*actually tiptoes to your askbox to request the fight with with Jonathan that ends up in a make up fuck🥰*
(also hewooo🧡🫂)
ILY MANI!!!!!!!!!!! Here is your fighting and smut!
Summary: A rainy night in Boston, a fight with your boyfriend (fighting, p in v, ~2.8k)
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You'd thought, given his usually thoughtful demeanor, and the fact that you’ve been dating for months now, that Jonathan Levy would have at least texted you he was going to be late.
Forty. Fucking. Minutes.
You’ve been huddled under the awning of the restaurant, rain jacket over your very best outfit, checking your phone over and over.
The worst part is, all the buses are running off schedule because of the rain and you have no way back to your apartment. The ride shares are booked, full of people like you who are stranded in the sudden rainstorm.
Just as you’re wondering if you could offer a passing driver a handjob in exchange for a ride, you recognize Jonathan’s car. He pulls up, rolling his windows down.
You stoop to look inside, ready to absolutely tell him where to shove his date, and you see that he is completely soaked. He takes off his glasses to wipe them clean, his curly hair lays a little flatter than usual. His jacket is wrinkly and probably dripping wet. His dark button-up lays wetly against the slight curve of his stomach.
“Okay,” you say, “I feel a little better now that I see what a pathetic mess you are.”
He nods, irritated. “Yeah, get in, I’ll tell you about it.”
“What about dinner?”
“Sweetheart, we’ve definitely lost our reservation by now. Get in,” he puts the car in gear before you even get your seatbelt on.
At least it’s warm in here. The wipers swish over the windshield, giving you a distorted view of the dark Boston night. The kind of night you never usually venture out into.
You jump as Jonathan breaks your thoughts by leaning across the console to hug you hello. He pulls away before you can hug him back, though. He turns the air on high to keep the windows from fogging up.
“You’re at least going to apologize for being so late, right?” You ask him, surprised he hasn’t already.
He sighs impatiently. “Look at me. I’m wet down to my underwear from standing in the rain. You're cold. Give me a minute to breathe. We’ll get food delivered to my place.”
You open your mouth to protest again, but he accelerates so fast you’re a little afraid for your life.
“Slow down,” you say.
“I’m going the speed limit.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Jonathan sighs, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “I’m less than 10 over the speed limit.”
“I still don’t believe you.”
He runs a hand through the front of his hair, turning it from neat waves slicked back at the front of his face to a mess that freely falls over his forehead. The salt and pepper curls fall in thick, beautiful, damp swirls.
“I’ve had a really bad fucking day,” he says, anger and exhaustion threading through his voice. “Please don’t make it worse.”
“I’m not trying to,” you say, hurt.
You look out the window as the restaurants and stores give way to residential neighborhood and Jonathan’s street. He pulls into his driveway and puts the car in park.
“Why aren’t you using your garage?” you ask.
“The damn door won’t work. It’s why I’m all wet. It took me ten minutes to manually open it to get my car out and come get you.” He grabs his wallet out of the center console and tucks it in the pocket with his jacket.
“Ten minutes?” you ask doubtfully. “Then why were you an hour late?”
He bites his bottom lip, the skin around it going almost white for a second. His dark eyes stare through the windshield. His shoulders are bunched up. “You know what? I wasn’t an hour late. It was a half an hour, at most. And if you don’t want to have dinner, then you can sit in the car and I’ll call you a fucking cab.”
He pushes the door open so hard it swings back on him and he has to push it again. He stomps away, disappearing into the rain.
“Great date. Happy six month anniversary,” you mutter to yourself, scrunching down in the seat.
You fold your arms, the air in the car slowly getting more and more humid until the windows fog up from the heat of your annoyance.
“Screw this,” you say to yourself.
If Jonathan was going to make you part of his bad mood, then he was going to get it right back. It’s not like you’d had the best day ever either. You’d been looking forward to relaxing with him. Sharing food and unwinding. Actually, it had been the only thing that had kept you from staying in bed all day and not even working or interacting with other humans.
So, he can get an earful about him being a shitty boyfriend before you leave in the cab you’re going to insist he pay for.
You open the door. The rain hasn’t let up. The fat, steady drops are a curtain over the walkway from the car to Jonathan’s front door.
Marching down the walkway, back toward you, is Jonathan. He doesn’t have his rain jacket on. Just his blue flannel and jeans, his sneakers probably soaked.
Good. You’re soaked now too. Your favorite outfit.
You meet him halfway.
“I’m ordering dinner. What do you want to eat?” Jonathan yells angrily over the sound of the rain hitting the pavement.
“I want you to eat a family-sized dish of ‘what the fuck is your problem?’. Do you think Grubhub delivers that?” You brace your hands on your hips, water running down your arms.
“Sure. Maybe for dessert you can have a big bowl of ‘stop riding my ass.’” He whips off his glasses. You’re sure he can’t see anything out of them right now anyway. He puts them in his pocket.
“You didn’t even apologize,” you yell over the rain.
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
“I literally asked you to.” Your hands wave in the air dramatically.
“I didn’t want to be told to apologize. I wanted to do it on my own so you would know I meant it.” He gestures to the house. “You don’t have to eat with me, just come inside and wait for your ride.”
“I’ll wait in the garage.” You walk over to the panel, hardly able to see from the rain streaming down your face. You flip open the cover and punch in the code.
“I told you. It’s fucking-“ Jonathan’s jaw drops as the garage door kicks on, sliding up smoothly, “-broken.”
You glare at him. “Ten minutes my ass. You were forty minutes late.”
The door almost closes before Jonathan ducks, quickly running into the garage to join you. It’s pretty dark, just the yellow light from the garage door opening over your heads. It smells like oil and wood from the tool benches Jonathan had gotten installed recently.
Since it’s just him and Ava in the house, they’ve been learning to be homeowners together. Jonathan wants her to grow up with basic knowledge of how to maintain and fix things, something he’d never gotten as a kid, and something Mira had never let him do.
You set your purse on one of the long, wooden tables, peeling your rain jacket, then sweater off. You literally hear the water droplets hit the concrete floor when Jonathan shakes his arms.
He sighs so loudly it echoes in the garage. “Fifteen for the door, another twenty because no one can drive in weather like this. Maybe I was forty minutes late. I couldn’t call because it was raining so hard, I couldn’t look away from the road.”
“Just tell your phone to call me. I’ve told you a million times.” You lean back on the bench, taking in his flustered appearance.
“My phone doesn’t listen to me, you know I can’t make it work. Women in my life tend to do that.” He grabs a roll of paper towel and unravels a bunch for you.
The rough paper is as unpleasant as you mood. You run it over your face and neck. You don’t even bother with your hair, you don’t want to think about it.
“You’re not the injured party here, Jonathan,” you say.
He nods, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. “What did you want me to do? Leave you at the restaurant? Leave you outside in the driveway to catch pneumonia? If you really think standing out in the rain is preferable to me, then go back out. The garage door only opens for you anyway.”
“At least out there, no one’s picking a fight with me.”
Jonathan laughs, but there’s nothing funny about it. “I’m not the one who started this. I’d be happy to drop the whole thing.”
“Bullshit.”
He shakes his head angrily, ripping up another paper towel. “You have makeup all down your face.”
His mouth and eyes are still tense, but he holds your chin with surprising gentleness as he runs the towel under your eyes, down your cheeks. He swipes along your jaw.
His brown eyes look you over so carefully you almost feel like he’s touching your skin with his fingers. “I couldn’t keep yelling when you looked like a raccoon. You do look kind of cute, though.”
You slap his hand away. He throws the paper towels onto the table, his hands curling around your hips after. His body presses forward, pushing you back. He’s already as hard as the table your ass is resting against.
You glare at him. “You’re kidding me. Jonathan, I wouldn’t fuck you right now if you begged me on your knees.”
He snorts a laugh. “You would. We both know it.”
“Get away from me,” you say, but you both know you don’t mean it. You can get petty when you’re mad.
His mouth dives for your neck, pulling at your skin, before he kisses down around the wet collar of your shirt, his face trailing as he kneels, pushing up your skirt with his hands.
“Sit on the table,” he says, his fingers focused on pulling down your underwear.
“I want a real apology.”
He pushes your thighs until you sit up on the top of the table, his face poised between your legs. He kisses your inner thighs. His curly hair tickles your skin.
“This is a real apology,” he says, the sound already muffled by his lips kissing you between your legs. He moves his face back and forth, catching his nose on your clit, letting his mustache and beard scrub against your sensitive skin.
He flattens his tongue, licking you, digging in and making your breath catch in your throat.
“Ah,” you catch yourself digging your nails into the wood.
Jonathan’s head tilts, just the top of his head visible between your legs. Thick curls of black and gray and silver, moving back and forth, up and down. He presses his face into you, his tongue reaching deep inside, licking and curling. He moans, the deep sound vibrating through you. You let your body fall back, braced against the wall.
He laps at you, one of his thumbs circling your clit slowly.
You let your mouth open. You moan loudly. “I’m still mad.”
You feel him smile against you. “Yeah, I can tell by how wet you are.”
“Don’t make me laugh right now,” you smile.
“Why?” He looks up at you. “Would you squirt all over my face?”
That does make you laugh. So does he.
“You know what squirting is?” you ask him.
“Yes,” he says, looking up at you with a grin, “I was around when we had to use dial-up to download porn. You had to get pretty specific or you’d end up wasting an hour of your life.”
“Like the hour I wasted standing outside the restaurant waiting for your gorgeous ass?”
His grin fades. “Do you not think I’m sorry about that?”
“You still haven’t said it.”
Jonathan braces his hands on his thighs and gets off his knees. He looks fed up. He stands between your legs, pulling you toward him. He’s still hard. His hips rock against you and you have to bite your lip to stop from making a noise that would give you away. Your hands can’t help themselves though, they grab his arms, hard enough for leverage so you can grind yourself back on him.
His forehead pushes against yours, soft grunts escaping his soft lips.
Your hands, with minds of their own, reach down and undo his belt. Then his zipper. Jonathan helps you, pushing his boxers down so he can pull himself out and push the tip of his cock against you. His fingers go in first, making sure you’re ready before he sinks slowly inside of you.
He huffs against your neck. Your legs wrap around his waist.
He pulls you into him, hard, one strong pull. Your head drops back and his hand is there immediately, the only thing that stops your head from smacking into the dry wall.
You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as he pushes into you again and again with sharp, brain-numbing thrusts. His beard rubs against your chest as he sucks against the hollow of your throat. You wrap your legs around him too, feeling like you’re holding on to a tree during a storm, but somehow he’s both the storm itself and the safety from it.
“You’re so fucking tight.” He moans. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry my shitty mood ruined everything.”
You groan, fingernails digging into his wet shirt.
Jonathan’s mouth latches onto yours. He sucks on your bottom lip, fucking you so fast, your orgasm is on top of you before you can brace yourself. Jonathan grabs your hips, pulling you onto him over and over while you pant out his name, tightening around him, wet from rain and him and how good this feels. Your legs lock around his lower back as he comes too, holding you tight to him as he twitches, emptying himself inside of you with a shaky exhale.
His arms relax around you, but you keep your hold on him.
“You didn’t ruin everything,” you whisper into his ear. You look at him, pushing his curls away from his face.
Jonathan closes his eyes briefly. They’re a little shiny when he opens them back up. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I guess.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “You guess? Okay, well, I guess I deserve that.”
Even though he’s softening inside of you, Jonathan doesn’t back away. He kisses you again, slowly, deeply. He hums in his throat, tongue licking into your mouth.
“Let’s go inside and take a hot shower together,” he says. “Then we’ll order food. No more fighting.”
The professorial tone in his voice makes you smile.
“I don’t like fighting with you, but there is something about it that’s fun,” you admit.
Jonathan winces like he’s in pain. “I know. It’s like foreplay for us.”
“I don’t mean it, when we fight. You just look so hot all riled up.”
He pushes up his glasses. “Maybe it isn’t fighting. It’s just… bickering.”
“Yeah,” you agree, “we’re not really mad at each other. Except that I was kind of mad.”
Jonathan laughs quietly, the sound just huffs of air through his nose. “I know you were. You look irresistible like that. Hence why you’re here, spread open in the garage, making a mess on my brand new tool bench.”
You give him a dirty look. “It’s your mess. Not mine. And honestly, you still owe me one. I got a splinter in my ass from you pushing me back and forth on it.”
“I’ll take a look at it in the shower.” He helps you down from the bench, reaching down to your ankles to help you put your underwear back on before he zips himself back up.
He gives you a quick kiss and you wipe your lipstick from his mouth.
“It is kind of fun isn’t it?” He smiles, as if he’s never considered it before.
He probably hasn’t. When he fought with his ex it was mean and vicious, unforgiving. This is more like a release of emotions, teasing each other until one of you gives in and initiates sex or even just a cuddle.
You’re grateful for Jonathan every day, but tonight especially, you’re glad that you two found each other. To comfort, to argue, to do anything at all, because it's all good with Jonathan. Or at least, it's fun.
He opens the door that leads into the house, revealing a big bouquet of flowers on the kitchen island. Two candles light up the space, and plates already set out for the food delivery. There's even a drawing from Ava of the three of you.
"Happy six month anniversary." He leans in to kiss you.
"You remembered," you say quietly.
He looks sad for a second, before he smiles again. "I'll never forget anything when it comes to you."
You wrap your arms around him and squeeze him tightly.
He hugs you back, lifting you onto your toes. "Not an anniversary, or a date, and I'll never forget to text you again."
Jonathan Levy Masterlist :: main masterlist
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