Sex with Levi has always been hot but since he has married, that increased a 100 times more...
He didn't know what it was, of course, he was always attracted to you but this was something else. Your moans ring around the bedroom as his hands hold your hips tightly, and he pounds into you. You bite into the sheets, your hands desperately gripping the same fabric when you feel his cock hit even deeper inside of you. "Yeah? Right here?" Levi notices the way your body reacts, he knows exactly what you need. He slows his pace so he can hit that spot over and over again. His gray eyes catch a glimpse of the ring on your hand, a reminder that you're his. A groan leaves his lips and he stops moving, cockwarming you, leaning down he kisses up your spine until he is at your ear. "Atta girl. Youre doing so good, baby." He nips at your ear and starts moving again making your pussy clench around him. You try to reach back but Levi pins your arms on the bed, his mouth moving down your back. Before you can react, he pulls out of you with a wet pop and flips you around.
He takes your shaky legs and warps them around him, just like that he is inside od you again. Your back arches, hands grabbing onto his biceps, nails digging in. "Fuck...they way you feel...." His thrusts were brutal like this, he loved missionary because he can see what he does to you, your every reaction, every moan. His hand reaches down to rub your pussy as he continues to fuck you roughly. "Levi! You're so deep!" Yoir vocie is a melody to his ears. "Want me to go deeper huh? Well then..." Levi grabs your legs and puts them on his shoulders. "...my wife will always get what she wants." Kissing your ankle, he begins to fuck you senseless just how you need it. Your body arches, breasts bouncing up and down from the force of his thrusts. When his cock hits your spot this time, you cum, eyes rolling back, mouth agape. "Shit....that's it. Fuck you're a sight." Your husband speeds up his movements chasing his own orgasm, he leans down kissing you hungrily. "Baby.....can I?" He asks, he always did. You nod, holding onto him tightly as he cums inside of you.
This is one of my favorite Levi frames, but the background is so busy it's hard to appreciate the absolute BEAUTY. So I made a version with a blurred background :)
“you don’t make the rules,” he said flatly, pressing your wrists into the mattress.
levi’s body hovered over yours, fully clothed while you were already naked, flushed, needy. his eyes roamed your body like it was something to be dissected, measured and mastered.
“you do what i say,” he murmured, voice like cut steel. “when i say it. how i say it.”
you nodded, dazed. “yes, sir.”
that earned a twitch of his mouth. a shadow of amusement and approval. but then his hand cracked against your thigh, sharp and fast. you gasped.
“i didn’t say you could talk.”
you whimpered, already wet and already pulsing, but you didn’t say another word. just laid there, wide-eyed, open, obedient. perfect. exactly how he liked you.
he sat back on his heels between your legs, letting his cold gaze sweep over your trembling body.
“you’re undisciplined,” he said simply. “sloppy.” his fingers dipped between your thighs, and found your soaked cunt. “and fucking filthy.”
you moaned quietly, carefully, but he still didn’t let you move. he wrapped his hand around your neck and leaned down, lips brushing your ear.
“you want to come?” he asked.
you nodded again, frantic.
“then beg.”
you whined, body arching against the firm grip of his hand, but you obeyed. you always did. “please, levi. please let me come, i need it—please—”
“shut up.”
your breath caught. he tilted your chin up and kissed you hard, controlling. his tongue slipping past your lips like he owned your mouth. like even your moans belonged to him. then he pulled back, breath harsh.
“get on your knees.”
you scrambled up, legs shaky. your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. levi stood slowly, unbuttoning his shirt like he had all the time in the world.
“you think i don’t see the way you look at me?” he asked, shrugging off the fabric. “think i don’t notice how wet you get when i give an order?”
you swallowed hard. “i—”
“did i ask you to speak?”
you shook your head. his belt clinked.
“good girl.”
your thighs clenched. he saw it and smirked. “stick out your tongue.”
you obeyed. mouth open, tongue out like he was your god and you were begging for communion. he groaned.
“you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he muttered, unzipping and stepping close. “obedient little thing. my perfect slut.”
you moaned around him when he pushed his cock past your lips and that made him grunt. one hand in your hair. the other tilting your chin up.
he was in control. always.
he fucked your mouth in slow, ruthless thrusts, eyes never leaving your face. you were drooling, messy, moaning, but still holding eye contact like he taught you. still obedient. still his.
“good fucking girl,” he growled, pulling out with a wet pop. “get back on the bed. face down.”
you turned, hands shaking, cunt throbbing. he pushed your legs apart, trailing two fingers through your slick folds.
“still didn’t say you could come.”
then he fucked you hard, deep, one hand on your lower back to keep you still, the other tangled in your hair. you were crying by the time he allowed you to come. and when you orgasmed, shaking and sobbing and calling his name, levi leaned down and kissed your spine.
⪼ please mind the tags: age gap (levi early 40s / reader early 20s), levi is your dad’s best friend, power imbalance, mention of alcohol, slight food play (whipped cream), teasing, dry humping (semi public), mdni. WC: 2.8k
⪼ sum: A friendly dinner with your parents’ longtime friends. Among them is Levi — your dad’s best friend, and someone you’ve known for as long as you can remember. It’s been a while since you last saw him. Now you’re sitting on his lap, what could possibly go wrong?
for levi week day 6: dry humping | crossposted to ao3 | my event masterlist | part two ᰔ
A light breeze finally cools the thick, warm air of the day, and for the first time tonight, it feels like you can breathe again. Your dress flows around your thighs as you make your way back to Levi through the garden. He’s exactly where you left him minutes ago, sitting alone at the long garden table, now mostly cleared after dinner.
His white dress shirt is still crisp despite the heat, tucked neatly into dark slacks. Sleeves rolled up just past his elbows, revealing the sharp lines of his forearms. With one leg crossed over the other, he’s the picture of elegance and composure — just like always. It’s annoying how devastatingly good he looks just sitting there.
Faint sounds drift from your house behind you. Music, tipsy laughter, clinking of dishes. Everyone else has moved inside or already left. Most of them aren’t in condition to even think about dessert anyway. Levi isn’t one of them. He’s had just as much to drink as the others, if not more — yet looks barely affected. That kind of control over his body you’ve always found both impossibly attractive and frustrating.
You’d noticed during the meal, how often he refilled his glass and brought it to his lips. More than you remembered him ever drinking.
You couldn’t help yourself. The dinner had been long and dull. You wouldn’t have come at all, if not for Levi. It had been nearly a year since you last saw him; to your dismay, school had taken you far from him. But tonight, you hadn’t been the only one stealing glances—he’d been meeting your eyes across the table all night.
You, on the other hand, had a few drinks. Not enough to be drunk, but enough to make you feel bold.
“No one wanted dessert…” you say softly as you reach him. “So I guess it’s just us.”
Levi glances up. His eyes meet your hazy, beaming expression, realizing instantly this is exactly the kind of situation he should avoid. The kind that only leads to crossing lines.
Then his gaze drops to the small cup in your hands, a generous swirl of whipped cream, with a glint of red peaking through—strawberries, probably. A faint frown tugs at his brows despite himself but it’s not just the dessert that’s troubling him.
“I’ll taste some.” His voice is a little dry, though his eyes linger on you longer than they should. He leans back in his chair, reaching for the bowl like he’s expecting you to hand it to him.
But that’s not what you have in mind.
Before he knows it, he feels your weight settle onto his lap. One knee on either side of his thighs, you straddle him without hesitation, forcing him to uncross his legs in a rush.
“Sweetheart-” he chokes out, the nickname slipping too easily, too naturally. The same one he used when you were younger, trailing after him all the time.
Still, he hates himself for saying it right now. It already feels wrong, too intimate, too loaded. He isn’t sure he even has the right to call you that anymore.
His hands instinctively find your hips, ready to lift you off.
But he doesn’t.
“What are you doing?”
His voice is lower now, rougher. Confusion flickers in his usually impassive eyes as they search yours. His gaze drops to the hem of your dress, bunched awkwardly, high over your thighs. Soft skin pressing warm against either side of him.
“I just missed you so much,” you coo, smiling down at him, one hand trailing up his forearm. “It’s been a while.”
It’s already undoing him. He shouldn’t be letting this happen. He shouldn’t allow you to talk to him like that—not when you’ve been drinking, not when you’re this close, not when he can feel the heat of your body through his clothes. He should pull you away. stop it before it goes any further.
“That’s not a reason to-”
“Come on, Levi,” you interrupt him, voice light and teasing. “Just taste.”
“Don’t,” he warns.
But it’s already done. Your hand slips from his arm, drifting toward the bowl. A soft swirl of whipped cream clings to your finger when you lift it again.
His reflexes are faster. His fingers close firmly around your wrist, stopping you just before your fingers reach his lips. He isn’t pushing you away, not exactly, but he’s not letting you move either.
“Did you even wash your hands?” he mutters, gaze flicking from your eyes to your finger, then back again.
You laugh, but it’s softer now.
“Are you really that scared of me?” you ask, innocent. Almost. But you’re not hiding it completely. You want more. For once in your life, you want to know just how far he’ll let you go.
Levi hesitates a moment longer. Telling himself it isn’t what it feels like. That it’s just one of your antics. Not sexual, it shouldn’t be sexual. But your hips are settled low, so low against him, your weight pressing down in the most dangerous way.
He exhales slowly through his nose. He needs to think about something else.
Then he leans in.
The moment his mouth closes around your finger, your whole body reacts. A warm feeling blooms between your legs as his tongue slides over your skin—slow, methodical. His eyes never leave yours. When he pulls back, his tongue catches the last of the cream from the side of your finger.
“Tastes fine,” he says gruffly, like that explains everything.
But your gaze lingers on his lips, your heart pounding in your chest. Your body is too aware of him. The heat between your legs doesn’t fade, it simmers there.
“You’re staring,” he points out, knowing you can’t deny it.
Your eyes finally flick up to meet his. Grey eyes staring back at you.
“You stared at me too,” you murmur, dipping your finger back into the bowl. “I saw you.”
You see him smirking just faintly. “You imagined things.”
“I didn’t.”
His hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with such care it makes your skin prickle. It gives you the courage to insist. “You looked at me like I wasn’t the same.”
It hits him. You see it in the way he swallows hard and in the silence that follows.
He can’t let you start looking for something in him. Not approval, not affection. Not him.
“Did you miss me too?”
Your finger rises to your own lips, tasting the cream from the same place his mouth just was. And he watches, of course he does.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he finally says, trying to play it off but doesn’t even deny it.
You reach again, gathering a more generous swirl this time and he doesn’t stop you. Your finger comes close and he doesn’t move, just watching you smile.
The cream smears over the corner of his mouth and trails lightly down his chin. He frowns, parting his lips in surprise, but doesn’t complain.
“Enjoying yourself?” he mutters, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip.
“You look kind of appetizing like this.” You laugh, giddy, words tumbling out before you can overthink them. “Let me help you.”
You lean in, close enough to kiss the cream off his skin, close enough that you settle a little heavier in his lap.
But that’s not what he notices most.
Your breasts press into his chest. You’re not wearing a bra—something he noticed at dinner and tried very hard not to think about. But now there’s no escaping it. No escaping your warmth, the way your nipples shamelessly graze his shirt.
He has to close his eyes. He feels too much of you, he feels everything. One of his hands slides instinctively to the small of your back, pretending he’s just steadying you. Not pulling you closer.
Your lips brush his skin, not quite a kiss, just your tongue flicking the sweetness away. But it’s the first time your mouth has touched his. And you can’t think straight. His scent, his breath, his hands—you’re dizzy from how close he is, from the line you’re crossing.
You’re already bracing to be pushed away.
But instead, that’s when you feel him, really feel him.
A hard, growing pressure beneath you. Thick, straining against the fabric of his pants. The realization makes you gasp. Your body stills—but your back arches instinctively, pressing down into him before you can stop yourself.
“Problem?” he murmurs. Far too composed for the heat that just surged between you.
You don’t answer right away. Heart pounding hard, the ache between your legs has turned sharp, nearly unbearable without friction. For a moment the only sound is your shallow breathing.
“You’re big like this all the time,” you wonder aloud, half-curious, half-teasing, “or just for me?”
Levi’s eyes snap open. He stares at you like you’ve just committed a crime, like he can’t believe you had the nerve to say that.
“Alright, that’s enough. Get off my lap.”
His fingers pinch your waist, but the other hand hasn’t moved from your hip. Still anchoring you to him, contradicting his words.
It’s enough to make you squirm. A soft, involuntary roll of your hips against him. The friction makes everything impossible to ignore. You feel him clearly now, the hard outline of his cock pressing up into you through his pants.
His eyes squeeze shut, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound of how good it already feels on his cock.
You pull back just enough to see his face. Lashes low, jaw tight. Barely a breath between you. Then you move again, without waiting for permission. This time watching how he feels it.
He exhales sharply through his nose, snatches the bowl from your hand, and sets it aside blindly. Within seconds his hands are back on you.
Firmer now, finding your waist. Thumbs grazing just beneath the swell of your breasts. Guiding you to the rhythm he’s letting happen now.
He’s not supposed to want this. Not with you. Not like this.
But he doesn’t loosen his grip.
If anything, it tightens as slow, filthy grinds make your cunt drag perfectly over his length. Each circle of your hips pulls your clit across the thick ridge of his cock, pressure building with every movement.
The friction. The heat. The pressure—it’s intoxicating. You brace your hands on his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. Trying to ground yourself.
You feel his attention split.
“Levi…” you whisper, needy and already breathless.
His gaze flicks towards the open windows behind you, some remnants of instincts still alive despite the haze. But you cup his cheek, coaxing his attention back to your face. Needing him all to yourself.
“No,” you murmur, grinding down harder on purpose. “Don’t look away from me.”
His eyes snap back to yours.
“You want my attention?” he rasps. “You’ve got it.”
He watches you move, working yourself over him, unashamed. Your dress hides the worst of it, but not enough. Not the way your thighs tremble. Not the sway of your breasts, free beneath the flimsy fabric.
He shouldn’t look.
But his gaze is locked there anyway.
The neckline slips lower with each slow roll of your hips. He sees the curve of your chest, the way your nipples catch the light—teasing him, begging for his mouth.
His thumbs twitch where they rest beneath your breasts, like he wants to reach higher but stops himself. Wants to drag your dress down and bury his face there.
Fuck.
His cock throbs at the thought. He groans, head tipping back.
And then, he snaps.
His hips jerk up into you, once, then again, hard and desperate. The pace shifts instantly. His grip bruises into your hips as he drags you down against him, letting your moans break free, uncontrolled.
He sets the rhythm now, lets the wet heat of you smear over his aching cock, separated by too little layers.
“You make me feel so good,” you gasp, your voice barely audible, mouth brushing his but never kissing.
You’re soaked.
Your panties are useless now — damp and clinging, doing nothing to shield him from how hot and wet you are.
He can feel it all, and worse — he knows you’re making a mess on him, marking him thoroughly. Right where his cock strains against his zipper, throbbing for more, for relief.
“Messy little thing,” he mutters.
But he’s not better.
He’s leaking too, a wet patch blooming across the front of his slacks, matching yours. And you must feel it, because you grind against it greedily, chasing more friction.
You tremble and whimper, burying your face in his neck like it’s too much, like you can’t take it anymore. He fists a hand in your hair and pulls you flush against him.
“Keep it quiet,” he breathes in your ear.
And you try, you really do.
But your lips keep catching on his skin. Your chest keeps dragging over his — nipples grazing him with every move. It’s unbearable. Every brush adds to the stimulation, feeding the ache between your legs and you’re too far gone to control anything in your body.
“I can feel all of you—fuck, it’s so big,” you whisper, not even thinking. “I don’t think you’d even fit…”
His cock throbs violently in the confined space of his pants.
He can’t let himself think about this, he felt guilty for even imagining it. How warm you’d be. How tight but how easily he would slide between your thighs—
“Don’t say shit like that,” he hisses, voice strained. “It’s not gonna happen.”
“But I’d let you anyway.” You sound lost, barely conscious of what you’re saying anymore. Half talking to yourself, half to him. There’s no teasing anymore, just craving him. “I’d do anything—if you asked, anything.”
It almost does it.
Almost makes him come just from that. And he’s never wanted anything more in his life.
He doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s gripping your hips. Doesn’t notice the bruising pace his hands are setting, dragging your body back and forth without letting you do anything but take it. He’s too focused on not losing it, too focused on not making a mess of himself with you.
“Levi—Levi, I—”
That’s all you manage to say before it hits you.
Your whole body shudders, your thighs clamp tight around his. Soft, broken moans escape into the crook of his neck. Your hips stutter, but he doesn’t stop — he guides you through it. His touches are slower now, rubbing you through your release, helping you ride it out without allowing himself to come.
He doesn’t even move. But he shudders beneath you, just from the sheer feel of you unraveling in his lap. And he can feel you still pulsing, soaking him worse.
Your cheek is nestled in the warm curve of his neck. Your weight melts into him, trembling and pliant. Fingers still tangled in his shirt, clinging tight, not even realizing how desperately you’re still holding on.
Soft little tremors run through your thighs and hips, making you twitch against him. His cock still throbs painfully, trapped against your heat and it’s too much.
“Stop. Stop…” he rasps, voice low and breathless from the effort it takes to hold back. Just one more roll of your hips, one more little sound in his ear and he’ll stain his pants like a fucking teenager. “Stop movin’…”
He’s not even sure how long he can sit like this. But he makes no move to ease himself. He just keeps his hand tangled in your hair, the other running up and down your spine, not sure if he’s trying to soothe you or himself.
He needs to move you. He knows that. But you feel too good, too boneless and vulnerable in his arms, and he’s too weak to let you go just yet.
Pressed this close you can feel his chest rise and fall against yours with every heavy, stuttering breath. He’s still hard, aching — his body’s screaming for relief, the heat spreading in his pants is growing uncomfortable.
“I need to…” He inhales sharply through his nose. “Go inside. Just for a second.”
Your mind can barely process it, one second you’re in his arms when he stands up, the next you’re being lowered gently back into the chair.
You look up at him, dazed and blinking but still following his movements. His fingers tremble as he smooths down your dress over your thighs.
Then he straightens, adjusting himself just enough to hide the obvious bulge and wetness. His once crisp shirt is wrinkled now, buttons halfway undone from where your hands clung to him. And still, you swear you’ve never seen him look more beautiful.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Stay here.”
He’s already moving fast across the yard, toward the side door of your house, not daring to glance back at you. All he can do is pray no one sees him like this. Pray he can make it to the bathroom before losing it.
Because he would never disrespect his best friend like this. Never disrespect you.
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