”

You hummed, distracted. “Maybe. Don’t wait up. And don’t study too hard.” You winked with a grin as she rolled her eyes at you playfully and left the classrooms dusty walls and creaky seats, before walking up to Professor Levy’s desk. You waited patiently for the go-getters and teachers' pets to ask their questions and take their leave before gently clearing your throat behind him.

Professor Levy spun, eyes wide when he saw you there. You had never noticed the dark circles beneath them, how they so perfectly seemed to frame his face in a way that you didn’t know was possible.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. The link for the homework is broken.” You trailed your finger along his desk, a fidgeting motion masked through the confidence of the archeologist you were imitating. It was coated in an endearing layer of dust that you had found was a common fixture of the anthropology wing, and it held Professor Levy’s school-issued laptop and an Oliver Sacks book–The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat.

Professor Levy’s brow furrowed, eye line slipping to where your finger met his table before snapping back to meet your own gaze. Apparently he believed you to be much less observant than you are, or maybe he simply can’t help himself, because his eyes roamed away from your face once more, this time to the top button of your linen shirt, the lapse of fabric where the valley of your breasts met.

Gaze snapping up again, Levy informed you, “There is no homework for Wednesday. The module likely transferred over from last semester, but I’ll make sure to fix that. Have a happy Halloween.”

You didn’t know how he did it. The man was so easily flustered, yet he spoke to you like nothing at all had transpired. It almost made you want to laugh, how this man was so clearly looking at your breasts just seconds before, and decided to just play it off as if you wouldn’t have noticed. All it took to get him blushing during lectures was teasing him for the music he played before class, but now here he was, calmly explaining that the homework assignment was canceled so you could get debauched, after so obviously staring at your breasts, and nothing?

“...okay,” you conceded, wiping the dust from your hand onto your pants before looping your thumbs in your belt loops. “Thanks.”

He resumed packing his things into his canvas bag, likely assuming that you would leave. You thought about doing just that, but– “Professor?”

Levy’s head tilted back towards you in surprise. You weren’t sure by his expression whether you’d exceeded his expectations or overwhelmed them. Either way, you continued the originally poorly planned message with, “Indiana Jones fan?”

Professor Levy’s eyes seemed to bug out from your discreet tease before he regained his own composure.

“I can’t say that the trilogy is the most accurate representation of Archeology as a study, but yeah, it’s a… pretty good film.”

You snickered, turning on a booted heel. “Happy Halloween, Professor Levy,” you called as you walked out of the lecture hall through the wooden door. There was something charming about how Professor Levy seemed to think that you hadn’t noticed the noticeably hard wood that was currently pushing against the confines of his pants.

***

You knocked on his door that night at 8 pm. Well, not his door, you weren’t some creepy stalker, but his office door. It’s not like you had been looking for him or anything, but you always cut through the anthro building to get back to your apartment when it was cold, and it was always less crowded if you went through the office area instead of the lecture hallways, and it wasn’t like you had meant to notice that his light was still on and didn’t show any signs of turning off.

So yeah, you reformed all of your Halloween plans on the way to the house party that you were actually supposed to be going to because your professor who clearly had the hots for you had to be pathetically sad to be grading papers at 8 pm on Halloween, even if it was a Monday.

When he opened the door he fit the exact image which had formulated in your mind; button-up opened a few buttons revealing a white undershirt (granted, in your head the undershirt was replaced with a glimpse of bare chest), hair messed up in a cute, disgruntled way, and papers covering his desk, not an inch of empty space.

“Trick or treat,” you playfully quipped, smirking at him from where you leaned in the doorway. After you had finished all of your classes for the day, you had opened your shirt a couple of extra buttons, exposing your black lacy bra underneath; This was something that Professor Levy clearly noticed, his eyes lingering on your chest (again) as he looked you up and down. He seemed less ashamed of it this time around. Maybe it was because he was tired, or the two of you weren’t in the middle of a lecture hall. Maybe he had finally noticed how you wanted him back.

“You don’t seem to care very much about professionalism in school environments,” Professor Levy noticed.

You shrugged. “Dress codes are for High Schools and Mormons. C’mon, stop moping, it’s Halloween–”

Before you had the chance to finish your offer, Levy cut you off with, “Who says I’m moping?”

You scoffed. “Either you’re sad or you’re boring. Anyways, as I was saying, I have blood,” you joked, pulling out a bottle of cheap wine from your satchel, “and candy, and by all means, you can stay here and be boring, or you can hang out with me so that I don’t have to be near drunk frat boys. By all means, your choice, Professor Levy, but I do hope you’ll take pity on me.”

He seemed to be weighing his options, staring at you as he decided. You smiled back at him, with only a hint of snark. “It’s a bad idea,” he said, but he seemed resigned; You knew that it wouldn’t take much more pushing to get him to cave.

“Perfect. Your place or mine? Mine is probably filled with drunk college students dressed like slutty vampires, but I’m flexible,” you joked.

Professor Levy sighed, brow furrowed. “Come on, I’m parked in Lot F.” He picked up his bag, tossing in the random knick knacks which he decided he needed, but leaving the papers. You tried to stay calm, but internally you were smiling, giggling, and punching the air. You had managed to get your hot professor to take you home on Halloween. How the fuck did you manage to get your hot professor to take you home on Halloween?

You followed him to his car, a grey prius, doing your best to keep up that suave facade that you had spent at least two years perfecting. It was a quiet walk. You weren’t sure if you should be filling the silence; It wasn’t even a particularly comfortable silence, both of you so stuck in your own thoughts. Once in the car, though, Levy turned the radio on to a soul station, which made you smile.

“Otis Redding? Not Spooky Scary Skeletons?” You teased, looking over the center console at your Professor.

“I don’t think it was me who wrote my Midterm paper on the influence of soul on the Modern Era.”

“Oh God, I think if I start thinking about school right now I’ll have a stress migraine.”

Levy chuckled. “It was the best paper I read.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah? is that why you looked so depressed when you opened the door, Professor Levy?”

Instead of answering, he pulled into the driveway of a beautiful culdesac suburban home that made you wonder if you really knew anything about him at all. He got out of the car, and for a moment you were worried that you had offended him, but he circled around the front of the car, opening the door for you.

He leaned in close–close enough for you to smell his cologne, the spice and leather mixing with his natural scent–and told you, “If you’re a guest in my house and I’m going to be drinking your five dollar wine, you should really call me Jonathan, Dr. Jones.”

You grinned, taking his offered hand as he led you through his door and into the house. You set your bag on the mahogany table and wandered into the kitchen.

“Wine glasses?” You asked.

“Lost all the wine glasses in the divorce,” Jonathan joked. You glanced at him, eyebrows scrunched.

“What cruel and unusual punishment,” you quipped, turning back to the cabinet above you. You never realized how little you knew about the man. He wasn’t the type to mention anything about his personal life during his lectures, and you’d never asked. You guessed that there was a lot that he didn’t know about you, too. “Luckily for you, I prefer my five dollar wine in mugs. Do you want…” You looked at the mugs you had grabbed. “Snoopy or Hello Kitty? Quite refined taste, Jonathan.”

“Definitely Hello Kitty.” Jonathan walked further into the room, leaning on the island next to where you poured the wine. “My daughter, she’s in charge of most of the mug selection around here.”

“She at her mom’s?” You asked, handing Jonathan the glass.

“You know, you’re not as subtle as you think,” Jonathan responded, tilting his glass towards you before taking a sip.

“I’m not trying to be subtle,” you remarked, sipping your own alcohol.

“What is it you’re playing at, then?” He seemed different in his own house; More confident. No longer quietly trudging about the day, but questioning your own crumbling authority.

“I’m not playing at anything, Professor Levy. Just playing.”

You paused when you felt his hand close around your wrist. It was big and warm, sending sparks of a thrilling heat down your back. “I thought I told you to call me Jonathan.”

“Just playing then, Jonathan,” you breathed. He’d been leaning closer and you hadn’t even noticed. Not until now, when your faces were mere inches apart.

“This is highly unprofessional.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, and failing.

“Live a little, Levy.” When he finally kissed you (your endgame the entire night, which would have seemed ridiculous and unachievable just last week) it was hard, and just rough enough, hands running along your ribcage as he pinned you against the kitchen island with his hips. When you broke away for air, he didn’t stop, mouth trailing down to your neck to suck bruises and nip at the skin there while his hands worked on opening what few buttons had still been left done on your blouse.

You started fumbling with the buttons of Jonathan’s dark red button up, gasping as he suckled into your skin. You managed to get it off, tossing it took the floor, and groaned when you saw the little patch of hair, leading down below Jonathan’s waistline.

He dragged your trousers along your thighs and onto the floor, fingers hooking your panties along with, before lifting you by your waist onto the counter. The cool stone of Jonathan’s countertop sent shivers down your spine, but that was soon countered by a lustful heat when his thick fingers found their way between your folds. They were teasing, playing you like a meandering harmony as you buried your face into Jonathan’s shoulder, his soft curls brushing your cheek and his scent overpowering your senses. Your pussy clenched around his index finger when he inserted it in, and you were half tempted to beg him for more.

Instead, you lifted your head from Jonathan’s shoulder, looking at him with lidded eyes as his finger pumped inside you. He chose this moment to add a second, just so that he could see the look on your face as he did it, breath catching and eyes rolling back.

When you managed to regain composure, you asked, “We gonna fuck on this counter, or…”

“No,” Jonathan removed his fingers from inside you so he could grab you by the hips and lift you up, leveraging your body against his with your legs wrapped around his back, “We’re gonna fuck on the couch.”

You giggled a little, licking and biting at his exposed neck as he walked the two of you to his living room couch, careful not to lose balance or drop you. He laid you down beneath him, eyes appreciating your form as his hands gently unclipped your lace bra, dragging it off so he could feel your soft skin. You leaned up as he worked at your breasts, hands working at his belt, followed by his button, followed by zipper. You smiled when your hand finally met Jonathan’s dick and he gasped, burying his face into your shoulder.

Both of you worked in silence, entangled and connected by lips and hands and warmth. You were kissing, tongue in Jonathan’s mouth as he lined himself up with your entrance. You could feel warmth building inside you, as his head brushed the sensitive bundle of nerves inside you and his calloused fingers worked at your clit. There was the familiar feeling pulling at you, tugging at your core, of lust and release, but there was something else–something less familiar–there as well. Something tense but emotional. Unexpected and painful and beautiful and incohesive in every sense of the word. You didn’t have much time to dwell on it though, breath mixing with Jonathan’s with your bodies connected in every sense of the word.

You could feel that spring that’s coiled within you snap as Jonathan’s thrusts reach a messy and passionate peak. The noise Jonathan made as he met his own release was almost a growl, and you were half tempted to laugh as you came down from your high. You didn’t, though.

The air was tense with something you didn’t quite understand until you saw Jonathan’s face. His eyes were just slightly red when he pulled out of you, your own reflection clear on the glassy surface, betraying emotions that you knew all too well; loneliness, confusion, shame. He seemed awkward and unsure, but you pulled him down on the couch, cramped for space and practically laying on top of you.

You carded your hands through his hair in what you hoped was a soothing gesture. “Hey, It’s okay, Jonathan. It’s gonna be okay.”

You didn’t know his problems—you weren’t even sure you wanted to know—but the two of you laid there, bodies connected, and it didn’t really matter. Everyone has problems. You have problems, Jonathan clearly has problems, and those problems definitely aren’t your problems to fix. But it was nice, laying on his sofa, and touching his soft curls, and knowing that for this moment in time, these few hours, neither of you need to feel so lonely.

Yeah, it’ll be okay.

I would literally rather have 0 notes than 5,000 likes and no reblogs.

#jonathan levy x reader #reader insert #jonathan levy x you #scenes from a marriage #oscar isaac #oscar isaac smut #jonathan levy angst #jonathan levy smut #oscar isaac angst

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chaotic-good-hippie · 1 year

Text

a glimpse of us

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x AFABreader (she/her)

Summary: Trying to deal with her husband’s affair, our protagonist takes a glimpse at their story, wondering if he ever loved her or if he just liked the idea of being loved.

Word count: 3,911

Warnings: Angst, cheating, mentions of sex, no use of y/n, non-descriptive reader (but it’s kind of implied reader isn’t Jewish). Also, I'm not Jewish, so if anything related to their tradition is incorrect, please correct me.

Other chapters: Chapter 1 · Chapter 2

Note: I completely forgot to mentioned it earlier, but OMG, one of my fav authors in this site reblogged last chapter and I just wanna say how great that made me feel; I almost cried. Heads up to @foxilayde, please go and read her work; she’s awesome.

Chapter 3: Numbness & Anger

Upon waking up the following day, she feels as if the previous night the world had ended in havoc, only to restart as if nothing had happened with the robotic sound of her alarm. There's a moment of confusion in which her hands roam lazily over the sheets for his warmth, stopping over his pillow as her brain gets rid of its morning fogginess. She keeps her eyes closed, clinging for dear life to the memory of him sleeping beside her: unruly curls, fluttering lashes, agape lips, slow breathing.

"Five more minutes." He always whispers groggily, his arms enveloping her closer to his chest when she attempts to get up from bed. Except for today, if his mouth pronounces those words out of habit, it won't be her who answers but Mira. It just then she wonders, after two years of replaying the scene each morning, if this little perk of his is something he preserved from his previous marriage and she's just a substitute to its rightful recipient by default. If so, what did she use to say? Was she as weak in the heart to him as her? Did she leave his side and run away? Was she the monster Jonathan had always led her to believe?

A gust of wind sweeps away the sweet memory of the lie she lived in and makes her realise she left the windows open last night. She sits on the bed, staring at the dark, chilly street outside, feeling that this pain, the one eating at her heart, will be forevermore. She wants to go back to sleep, pretend as if everything was just a bad dream and wait to wake up with him beside her, in his spot, where he belongs.

Five minutes, she gets up and goes to the bathroom to take a shower. He usually stays in bed for another twenty minutes as she does her make-up and hair in the bathroom, occasionally snorting loud enough for her to hear him through the door. Then he gets up, wakes Ava for school, and enters the bathroom to shower as she goes downstairs to prepare breakfast. By seven, the house, their little corner of the world, is alive: she can hear Jonathan walking upstairs, closing and opening drawers; Ava's dancing to music in her room as she gets ready; and herself moving around the kitchen and arranging the table.

Today, the place is dead quiet as she drinks her coffee at the kitchen counter. She looks at the living room, expecting to see him or Ava arranging their stuff, but there's only air. The furniture, ornaments and photos hanging from the walls, she picked them all on her own, just like she did the house, with him and his commodity in mind. He couldn't bother to come to the showing; he was too busy packing stuff in his old house and finalising the details of the divorce arrangement. He didn't say that when she made the appointment, though, instead standing her up with a single text five minutes before the realtor showed up. Still, she didn't express her anger and never complained about it, taking it upon herself to make the moving easier for him. She decorated the entire house, even his studio, and changed everything he or Ava found inconvenient when they moved in without protest, even when she asked him a million times to look at the plans beforehand. She wonders what he'll take: the couches, the coffee table, the carpet; it doesn't matter. Just like the years she's given him, it's all meaningless shit they're dividing up.

She always arrives ten minutes before her shift starts, an advantage of leaving near the hospital, but today she's a half hour early when she parks in the garage in front of the ER. She sits in her car for long minutes, gathering all her feelings and thoughts and concealing them far into the depths of her mind, there where they can't hurt her or her patients. Holding the steering wheel with more force than necessary, she rests her forehead on it and breathes in deeply. She winces when her wedding band, sitting around her finger since yesterday morning, buries in her skin painfully, drawing attention to her hands.

"Magical hands", Ava called them when she was five.

Surgeon hands, healer hands, fixer hands. Because in the end, that's what her job reduces to: healing, fixing. She spends entire days and nights healing and fixing torn skin, sprained ligaments, busted organs, broken men… Ever the foolish, she's always been told she doesn't know when to stop or declare something (or someone) a lost cause. It only makes sense, doesn't it? That's what brought him to her, and somehow ended up being their doom.

Her phone rang in the middle of the night, awakening her from the deep slumber she'd fallen into when she reached her bedroom a couple hours before. It wasn't uncommon for a cell phone or a beeper to go off in some room around the house at the craziest hours of the night, so she didn't think much of it as she groped the nightstand in search of the device. She sighed heavily as she rubbed her eyes before answering, doing her best to shake the sleepiness from her body in anticipation of what she expected to be a late ride to the hospital.

"Hello?" She sounded hoarse and tired, just like the rest of her, but the feeling quickly dropped to the back of her mind when a panicked and rushed voice answered her from the other side of the line.

"Hey, hi." A man said her name in a nervous greeting. "I'm sorry for calling this late, but I didn't know what else to do."

"Mr. Levy?"

"Yeah. Again, forgive me for the hour, but my daughter, Ava, she…." He was panting, gulping every few words like he was struggling to keep himself from crying. "She's burning in fever, she's coughing so hard she even threw up… And… and I… I don't know what to do. I've tried everything, but she just keeps getting worse. Please, I'm terrified. Could you please come over here and check on her, please?"

She was already putting on her sneakers, quickly glancing at the clock beside her: 3 am. If this was any other person, she'd probably told them to take their kid to the ER and leave her to sleep the four sacred hours a day she got, but Jonathan Levy had a way of lurking his way into people's sensibilities she'd never seen before.

"I'll be there in a minute, Mr. Levy."

"Oh, thank you so much." He sounded so relieved, almost on the verge of tears. "Thank you."

It took her exactly three minutes to put on a sweater, take the emergency kit, step into the cold, snowy night and spring up the street to the Levy's house. Jonathan was waiting for her at his door, frowning and breathing heavily, an embarrassed look with a mixture of pain on his face.

"You're an angel; you have no idea how grateful I am."

"It's not a problem." She smiled softly at him as he scratched his beard, her voice slow and comforting.

"She's upstairs, over here." He guided her to the second floor, stopping in front of a pink room. She could hear someone coughing from the inside, followed by gasps for air. She entered the room with Jonathan following her close behind to the bed where a small child lay holding a stripped plush firmly to her chest.

"Hi, Ava." She introduced herself to the girl as she kneeled beside her. "I'm just going to check everything's alright, okay?"

The kid nodded, looking back at her dad for comfort and prompting him to sit on the floor on the opposite side where she was kneeling to hold her hand.

"How old is she?" She asked as she took out the extra stethoscope from the emergency kit they kept at home.

"Five."

"Vaccinated?"

"Yes."

"When did she start coughing?" He began to ramble, explaining how she had been perfectly fine all afternoon, how he didn't notice anything strange, that she started feeling bad at around seven, that he thought she was dying or something. "Don't torture yourself, Mr. Levy. She's going to be fine; kids are very resistant."

She asked a couple more questions as she checked her pulse and oxygen, noticing her nails were slightly blue, as well as her lips. She moved slowly as to not startle either father or daughter and explained step by step what she was doing to try to calm down the poor man, who occasionally murmured what seemed to be prayers under his breath. Even for a parent, she thought, his reaction was quite odd; he came off as guilty, even.

"Mr. Levy…"

"Call me Jonathan."

"Jonathan," For some reason, the name rolled off her tongue with more familiarity than it should, "everything's going to be alright; it's nothing serious. According to her symptoms and what you've told me, it's probably just bacterial pneumonia. I need to keep an eye on her for the next hours, but for now, let's try to get her fever down, okay?"

"So there's no need to take her to the ER?" He seemed relieved as he kissed his daughter's temple.

"Not for now. Let's see if her fever goes down first. Do you have a bathtub?"

"Yes. Do I fill it with cold water?"

"No, it's too sudden of a temperature change; it needs to be lukewarm. I can fill it as you undress her if you want. Tie her hair as well; it's better if it doesn't get wet."

"I want mommy." The girl suddenly said in a weak whisper, a tear sliding down her cheek.

"Is your wife working late, Jonathan?" She had no idea what Mrs. Levy worked on, but as someone who constantly found herself working at those ungodly hours, she didn't find it strange for another person to be out of home at such an hour. "Do you think she could come home? Her presence could help Ava a lot."

"Mira… My wi–" Both the name and the word he had said so many times before for the past decade tasted odd on his tongue. "Ava's mother's not… Not in the country."

It suddenly clicked why she hadn't seen her around for the past month or so. It wasn't as if they were friends, they were just neighbours who occasionally greeted them on their way to work, but it had been a while since she'd bumped into her at the supermarket or the local coffee shop.

"Don't worry, she has you; everything will be fine."

She stayed the remaining of the night by Ava's side against her better judgment, even after her fever went down a little. At some point, she didn't even know how, they ended up talking in whispers on the floor beside her bed, where, perhaps because he had no one else to tell, he confessed his wife had left him. She heard him, a broken man, retell the night it all ended, the morning she left, the questions she never answered, the things he regretted… Why? She'll never know. So, of course, when Winona called her at seven asking her where she was, she couldn't help but promise she'll come back in the night to check on the kid and him. She did, she came back that night, and the next, and the next, and suddenly she found herself in his house whenever Ava was with Mira till late hours, just talking. She had the feeling he didn't get to do that much often, let himself be vulnerable since he had to take care of his daughter and be strong for the both of them. She didn't mind hearing him; it was, in fact, the highlight of her day, which is the reason why, when he asked her if she knew any good therapist, she nervously gave him the number of a colleague with the fear she'd run out of excuses to see him.

Nonetheless, he called a few days later, asking if she wanted to hang out next Friday night when she returned from work and drink this new wine he'd bought recently. Weekends night, whenever she didn't have a night shift, became reserved for him, and it suddenly happened that she became interested in how she looked, smelled, and even talked and walked. One day, the silly crush became love, and she didn't even notice until she caught herself daydreaming about him, his eyes, his smile, his laugh, as she charted. Like a schoolgirl, she'd write his name on the corner of her books, giggle every time his name popped up on the screen of her phone, and smile whenever any of her friends mentioned him. But that's the thing about clandestine meetings and longing stares, they're born from just one single glance, but they die a million little times.

It's like she's on autopilot, walking up and down the hospital with a bunch of interns walking close behind and following her every order. Dislocated bone, busted organ, burnt skin, broken heart; her so-called magical hands can fix and heal all of these, but the last. So instead, she numbs it and tries to keep her mind off it by mending everyone else's ailments and hurts. The problem with this, though, is that doctors need to feel, to be human, as much of a contradiction as it sounds, to avoid mistakes and achieve perfection. In medicine, there are protocols and detailed instructions to repair what's broken, but sometimes, just as in day-to-day life, things go wrong, and one must act out of instinct. Throughout the day, she walks, talks and acts in a blurred haze, physically there but mentally drifting until a beeping sound brings her back to reality.

"She's crashing."

The resident in front of her tells her as she stares at her hands in confusion, blinking a few times to focus her sight. There are a bunch of people moving around her, moving stuff, cleaning, shouting: a resuscitation room.

"What are you doing?" She hears a familiar voice in front of her, and when she looks up, she finds Thiago looking at her in alarm as he holds a pair of large clamps to the cut. "What are you waiting for!?"

She looks down, where someone's daughter or mother, perhaps both, lies unconscious on a pool of blood. She's hands deep into her thorax, a cascade of scarlet liquid falling from the open wound at her side to the floor, staining her scrubs.

"What?" She doesn't know what she's supposed to be doing or what procedure her hands were working on without her even knowing. She examines the cut and the position of her hands in search of a clue as the beeping sounds of the machines warn her she doesn't have much time.

"Hold this tight. Don't move." Thiago tells a resident before quickly getting by her side to move her out of the way. "Take your hands out carefully."

Breath in. She pulls her hands from the patient's chest, holding back the tears. Breath out. Thiago shoves her aside and continues the procedure as he orders around. Breath in. One of her interns asks her if she's alright and if she should get help for her. Breath Out. She stutters something before leaving the room, looking at her gloved, bloodied hands, horrified. In the scrubbing area, she shakily rips the latex gloves from her skin, reddening it with the friction, throwing them into the trash along with her surgical scrub and mask. She washes her hands as she bites her lips so hard she draws blood, then sprints to the elevators in a confused daze.

Healer, fixer, surgeon

It had taken her 25 years to become a surgeon: 12 in grade school, 4 in college, 4 in med school, 4 in residency and 1 in trauma fellowship. A fourth of her life spent nose-buried in books; sleepless nights memorising names and definitions; countless hours cutting and stitching; and she loved every second of it, even the bad moments because this is what she was born to do, what her hands were meant for. She doesn't lose her temper; she can't. There are lives that depend on it. She'd always pride herself on it, holding reason when everything else is in chaos, but even that, he's taken from her now. Her head is spiralling, making her gulp to avoid throwing up as she presses a random bottom: What is she supposed to do? Go back home and tolerate it? Pretend she doesn't know and keep letting him believe he's a good player in his little games. Remove the dagger and leave their lives in ruins? Therapy? Could she ever trust him again? Because in the end, he'll keep seeing her; as the mother of his child, she'll keep being a constant in his life forever. What if he doesn't even want to stay? If this was his plan all along, if he's just been waiting for her to get the memo? What is she supposed to do, then? Help him pack his stuff and Ava's?

Fixer, healer, mother

Ava, her sweet little girl, ever so happy and bubbly, she illuminated any room she walked into. Whatever she did would inevitably affect her, and no matter how much Jonathan insisted that his and Mira's divorce didn't trouble her, she knew better. Ava had called her hands magical when she was five. Because she cured her, she eased her pain; she'd gone above and beyond to protect and save her from the fall of heartache. She wasn't her daughter; she'd never dared to call her as such out loud, fearing she might be overstepping her role and making Mira uncomfortable. Still, it was clear as day she saw the girl as her kid because in everything but in name, she was her mother.

"Is daddy coming back?" She asked her once as she drove her to school some weeks after they moved in together while Jonathan was in Europe.

"What do you mean, sweetie?"

"Is he coming back, or will I only see him on the weekends like mommy?"

"No, baby, he's coming back next week, remember? To the new house, darling, he's just working."

"And how long will you stay?" The question didn't make sense.

"We live together now, honey."

"I know, but how long are you staying?"

"Ava, baby, I'm not sure what you're trying to ask me."

"Adults are always leaving, like Poli. When are you living?"

"Oh, Ava." She parked the car a block from the school, unsure what to say as she turned to look at her. "Baby, I'm not leaving. Ever. I love you and your dad so much I'd never even think about it; I'm staying forever. Didn't Poli and your mom talk with you before he left?"

"They said they didn't love each other anymore and that adults sometimes stopped getting along."

"Yeah, that sometimes happens, but don't worry" She bopped her nose lovingly. "That won't happen again, I promise."

"Is that what happened to my parents?" The questions caught her off guard. Hadn't Jonathan talked with her about the separation?

"I think you should ask your dad or Mira about that, sweetheart."

Later, when she asked him about it, he admitted neither he nor Mira had ever brought up the subject with Ava, and even though she nagged him about doing it for days after he came back, she's not sure he ever did. It wouldn't surprise her; that's just how he is: constantly avoiding talking about important matters that make him uncomfortable, pretending everything's going well. She's never judged him for it, part of her nature was avoiding confrontation; as a doctor, she'd even been trained on it. However, all that repressed anger and frustration is now boiling up to the surface, and med school certainly never taught her how to save herself from it.

Wife, fixer, healer

She loves him, she loves him more than anything or anyone else in the world. From the day she met him, her heart had got captured by those brown eyes of his, begging to be loved. She had helped him, carried him through his pain without expecting anything in return. It was him the one who took the first step, and more than once, she asked him if this was indeed what he wanted, if he was ready to give her his all just like she was. When he popped the question, both her family and her friends asked a million times if she thought it was the right decision. It's not as if she didn't see the red flags; she did. She just chose to ignore them and blindly trust he could get to love her as much as she did someday. She had healed him, helped him fix the parts of himself he loaded and showered him in love in such a way he never felt unappreciated. It was her, not Mira, who gave him enough confidence to rebel against the deepest of his fears and insecurities and become the man he's now. She's given him so much, everything she has to offer, all while he sees her as a simple footnote in the story of his life.

"FUCK” She screams after slamming the employees' bathroom door behind her. "Fuck you, Jonathan! Fuck you!"

She clenches her shaking fists close to her chest as she slides down the wall to the floor, where she aggressively hits the ground.

"I'll take the morning train." She can picture him mocking her with Mira, laughing on his way to work, and patting himself on the back before entering their house because his wife is such an idiotic fool. She wants to put all the blame on her, believe she broke him to the very edge of survival, and that's why he had to become this to keep on living. But the truth is Jonathan is an adult, a 46-year-old man who is perfectly capable of making his own choices, aware of their consequences. Yeah, Mira is a terrible person, but right now, she couldn't care less about her; it's Jonathan, her husband, to whom her whole hatred is directed to. Jonathan, because he's, once again, putting Ava in the middle of his shit. Jonathan, because it's so characteristic of him doing and saying the most wrecking stuff in the worst moments. Jonathan, because he's made her a joke to his family and friends. Jonathan, because even now, she still loves him wholeheartedly.

"Sweetie…" Someone calls her a few feet away, and when she looks up, she finds Jenny worriedly looking at her; she hadn't seen her when she entered the bathroom. "Is everything alright? Did you have a fight with Jonathan?"

"Jenny…" She cannot recognise the teary whisper that comes out of her mouth when just a second before, her voice was so full of rage. "I… I'm pregnant." She doesn't know why she says that, but suddenly, the realisation hits her: it's not only Ava, it's also the child she's carrying in her womb who's gotten caught in the crossfire.

"What?"

"Fuck." She whimpers, hugging her legs to her chest, tears cascading down her face. Jenny, confused, sits beside her and allows her to lean on her shoulder until she's good enough to speak.

#jonathan levy #scenes from a marriage #jonathan levy x y/n #jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy x you #angst #oscar isaac #reader insert

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justafandomgvrl · 5 months

Text

Art Deco

Jonathan Levy x OFC

Word count - 500 ish

Fluff, lil bit of angst, suggestive ending.

Clary stared at Jonathan as he paced around his kitchen. She sat quietly at his table, just watching him. A muscle in his neck twitched as he stopped to look again at the letter that had started his tension. He all but snarled, finally picking it up and slamming it down in front of Clary. And he began to pace again.

Mr. Jonathan Levy.

Your presence is requested in court on the 12th January as Miss M. Phillips is contesting the custody decision made in court last year.

She didn’t read the rest of the letter, standing in front of him and resting her hand on his arm. He immediately stood still, his gaze burning holes in her.

“It’s going to be okay.” Clary murmured, wrapping her arms around him. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t fucking know that.” He snapped and Clary raised her eyebrow, leaning away from him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I just don’t know how you’re so sure.”

“You were awarded sole custody for a reason, Jonathan. Nothing has changed. If anything, the home is even more stable for Ava now that I’ve moved in and you can add my paychecks to her support.” Clary said, guiding him to sit down where she had been sat. She bustled around the kitchen as he read the letter for the hundredth time. He jumped when she placed a cup of tea in front of him and she sat down beside him, a glass of water in her hand. “Lets not look at this right now, okay? The court date isn’t for a month, we have plenty of time.”

Jonathan ignored the cup she had put in front of him, bringing her hand to his mouth and pressing gentle kisses all across the skin, standing as he moved his lips to her wrist, sucking gently on her pulse before moving on. His lips traced up her arm, across her shoulder, up her neck, along her jaw, eventually capturing the corner of her lips.

“Jonathan…” Clary whispered, half-lidded eyes meeting his blown out pupils.

“Please. Please. I need you.” He begged against her skin, his curls brushing against her ear and making her giggle. “Please.”

She gave in. She stood from her chair with her water in one hand and his fingers wrapped around her other wrist, leading him up the stairs, past Ava’s room, past Jonathan’s office, past her writing nook. He groaned at the sight of her in front of him, reaching to take his glasses off as soon as she closed the door to their room.

“Why are you so good to me?” He whispered against her skin as he unbuttoned her shirt. “You’re so perfect. You could have had anyone all this time.”

“Jonathan.” Clary whined, his hands deftly turning her words into whimpers and sighs. “I love you.”

“Say it again.”

#jonathan levy fluff #jonathan levy angst #Jonathan levy #Jonathan levy x ofc #Jonathan levy x original female character #Jonathan levy x original character #Jonathan levy x OC #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters #drabble

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thisisarcanereverie · 2 years

Note

#12 💔

Marc spector

(I don't know if this how you request, I'm sorry)

As Light as a Feather (Marc Spector x Reader)

Hey! Here is a fic from my 500 follower celebration prompt list (here is the link)

(here is my ask box) (For requests!)

You have no idea what you were thinking, loving Marc Spector.

You’ve known Marc all of your lives, you fell in love with him in high school, pined after him since he was in the Marines and you were in university abroad, and accepted that he would never love you back when he came back from the Marines.

So why did you stay?

It wasn’t like he was nice to you, he was a goddamn prick. It wasn’t like he went out of his way to talk to you or looked at you like you were the only girl in the world, he ignored most of your messages and when you asked him and almost never made eye contact. Even when he brought all this mystical, god, deity, avenger level shit into your life and turned it upside down, you still stayed.

It wasn’t like this was the first time you asked yourself why you stayed, why you kept in contact with him when he clearly didn’t give a shit two ways. You even booked an airplane ticket going back to America one day, a one way trip.

But then Marc would always do something.

Maybe he would text you first, or ask you how your day was. Or perhaps he made you laugh so hard he made you cry, maybe he laughed too. Sometimes you would catch a glimpse of something in his eyes that gave you hope, however false it was.

However, that was before Layla.

You respected her, she knew of his DID and loved every part of him, even the parts he never showed you. You were thankful that she did, and for some reason, her arrival into your life both broke your heart and cleared the fog in your mind surrounding him.

He didn’t love you. You weren’t sure if he ever did.

Maybe it was toxic codependency on both of your parts, you had never not been in each other's lives and with Layla around…maybe it was time to start.

You had renewed the plane ticket until after the wedding in Cairo, Marc’s and Layla’s wedding.

You were just one of the few witnesses invited to the vows, the rest came for the celebration. The weather was warm but cooled at night to a more comfortable degree. Layla had been beautiful, an overall simplistic look but with various glittering jewels adorning her. Making her look like she was plucked from the stars. Meanwhile Marc had been handsome as ever, his hair combed back and in a simple button up with slacks and a kippah on his head.

Overall it was a very casual vow reciting, but the fun didn’t begin until the reception. Dancing and drinking underneath the moon and its glow. You didn’t stay long however, slipping away unnoticed back to your hotel room to get a night's sleep and prepare for your departure tomorrow, feeling bad that Marc had rented out your hotel room until the end of the week. You promised yourself you will pay him back once you’ve settled in your new life in Boston.

At least that is what you had hoped.

Marc hadn’t noticed you left until the third day after when he had gotten a call from the hotel saying that the room had been unoccupied for a while. Which he then texted you about and you told him you went home, you just didn’t say where home was.

Then weeks passed by, then months, you had settled into your new life in Boston and paid Marc back for the hotel room. Made new friends, even had a few flings here and there, you traveled, you just did whatever you wanted to do when you wanted to.

And yet somehow you still missed him.

After a year, maybe two, you had a night out with friends, where you ended up meeting Johnathan Levy. He was a wallflower that stood out amongst the array of people, you could easily tell it wasn’t his scene. But you don’t know what came over you, but the next thing you know you're engaged in conversation with him at the bar. You learned he was a professor, and when you told him you were also thinking about getting your doctorate and following the academia lifestyle he gave you helpful tips and asked if you wanted a smoke. You said yes even though you didn’t partake in the habit, coughing as the toxic air filled your lungs. Your eyes water in the corners as you could hear him laugh beside you.

Safe to say you put out the cigarette and just talked to him while he smoked.

You talked about literary topics such as the French writer Emile Zola to Freud's findings in the Psychological field and how those findings would be taken today. The list went on, and before you knew it, it was three in the morning and you were the only one left of your group. Taking out your phone you saw messages saying that they all went home and called an uber, they would’ve offered but apparently didn’t want to ruin the mood between you and who they had deemed “the Hot Nerd”.

Johnathan had walked you home that night, seeing as your apartment wasn’t too far and you both wanted to talk more. The more you talked the more engrossed you became and the faster time flew and the next thing you knew you both had circled the blocks a few times before actually stopping at your apartment building. You were tempted to kiss him, see what it would be like. But you stopped yourself, not wanting to scare him off. You both exchanged numbers and with an offer to attend a lecture he was giving, you parted ways for the night. Something about him was…different. He wasn’t like the typical men you went for, strong men with attachment issues. He wasn’t like Marc but at the same time he was? You both connected, but in a different way. For you it had always been one sided and you talked but you knew that if you had met Marc today, he would have nothing to do with you and you with him. Sure the attraction would be there, but the things you loved about him, the way he taps the eraser head against the desk if he was struggling with something, or the way his crooked smile looked underneath fairy lights, or how his favorite movie is a cheap knockoff of Indiana Jones. Things that made Marc….Marc. But with Johnathan, he was bookish, with a full beard and a head full of wild pepper hair. Glasses on the bridge of his nose, but in a way similar to Marc, you could tell he had a few secrets to him.

But what would you know, you only met the professor tonight. However as you stared at his contact in your phone you couldn’t help but smile as you made a mental note to request the day he was giving a lecture off.

You go to unlock your door when the knob turns easily opening to the entryway, a cold feeling quickly replaced the warm and fuzzy ones from earlier. You slowly reach for the small taser in your purse before cautiously opening the door wider and turning on the lights. You pull the taser out and crank it up to the max setting, letting the loud zapping sound resound through your place threateningly.

“Try me,” you said with false confidence, “I’ve been waiting for a reason.”

“You should get a better lock.”

You whip yourself around and go to taser the person behind you only for it to get knocked out of your hands and kicked aside. You stop for a moment only to stiffen as you recognize the curly brown hair and hooked nose.

“Marc?” You said before punching him harshly in the arm, “What the FUCK man, I could’ve killed you!”

He gives you a look.

“Fine,” you roll your eyes, “You could’ve killed me…with a goddamn heart attack, why in the hell did you sneak into my apartment?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.” Marc said simply, you gently pushed him aside to close your front door and make your way to the kitchen to brew some tea as Marc casually scanned your apartment. You could see his fingers dance over the spines of your books on the book shelf, most of those you haven’t read but keep around to one day get to.

“How long have you been here?” Marc asked.

“A year,” You said plainly trying to stay busy so as to not look at him, “maybe two.”

“What are you doing here?” You asked him while you went to grab two mugs from your cabinet.

“I told you,” Marc said, “you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I changed my number about six months ago.” You said, “I sent you a text from the new number, so either you didn’t bother to read it, haven’t tried to contact me in six months, or you lied.” Once you place the mugs on the counter as you went to grab your array of teas from your tea basket, “either way it comes back to the same question as to why you are here?”

Marc went silent. Out of your peripheral view you can see his jaw clench and fists tighten.

“Do you know a man by the name of Arthur Harrow?”

“No,” You said as you grabbed the boiling kettle from the stove, “why?”

“I’m looking for him.”

You lost it, you forcefully set down the hot kettle back on the stovetop and let out a dark laugh.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” You said still not looking at him, “So it wasn’t the fact that you felt fucking shitty for not noticing until a year and six months after I left to realize I didn’t live there anymore and that it took you six months to realize I wasn’t fucking talking to you either.”

“I’ve been fucking busy!” Marc defended loudly, “so sorry if I hadn’t fucking noticed you weren’t hanging on me every minute of the day. If you haven’t gotten the memo, my mind has enough to deal with without adding you into the mix!”

Tears you swore you never would shed fell on the apples of your cheeks again, leaving hot trails in their wake as shame and anger filled you. You always hated that you were an angry crier.

“See this is the reason why I left,” You said before looking at him, “You cross my mind every day, but I only cross yours when I’m in front of you.” Your stomach felt heavy and your mouth filled with cotton. You sighed and rubbed a hand over your face, not caring about your smeared makeup, “Just leave. Just forget me, it should be easy enough.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Marc asked loudly as you pushed past him to get your pajamas ready for after your shower. You ignore him as you set the clothes on the counter beside the sink and exit the bathroom. “Answer me! What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

You continue to ignore him as you make sure that your windows are locked, knowing that once you get your shower and pajamas on you won’t have the energy to make sure your home is secure.

“Fucking nice,” Marc sighed fustratingly, “fucking silent treatment isn’t going to work on me (Y/n), it hasn’t since we were kids.”

“A lot has changed since then.”

“Yeah,” Marc said, “Like your taste in guys.”

A newfound anger surged through you as you whip your head to meet his eyes, taunting and dark.

“If I recall you liked those muscular dumbasses, meanwhile he looks like he belongs at the bottom of a book avalanche.”

“Oh! You would know wouldn’t you!” You exclaim, “because you just know everything about me!”

“Yeah I do,” He said arrogantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Fine dumbass,” You said crossing your arms, “Pop quiz. What’s my favorite color?”

“Red.”

“Drink of choice?”

“An Old Fashioned”

“Favorite Book?”

“Don Quixote”

“My first love?”

“Jensen Kidman from freshman year.”

“Wow,” You said, astonished eyes wide and arms still crossed, “wrong.” You move past him, “every single one of those is wrong.”

“Fine!” He said, throwing his hands in the air, “but don’t act like you know everything about me either!”

“Your favorite color is white, your drink of choice is whiskey straight from the bottle, you don’t have a favorite book because you had a lot of difficulty reading as a kid but your favorite movie was a knock off Indiana Jones film called Tomb Buster because that was one of the things you and Randall bonded over together about and your first love was and always will be Layla El- Faouley, your wife.” You open your front door, “Is that all or do you want me to recite Steven’s and Jake’s as well?”

Marc stood there astonished until you saw guilt invade his eyes and shame weighed down his shoulders, as he made his way to the door slowly. You don’t look at him as he trudges past you, as you were about to close the door he stops it, his eyes looking as though they see right through you.

“What were the answers?”

You sighed.

“My favorite color is Green, my drink of choice is wine, and my favorite book is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.” You go to close the door again when he stops it. His eyes widen as he searches your face.

“And your first love?”

A pause.

“I think you know.” And with that you close the door, making sure to lock it and put a note on your fridge to call your landlord tomorrow and have the locks replaced. You rub your hand over your face before going about your business and just as you had predicted, as soon as you took your shower and laid down in bed, you were out.

Your heart was broken, but this wasn’t the first time, you would be fine. You knew that, but for a while you were going to be anything but.

But you will live, and as you laid down in bed and sleep enveloped you in its sweet embrace, for the first time in what seems like ever.

Your body feels as light as a feather.

Taglist:

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@dopeqff

@themapoftinyperfectthings

@later-gators12

@lovepeaceorelse

@ahookedheroespureheart

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