#levi.smut

[nelapanela94]

The first time with you is embarrasingly rushed, too urgent and desperate, faster than he would’ve liked it. It is you, knocking at his door, saying words he can barely distinguished through the effort of grinding to draw the edges of reality, to stop his head from wondering, am I dreaming? You have come. You found his address, incessantly wheedling someone with your beguiling eyes, and showed up. Is it a dream? He asks himself again, because he has dreamed this before and now his brains can’t tell apart from reality. In another corner of the universe, he has lived this fantasy. Maybe, when he fell asleep last night, he switched places with the version of himself that doesn’t repressed his needs and feelings. He opens the door fully, cajoling you inside, signals you where to hang your jacket and scarf. The water for the pasta hasn’t boiled yet, but the kitchen already smells like basil and garlic, the sauce has infused Levi’s hair as well.

“I’m sorry for showing up so suddenly.” Your cheeks turn red, and your eyes drift to the bottle of wine. Levi removes his apron, rakes the three fingers of his right hand through his hair, tilting his head back. Dust of flour abandons his locks, restoring its blackness. He has been making pasta, from scratch. You didn’t know he could cook too. Or maybe he’s just trying from a recipes book.

Truth is, he doesn’t want to hear an apology, an ‘I’m sorry’ from you is sacred, reserved for the most capital of offenses.

Your gazes collide, breaking sparks in the air. You take the first step, tempting, padding toward him, until your noses are brushing.

You can feel his breath on your lips, maybe his heart beats faster. You grab a fist of his white t-shirt and drag him with you. One step back, one step forward, walking in the same direction. He lifts you onto the kitchen island and you’re still mostly clothed when he fills you, right there, next to the pasta that is waiting to be cooked. His forehead presses to yours as you lift your hips from the countertop. He grunts, then moans relishing in your texture, soft, smooth like velvet. This new sensation he discovers, your tangibility, something he cannot go back to not knowing. Carved forever in him, his skin, his memory.

Electricity ripples through his veins.

He comes. The water breaks to boil.

He is panting, heavy lidded, vision blurred. His cheeks are ruddy and so are yours. Both smiling into each other’s mouths. His hands move up and down your waist over the clothes, gripping your hips.

“Can I kiss you?” He bumps your nose, half-smirking.

Your fingers slid down his torso.

“I’m hungry. What are we eating?”

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