Chapter Text
Levi couldn’t fucking sleep.
Rare were the moments he felt relaxed enough to drift into a deep slumber that would last him two hours tops—this was one of those moments, and yet, every time he sensed exhaustion wash over him in waves, he would startle at the ruckus happening on the other side of his wall.
He clicked his tongue, shooting daggers at the drywall that separated his bedroom and yours. Noisy little shit, he grumbled to himself, wondering what on earth was happening at—he peeked at the clock on his nightstand—two o’clock in the fucking morning. He heaved a sigh out of sheer exhaustion, pushing his head back against the pillow and sealing his eyes shut, willing himself to fall asleep.
His lids snapped open just as fast when something rattled against the wall. He frowned—though, just when he was about to consider worrying about your safety, the rattling found a steady, rhythmic thud.
Not again.
“Fucking great,” he grumbled under his breath, pulling his body around to lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling.
He had moved into this building six months ago. He still remembered the day you’d greeted him at the entrance, offering to help with his boxes in a top so tight it looked strained against your chest. He hadn’t known what to say then—baffled by the sudden, primal static in his brain as it took a strenuous effort to keep his eyes on your face. Hange had answered on his behalf—right before they’d made fun of his lack of subtlety the moment you left—though he didn’t miss the way your smile had lost some of its brightness. He knew you’d mistaken his stunned staring for rudeness, and he’d never bothered to correct you.
Since then, it had been mere nods by the mailboxes. Civil neighbors and nothing more.
Though, he had thought about you often—and it irritated him.
He ground his jaw at the sound of your moans, breathy and high pitched. He cursed the way his body reacted to that alone. It wasn’t just the noise; it was your scent, too. It was a marvel how you were able to block it—a wonder, indeed, what capitalism could do—but he could still smell the very faint, muted blend of jasmine and citrus that curled through the vents to taunt his nostrils and play with his fucking mind.
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard you fucking, but tonight, his skin prickled with a strange, territorial heat. His teeth ached, his cock twitching in a way that made him want to rip into the drywall.
He growled, tempted to slam his fists against the wall, but he stopped himself. He sat up straight, wiping his face with his rough palm and looking down at the traitorous bump in his pants. He could take care of the problem. He really could just slip his hand inside his shorts and fuck himself to this, letting your scent wrap around every cell in his body. But, despite considering himself a progressive man compared to the pool of misogynistic Alphas that plagued the world, his pride wouldn’t allow it.
He needed a smoke.
“Fucking nuisance,” he grumbled to himself as he stepped out into the balcony, relieved as fresh air nipped at his skin. It had to be something with you. Either it was the loud… rancid fucking, or the tight tops that strained against bruised nipples (who in their right mind wore flimsy clothes in the middle of winter?), or the tiny running shorts that hugged your ass so nicely he felt like a rabid dog. Maybe he was a rabid dog. That would explain the hungry, tongue-out-and-drooling primal behavior he’d turn into whenever you were so much as near to him. What’s worse—when he would rant to Hange, they would plaster a sickening smile and exclaim “Look at you all red, you’re smitten!” to which he would be quick to snap that this was a manifestation of his fury and oh, the torture of being misunderstood.
His nose wrinkled when he caught a figure leave the building right as he was about to light his cigarette. Perks of being on the second floor was that you could see everything; his pastime consisted of watching Weres and Humans alike attempt to parallel park. More cars had been lost to panicky teens unable to handle a steering wheel to save their asses or old geezers refusing to give a single fuck than people had been lost to all the world’s diseases combined. He had added tennis balls to the front and back of his car—he wasn’t taking any chances. He did not feel like talking about the Dog Incident(s) that occurred after that.
The man leaving the building had parked right in front of his eye line. He resisted the urge to smirk as he flicked his lighter, fire blooming across the tip of his cigarette—maybe his night wasn’t doomed after all.
His joy was short-lived—karma was a spiteful, meticulous accountant with sharp nails and even sharper fangs—because he smelled you before he even heard you.
“Thought I missed the show.”
You—the bane of his existence and the sole reason his beauty sleep was now an unaffordable luxury—materialized on the balcony right beside his. Your smile was wide as you leaned against the railing, looking every bit as giddy as he was to watch some poor bastard’s bumper get wrecked. He internally cursed, staring up at the sky and closing his eyes. He and God were going to have a very long, very nice chat in the afterlife.
“Care to share one?”
He really hoped that closing his eyes would make you disappear—yet here you were, still smelling as sweet as the first day of spring, voice honey-soft. He could keep his eyes closed. He could tune you out. Maybe that would make him appear off-putting enough for you to never speak to him again. But his mouth—and dick—worked faster than the begrudged side of his brain.
“You reek,” he said, taking out a cigarette from the box and extending his hand toward you, eyes fixed on the man maneuvering a very, very tight spot. It could take him hours.
“Yeah, well.” He felt your fingers brush against his, your tone remaining breezy despite his insult. Either you knew he was full of shit or you didn’t care, and your scent smelled so… he couldn’t tell if he’d gotten to you or not. He wasn’t thinking with his brain at the moment. Alarm bells were blaring in his mind louder than the blood rushing to his erection—surprise surprise. “You know how sex works.”
He turned to glare. Big mistake. That damned flimsy white top.
He wanted to rip it. He wanted to shove it against his nose while he fucked himself.
He scowled, though he was unable to look away from your cheeks, tinged pink, your lips—red and bruised and stretching across the most dazzling smile you’d ever offered him. It short circuited his brain, giving him a visual he’d be using for months to come. Here he’d thought the sight of you bending over to get your laundry in a mini skirt was going to fuck him up for years. Sucker.
He inhaled the smoke so deeply he was sure his body was going to punish him for it one day. He nearly had an aneurism when you leaned in his direction, cigarette plopped between your full lips, breasts crushed against the metal of the railing as you waited for him to light it for you.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he was going to march into his doctor’s office and demand retribution. His behavior was not normal—it made him doubt he was on the verge of a rut.
He flicked his lighter, unable to tear his eyes away from the way your brows slightly pulled in concentration, adjusting your aim. When the tip burned red, your eyes lifted to catch his, and he could feel his pulse hammer against his ribs, almost certain you could even smell the way his desire choked him.
He thought you did, because here you were—resting your elbows and exhaling the smoke slowly, watching it curl around him. Your pupils were blown, your scent simmering against his heated skin. Yet again, this wasn’t normal. He had never, in his thirty years of life, wanted an Omega so desperately he was losing his well-crafted control.
The silence was getting too loud. You weren’t looking away, and he sure as hell wasn’t tearing his eyes away when he had the chance to dwell on your every feature. He should feel shame at the way the dirtiest of thoughts seized him so viciously—the curve of your ass as you took him so well, your tits bouncing as he rammed into you, those devil lips sucking him dry—only now registering the fact that you were in nothing but a tiny thong.
Oh, holy hell.
Karma. You vindictive bitch.
He needed to retreat. Otherwise, he was going to spiral. This was getting out of hand. It had gone on for far too long. There were some enemies of his toying with him from the afterlife. He could go back inside, write a list of everyone he’d ever fucked over, and make amends. Anything to stop this. This was hell. This was torture.
“I think you’re confusing seasons,” he managed to rasp out, though it took miraculous effort to drag his eyes back to meet yours.
You grinned. “Blockers make it too hot.”
Of course. The famous state-of-the-art Blockers, somewhat failing to do their most basic job. “I can see that.”
“I can go get dressed.”
“No need to look decent on my account.”
You snorted, head snapping in the direction of the forgotten entertainment. You pouted in disappointment when the car disappeared into the night.
“So, he’s not just fast in bed, I see.”
The laugh that ripped from his lips was scandalous. He blamed it on the nerves—on the lack of sleep—on anything other than the fact that he was royally fucked. The glee in your eyes could light the deepest levels of the ocean, and it was now that reality decided to crash into him. He finally managed to whip his head away, released from this manic trance—sorcery, he was convinced—forcing his features into some semblance of order once and for all.
“Thank God, otherwise I’ll start charging you nightly taxes.”
“Were we being too loud?” He merely hummed, making you wince. “Sorry.” You didn’t sound sorry at all, and his eyes narrowed. His nose twitched the moment he caught something beneath the innocence of your statements—
Lies.
He slowly turned to face you, a sudden rush of heat boiling his blood as he leaned forward. He couldn’t explain why his cock twitched at the sight of your heavy swallow, at the smell of your arising anxiety that ebbed his way; you were keeping a brave front, he’d give you that.
“You.” He motioned with his cigarette. He wasn’t usually confrontational, but right now he felt anger and a newfound rush of lust that increased tenfold. He’d thought he’d been losing his mind—that enemies were toying with him—but it was you. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
You straightened, chin tipped up, lips curved ever so slightly, and it made him want to bite them raw. Your arms squeezed your breasts, perking them up, the cold making your nipples strain against your feeble excuse of a top.
“Did what?”
He should have been thanking the heavens. He’d been gaslighting himself for months, but he’d been right. He knew it wasn’t normal—your scent was so obscene, thicker than it usually was, even during those nights you spent fucking for hours, rattling his bones through the shared wall. That time you two got stuck in the elevator… you’d been fucking with him then, too. And instead of rightful rage—he felt a sickening, dark thrill.
“So, you want to play games?” It wasn’t a question; it rumbled out of his throat—a threat, a challenge. He didn’t know what was going through his mind—let’s be honest, his instincts were doing the work here, steered entirely by his dick—but he wanted you begging. He wanted you crying for him so badly he felt a sharp, fleeting twinge of shame.
Any pity vanished the moment your lips spread into a smile. It was all teeth and malice, showing him fangs so sharp he could already feel them sinking into his skin. You slowly turned, giving him a lovely, torturous view of your round ass, the thong disappearing between your cheeks. He could smell your arousal as clear as day, even as you stepped inside.
Fucking hell. He was going to be coming to this mental image for weeks.