okay so, admittedly i've been away for quite sometime now. college hasn't been kind to me, and i'm currently getting bombarded by tasks left and right. sorry if at least one of you have been anticipating on reading any of my fanfic from ao3 (even though both books are still on chapter one).
I just came back recently, and i immediately realized reading and thinking in english became hard for me to do. i can't imagine shit anymore and creativity has gone down the drain.
im hoping this current boost of creativity i have going on gives me enough time to finish two of my fics soon.
PLANS:
long term plans
- finish The Inbetween and LBTW (All on ao3)
short term plans
- do some one shot prompt fics, or some headcanons (whether they're ns/fw or sfw)
if Levi somehow ended up in today’s world and saw all the fancy cleaning supplies and tech we’ve got, you’d catch him being stupidly curious, low-key ecstatic, but also skeptical of everything.
when it comes to the robot vacuum, he's waaay more skeptical than anything else. he just stands there, unimpressed, watching the flat little circle light up, make some soft beeps, then crawl across the floor, slowly. the tiny brushes swish around almost cutely while it sucks up dust
His quietness is so amusing you can’t help but laugh. He shoots you a look that screams “seriously, that’s it?” before crouching down to watch it roll past him.
“You expect me to trust this... moving plate... to clean my floor up?” he finally mutters, giving it a small nudge with his knuckles, just enough to knock it off course, not flip it over.
You shrug. “It does the job. And honestly, it does it well enough. But I doubt your standards line up with most people’s.”
“People just have ridiculously low standards. Mine should be the bare minimum,” he says flatly, dragging a finger along the spot the robot just cleaned. His brows pull together as he rubs the dust between his fingers. “Tch. This thing’s garbage. Turn it off, I’ll do the sweeping myself.”
when you first tell Levi what a dishwasher is, he doesn’t even give it a second thought. Just a blunt “fuck no” before pulling on his gloves and scrubbing the dishes himself.
the washing machine gets a slightly less hostile reaction, though. but he’ll still check every single piece of clothing that comes out like he’s looking for flaws
“I suppose this one’s not as shitty as the last,” he snorts, before eyeing the dryer. “But I like this one better.” The fact that a machine can spin his clothes dry without him putting in the muscle clearly wins him over.
“Yeah, but I’d suggest you to watch what goes in. Some fabrics are still better off hand-washed,” you inform helpfully
Levi just hums. “Then I’m tossing your stuff in here and handwashing mine.”
what really blows his mind, though, are air dehumidifiers and purifiers. the thought of a machine finally cleaning something he can’t scrub by hand, the air itself, and the humidity that breeds his ultimate nemesis—molds—actually gets him excited
“Sick,” he smirks, staring at the tank of water it collected over a few days. “I have no damn clue how this thing works, but if it actually gets rids mold, color me fucking impressed.”
“You haven’t seen the sickest one yet,” you say, leaning back with your arms crossed. “There’s tech out there that can filter literally any water into drinkable water.”
He freezes, eyes on you. You stare back. He stares more. And in that split second, you both clearly land on the same cursed thought, the one that disgusts him to the core while you can’t stop grinning at how much it bugs him.
Summary: On the day meant to celebrate yourself, there's not much for you to engage in for entertainment. None of your options appeal to you, until one coworker sends a meek 'happy birthday' text.
(just a little self-indulgent piece i wrote for myself. i hope you all enjoy <3)
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Another ping sounds from across the room, another reminder of what today is. You make a mental note to turn off the ringer, but for now the device is too far away and your attention is already drawn elsewhere.
Drawn, that is, to the television that is failing in its efforts to enthuse you. Keep Watching? it offers, along with You Might Like and Trending. You shake your head at all of the options, unimpressed with the selection. Old reliable could entice you: the collection of your favorite movies, or maybe a rewatch of a show that once consumed your every waking moment.
Maybe. Even those beloved pieces feel distant right now.
With a sigh, you pull yourself off the couch and approach the phone of doom. It means well—it’s filled with nothing but birthday wishes from friends and family—but their texts are all they can offer. Distance prevents them from a real celebration, if you’d even allow them to have one anyway. It’s busy this time of year, and time spent on you could be spent better elsewhere. You’re content to accept the day as any other and let everyone continue their lives.
One text demands to stand out from the others, and against your better judgment, you let yourself open it.
Levi: I’m impressed.
It’s such an odd sentence, it pulls you out of your melancholic attitude. Your other coworkers have left little blurbs and cute emojis in your inbox, but this one—the grouchy little line cook that snaps at you when you don’t immediately pick up the dish he made for your table—has sent something utterly baffling.
He’s teasing you somehow, and you’d be a fool to play into his trap.
You: Impressed? What did I do?
Oh, well. Being trapped passes the time.
It takes him less than a minute to answer; he must’ve had a response ready to go for a while now.
Levi: Made it another lap around the sun.
This bastard. This is his version of a ‘happy birthday’?
For someone that hardly speaks to you outside of complaining about your inefficiency, this little quip is startling, but a tad intriguing. You’re too fascinated to be angry.
You: Go me. And thank you for the…kind birthday wishes.
Sighing, you crumple on a seat at your small dining table and turn your gaze to the window, pondering if you ought to splurge on some expensive takeout.
Your phone pings like it’s upset you aren’t paying attention to it.
Levi: Sure.
The indicator showing that he’s typing appears and disappears several times for over a minute. With a laugh stuck in your throat, you can only theorize what is taking him so long to compose.
Levi: Do you have a sec before you go celebrate? I have something to drop off.
Bold of him to assume you have plans today. Your schedule is completely empty—and a part of you wishes he knew that. You have more time available for him than he knows.
Your brow snaps into a furrow as you replay what you just thought. This grumpy cat gets all your time? Today, of all days? He’s the one you want?
The teasing thoughts grow like vines across your brain. Yes, obviously you want him. You have ever since he tore off his hair net and scoffed at a stain on his apron while fixing his part. Or perhaps it was when the manager dully introduced him and he barely answered the room with more than a bored hum. Beguiled by an exhausted, unapproachable man wasn’t in your fortune this year, but it’s been a curious turn for your life to take.
The way his texting bubble reappears suggests you’ve been waiting too long. Maybe he’s getting nervous.
No, not him. He could be the restaurant’s bouncer with how much nothing bothers him. Even the servers have asked him to talk to belligerent customers because—for better or worse—his acerbic attitude is stronger than theirs.
You: I’m not going out or anything. You can come by whenever.
You feel tension in your chest when you hit send. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this nervousness, this juvenile anxiety over texting someone you want to impress. To your surprise, it’s a welcome feeling.
Levi: That can’t be.
A bittersweet smile is cracked when that text is sent. It’s almost flattering to think that he couldn’t believe your answer.
You: What?
Levi: Didn’t Hange invite you out? Did you turn them down?
You: They’re visiting family out of town this week. They sent me a text, though.
Levi: And your parents didn’t fly up to visit?
You: Nope. Work doesn’t really let either of them take time off.
His indicator takes a few moments again. You picture him grumbling over his texts, picking the sentences that end up insensitive despite his best efforts.
Levi: I didn’t mean to be rude. You have many people around you at work, so I figured you’d be busy with someone today.
That makes you laugh. You don’t know what version of you he’s seeing, but your memories only involve rushing orders and bitching about rude customers in the break room. He acts as though you’re surrounded by throngs of fans from clock-in to clock-out.
You: That’s okay. Petra gave me a gift during work on Friday, and Gelgar said we’d go bar-hopping after our next paycheck, but everyone’s pretty busy today.
The indicator bubble suddenly becomes an opponent to beat. For some moronic reason, you want to beat him to the finish line and get one more word in.
You: I’ll send you my address. Like I said, whenever you’re free.
The gap in reply suggests another internal battle on his end. You exercise patience.
Levi: I’ll be by in ten.
You: Great :)
The phone is nearly chucked out of the window right after that reply. Your fingers worked faster than your brain, and now you’re seriously regretting it. He’s not the type for little smiley-faces and hints of excitement; you’ve probably just made him uncomfortable. While you script a dozen apologies and explanations, you pace your living room with panic thumping in your chest.
That little cat is coming here? You’ve given your address to the ball of darkness that lives and festers in the kitchen? Whether it be desperation, hope, or confidence, something compelled you to see this enigma of a man in a different light—that light being the dim, smeared one on your porch.
Another lap around the sun could have passed in the time you spent worrying. You tidy up little messes around your place, then wonder why you’re bothering. It’s not as if he’s coming inside. Still, if he happens to glance past your shoulder in the doorway and sees a glimpse of your house, he needs to be marginally impressed with your style of living.
For some reason.
You have no idea what you’re doing. You put yourself at the backyard-facing window, posed like a doll in a dollhouse, looking so nonchalant and relaxed about each passing, painful second.
The doorbell makes you jump out of your skin. You stay where you are, clenching the window frame and shoving your composure back into your body. Once you’re settled, you march to the door with a stiff exhale clearing out your tension.
When you open the door, you realize you’ve never seen Levi outside of his work uniform. His attire, though, is a hint of how handsome he can make himself. It’s a simple mix of casual and dressy, but it’s a masterpiece on his frame. He knows his colors, and he knows how to take care of his clothes. Your outfit picked while half-asleep pales in comparison to how gorgeous he looks.
“Levi.” No, you should’ve started with hello, but a neutral utterance of his name works too.
He nods once as he offers your name. His hair swishes well when it’s not trapped in a net, and his voice is awfully soothing when no disgruntlement hides in it. He still glares, but you assume that’s simply how his face sits.
“Sorry I’m late.”
One second was a century to you; you have no sense of how early or late he was. Nevertheless, this is one chance to turn the tables, and you’re feeling surprisingly bold.
“Mm, apology accepted. Although I will be taking it out of your paycheck.”
He scoffs. “Sure thing, Mr. Smith. Want to cut my benefits while you’re at it?”
That lightens the mood a great deal. If it’s not the customers to whine about, it’s the manager.
“Not this time,” you promise coyly.
His eyes seem to soften, although you may be imagining it. His smile certainly doesn’t change.
“Well,” he sighs, thrusting forth the paper bag he holds. “I got you something. Two things. Nothing…spectactular, so don’t get excited.”
“Thank you, Levi.” The bag’s contents are hidden under cheap newspaper shreds, but it’s quite hefty. A gift itself is incredibly thoughtful, and it’d be cruel to send the gifter away now. “Would you like to come in?”
You can almost see the indicator bubble on his expression now: he’s thinking, and he’s not telling you a single thought while he decides. With your jaw clenched and your heart pounding, you earnestly wait for his answer.
“If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” you answer at record-breaking speeds. Shutting up your enthusiasm for half a second, you stumble out of the way and gesture to the living room. “Please. Make yourself at home.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shuffles past the threshold, toes off his shoes, and glides to the center of the room, his eyes carefully grazing every single thing you own as he moves. He’s entered a museum, and if there were placards, he’d be a studying scholar.
“So, I do own chairs,” you laugh after he stays motionless for a few moments. “Look: dining chairs, a sofa—hell, the floor is surprisingly comfortable, too.”
“Alright, alright.” He puts himself on the couch under your orders, and you take a careful position at the other end.
Putting the bag between you two, you gesture to the gift. “Can I?”
“No,” he grumbles. “I expect you to just throw it in the back of your closet and never open it.”
“Well,” you sigh loudly, shrugging as you tease standing up, “I guess, if you insist—”
“I’m kidding.” He urges you back down with half an effort to reach for you, although he does not completely commit. “Just open it. You’re building up too much suspense.”
“Heard, chef,” you tease, and that just about sends him into another flashback of his working hours.
“I’m about to take it back,” he threatens, and you reflexively laugh when he puts a hand on yours holding the bag.
“No!” you rebel, fueled by the joy of the moment into lightly pushing his shoulder back. “You’re too late. It’s mine now.”
“Get on with it, then.” You’re not blind to how he coils up, his hands clasped with too much strength.
You push aside paper and wrap a hand around the first item you feel, withdrawing it to reveal a sleek bottle of wine. “Oh! How’d you know I wanted to try this?”
“You mentioned it after Miche let you try that Chateau Palmer.”
“Right. And he didn’t have their Alter Ego in the cellar.” You read the very name of the bottle Levi has gifted you. “Although, I thought we were talking about wine at the host stand—far from the jowls of the kitchen.”
Levi tries to express indifference by reclining and slinging an arm along the backrest. “I was passing by.”
“Mmhmm.” Rotating the bottle, you read every word of its label and description. “Well, this is an expensive brand. How much do I owe you?”
“Is that a joke? Nothing. It’s a gift.”
You glance at the cook just beyond this magnificent drink. “How much is Mr. Smith paying you?”
“Same as you, I think. I just save extra for…gifts.”
“And you give all your friends pricey wines?”
“No.”
He doesn’t elaborate. With a resigned sigh, you put the bottle on the coffee table. “Thank you. It’s very thoughtful—suspiciously thoughtful.”
“Oh, quiet. There’s one more thing in the bag.”
“Right.” Diving back in, you have to plunge further to find the flat object against the floor of the bag, but your fingertips are familiar with the texture of its smooth surface. Tearing it out, you grin and drop a laugh at a much-needed replacement. “Thank you,” you breathe at the sight of a clean, unwrinkled, untorn server notebook.
“I had to improve my workplace satisfaction somehow. Replacing your dreaded notebook was a good start.”
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad—”
“Its back vinyl has been trying to fall off for the past month.”
“It was not.”
“Did I just see it on the kitchen counter?” he asks, glancing back at your kitchen. “Should we compare—”
“Ah-ah! Don’t—don’t look at it.” You demand the return of his attention by shooting closer and tugging on his arm, which is more than enough to yank him right back to you. “Don’t besmirch the reputation of my first notebook. She served me well through my training days.”
“Mm,” Levi hums, staying completely still so your hand doesn’t leave him. “Then you can keep using…her, if you want.”
“Nah. I’ll hold a funeral for the poor thing, but it’s time to move on.” You hold up the brand new replacement. “This is my new sidekick.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, even if his expression doesn’t show that.
“I’m glad you got me a new one. I…” You don’t know if you should take chances in this conversation, but the air is drunk and your minds are light. It seems as though whatever happens here will be understood by both participants, and that anything regrettable will be forgotten about by the next work week. “I wasn’t expecting all this today. It’s really kind, and it made me feel better.”
He cleans up in the barest sense by moving the empty bag to the coffee table. “Shitty day?”
“Not really. Just…y’know. Another birthday. I don’t know if I should be doing something—celebrating, maybe, like you said. I kinda expected the day to just pass.”
He slumps his head against his shoulder and lightly picks up the hand you still have on him. He’s moving boldly, but the heat in his fingers is evidence of his own apprehension. “There’s nothing wrong with celebrating yourself a little.”
“Please. That’s coming from the man that worked all of Christmas Day.”
“So?”
“You worked on your birthday. You probably hoped everyone was too busy to celebrate you.”
“You know the 25th is my birthday?”
“Yeah. Mr. Smith happened to mention it when we were planning my holiday schedule.” You let your hand rest in his grasp, your fingers comfortable within his. “I didn’t have your number by then, or I would’ve texted you. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just promise me two things.” He squeezes your fingers as he loads up his demands.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t tell our coworkers. Especially Hange.”
“Mm, okay. If you insist. And…?”
“And that you allow yourself to celebrate a little today.” He nods to the television, which is still on and awaiting input. “Were you going to watch something? You should get something to eat, too. Something good.”
The small pleasures you were considering for today seem exponentially more appealing with this man in your house. The potential excitement is dependent on whether he can be factored into the equation, though.
“Do you have any plans today?”
There must really be something in the air if you’re emboldened enough to ask that.
To your relief, he shakes his head. “Not a thing.”
He’s asking you, and you’re begging him. Your grip has clenched without you realizing, and you have to manually relax before you follow up.
“I know you don’t like drinking, but you ought to try a bit of this liquid gold you bought.” You rise from the couch, your hand still tethered to him. “Share it with me?”
Every part of him wants to smile, but he keeps it contained. A lifetime of practicing composure is close to failing him now, and he’s ever so slightly winning the battle. “Sure. What are we pairing it with?”
“Chow mein, probably,” you chuckle, and he rolls his eyes.
“Fine cuisine.”
“C’mon, you spend all week toiling over fancy dishes! Embrace the beauty of cheap junk food for once.”
“Whatever Her Majesty desires,” he dismisses, finally allowing you to step away.
With a smile, you find two glasses for yourself and this sudden but welcome guest. It won’t be as quiet this year, at least. There’s no harm in celebrating another lap around the sun.
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