#split dresses are fun to draw

[astronnova]

having fun with formal wear >>>

[debussy42]

"straight or curly?"

Guys, I'm not gonna lie. This whole nonsense started with me just debating whether or not I should straighten or curl my hair today. Wow, I miss my man Levi. Maybe it's with Valentine's day coming up, but I needed some emotionally charged, dancing, jealousy, barely restrained Levi in my life. Hope y'all enjoy ◡̈

wc: 8k WHEWWWWWWW

"Sasha. Mikasa. Should I straighten my hair today, or curl it? It's the weekend, and I want to try something new."

Mikasa, already dressed and pulling on her boots, barely glances up before saying, “Straight.”

Sasha, who’s still lounging on her bed with no urgency whatsoever, tilts her head in thought. “Curl it. It looks cuter that way.”

You hum, turning back to the mirror, lightly running your fingers through your hair. “Hmm. Mikasa, why straight?”

She shrugs. “It’s easier.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but it’s the weekend. Don’t you want to, I don’t know, do something fun with it?”

You smirk at their contrast and tap your fingers against the wooden vanity. “Jean’s going to say straight. Connie’s going to say whatever makes me look stupid.”

Mikasa ties her scarf, uninterested. “Jean will say whatever makes you look ‘mature.’”

Sasha snorts. “He’s been watching too many noblewomen walk through town.”

You shake your head, grinning at their banter, then turn back to the mirror. “Alright, decision made.”

Mikasa raises a brow. “Which one?”

You give a dramatic pause before flashing them a mischievous grin. “I’ll ask Levi.”

Sasha chokes on air. “Wha—are you insane?”

Mikasa actually looks up at that, blinking. “You’re going to ask the Captain?”

You shrug innocently, gathering your comb. “He’s got an eye for detail. Might as well make use of it.”

Sasha buries her face into her pillow, groaning. “Oh my god, you love testing death, don’t you?”

Mikasa, while less dramatic, still watches you carefully. “You’re comfortable with him, sure. But that’s still Levi. You really think he’s going to care about how you do your hair?”

You smirk. “I don’t know. But I do know that if I look ridiculous, he won’t hesitate to tell me.”

Sasha peeks out from her pillow, stifling laughter. “That’s... actually true.”

Mikasa just shakes her head. “I’m not stopping you. But don’t be surprised if he tells you you’re wasting his time.”

You flash them both a grin before heading for the door. “I’ll be back with verdict.”

—

The morning sun is just beginning to filter through the halls as you make your way toward the common area, boots clicking softly against the wooden floors. Most of the squad is still waking up, scattered across various spaces, engaged in quiet conversations or lazy weekend tasks.

And then, you spot Levi.

He’s near the windows, arms crossed, watching the drizzle outside with his usual unreadable expression. The early light casts a soft glow against his features, the sharp angles of his face somehow looking even sharper in the muted tones of the morning.

You take a breath, then casually stride up next to him, standing just close enough that he acknowledges your presence with a glance but doesn’t immediately turn away.

“Captain,” you say, tilting your head.

Levi’s gaze flickers to you, his brows drawing together slightly. “What?”

You twirl a strand of your hair between your fingers, smirking. “Should I straighten or curl my hair today?”

There’s a pause. A heavy, weighted pause.

Levi blinks once. Then twice. His expression is as blank as ever, but there’s a split second where you think—just maybe—you’ve stunned him into silence.

“…You woke up just to ask me that?”

You cross your arms, feigning seriousness. “This is an important decision, Captain. I need guidance. You have high standards, so I figured you’d have an opinion.”

Levi exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever asked me.”

You bite back a grin. “That’s not an answer, though.”

He finally looks at you fully, scanning you with the same critical gaze he uses when inspecting gear, paperwork, or a particularly irritating recruit.

“Straight,” he says flatly. “Less maintenance.”

You huff. “That’s what Mikasa said.”

Levi shrugs. “Then she’s right.”

You tap your chin, pretending to contemplate. “Sasha said curls.”

“Tch. Of course she did.”

You fight the urge to laugh. “You really don’t like being pulled into nonsense, do you?”

Levi scoffs lightly, already turning back to the window. “And yet, somehow, you keep pulling me in.”

You grin. “It’s a talent.”

Levi exhales again, shaking his head. “Straighten it. But if you’re going to keep bothering me about it, just shave it all off and save everyone the trouble.”

You do laugh at that, shaking your head as you step back. “Alright, alright. Decision made. Thanks, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t reply, but as you turn to leave, you swear you catch something—the barest flicker of amusement in his gaze.

And somehow, that feels like more of a victory than anything else.

You straighten your posture before giving a firm nod, shifting away from the relaxed banter you nearly let slip. “Thank you, Captain.” Your voice is lighter now, but the respect is there—solid, unwavering, the way it should be when addressing him.

Levi doesn’t reply, but the flicker of acknowledgment in his expression tells you that he noticed the shift. He doesn’t need praise, doesn’t care for pleasantries, but he does expect discipline.

And you do respect him—his authority, his position, the sheer presence he carries that makes the rest of the squad tread carefully around him. That weight isn’t something you take lightly.

With your decision made, you turn on your heel and make your way back toward the barracks, catching the eyes of a few cadets as you pass. Some of them look at you like you’ve just done something insane, while others avoid making eye contact entirely, as if speaking to Levi so casually might have put you on a death sentence.

When you step back into the barracks, Sasha and Mikasa are still exactly where you left them, Sasha now halfway through a snack she definitely didn’t have before.

Mikasa eyes you first. “Straight?”

You smirk. “Straight.”

Sasha lets out a dramatic sigh. “Of course he’d say that.”

You shrug as you make your way to the small mirror on the vanity, pulling out your comb. “Well, you did say he has high standards. Might as well follow through.”

Mikasa finishes tying the last knot on her gear before grabbing her scarf. “I don’t understand why you’d ask him in the first place.”

You glance at her through the mirror, lips twitching. “Because he’d tell me the truth, not just what I want to hear.”

Sasha hums thoughtfully. “That is true… Still, brave of you to just walk up to him like that.”

You roll your eyes, running the comb through your hair. “He’s my Captain, not some untouchable ghost. You all act like he’s going to snap my neck for asking a question.”

Sasha gives you an incredulous look. “He would if you tested him enough.”

Mikasa, though less dramatic, simply says, “You’re more comfortable with him than the rest of us are.”

You pause at that, the weight of her words settling over you.

It’s true.

The others hold Levi at a distance—not just because of his rank, but because of who he is. Humanity’s Strongest. A leader, an authority, a presence that demands respect with the sheer force of his being. You’ve seen how they sit up straighter, how they quiet down when he enters a room, how the air around him shifts the atmosphere entirely.

And yet, with you, the distance is different. You still respect him, still heed his orders, but you don’t shrink away under his stare. You step forward, meet his gaze, hold your ground—not recklessly, not without care, but with something else. Something more solid.

You shake off the thought, focusing back on your reflection as you finish smoothing down the last strand of hair.

“Well,” you say, keeping your tone light, “it’s not my fault you all look like you’ve seen a ghost whenever he’s in the room.”

Mikasa doesn’t argue, simply picking up her gear and heading toward the door. “I’ll see you outside.”

Sasha gives you one last lingering look, then grins. “If you ever do cross a line, just give me your rations before you get executed.”

You snort. “Noted.”

As Sasha follows after Mikasa, you take one last glance at yourself before heading toward the door as well, rolling your shoulders back as you mentally prepare for the day ahead.

Even if you are more comfortable with the Captain, that doesn’t mean you’ll ever forget who he is.

Levi Ackerman.

Your Captain. Your superior.

The strongest soldier alive.

And somehow, someone you can’t seem to stop seeking out.

—

The morning air is crisp as you step outside, the lingering chill of the earlier rain still clinging to the air. The ground is damp beneath your boots, the scent of wet earth and wood mixing with the sharp freshness of the wind rolling over the fields beyond the walls. The sun is beginning to break through the thinning clouds, casting golden streaks across the headquarters, its light catching on the dew that clings to the edges of the grass.

You inhale deeply, letting the coolness of it wake you up fully. The barracks are already alive with movement—cadets milling about, some heading toward training fields, others finishing up morning duties. The sound of voices, of boots against gravel, of birds stirring in the trees beyond, all mix together into the low, steady hum of a world still in motion.

Sasha and Mikasa are waiting for you a few feet away, Mikasa adjusting the straps of her gear with practiced efficiency, Sasha idly bouncing on the balls of her feet like she’s trying to generate enough energy to get through the day. She notices you first, squinting at you with exaggerated focus before nodding in approval.

“Alright, I’ll admit it. The Captain was right. The straight hair suits you.”

You snort, walking up to them. “You sound so betrayed.”

“I am betrayed,” she huffs dramatically. “But only because I wanted to be right.”

Mikasa shakes her head. “It was a practical answer. Levi only ever gives practical answers.”

You hum, knowing that’s true, but there’s something about the way he’d looked at you when he said it—how he’d assessed you with that sharp gaze of his, how he’d told you without hesitation, straighten it—that lingers in your thoughts more than it should.

But before you can dwell on it too much, the sound of boots approaching pulls your attention.

Erwin and Levi are walking through the yard, their presence commanding without effort. There’s something about the way the air shifts when they’re together—Erwin with his calm, calculated confidence, and Levi, sharp-edged and observant, moving with quiet precision.

Cadets straighten as they pass, conversations dulling slightly out of instinct, as if the weight of leadership alone is enough to pull people to attention. Even Jean, who normally has some sort of wisecrack ready, keeps his mouth firmly shut as they approach.

You, on the other hand, watch them with interest. Erwin is speaking in low tones, his expression unreadable, while Levi listens, his eyes narrowed slightly, his arms crossed as he walks in measured steps beside him.

But then, as if drawn by some unspoken pull, Levi’s gaze flickers—to you.

It’s brief, but it lingers just long enough to be intentional. A silent acknowledgment. A glance that feels heavier than just casual observation.

Your heart stirs in a way you don’t fully understand.

You don’t break eye contact right away. You hold it, just for a second longer than necessary, before nodding in quiet greeting, maintaining the formality expected of you.

Levi doesn’t nod back, but there’s a shift in his expression, something so subtle that only someone looking for it would notice. And then he looks away, back to Erwin, as if nothing had happened at all.

The moment passes, but it leaves something behind.

Mikasa notices. She doesn’t say anything, but she notices. The slight tilt of her head, the way her gaze flickers between you and Levi before she simply adjusts her gear again, tells you that much.

Sasha, however, being Sasha, definitely notices.

She leans in slightly, voice hushed but teasing. “That was a look.”

You keep your expression carefully neutral. “That was nothing.”

Sasha smirks. “Sure it was.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth spreading beneath your ribs is undeniable.

—

The morning drifts into training, the sky fully clearing as the sun rises higher, warming the damp earth below. The air is filled with the rhythmic whoosh of ODM gear, the sharp snap of cables latching onto wooden poles, the occasional grunt of effort as cadets push themselves through the drills.

You move through the routine with practiced ease, the familiar weight of your gear settling into your movements, your muscles burning in that satisfying way that comes with hard work. The wind rushes past your ears as you propel yourself forward, the world blurring for a moment before you land solidly on the next platform, inhaling sharply before launching off again.

Training days like this—ones where you can feel your strength, your skill, the sheer power of your body moving through the air—are the ones that remind you why you fight. Why you push.

You fall into rhythm with the others, weaving between them, keeping pace as you scan for your next maneuver. Jean and Eren are bickering between swings, Sasha is somehow eating mid-air, and Mikasa—unsurprisingly—is moving effortlessly, her form almost unnatural in its efficiency.

And then there’s Levi.

His presence alone changes the air.

He’s not just watching—he’s analyzing, assessing the squad with sharp, unwavering focus. His movements are controlled, effortless, the way he balances his weight even as he stands observing more a testament to his skill than anything else.

Every once in a while, he calls out adjustments. A sharp, no-nonsense command. A correction before anyone even has a chance to mess up.

And when his voice cuts through the field—low, firm, carrying more authority in a single word than most could in an entire speech—people listen.

You land solidly on a nearby platform, catching your breath for just a second before you hear it.

“Your form’s getting sloppy.”

You turn sharply.

Levi is watching you, arms crossed, gaze heavy.

You blink, surprised at first, before narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s not sloppy.”

Levi raises a brow. “You hesitated before your last swing.”

You huff, rolling your shoulders back, feeling the weight of your gear settle evenly again. “Only because Jean was in my way.”

Jean, from several feet away, throws up his hands. “Why is my name always being thrown around?”

Levi doesn’t even acknowledge him. His attention stays on you.

“You’re letting yourself get distracted,” he says evenly, gaze unwavering. “Fix it.”

Your jaw tightens slightly.

You could argue, you want to argue, but you know better. Levi doesn’t say things for the sake of it. If he’s calling you out, it’s because he knows you can do better.

And that bothers you more than anything.

You nod once, sharp. “Understood, Captain.”

Levi watches you for a second longer before giving the smallest nod of approval. And then, just like that, his attention shifts—back to the squad, back to the broader picture, back to everything else that needs his attention.

You take a slow breath before launching yourself forward again, this time sharper, faster.

And though he doesn’t look at you again, you know he’s still watching.

And that’s enough to push you harder.

—

It was the end of the short lesson as you were released for the weekend.

“Guys,” You fall back into step with the girls, absentmindedly stroking a piece of your hair, “what if he only chose straight hair because it’s more convenient, not because it necessarily looked better on me? How can I know?”

Sasha groans dramatically, throwing her arms in the air. “Oh my god, you’re still thinking about this?”

Mikasa, walking beside you with her gear slung over her shoulder, gives you a sidelong glance. “Levi doesn’t say things just to say them. If he said straight, he meant it.”

You let out a thoughtful hum, twirling a strand of your hair between your fingers. “But what if he only said it because it’s easier, not because it actually looked better?”

Sasha snorts. “Then I guess you’ll just have to change it up and see if he reacts.”

You blink at her. “What, like curl my hair next time and test his response?”

Mikasa shakes her head as if she can already see where this is going. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sasha grins mischievously. “I do.”

You narrow your eyes in thought, considering.

Mikasa sighs. “He’s our Captain, not some noble at a ballroom.”

“Exactly,” you quip, smirking. “Which means if he does notice, it’ll mean something.”

Mikasa doesn’t respond, just presses her lips into a thin line as if choosing to disengage entirely.

Sasha, however, nudges you with her elbow. “Alright, next mission: Operation Look Pretty and See if Captain Notices.”

You huff a laugh. “That is not what we’re calling it.”

Sasha grins. “Too late. It’s already official.”

Mikasa sighs again, rubbing her temple. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

You smirk but don’t push further, letting the subject drop—for now. But deep down, curiosity lingers.

Because, honestly?

You kind of do want to see if he notices.

—

“I mean, we are going out tonight to celebrate Jean’s birthday. I can accidentally slip by him with my curled hair to see his reaction…” You muse thoughtfully as you get change out of uniform and into more casual clothing, appreciating the cool breeze that hits your legs as you twirl in a skirt.

Mikasa groans, rubbing her temple like she’s already regretting being part of this conversation. “That’s ridiculous.”

Sasha, on the other hand, lights up. “No, that’s genius.”

You grin, brushing through your hair as you sit on the edge of your bed. “Is it though?”

“Yes,” Sasha says immediately. “Because listen, if Levi doesn’t care, he won’t react. But if he notices—even a little—that means he actually has an opinion on how you look.” She gestures dramatically. “And that would mean something.”

Mikasa exhales through her nose. “Or it just means he’s observant and has an opinion on everything.”

You hum thoughtfully, tying your hair into a loose ponytail for now. “That’s why it’s a test, Mikasa. For science.”

Mikasa stares at you blankly. “That is not how science works.”

Sasha claps her hands together. “Alright, so plan’s simple—tonight, you curl your hair, we go out for Jean’s birthday, and at some point, you just... happen to slip by the Captain.”

You nod, amused at how invested Sasha has become. “Exactly. Totally casual. No effort at all.”

Mikasa shakes her head, standing up and adjusting the straps on her uniform. “I’m not encouraging this. If you want to waste your time overanalyzing Levi’s non-reaction, that’s on you.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “It’s called gathering data, Mikasa.”

You laugh, standing as well. “Exactly. And besides, it’s just for fun.”

Mikasa gives you a look that says you are all insufferable, but she doesn’t argue further. Instead, she merely slings her gear over her shoulder. “I’ll meet you both outside.”

As she leaves, Sasha leans in conspiratorially. “She’s totally curious too, she just won’t admit it.”

You smirk. “Oh, definitely.”

Sasha grins. “Alright, then. Let’s make Jean’s birthday party very interesting.”

The rest of the day passes in a blur of training, chores, and preparation for the evening. By the time the sun dips low over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of soft orange and violet, the atmosphere around headquarters shifts into something lighter, more relaxed. It’s rare to have a night like this—where everyone can unwind, even just for a few hours, without the weight of duty pressing down on them.

You stand in front of the small mirror in the barracks, fingers deftly working through your hair as you curl it, piece by piece. The heat from the iron brushes against your fingertips, and you carefully shape each strand, letting the soft waves fall naturally over your shoulders.

Mikasa, seated on her bunk, pretends not to watch but definitely watches. She says nothing, but the occasional glance in the mirror’s reflection gives her away.

Sasha, on the other hand, is fully invested, sitting cross-legged on her bed and leaning forward. “Oh, yeah. This was definitely the right call.”

You smirk. “Told you.”

She grins. “You’re about to ruin a man’s whole perception of himself.”

You snort, shaking your head as you adjust the last curl. “You’re making it sound like a battle strategy.”

Sasha shrugs. “If you win, I say it counts.”

Mikasa finally sighs. “It’s ridiculous to think Levi would even care about something like this.”

You raise an eyebrow at her through the mirror. “Then there’s no harm in testing it, right?”

She presses her lips into a thin line, but doesn’t argue.

Satisfied, you stand up, smoothing your hands over your outfit—something casual but presentable, enough to blend in while still feeling put-together. The anticipation hums beneath your skin, but you shake it off, reminding yourself that this is not some grand event.

It’s just Jean’s birthday.

And Levi noticing or not noticing your hair is just... extra data.

—

The town is alive with warmth and movement, the faint glow of lanterns casting golden light against cobblestone streets. It’s a stark contrast to headquarters—where the air is always tense, where everything is lined with purpose and duty. Here, laughter spills from tavern doors, the clinking of glasses and distant music drifting through the air.

The squad gathers outside one of the better-kept taverns, waiting for stragglers before heading in. Jean stands at the center of it all, basking in the attention of his birthday, grinning as Connie pretends to give a heartfelt speech about his immense wisdom and contributions to humanity.

You laugh, rolling your eyes as you adjust your jacket. “You’re laying it on thick, Connie.”

Connie throws up his hands. “It’s his birthday, let me lie to the guy.”

Jean scoffs, shoving him lightly. “At least someone is recognizing my greatness.”

Mikasa stands beside you, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. Sasha is already trying to drag Reiner and Bertholdt into a bet over who can drink the most before passing out. The atmosphere is light, easy—exactly the kind of night you all need.

And then, just as you’re about to head inside, you feel it.

A shift.

The kind of awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You glance over your shoulder, and sure enough—Levi is approaching from the other end of the street. He’s walking with Erwin and Hange, both of whom are engaged in quiet conversation. But Levi—Levi is quiet as always, sharp eyes scanning the gathered squad as he moves.

Your heart does a stupid little lurch in your chest.

It’s not a big deal. You know that. But suddenly, every single curl feels too obvious, every strand of hair placed too deliberately.

Sasha subtly elbows you, voice low. “Showtime.”

You swallow, ignoring the ridiculousness of it all as you casually—very casually—turn your head and pretend to adjust your sleeve, making it look like you just so happen to be standing directly in Levi’s line of sight.

He slows slightly as he approaches, his eyes flickering over the group in his usual assessing way. You watch carefully, scanning for any sign of reaction—anything at all—but his face remains unreadable.

And then—his gaze lands on you.

It’s brief. Just a flicker. But something shifts.

His sharp eyes drag over your hair—not just in passing, but with intent. The tiniest hesitation, the kind that would be imperceptible to anyone not looking for it.

You hold your breath.

And then, just as quickly as it happened, it’s gone.

His expression smooths back into neutrality, his attention snapping forward again as he brushes past you with no comment, following Erwin and Hange into the tavern.

You exhale slowly, feeling the weight of Sasha’s expectant stare burning into the side of your face.

“Well?” she whispers, practically vibrating. “Did he notice?”

You press your lips together, considering.

“…He paused.”

Sasha grabs your arm. “OH, MY GOD.”

Mikasa groans, already walking ahead. “I refuse to be part of this.”

Jean, oblivious to everything, is already inside, basking in the attention of his own celebration.

You, however, linger for just a second longer, glancing at the door Levi disappeared into.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe it was everything.

But either way—he paused.

And that was more than enough.

—

The warmth of the tavern hits you the moment you step inside, a stark contrast to the cool night air outside. The scent of old wood, spiced ale, and freshly baked bread lingers in the air, mixing with the low hum of chatter and the occasional burst of laughter from a drunken patron. The flickering candlelight casts everything in a dim, golden glow, the kind that makes the edges of reality feel softer, less urgent.

Jean, reveling in the rare occasion of being the center of attention, immediately heads toward an empty table near the back, where the rest of your squad is already gathering. Connie slings an arm around his shoulders, teasing him about how old he’s getting, while Sasha is already scanning the menu, clearly prioritizing food over conversation.

You settle into a seat across from Mikasa, who looks less interested in the celebration and more like she’s simply here to make sure Eren doesn’t do anything stupid. You smirk, leaning on your elbow. “I bet you five rations Eren ends up in a bar fight before the night is over.”

Mikasa doesn’t even blink. “I’m not betting against something that’s guaranteed to happen.”

You laugh, but before you can respond, the door swings open again, and your attention flickers instinctively to the entrance.

Levi steps inside, following Erwin and Hange as they make their way toward a separate table reserved for officers. Unlike the rest of you—who have already started loosening up, the casual energy of the tavern slipping into your movements—Levi remains the same. Composed. Straight-backed. Completely unfazed by the shift in atmosphere.

But you don’t miss the way his sharp gaze subtly sweeps over the room, assessing the layout, cataloging who’s here, where the exits are. It’s instinctual, second nature. Even in a space meant for relaxation, he’s still a soldier first.

He moves toward his seat, and for a second, just a brief second, his gaze flickers in your direction.

You feel the weight of it, even from across the room.

It’s unreadable, just like before. But you know he saw.

Your heart does that stupid little skip again, and you force yourself to look away, suppressing the smug smile threatening to form on your lips.

Sasha, however, does not suppress hers. She leans in close, voice hushed but practically vibrating with excitement. “He paused again.”

You shake your head. “It could have been anything.”

“It wasn’t anything.”

Mikasa sighs, already regretting sitting next to you two. “If you two spent half this energy on training, you’d both be Captain-level by now.”

Sasha grins. “Okay, but watching this unfold is so much more entertaining.”

You roll your eyes, picking up a glass of water and taking a slow sip, hoping to calm down the unnecessary giddiness that’s settled in your chest. It’s stupid—you know it’s stupid—but something about Levi’s pause feels like a tiny, unspoken victory.

Still, you shake it off. The night isn’t about that. It’s about Jean, about unwinding, about letting yourself be a person instead of just a soldier for once.

And so, you let the conversation around you pull you in. You tease Jean about his dramatic speeches, you steal a bite of Sasha’s food when she isn’t looking, you let yourself sink into the warmth of camaraderie, the normalcy of it all.

Time moves easily, drinks are passed around, and the sound of laughter grows louder as the night wears on.

Until—

“You’re drinking too fast.”

The voice is low, firm, unmistakable.

Your muscles stiffen slightly before you even see him, but when you glance up, sure enough, Levi is standing beside you, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

Your glass, half-full with whatever cheap ale Sasha had convinced you to try, is still in your hand. You raise an eyebrow, tilting it slightly. “I’ve had one drink, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t budge. “And I’ve seen what happens when you lot get carried away.”

Around you, the others fall quiet, the easygoing atmosphere from moments ago shifting under Levi’s presence. Even Jean—who, on his own birthday, should technically be allowed to act out a little—sits up straighter, eyes flickering toward you with mild concern.

You swallow, knowing that Levi is right, that the last thing you need is to be unfocused, careless.

Still, you offer a small, placating smile. “I hear you, Captain. Don’t worry—I know my limits.”

Levi watches you for a moment longer, gaze lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. But then he exhales sharply through his nose, something between a sigh and a quiet acknowledgment, before stepping back. “Tch. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

You nod, and with that, Levi finally retreats, making his way back toward his own table.

The second he’s out of earshot, Sasha lets out a long breath. “Wow. He really keeps an eye on you, huh?”

Jean shakes his head. “I don’t know whether to feel sorry for you or be impressed you can get away with talking back.”

You roll your eyes. “I wasn’t talking back. I was just… clarifying.”

Mikasa hums. “He didn’t call anyone else out. Just you.”

That gives you pause.

You glance back toward Levi’s table, where he’s now sitting with Erwin and Hange, sipping from a teacup instead of anything stronger. His posture remains the same—composed, indifferent—but his awareness of the room is ever-present.

And maybe, just maybe, his awareness of you is a little sharper than the rest.

You turn back to your friends, shaking your head. “You’re all reading too much into it.”

Sasha smirks. “Are we?”

You don’t answer.

You just take another sip of water, ignoring the way your heart betrays you with a quiet, persistent rhythm.

—

The world feels a little softer around the edges, the golden glow of lanterns casting everything in a dreamlike haze. The warmth of the alcohol hums beneath your skin, not overwhelming, but just enough—enough to dull the weight of the past week, enough to make the music sound richer, enough to let yourself exist in the moment without overthinking it.

The tavern is alive now, laughter spilling over the strum of instruments, boots tapping against the wooden floor in time with the lively rhythm. Around you, your friends are caught up in the revelry—Connie and Sasha are engaged in some ridiculous footwork competition, Jean is attempting to twirl Historia around and failing miserably, and even Mikasa, ever composed, allows herself a small smile as she watches the chaos unfold.

And then—your hands are caught in someone else’s.

You blink, surprised, as a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy grin—takes your hand and pulls you into the movement of the dance floor. His grip is firm, his confidence easy, and before you can even register it, you’re being spun into the rhythm of the music.

You offer a polite smile, adjusting to the steps as he twirls you once, twice. He seems friendly enough, his expression open and relaxed, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in it, let yourself be just another person in a tavern, caught in the joy of the night.

But then—

His hold tightens.

Subtly, but noticeably.

His hand lingers just a little too long on your waist, his grip just a bit firmer than necessary.

Your instincts, dulled by the pleasant haze in your mind, take a moment to catch up. You keep your smile in place, but a quiet unease settles in your stomach. You try to subtly shift your weight, to create some distance between you, but he moves with you, maintaining the closeness.

A polite exit. You just need a polite exit.

You clear your throat lightly, offering a small laugh. “Alright, I think I need a break—”

The man chuckles, still holding you in place. “Come on, one more dance.”

Something in his tone makes your skin prickle—not outright threatening, but entitled, as if your willingness to dance once meant you owed him more.

Your smile tightens. “I should really—”

And then, before you have the chance to finish your sentence, the air changes.

A presence—sharp, heavy, unmistakable—settles behind you.

The man stiffens slightly, his grip loosening just enough for you to slip a step back, as a new voice cuts through the space between you, low and edged with quiet authority.

“Let her go.”

Your breath catches.

Slowly, you turn your head.

Levi stands there, expression unreadable, eyes dark and steady. His posture is relaxed—but in that way, the way that suggests he is anything but. His arms are crossed, but the tension in his shoulders is subtle, the kind you’d only notice if you knew him.

And you do.

The man—who had been all confidence and charm just moments ago—hesitates, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He sizes Levi up, as if debating whether or not to push his luck.

He makes the wrong choice.

“She was dancing with me,” the man says, lifting his hands slightly in false innocence, though his tone holds a thread of defiance. “Didn’t seem to mind.”

A sharp, quiet pause.

Levi tilts his head ever so slightly, eyes flickering between you and the man with chilling precision. His voice, when he speaks again, is calm.

“I wasn’t asking.”

The weight of those words settles between them, heavy, immovable.

Something flickers in the man’s face—hesitation, irritation, then a quiet understanding that this is not a fight he wants to pick.

With a huff, he raises his hands in surrender. “Didn’t know she had a guard dog.”

You feel Levi tense, just for a split second.

Before anything can escalate, you step forward, offering the man a sharp, polite smile. “Thank you for the dance,” you say evenly, voice firm. “But I’m done now.”

The man’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer, then finally, he scoffs and turns away, disappearing into the crowd.

The tension lingers, like a blade just barely sheathed.

You exhale slowly, turning fully toward Levi.

His gaze sweeps over you—quick, assessing, making sure you’re unharmed. When he’s satisfied, he clicks his tongue. “You need to be more careful.”

You cross your arms. “I was being careful.”

Levi raises a brow. “Didn’t look like it.”

You huff, rubbing the back of your neck. “I was handling it, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his eyes flicker over your face again, something unreadable in his expression. Then, finally—

“I know.”

It’s not an admission of fault, not quite. But it is an acknowledgment.

You blink, caught off guard by the quiet weight behind those words.

Before you can say anything, he exhales sharply and steps back. “Oi. You’re reckless.”

You smirk. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

Levi doesn’t dignify that with a response, just shakes his head. But there’s something different in the way he looks at you, something lingering beneath the usual exasperation.

Something like relief.

And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the only one who noticed the way he paused tonight.

—

“Well Captain?” You smile, laughing as you sidestep to avoid Sasha twirling with a recently hired chef that you had seen around a lot more recently. “Isn’t the gentleman supposed to offer the lady a dance? Awfully rude to step in without an intention of following through, don’t you think?”

Levi exhales sharply through his nose, unimpressed, arms still crossed as he watches you with that unreadable expression. The tavern is alive around you—figures moving in vibrant swirls of laughter and motion, the wooden floor shaking beneath the weight of stomping boots, the rich hum of music weaving through the air.

But here, in this moment, it’s just you and him.

You smirk, tilting your head. “Come on, Captain. You can’t step in all dramatic like that and not at least pretend to play along.”

Levi doesn’t move, but there’s something assessing in his gaze, something like quiet calculation behind those steel-gray eyes. You wonder if he’s thinking of an escape, a way to dismiss you with one of his usual deadpan remarks.

But then—

A hand.

Not grabbing, not demanding—just a simple extension. A silent answer.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s brief, just a flicker of hesitation before his fingers brush yours, just enough to take your hand without giving anything away. His grip is firm, but there’s a carefulness to it, as if he’s aware of the weight behind the action, of the unspoken shift in the space between you.

And then—he moves.

Not in the showy, exaggerated way the others are throwing themselves into the music, but in a way that’s purely Levi—sharp, controlled, precise. His grip on your hand remains steady as he guides you through the steps, his other hand finding the small of your back, light but firm.

For a second, you forget everything else.

The alcohol, the laughter, the blurred movement of the world around you—it all fades into something distant, something inconsequential compared to the quiet gravity of him.

His touch is careful but certain, his movements seamless despite the clear reluctance in his expression. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable—it’s just that Levi Ackerman is not a man who does things without purpose.

And yet, here he is, following through.

You smile, leaning in just slightly, voice barely above the hum of the music. “See? Not so bad, is it?”

Levi scoffs lightly. "You’re lucky I haven’t stepped on your feet.”

You laugh—really laugh, the warmth of it bubbling up in your chest, light and unrestrained. The sound earns you the barest flicker of something in his eyes—not quite amusement, but something close.

The moment stretches, neither of you breaking the rhythm, neither of you pulling away.

And for the first time that night, you’re certain of one thing:

Levi definitely noticed your hair.

The music swells around you, a lively, unrelenting current of sound and motion, but you barely register it. The tavern, the laughter, the blur of bodies dancing past—it all becomes background noise, a distant hum compared to the quiet weight of the moment unfolding between you and Levi.

His hand is steady against yours, his grip firm but never forceful. His other hand, resting lightly at the small of your back, holds no urgency, no demand—just quiet control, a careful presence. He moves with you in that same effortless way he fights—with intention, with precision, with the kind of quiet mastery that makes even the smallest of gestures feel deliberate.

And yet, for all his competence, you can feel the reluctance in him.

Not reluctance toward you, necessarily. But toward the situation. Toward the ease with which he’s letting this happen.

Toward the fact that he is here, dancing with you, indulging this moment when he so rarely indulges anything.

You can see it in the tension just barely visible in his shoulders, in the way his jaw ticks subtly, as if his own body is surprised by the fact that he’s still holding onto you.

You press your lips together, suppressing a smirk. “You’re concentrating too much.”

Levi exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “I don’t dance.”

“You’re dancing right now.”

“Tch. You call this dancing?”

You grin, leaning in just enough that your words are meant only for him. “Well, you are holding me awfully close for someone who doesn’t dance, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t react immediately, doesn’t pull away or push you off with a sharp remark like you half-expect him to. Instead, his grip subtly adjusts—not tightening, not loosening, but shifting in a way that tells you he’s aware.

Aware of the closeness. Aware of the way your breath brushes faintly against his collar. Aware of the warmth of your body so near to his own.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you feel it—that minuscule shift in his fingers against yours, in the way his hand remains steady at your back, holding you just at the edge of something uncertain.

He doesn’t break the eye contact you didn’t even realize you had been holding.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, voice low, almost lost beneath the sound of music and laughter around you.

You smile. “And yet, here you are.”

Levi exhales, his thumb grazing the back of your hand as he adjusts his grip—so small a movement, so imperceptible, that you wonder if he even realizes he did it.

Or if he does, and just isn’t stopping himself.

The room spins slightly—not from the alcohol, not from the movement, but from the sheer weight of the moment, from the impossible tenderness that exists in the spaces between words, in the breaths you don’t take, in the lingering warmth of a touch that neither of you are pulling away from.

And for the first time since you pulled him into this, you realize something.

You’re testing him.

Not just to see if he noticed your hair, not just to push his limits, but to see if he will choose to let this moment exist.

If he will choose to let himself stay.

Your heart pounds as you take a breath. “Levi—”

A crash from the other side of the room interrupts you, followed by loud, drunken shouting.

Levi’s body tenses immediately, his hand at your back twitching as his head whips toward the commotion. The moment between you shatters instantly, replaced by sharp awareness, by the cold snap of duty.

He doesn’t say a word. He just lets go.

The loss of his touch is instant, like stepping into cold air after being wrapped in warmth. The shift is so sharp, so complete, that it almost makes you doubt whether the moment you just shared was real at all.

Levi steps back, his expression neutral again, unreadable as he scans the room, already assessing.

You swallow, forcing yourself to do the same—to shake it off, to pretend like your pulse isn’t still pounding in your ears, like the ghost of his hands on you isn’t still lingering on your skin.

He glances back at you, his gaze flickering over you once, checking—like he’s making sure you’re still steady, still standing, before he turns his attention back to the rest of the room.

“Stay here,” he mutters. And then, just like that, he’s gone, moving toward the source of the disturbance with the same effortless sharpness that makes him humanity’s strongest.

You watch him go, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The music carries on, the tavern keeps spinning, but you remain rooted in place, heart still racing, the memory of his warmth still imprinted on your skin.

And for the first time tonight, you realize—

You don’t need Levi to say that he noticed you.

Because in the way he held onto you, even for just a moment—he already did.

—

You scan the room to see if any of your friends are in danger. After seeing them slowly making their way back to the corner table, you bunch up your skirt before striding across the room to Erwin. "Commander, what is it? Where's Captain? Squad Leader Hange? What are my orders, sir?"

You stand unflinching before him, but your heart beats thunderously, unsure of where the Captain went and if he'll be okay.

Erwin’s sharp blue eyes flicker down to you as you approach, his expression unreadable but steady, as always. The weight of command rests on his shoulders like a mantle, effortless in the way only a man like him can carry. He does not startle, does not seem surprised that you’ve come to him first, as if he expected you would.

His gaze scans over the tavern, over the shifting figures of soldiers and civilians alike, before settling back on you. “It was just a minor scuffle,” he says, voice calm, deliberate. “A few drunk patrons getting too comfortable around our cadets. Captain Levi and Squad Leader Hange are handling it.”

Your fingers tighten slightly against the fabric of your skirt, heart still hammering in your chest. “Should I assist?”

Erwin studies you for a fraction longer than necessary before speaking. “No. The situation is under control.” A pause. “But it’s good that you came to me first.”

Your lips press together, trying to steady yourself. “It’s my duty.”

Erwin gives the smallest nod, an unspoken acknowledgment that you understand what it means to be a soldier, even in moments like this. Even with your pulse still thrumming from something that has nothing to do with a threat.

You inhale sharply, eyes flickering toward the direction Levi disappeared. “Where did Captain Levi go?”

“He’s outside.” Erwin’s voice remains as even as ever, but something in the way he watches you is too perceptive, too knowing. “Ensuring the situation is fully resolved.”

Your stomach twists, but you keep your stance firm. “Permission to check on him, sir?”

A pause.

Not hesitation, not refusal—just assessment.

Then, Erwin gives the faintest tilt of his chin. “Go.”

You don’t waste a second.

—

The cold air hits you as soon as you step outside. The tavern’s warmth is instantly swallowed by the crisp night breeze, the scent of rain still lingering from the earlier drizzle. Lanterns flicker dimly against the darkness, casting long, stretching shadows over the cobblestone streets.

And then—you see him.

Levi stands a few paces ahead, his back to you, his posture rigid but controlled. Even from here, you can see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides, how his head tilts just barely, listening to something unseen.

There’s a man at his feet—conscious but slumped against the wall, groaning, as if the fight had been drained out of him in an instant.

Levi had taken care of it. Of course he had.

But you don’t care about the drunk.

You care about him.

You step forward, boots tapping against stone, and his head immediately shifts at the sound. He doesn’t fully turn—doesn’t have to. He already knows it’s you.

“Captain.��� Your voice is steadier than your pulse. “Are you alright?”

For a moment, Levi doesn’t respond. He exhales slowly through his nose, a habit you recognize—one he does when he’s recalibrating, shifting from fight to stillness.

Then, at last, he turns.

The dim lantern light catches against the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the slight furrow between his brows, the tension still visible in the line of his jaw. His uniform is slightly rumpled from movement, but there’s no sign of injury—no blood, no bruising, just Levi, standing in the quiet aftermath of something already finished.

He studies you for a moment, eyes scanning—searching, checking—as if making sure you’re still in one piece.

“Tch.” He clicks his tongue, looking away. “You should be inside.”

You step closer, searching his face. “So should you.”

Levi exhales, the barest hint of exasperation beneath the breath. “Did Erwin send you?”

You shake your head. “I came on my own.”

At that, something flickers in his expression. Not surprise—more like quiet understanding.

Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, unsure of what to say, unsure if there’s anything to say that he’ll actually listen to. So instead, you just—watch him.

The lines of his face, the way the dim glow of lanterns traces the edges of his expression, how his eyes—normally so impassive—seem darker under the weight of the night.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then—

“You’re shaking.”

It’s so quiet that you almost miss it.

You blink. “What?”

Levi’s gaze flickers to your hands, and you realize, belatedly, that he’s right—your fingers are trembling, ever so slightly, still buzzing with the leftover adrenaline from the evening.

You open your mouth to dismiss it, to say something lighthearted, to wave it off as nothing, but—

Levi moves first.

His hand—warm, calloused, steady—reaches out. He doesn’t take yours, doesn’t grip your wrist, but he touches. A brush of fingertips against your knuckles, a fleeting connection, just enough to ground you in place.

Your breath catches.

It lasts only a second.

Then, just as quickly, he pulls away, as if realizing what he did, as if catching himself before he lingers too long.

You swallow, staring at him.

“Go inside,” he murmurs, voice quieter than before.

Your heart is still hammering, but it’s not from the cold anymore.

“…You’re sure you’re okay?” you ask, softer this time.

Levi holds your gaze, something unreadable in his own.

Then, with the barest tilt of his chin—

“I’m fine.”

And this time, you believe him.

[miss-cincaide]

Tell The Difference

Summary: Your boyfriend, Yuji, decides to play a little prank on you by dressing up as his cousin for the halloween party, fake tattoos and all. But what happens when you actually can’t tell the difference between them? How will they punish you for it?  Pairing: Fem! Reader x Bf! Yuji X Sukuna  Kinktober prompt 4: Costumes  WC: 2 K Warnings: Alcohol consumption/ drunk, threesome, split-roasting (BJ, p in v), unprotected sex, nipple and dick piercing (because we know Sukuna got those), punishments (orgasm denial),

“Yuuuuji” You’re voice is loud, obnoxiously so as you throw your arms around the suit-clad pink haired idiot from behind. The very idiot that had left you alone for most of the Halloween party with only a bunch of newbie frat boys and girls and a ton of alcohol to amuse yourselves with. It was just shy of midnight, new people arriving and yet you and your little group were half a shot away from passed out drunk. “Yooou’re late, I missed you!”

“Gah get off me, Woman” Sukuna growls flinging you over his shoulder and into the bed beside himself before returning back to the mirror he was at, going straight back to adjusting his appearance the way he was  before you went beer hug on him. 

You gasp, then burst into a fit of giggles as you land beside his almost-identical look alike. Same hair, same tattoos, the only thing missing is the yet-to-be-worn black suit jacket which hangs against the back of a nearby chair. And the tie is undone; Yuji’s fingers are unusually clumsy as he desperately tries, and fails, to tie the tie properly.  

You blink up from your spot in the bed, rub at  your eyes, then shift your gaze from the two almost identical men. You rub your eyes again, then huff in annoyance. “Why are there two Sukuna?” 

“Babe!” “Wrech!” They cry, the one closest to you unmistakably calls you babe. His voice is softer, affectionate and pouty. The other just glares murderous dargers at you from the reflection in the mirror. At first it seems obvious which is which, but you also wouldn’t put it past your boyfriend to try and trick you for the fun of it. 

Sukuna may not be into pranks and games as his cousin, but he is also not the type to pass up an opportunity to annoy or embarrass you. The more humiliating the memory, the more Sukuna will get behind it, so he can torture you with it for all of eternity, or at least, across every family dinner to come. 

You sit up, cross your arms over your chest and stare at the two men cautiously. 

“C’mooon don’t look like that, hey, babe” The one beside you, who awfully sounds like Yuji, whines and leans in to plant a kiss on your lips. You hold up your hand at last second and he plants a big smooch on the palm of your hand. “Babe!” 

“ Don’t think so, Sukuna” You glare darkly, your eyes move away from the shocked pink head still kissing your hand to the one standing by the mirror, the one with a wide grin on his lips. “I’m not falling for that one, Yuji.” 

Sukuna’s grin grows wider. A row of perfectly white teeth glimmer back at you in an almost predatory fashion. As if you’ve just admitted your biggest weakness and flaw in one breath.

 “You’re one stupid woman, brat.” He pushes himself away from the mirror and walks towards the door of the bedroom you were in, glared at the horny youths about to enter before slamming, and locking the door in their faces. Leaving just the three of you in the room. 

You don’t get to ponder for long why he did that as Yuji draws your attention with his almost signature whine. “You’re serious aren’t you, Y/N?” his voice is laced with shock and disbelief. “You really can’t see the difference between us like this?!” 

Your gaze shifts between Yuji and Sukuna, then back to Yuji and back to Sukuna, your eyes trails their bodies. Both are very well trained, both about the same shade of tan after a ton of time outside. Both dressed in the same clothes, and both sprouting the only way you’d distinguish them; the tattoos. The tiny differences, like the fact that Sukuna is an inch or two taller, and has a sharper jawline and larger mouth, are so small it's difficult for your drunken mind to keep them apart. You could tell by the voice, but when they were silent, you were at a total loss. 

Defeated, you shake your head. A pitiful ‘no’ leaves your lips, and you feel like the worst girlfriend in existence. You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice the predatory stalk they do towards you, stopping at the edge of the bed in front of you. 

“That's so, woman?” You hear Sukuna speak, and glance up just in time to meet his lips. He is rough as he kisses you, tongue pushes past your lips and steals your breath away. You're frozen completely until he pulls away. 

“Wha-” You’re cut off by another set of lips. Just as passionate but less forceful. They move against you in rhythm, nipping and sucking on your bottom lip until you’re completely dizzy and out of breath. When he pulls back you blink, sitting stunned, trying to process what happened. The both of them grin down at you, waiting for your reaction. Your eyes flicker from one to the other, knowing that one of them is your boyfriend and the other, your boyfriend's cousin. You expect to see which one, to see a flicker of anger or jealousy or even hurt, but all you see are two sets of eyes full of mischief.  “Again?”  

The words barely leave your lips before they're on you. Sukuna’s lips on yours, hard and demanding. His hands go straight to your tits, fondling them through the thin material of your cat costume. Yuji climbs on the bed behind you, maneuvers you up on your knees then presses his front to your back. His hands run up and down your sides, his lips on your neck, nipping in just the right places to leave you moaning. 

Fuck what did you get yourself into?

You aren’t sure. You aren’t even sure you care at this point as your hands wander Sukuna's body. Like this, up close, you can tell the difference. Your fingers linger on his chest, circle his nipples a few times before you break the kiss. “Y-you’ve got nipple piercings?” 

“ Tsk, not the only thing pierced babe” Sukuna growls his hand yanking your head up back towards his lips. 

“Can I see?” you mumble shyly against his lips. Sukuna growls, half in displeasure, half in arousal. Then he pulls back, just long enough to shrug off the black suit jacket onto the floor and rip open the white button down. 

Yuji pauses mid-hickey making, sending his cousin a glare. “Oj that was an expensive one, you know” 

“ Heeh, that shit? I’ll get you ten times better brat” Sukuna scoffs before making a motion towards you. The next thing you know, your fuzzy cat-suit top and latex bra underneath goes off you and to the floor. 

You yelp, try to cover yourself up but Sukuna stops you, grasps both your hands in one of his. His free one goes to one tit, his mouth on the other. He sucks, and you moan, throwing your head back until it lands on Yuji’s shoulder. “Holy shit ahh!” You tremble, your mind focused on the lips, hands and teeth that are all over you. Yuji making hickeys just the way you like it, Sukuna turning your tits on fire, fuck, their joint attention goes straight to your core. 

Another moan and you’re rubbing your thighs together. Just a little fricking is all you need, just a little–

“Feel good baby?” Yuji asks a hint of uncertainty in his voice, and you let out a low hum of agreement, craning your neck just enough to press a kiss to his cheek. A second later Sukuna has your attention again, drawing out another damned moan from your lips. Yuji grins behind you, his hands on your thighs tighten. “You still can’t tell the difference between us, Babe?” he breathes in your ear, his teeth nip on your earlobe when you don’t reply directly. 

Your eyes flicker down to Sukuna sucking and loving your other breast, then to Yuji’s hands stroking up and down your thighs, the temporary tattoos on his hands beginning to crack, making it so very obvious it's him. 

“N-no” You lie through your teeth because damn you aren’t fucking ready to stop, dress and go back to the god damn drunken Halloween party as if nothing happened. 

“First you can’t tell the difference between your boyfriend and his cousin; now you’re lying. I think you’re begging to be punished by us, Y/N” Yuji’s hands leave your thighs, in fact he’s practically not touching you. A second later Sukuna is gone and you whine, your mind finally registering his words. 

“P-punishment?” You ask, raising your head from his shoulder and turning your body to face Yuji. You catch a glimpse of his smile, a quick kiss, before he pushes your body forward on your hands and knees, towards Sukuna’s raging cock. 

Your eyes widen at the sight of it, eyes locked on the two silver balls at the tip of his cock, an unmistakable piercing. Your mouth drops open, mind drawing a blank on how you’d even approach that. 

“Suck it, woman” Sukuna snaps, hand tangles in your hair and dips your head forward, his cock thrusting up past your tense lips. He curses, driving himself deeper and you gag, eyes watering. His grip on your hair tights, a shit-eating grin on his lips as he pulls out just enough to give you a breath, then thrusts in, a little gentler this time. You run your tongue over the metal piercing, rolling it and he fucking moans.  

“Yes babe, just like that, show him what your tongue can do” Yuji urges you on. You feel him shift on the bed to the point the entire thing, and you bounce, your head bobbing up and down with each bounce. Another second, then you gasp loudly as he tears through your stockings. 

“I’ll get you ten times better ones!” Yuji echoes Sukuna’s words as he spreads your legs a little wider. His fingers reach out, trailing out your leaking pussy a few times. Then he pushes in. 

You throw your head back with a loud, “Oh yes!” your orgasm building quickly.

“Fucking woman, focus” Sukuna hisses thrusting your head back down towards his throbbing cock. “Just like that, yeah, keep sucking it. Good girl. Oj brat, slow down, Don’t wanna tire her out before the punishment is over, ehh?” 

“Oh, right, sorry”  And just like that, Yuji pulls out, leaving you gaping and empty. Then pushes back in a tiny bit, just the tip, that does nothing to dull your need. If anything, it makes it fucking worse. 

You’re sobbing, frustrated tears well up in your eyes as your pussy begs for friction, just a little is all you need to get off. You spread your legs wider, bucking your hips trying to get Yuji’s cock all the way inside you again. Then you whine around Sukuna’s dick still rocking your mouth, the hand in your hair keeping you firmly in place. You lose it, then tremble in relief as he finally pushes a little deeper inside you, filling you painfully slowly. Yuji leans over you, to mutter in your ear in an unfamiliar almost sadistic tone that’s enough to make you gush.

“Shh shh shh baby, it’s okay, hey. We’ll take good care of you soon. You just have to tell honestly; do you know who’s who?”   

You want to answer him, you really do, but Sukuna’s cock in your mouth keeps you from speaking. Your silence lands you into another torturous- delicious punishment that makes you certain you’ll always lie and say you can’t tell the difference between them. 

Author note: I know you thought of it too, admit it, those two are dangerous but delicious~ Thank you for reading and hope to see you on the next kinktober fic as well!

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[thesassypadawan]

Nurse Stephen, Mr. Glass (Stephen x FemReader)

Summary:  You’ve been begging your boyfriend for a boo basket for Halloween this year and he certainly didn’t disappoint…

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there sooo much of the smut.  Switch, sub/dom nerd, adorable nurse, handy, fun from behind, and… Stephen’s cute, big dick.

Notes: Happy Kinktober all you, lovelies! 🖤🧡

- Slowly you shed your clothes.  Wicked smile spreading across your face.  Eyes hungrily looking him up and down, taking in the ghoulishly delightful sight before you…   

- Dozens of flickering candles and pumpkin lights, placed and strung throughout the room.  All your favorite candies lay scattered on the bed, along with… 

- Your sweet boy…sat patiently waiting on his knees… faint dusting of pink on his cheeks…dressed up in the skimpiest, most darling nurse costume…cute, chubby cock peeking out and leaking from underneath the skirt…big bow tied and knotted at its base…  “You…you've been BO-BOO'd."

- “Awe, baby,” you coo, coming to kneel before Stephen.  Your hands resting on his firm chest; giving each pec a gentle squeeze through the thin, sheer fabric.  Length bobbing in response, a soft whimper falling from his plump lips.  “I love it…the perfect little treat.”

- “Real…really?”  He stammers, watching your fingers intently as they descend.  Fiddling with the red laces, the top of his thigh-high.  Snapping the lacey band, drawing out a small squeak.  “You d-do?”

- Leaning forward, pressing a kiss to his nose.  “Yeah, such a thoughtful gift…”  Loosely you wrap them, slide your thumb over the prominent veins that lace around his girth.  Stroking slowly, pausing at his flushed, pretty pink tip.  To spread, coat it in the glistening beads; adding a glob of your own spit for extra measure.  “…such a good boyfriend.”

- “I t-try.”  The words come out more like a groan; adam’s apple bobbing deliciously, tantalizing.  From the sensation of you picking up the pace, grip tightening.  Slick sound of saliva and pre against your palm filling the air, while it drips down…splatters on the sheets and assorted confectionaries below…along with your own juices.  “Just want t-to make you hap-happy.”

- “Doing a great job,” you praise.  Reveling in the way his head tilts to the side.  Brow knits in pleasure, covered in a light sheen of sweat.  Mouth hanging agape, the most darling pants coming from him.  “Always.”

- Warm breath ghosts over his neck, lips and tongue trails across his salty skin.  Nipping, sucking in those sensitive spots that have him gasping…hips bucking, seeming to seek out more friction.  “I…I…”

- Hearing the strain in his voice, feeling him twitch in your hand.  It’s easy to tell that he’s close, about to go crashing over the edge.  And he’s been so well behaved, so generous.  You decide to…

- Fingers tug at the bow, trying to free his dick…  “That’s it, cum for mommy.  You deserve it after being such a good boy.”  But just as it was about to come undone…

- He snaps…

- Hooking his arms under your legs, he tosses you onto the bed.  Squeak of surprise escaping you while he manhandles, turns you around so that you lay on your stomach.  Roughly yanks up your hips, holds them even…flush with his. Fat tip prodding, poking at your soaked core.  “Baby, what are you-”

- “Shut up, I say when we’re done,” he growls low.  One hand slapping your ass hard; making it bounce and ripple.  The other winding, squeezing the back of your neck…cutting off your air supply slightly.  “And we’re far from it.”

- Slamming into you, Stephen doesn’t give you a moment to adjust.  Thrusting fast and punishing.  So deeply that you he seems impossibly larger…like he’s splitting you open on his cock.

- Desperately, you suck in every breath you can.  Only managing a constant stream of broken mewls and cries instead.  Practically punching them from your lungs as he pounds mercilessly, hits that small bundle of nerves over and over.  The heat in your stomach pooling, rising up…the coil growing incredibly tight.  “I…I…”

- “That’s it, cum for daddy…”  He mocks, pressing your face more firmly against the mattress.  Stray pieces of chocolate melting underneath, sticking to your cheek.  “You deserve it after being such a good girl…”

- A strangled moan flies from your throat, walls clench and clamp down on him.  As waves of blinding pleasure come crashing over you…as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm.  Speed increasing, drives become more brutal.

- Weakly, you whimper.  Fisting the stained sheets, body trembling.  Second release quickly approaching.  “Dad-daddy, I…I…”

- Gripping your neck harder, stars start to fill your vison.  “Love your perfect little treat?  I know…”  Head swims, tears prick at the corners of your eyes.  “You’re going to keep loving it all night long, until you’re sore…numb.  Until Mr. Glass is through with you…”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @wifeofasith, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @adorbzliz, @sythethecarrot, @divineani, @decaffeinatedunicorn, @fuckmyskywalker, @jediavengers, @anisangeldust, @fredswrite

[hexwhore]

HIII BRIIII I’m so excited you’re doing this AUGHH Smooch kiss

How about 148 + trans Viktor? 👀

Yee-haw baby, your wish is my command 🧚‍♂️🤠

Tags/Warnings: 18+, Trans!Viktor x G!N Reader, modern flavored, public sex, shotgunning the devil's lettuce, frottage. Terms used for Viktor: Tits (pre-op, pierced), cunt.

The split vinyl groans as he levers himself up, felt more than heard. Sounds get lost beneath the mixtape of chatter and heavy reverb, bass like a second heartbeat. You catch the raw hem of his sweater, tugging, shouting, asking: “Where are you going?”

“To smoke,” you read off his lips, invited to slide out of the booth and follow him through the humid churn of darkly dressed bodies. He leads you deeper into the bar, shouldering into the drop-ceiling, checker-tiled bathroom. But this isn’t new, and while you may snort, there’s nothing to say. It’s not as if he’s going where you won’t follow. 

In the second stall, farthest from the door, Viktor props open the inset window like a nimble-fingered expert. And he is—at avoiding the aching cold. He’s considerate about it, nonetheless; convinced that the scent of his vape is present enough to be off-putting, though you hardly ever smell a thing. 

Music melts through the plaster walls, the pulse running through your companionate silence. There is only you, hitched on the sink’s edge, ankles crossed, and him, leaning neatly against the wall, taking a meditative drag from the pen between his fingers. 

You watch his head fall back against the tile and have to wonder: “You wanna go home?” 

“No,” seeps out with his exhale, angled out the window. “I only needed an intermission. This is… fun.”

Your brow lifts.

“I’m having fun.” And his lithe little smile is earnest enough that you believe him. 

Your eyes drift to the door, returning a smile of your own—this one wry. “Not as much as them,” the undisputed champions of PDA, of course. Last you saw, Caitlyn had her hands in Vi’s patchy black, spray-dyed hair, and they were getting hot and heavy in front of the sound booth like the main characters of emo night at The Last Drop. 

“Mm.” He offers out the vape, drawing you off the sink and into the stall. “Their definition seems somewhat different.” 

“Not that different,” you shrug, plucking it from his cold fingers. “Just less subtle.” 

The shade of interest that darkens his eyes certainly is, something warm sparking to life between your bodies inching closer. You meant it to be heady, but your slow pull, holding his stare, is not as pretty and graceful as his had been. It tickles at first before the burn in your throat, your lungs, registers. Makes you sputter into your arm like you’re green as he takes the pen back—the cheap one that runs too hot—with a soft laugh.

“I forgot to charge the good one,” he apologizes, touch soothing over your shoulder. 

With one final cough and your watery eyes wiped, you begin to step back and grieve the ruined moment. (Which, yes, is completely his fault.) 

But his hand fits to the curve of your jaw. “A solution,” he murmurs as he shapes his mouth around the intake, and you follow the intimate thread of his logic. He breathes in, you breathe out. He leans back, you crowd closer. And when he seals to your lips, in accordance with this tidal push and pull, you drink deep of that earthy vapor and let his breath pool in your lungs. 

You pull away, barely able to exhale, before he’s hauling you back by the jacket and licking into your mouth like he wants to taste your teeth. You have the good sense to fumble the door closed, catching a split, smudged second of yourself in the mirror, framed in the stall, tangling into him.

Viktor pants into your mouth, and your hands grope beneath his sweater, eliciting a breathy, “Fuck,” out of him. His tits are subtle and sensitive, malleable in your hands like supple dough—a  harsh contrast to the ball-capped bars lanced through the center of each.  

“Don’t make too many noises or we’ll get caught,” you hush, as if thumbing his steel shot nipple helps. 

His jaw falls open, throat cinching around a fractured sound. Still, licking his spit-slick lips, he manages to chide, “That’s part of the thrill,” urging his chest into your hands for more. 

But you want more too. 

More takes shape to be his long, bird-boned arm draped over your shoulders, his pants shoved down and the thick, crude smell of sweat and slick in your nose; it is your grip on his narrow hips, at once setting the pace and letting yourself be used. His dark hair bobs starkly against the white tile, silver earrings glinting—all in the periphery of your focus. Because when you’re not watching him rut bare against your thigh, his swollen cunt catching and dragging when it meets skin through the rips in your dark jeans...

You can’t stop looking at his hand, clapped over his own mouth.

[peachypine]

the roomies!!! i originally designed this ososan oc trio in full about a year ago to write on an rp blog. it's not really active rn, but i still want to talk and post about 'em, so here they are! just basic rundowns, but i'd be curious to hear which one (if any) is your fav of the three (feel free to leave it in the tags?? if u want!)

bonus transparent of them all together:

aaand some rambling under the cut about their designs

anzu:

i wanted to use orange as a character colour bc it's one that wasn't already used in the matsu rainbow, and i had a concept of a gyaru character named anzu kicking around in my head for a long time as well, so here we are. miwa from the mixer ep inspired the eyeshadow (orange rather than miwa's blue obv, to keep with her colour theme) and delinquent totoko's design inspired her ombre dyejob! i went with a blonde-to-orange look as a nod to anzu's namesake fruit (apricot).

the strands framing her face are split into 3 sections at the end (2/3 are grouped together and 1/3 flips in the other direction) which is a little nod to her being one of 3 siblings (eldest), as well as the "三" character used in her surname (mikado) meaning 3. the rest of her hairstyle is just because i thought it looked cute, though.

ososan's style is more simplified, but i wanted to convey makeup that was a little bold, but cute (long false lashes, eyeshadow, & and a soft pink or nude glossy lip). clothing-wise, she mixes and matches a few different substyles (agejo and onee are prominent, with some ane, tsuyome, and general old school gal influences as well?), with a particular fondness for animal prints, esp. tiger print. (that said, orange tiger print doesn't seem all that common in gyaru clothes, so in-universe i like to think that the top pictured above was originally a black-and-white zebra(?) stripe print she thrifted and dyed at home--close enough!)

her nails day to day are usually medium length since she has a lot of hobbies that involve her hands and anything longer makes those things a bit more cumbersome. sometimes they're decoden/bedazzled, sometimes they're just painted a cute colour/pattern, depends on the day! and i think she opts for press-ons over extensions for longer nails, since it's cheaper.

ran:

i'm just a bitch who loves purple, that's the reason for this one. i think the hime cut with shorter bangs is nice because you can showcase the eyebrows (i think eyebrows can really elevate a character design so i gave all 3 their own brow shape) without worrying about the lines for the eyebrows and bangs intersecting in an annoying way when you draw it. i like shorter, slightly sharp eyebrows like these because they're easy to draw, lol. i think they're usually furrowed like she's displeased with something, but that may just be her resting face. i also thought this blunter, sharper-looking cut (bold, standoffish) was a fun contrast to anzu's flippy half-updo (bright, bouncy) and yuzu's short, wavy hair (languid, relaxed).

5 piercings on each ear (2 spiked helix & 3 lobe) = 5 siblings including ran (4 older brothers). the other reason for this number of piercings was that her namesake flower (orchid) had--i thought--5 petals, but as it turns out i'm a fool, it's actually 3 petals (including the lip) and 3 sepals??? ah, well.

clothing-wise, influences from various punk/vkei styles alongside some rokku gyaru. (maybe anzu introduced her to this one?) this brash style is the total inverse of how she was expected to dress growing up. (when she and anzu first met, she was an OL with no piercings, undyed hair, and positively miserable, but that was a number of years ago now.) i'm really not reinventing the wheel with "small and angry", but y'know, we have fun here.

yuzu:

is teal distinct enough from blue to count as its own colour? i think so. for yuzu, i really loved the concept of a deadpan-looking character who is very much not the straightman, who in fact wants very badly to be the funnyman 99% of the time. that kind of straight-faced but silly comedic character is always really fun to me.

half-lidded/heavy-lidded eyes paired with thick brows are always a winner to me fsr, and i wanted to give her a more "handsome" looking face with a bit more of a defined jaw than you typically see on women in ososan. as a treat. i wanted her to look a bit like a mysterious prettyboy, but she's not actually mysterious, she's just a space cadet. (and very straightforward about her thoughts and feelings, saying them with little fuss or thought.) expectation vs reality, people deciding what you're like based on their own perception vs what you're actually like, etc. etc.

i don't have anything deep to say about her hairstyle, but maybe that's how yuzu would like it, what you see is what you get. (again, eyebrows vs hair... let that eyebrow scar that i gave her for no reason shine.) as for clothing, she prefers things that are easy to move around in, so her style is the most "matsuno"-like (t-shirts, hoodies, basketball shorts, sweats, etc.). in particular, she likes shirts with phrases, usually in english, that are funny or almost make sense but not quite ("for background visual gags" and "for the english speakers in the audience").

[azsazz]

Equinox

Kinktober Day 29: Eris x Reader [Throne Sex]

Summary: Anon Req: Ooo what about eris x reader public sex on his throne?

Warnings: Smut, oral (m receiving), dom x sub dynamics, exhibitionism, (mentioned voyeurism)

Word Count: 2,510

_________________________________________

Eris is thoughtful with his steps, as if he knows you’ve struggled all night in the tight, tall heels making your feet ache. You clutch the skirts of your elegant emerald dress, head turned towards the ground as you watch your steps, trying not to trip. You look nothing as Eris does, with his learned grace, gliding up the stairs how only one from a royal family would. Your cheeks burn hot with a blush, humiliated already at the fact that someone with a status just above farmhand would be his chosen for the night.

You can feel the eyes staring holes into your back. Jack—who escorted you on your fathers behalf—watches from his spot on the outskirts of the room, copper chalice brimmed with hearty wine clutched tightly in his fist. If he were a higher fae, he’d be burning this place to the fucking ground.

Peeking through the curtain of your hair, you note that Eris’ brothers have already started in on the fun. Pyrolas sits on his throne, females perched on the arm of each chair. There’s a male on the floor between his knees, and you can hear him begging the Autumn heir to unleash his cock from his trousers.

One Eris’ other side is Conleth. Third born, he’s the most docile of the group. You’ve heard him to be wicked with his fingers, drawing the string of his bow with such precision he could kill from a mile away. Even he seems to be participating in the equinox traditions, though the flush to his cheeks and gleam to his auburn gaze tells you that he’d needed the liquid courage to be knuckle deep in the naked male he has grinding on his lap. Lucky for him and his brothers, Beron has retired for the night, and they can claim whom they please.

A throne down from Conleth is Oakland. Ever the strategist like his oldest brother, he’s still scouring the crowd, searching for the perfect person to spend the evening with. He sits tall in his chair, body rigid, but not with confidence. You can see right through his façade. He’s nearly trembling with nerves, you can see it in the way his fingers are curled around the arms of his chair. 

His eyes meet yours and you flinch. You’re not used to meeting any of their fiery gazes, let alone more than one.

Finally at the top of the dais, Eris turns, sitting down in his seat. The way that he’s able to look down at you despite being taller than him makes a shiver wrack your spine, and the corner of his mouth tilts upwards. 

His fingers are still intertwined with yours, and he gives them a gentle sway, trying to gain your attention although he already has it, has had it since you’d stepped into the room for the Autumnal Equinox.

“On your knees, fawn.” His tone is rough, tightening the collar of your dress. Fires rage high in hearths, almost licking the rich curtains draping from ceiling to floor. The room isn’t stifling because of that, though, but because of the magic in the air, the powers of the Autumn Equinox in full effect throughout the Court’s lands. 

You can feel that heat between your legs, wetting your panties. Your skin itches with the need to be touched, to be claimed. Rapt music glides through the air, sensual and alluring. The sounds of gasps and moans of pleasure fill the air as others join in, and your eyes flutter at the sound. Eris’ russet gaze licks down your body in a wave of warmth, and you follow it, dropping between the split of his toned thighs, coming face to face with his cock, straining against navy trousers.

You twist your fingers nervously, a lump in your throat. You want this, want to give yourself over to the Autumn Gods on this festive night, want Eris to splay you out and take you for his own, worshiping each other like those very Gods did while they’d walked this continent. You want to worship them as the fae still do now, with bodies and souls, intertwined, half him, half you for the perfectly half light, half night of the day. The most perfect day of the year.

Eris brushes his fingers down your soft cheek, admiring you. His touch sends you reeling, the rest of the room disappearing as his skin brushes yours. His thumb slides across your mouth and you can’t help but to part your lips, flicking your tongue out to taste him.

His russet eyes flare at the sight. He undoes his belt with one hand, pulling at the ties. With his other hand, he dips two fingers into your mouth. You suck greedily, releasing a whimper at his taste that chokes off as he presses his fingers further. He shoves his pants down his legs and his cock springs up, all flushed and ruddy at the head. You clench your fingers in your skirts, saliva pooling in your mouth as he jerks himself once, twice. Spit drips from the sides of your mouth around his fingers, making a mess already.

“Like what you see?” Eris asks, knowing full well that you can’t respond with words. Not with his fingers caressing the inside of your throat. You nod, jostling his digits in your throat, your esophagus constricting as you try to swallow. “Want to taste?”

Your eyes roll into the back of your skull at his words, moan mixing with one of the fae occupying his brother’s throne beside you. You don’t dare look anywhere but at your closed lids or at Eris, nothing can draw your attention away from him.

His fingers fall from your mouth to cradle your head with a large hand. You lick your lips and he follows the motion of your tongue, giving himself a rough jerk, grunting at the feeling. When he looks at you like this you don’t care that he doesn’t know your name, that he’s calling you fawn, or that people are watching. Not his brothers, not your escort, not any of the males or females falling on their knees, pleading for a chance with one of the Autumn Princes. 

Eris guides your face closer to his cock and it’s now you see the pearlescent beads of precum at his slit. You want to collect those drops like the precious pearls they are, roll them around on your tongue, burn them into your memory for centuries to come.

You part your lips, hot breath ghosting over his silken skin. The muscles of his abdomen flex, and when you flick your gaze up to meet his, he’s a goner.

“Open your mouth for me, fawn. Need to see that tongue.”

Pressing the rest of the way forward, you find the confidence to take his cock in your own grip, swatting his hand away so you can stroke him and lift him to your lips. Brushing across his slip with a groan, his flavor bursts on your tongue. He’s entirely autumn, tasting of the musk of the earth, smoky wood and crisp breezes. You vow to yourself that this will not be the last time you taste him, he’s utterly addicting.

Eris chokes at the sight of you, drooling over the hard lines of his cock, licking, kissing, sucking your way around the sensitive skin. He hisses through his teeth, guiding you where he likes, shoving you down to lap at his balls. You follow obediently, showing him just how good you can be.

After giving him a thorough lick, Eris growls, having had enough of your errant teasing. By a fist of your hair, he’s allowing you to slide your lips down his cock, taking him in full. When he hits the back of your throat you gag, but he loves it, pressing you down further until you can’t breathe, his girth stretching your throat. 

It feels like a fire burning in your windpipe, stifling and hot. He jerks his hips, using his hand in your hair to guide you up and down on his cock. It makes tears prick your eyes, your cheeks flushed hot. Your nails dig into the skin of his thighs but it only spurs him on, loud moans echoing off of the walls of the ballroom.

“Fuck, fawn,” he pants, stare pinned to how you’re taking over, moving against him now, suckling his cock greedily. You’re a sight to see like this, covered in spit, cheeks stuffed full of his cock. “You feel fucking amazing.”

You moan in response to him, losing yourself in the throes of his cock in your mouth. You try to suck any noise that you can from him, enjoying the way they’re for your ears only, despite the lewd sounds accompanying the deep, heady music. 

With a hiss, Eris pulls you from his cock. You’re panting, brows furrowing sadly from the loss but Eris is caressing your cheeks with both hands again, thumbs sliding through the wetness around your mouth, cooing softly. 

“You did so well for me, fawn. I bet you’re so wet, gushing for me, aren’t you?” He asks, and you whine because yes, your thighs are pressed so tightly together they’re trembling, and none of it is stimulating your crying clit, either.

“Yes,” you plead, gripping his wrists, eyes wide. “So wet for you, prince.” 

If he’s not going to call you by your name, you won’t call him by his either.

Doesn’t seem to matter to Eris, though, because he’s shuddering and tugging you from the floor to your feet, spinning you around so his pale, freckled ass is to your audience, your hands planted on the arms of his chair as he bends you over. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he nudges his hips against yours, cock pressing into the soft fabric of your dress. You can feel his length against your hind, shivering as his fingers find the ties of your dress. His torso is pressed tight to your back and his breath is hot in your ear as his teeth graze your cheek.

“Do you want me to bend you over my throne, little fawn, or would you like to ride my cock?” 

It’s surprising that he’s giving you the choice, a prince so often used to his demands being listened to. This…you…you are different though. The surge of fire within him is not that of lust. It’s a slow roiling of hot coals, compact with heat. They stir, embers flaring at the sight of your exposed skin while he slips your dress further and further down your back, exposing your creamy skin.

Your body is squeezed tight; eyes shut at the feeling of his fiery touch licking down your spine, your thighs clenched, cunt dripping and aching with need. Your muscles are constricted, body shaking with anticipation. Your mind whirls, trying to make sense of his words.

“Cock,” you gasp as he palms over your newly exposed breasts. The bite of the ballroom hardens your nipples, but the warmth of Eris’ fingers soothes them. You shudder with pleasure, arching into his chest at your back. “Want to sit on your cock, prince.” 

His cock jumps at your use of his title. He growls deeply, nipping at your ear. Your whimper carries on an autumn breeze, down the line of thrones to Pyrolas, who uses his minute wind magic to listen in. Eris’ eye blaze brightly as he shoots his younger brother a searing glare. Pyrolas’ powers had come in handy often when they were young and listened in on conversations they shouldn’t have been, but now that the second born knows how to use them to his advantage, Eris is more careful than not when he speaks.

But he will not be sharing you, despite the fact that the room is crowded with courtiers and patrons under their rule. 

He will show them all who you belong to.

“I was hoping you’d say that, little fawn,” he murmurs, lips hot against your throat. Eris stands and you shiver at the loss of his warmth, straightening and spinning around on your heel, chasing him. He’s only stepped away to undress, fingers quickly maneuvering the buttons of his shirt open. It slides from his broad, freckle smattered shoulders like butter.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Eris kicks away the rest of his trousers, allowing you to get your fill. Rippling muscles line his body. He’s cut and hard like his bobbing cock, waiting so prettily for you.

He sits on his throne, one leg straight out, looking ever like the arrogant prince he’s supposed to be. His smirk only adds to his front, and he offers you a hand.

Taking it, you allow Eris to help you, parting your thighs across each of his muscular ones.

He takes himself in his hand, jerking once before he’s sliding his hot tip against your folds. You gasp, shuddering at the feeling, hips circling softly, following his cock like a magnet. Eris’ smirk turns wolfish as you chase, allowing you to sink down on his girth.

“Fuck,” he hisses, because the wetness of your cunt feels too damn good. “Trying to stifle my flames, fawn?”

You can hardly even reply, fingers curling into the meat of his shoulders as you rise. There is no taking things slow. The bite of his cock stretching your walls feels too good, the sensual music combined with the moans floating through the air and the grunts Eris makes is euphoric, the feeling of him penetrating you, cock so lengthy it hits your womb everytime you sink down. Everything feels like fire in your bones, your heart, your blood. 

You’re hot all over, messy between your thighs, but Eris seems to be enjoying himself, watching hungrily as your head rolls back on your shoulders with pleasure. When he can no longer control himself, his fingers are pressing into your thighs harshly, guiding your body faster, up and down and up and down. He leans forward, lips suctioning to the skin of your throat because it’s exposed and he’s hungry, his fires need kindling to burn brighter.

The drapes on the walls set alight as his pleasure crests. The air becomes scolding and you can hardly breathe. His touch burns your body in the best way. He’s hitting that bundle of nerves inside of you with each thrust he makes, and you don’t even know when you stopped bouncing for him, allowing him to hold you steady and buck his hips like a desperate male. 

Your body courses with heat and you cum with a cry, collapsing into him. Eris fucks you through it, your pleasure spaking his own. He follows you with a heady groan, teeth gnashing at your skin. The press of his hold, the graze of his teeth feel as though he’s trying to brand you with every part of his body pressed to yours. His hot cum between your legs sears, marking you.

Claiming you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Kinktober Taglist:@bunnymallowo@jeannineee@icey–stars@hannzoaks@harrystylesfan2686@azriels-shadowsinger @alysena2 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @impossibelle @glitterypirateduck @reading-moongirl

[eveninggstar]

what is this feeling?' ⊹ ࣪ ˖

max verstappen x ferraridriver!reader

28.12.24

୨ৎ back one page ୨ৎ back two pages

part one, part two, part three, ...

୨ৎ In the high-stakes world of Formula 1, Y/N, a rookie Ferrari driver, enters the paddock with the weight of legacy on her shoulders, replacing the legendary Sebastian Vettel. Armed with charm and determination, she quickly wins over fans and drivers alike. But not everyone is so easily impressed—least of all Max Verstappen, the controversial Red Bull prodigy whose dominance on the track is matched only by his polarizing personality.

*dear universe this is not me manifesting max retiring, if he wants to take a season or two off to be with his kid i fully understand that but i need him in f1 *

imagine that max is still as hated as he was during the 2021 season and still acts the way he did, and yes this is inspired by wicked

-p.s idk what the timeframe is in this story im thinking 2021 or before?

The season had just begun, and it was already a war between you and Max. Race after race, you both pushed each other—and your cars—to the absolute limit. Every corner, every overtake, every lap was a battlefield, with the stakes rising every weekend.

In Portugal, the first clash set the tone. Rain poured in heavy torrents, creating a treacherous dance of precision and bravery. Starting from pole, you had the advantage, but Max had a better launch off the line, squeezing you wide into Turn 1. The light contact, paired with the rain-slicked track, sent you off into the run-off area, dropping you to third.

“He left no room,” you fumed over the radio, your frustration boiling over.

“Just racing,” Max replied coolly in the post-race interview, sitting smugly beside you after taking the victory. Your shocked expression, caught on camera as you whipped your head toward him, became the talk of the paddock.

In Spain, you struck back. A daring late-braking move into Turn 5 saw you snatch the lead from Max, leaving him no room to retaliate. Your team erupted on the pit wall as you crossed the finish line first, a triumphant grin plastered across your face. The tension between Ferrari and Red Bull was now palpable.

Monaco took it to another level. Qualifying became a personal duel as you and Max traded fastest laps, each determined to outdo the other. In the end, Max edged you out by just 0.021 seconds. During the post-session interviews, the smirk tugging at his lips was maddening.

“You like playing on the edge, don’t you?” you remarked dryly, catching him in the paddock afterward.

“It’s where the fun is,” he shot back, his tone light but his gaze unrelenting.

The tension crackled like a live wire, drawing attention from drivers and fans alike.

The moment that set the rumor mill spinning happened later that day. You sat perched on a low wall near the Ferrari motorhome, enjoying a quick snack—a banana—before another round of debriefs. Max, dressed in his Red Bull team gear, wandered over with his phone in hand.

“Did Ferrari really think slicks on a damp track would work last week?” he asked, smirking as he leaned casually against the same wall.

You rolled your eyes. “Bold strategy, for sure. At least I didn’t end up in the barriers like someone I could name.”

The banter between you had become routine—sharp, biting, and steeped in competitive malice. Neither of you noticed the growing number of onlookers as the paddock watched the rare moment of proximity between you without sparks flying, metaphorical or otherwise.

Then, the moment happened. As you swung your legs to hop off the wall, you lost your footing. The wall wasn’t high, and the worst you expected was a bruised ego. But Max, with the reflexes of a seasoned F1 driver, stepped forward and caught you by the waist before you could stumble further.

His grip was firm, and for a split second, your eyes met. Something unreadable flickered across his face before he set you upright and let go, stepping back with a teasing grin.

“Careful,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “You wouldn’t want to bruise your banana.”

You let out a huff, rolling your eyes, though a faint smile tugged at your lips. “Thanks, hero,” you muttered.

Unbeknownst to either of you, a lurking paparazzo had snapped the perfect shot. The image of Max leaning toward you, his hand still on your waist, with your face lit up in a laugh, flooded social media the next morning.

“Racing Rivals or Secret Lovers? Sparks Fly Between Verstappen and Y/L/N in the Paddock!”

Your phone buzzed incessantly with messages, most of them screenshots accompanied by laughing emojis or sarcastic congratulations from friends and teammates. Even your team principal couldn’t resist making a joke.

“You two looked cozy,” he quipped as you arrived for strategy meetings.

“Cozy?” you exclaimed, exasperated. “He’s the most infuriating person I’ve ever met!”

Max, predictably, found the whole thing hilarious. When you confronted him about it later in the driver’s lounge, he shrugged, his signature smirk firmly in place.

“I think we’d make a great couple,” he said, clearly enjoying your frustration. “Imagine the headlines: Ferrari and Red Bull, united at last.”

“More like Ferrari and chaos,” you retorted, crossing your arms as he laughed and walked away.

The bench outside the Ferrari garage become your new retreat between debriefs, a place to gather your thoughts. Or to send a message you were reading out to yourself.

"Dearest, darlingest, Momsie and Popsicle, comma." You smiled at your niceness. "Guess what!" You widened your eyes. "I can't hear your guesses, because this is a text. Full stop."

“Are you always this dramatic when you text?”

You looked up, your brows furrowing instantly at the sight of him. “Do you ever announce your presence like a normal person, or is creeping around part of your charm?”

He smirked, hands shoved into his pockets as he stepped closer. “I don’t creep. I’m just efficient, unlike some people.”

You groaned, placing your phone down with exaggerated care. “What do you want, Verstappen? I’m sure there’s a person waiting for you to berate.”

“Relax, princess.” The nickname dripped with mockery, his smirk widening as he leaned against the wall. “I just came to see how it feels to be second. Again.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s nothing compared to how it’ll feel when you’re looking at my rear wing next week,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

The air bristled with tension as you both stared each other down, your biting words colliding like sparks from a flint.

“Honestly, it must be exhausting,” he mused, as if pondering a deep philosophical truth.

“What must be exhausting?” you snapped.

“Being so...intense all the time,” he replied, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “Do you ever just relax, or is it all I’m going to beat Max 24/7?”

You stood, stepping closer to him with a saccharine smile that could have melted steel. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You’re not the center of my universe, no matter how much you wish you were.”

He raised a brow, his tone turning mockingly thoughtful. “Strange. You spend an awful lot of time talking about me for someone who doesn’t care.”

Your laugh was sharp and incredulous. “Talking about you? Please. You’re like a bad rash—impossible to ignore but you keep coming back.”

Max gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “You wound me, Y/L/N. Truly.”

“Good,” you fired back, taking another step closer.

The tension was palpable, like the crackling charge before a storm. Neither of you noticed the small crowd gathering nearby—team members, reporters, and even a few fans peeking curiously around corners, drawn in by the escalating exchange.

“Is this a private lovers’ quarrel, or can anyone join?” Daniel’s voice cut through the moment like a whip, his grin wide as he strolled over.

Your face turned crimson as you stepped back, realizing how close you and Max had been standing.

“Lovers’ quarrel?” Max repeated, his smirk returning in full force. “Please. More like mortal enemies politely exchanging words.”

“Polite?” you echoed, incredulous. “You wouldn’t know polite if it hit you with a front wing.”

Daniel laughed, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Well, whatever this is, it’s entertaining as hell.”

You glared at Max, whose smug expression made you want to throw something. “I hope you enjoy your victory lap, Verstappen. It’s not going to last.”

“We’ll see,” he said, his voice low and taunting as he turned to walk away.

As he disappeared into the Red Bull garage, Daniel leaned closer to you, still grinning. “You know, the way you two bicker...it’s almost cute.”

“Cute?” you echoed, your voice rising slightly. “Daniel, I swear—”

“Relax,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. You two have a...chemistry. Even if it’s more explosion than attraction.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you grabbed your phone. You turned quickly into finding your drivers room, hitting Daniel with your hair in the process.

Please don’t steal my work, much love ᡣ𐭩

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 eveninggstar

[fanwarriorfictions]

Not Again - Part Eleven

Summary: The morning after leaves Y/n and Azriel wanting more, but that will have to wait.

Warnings: a little spicy, no smut but it’s close, and she is Angstyyyyy

Series Masterlist

-Part Eleven-

She woke, surrounded by a familiar warmth and scent, home, she was home. The sun was shining behind her eyelids, she was hesitant to open them, to completely wake from the deepest and most peaceful slumber she had ever had in her life. When she finally forced her eyes open, it had taken a moment for her to register exactly where she was, not her bedroom in the palace of Orynth, but her room in the house of wind, and the scent of a male beside her, one that smelled of the libraries she’d spent most of her life in.

Azriel’s arms were around her, holding her close to his chest, Y/n still completely bare against him, Azriel still only half dressed, his wings splayed out across the bed on either side of him, one wrapping around them like a blanket.

He was awake, scarred hand lazily tracing shapes across her back. He halted when she lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were so beautiful in the morning sunlight, so beautiful she wondered why he spent so much time in the dark, when he could look like this. His hair a mess from sleep, from her hands pulling on the strands. His skin washed in the golden light, displaying each of those slightly red lines across his chest and shoulders that matched the shape of her nails.

“Have you been staring at me all morning?”

His answering smile turns the pit of her stomach molten, “Good morning, Princess.”

“Morning, shadowsinger.” She raises a hand to his face, thumb lightly ghosting over the small split on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

Azriel nips lightly at her thumb, “Don’t be. You’re a vicious little thing but I can handle it.”

She grins, “You love it, don’t lie.”

His head tilts in that predator like motion, something in her likes the feeling of being his prey. Azriel’s hand continues to draw those small shapes across her back, his fingers trailing across her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It reminds her that she’s completely naked, half laying on top of him. And she had a score to settle from the night before, a glorious score at that. She had never felt that in her life, the intensity of it, the passion, she had felt completely boneless afterwards, like her body was trying to process the sheer amount of pleasure it felt.

Her hand drifts lazily down his chest, over those raised scratches, over the dark black tattoos, down the hard muscles of his stomach. Only for her wrist to be caught between his large fingers.

She glares up at him, “Don’t ruin my fun.”

“Later, Princess.” There’s a dark haze to his eyes like he wanted nothing more than to say, now, now, now. “I promise you can have your fun, later. When did you last eat?”

She bristles at the concern in his voice, “I-“

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he interrupts, “Your stomach was growling in your sleep.”

She rips her hand free and smacks his chest, glaring at the way he laughs at her, “No it wasn’t.”

“You were drooling to,” he grins, “Dreaming of a roast dinner I’m sure.”

“You-“

He catches her hand before she can hit him again, lifting her wrist to his mouth to press a kiss to the inside, right abover her pulse. It flutters beneath his smirking lips and she wishes he’d press them to her own instead.

“Breakfast,” Azriel says, placing her hand directly above his beating heart, “You can tell me all about your little adventures from the past few days. And then you can have your fun, and I can have mine.”

The way his voice drops, that gravely sound that makes her clench around nothing. By the way he smirks, Y/n is sure he can scent the arousal pooling between her legs, she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to hide it, despite how she desperately wants to press her thighs together.

“Fine,” she says, pushing off of his chest to sit up, “Breakfast and a story, and then I have my way with you, shadowsinger.”

She doesn’t miss the way his eyes fall to her breasts, to the purple marks littering all over her chest, she’d repay him for those too. His hand slides down her back, resting just above her ass, fingers pressing firmly into her skin to hold her in place.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, like a prayer only meant for her to hear.

“Still thinking about breakfast,” she taunts.

He answers without hesitation, “Yes.”

By the way his gaze travels down her body, whiskey eyes turning to the deepest amber she’d ever seen, Y/n is sure he’s thinking about another feast. Gods she wanted him to devour her again, to feel that tongue between her legs, those fingers stretching her, preparing her for the impressive size of him that she’d felt beneath his leathers.

“Breakfast first,” he groans, throwing his head back on the pillows, “Breakfast first.”

Y/n laughs at the image, “You ruin your own fun, shadowsinger.”

“It’s what I’m good at,” he says darkly, not looking at her, “Get dressed, Princess.”

Y/n rolls her eyes at the command, “What? You don’t enjoy the view?”

The hand on her back slides down, gripping the soft flesh of her ass almost painfully. Y/n nearly moans at the sensation, sitting back into his palm.

“Get dressed,” he orders again, squeezing her even harder, “You’re distracting.”

“Poor, shadowsinger,” she coos, pushing his hand off so she can climb off the bed, “Sees a pair of tits and loses all functionality.”

Azriel chuckles darkly, eyeing her chest, “Must you make everything more difficult than necessary?”

She turns towards her dresser, feeling the weight of his gaze drift down to her backside. There’s a set of night court style clothes, in her colors, green and silver laying out on the dresser for her. Y/n takes her time, bending over to step into the tiny little scrap of lace the house deemed as undergarments, slowly pulling it up her legs, over her ass. Azriel’s eyes burn into her, watching each deliberate motion as she dresses.

“Are you planning to eat breakfast half dressed,” she throws a raised brow over her shoulder, catching the hungry look in his eye, “I won’t complain.”

A plain black shirt appears in his lap, one he looks keen on ignoring, “It would seem the house would.”

“Insufferable busybody.” She lifts her own shirt above her head, making sure to turn just enough to let him see all of her, “Put your shirt on, shadowsinger. I’m hungry.”

“I can hear that from here.” He laughs at her glare, throwing his shirt over his head, deft fingers quickly buttoning the backs beneath his wings. “Lead the way, Princess.”

Azriel marked it as a testament of his will, to walk behind her, to have her lingering arousal in his nose, to watch those hips sway, to see that beautiful bruise on her neck and not press her against the closest wall and take her from behind. He’d spent enough time the night before admiring her front, he’d neglected the view from this angle, and what a view it was. He had many plans to rectify that.

She sends him a wicked smile over her shoulder, like she knew exactly where his thoughts had drifted off to, like he’d shouted them down the bond between them.

He hadn’t, the moment he’d woken this morning he’d taken that shadow that connected them and smothered it in his chest, locking away his raging need to scream that she was his mate, to beg her to stay with him, to accept him for all his faults and scars. He shoved it all in a box in the corner of his mind, locked behind chains and walls. When she’d woken, and she’d looked up at him with those eyes full of wonder, it almost broke him. That was a testament to his strength, to hold back the words, my mate, you’re my mate.

There was a feast prepared in the dining room. Pastries and fruits and meats and cheeses, several kinds of juices and teas and coffees to choose from. The house was a busybody indeed, he could hear Y/n grumbling under her breath at it. He wasn’t the only one that knew she was hungry, had she even eaten when she’d been gone? Had she even stopped to rest? The need to know where she’d been, what she’d done, overrode his need to fuck her against the table, barely, but it did.

Azriel carefully watches her fill her plate, noting the way she piles it high with the sweet pastries, little bits of fruit scattered throughout, like it would balance out the sheer amount of sugar. Once she sat, making a cup of black tea, the only thing not filled with enough sugar to send him into a coma, Azriel fills his own plate, balanced and protein filled like he always took his breakfast. He could almost hear Cassian chiding him for the single raspberry tart he adds to the mix.

Y/n bites into one of her own tarts, blueberry by the smell of it, and lets out a deliberate little moan. Every instinct in him zeroes in on the sound, but he forces it away, she wanted a reaction out him, she wouldn’t get one.

“Are you ready to tell me where you went?”

The sigh she lets out shows just how disappointed she is about her little preformance not working on him. He almost smiles, almost concedes that inch.

“I flew north,” she says, sipping on her tea, “I didn’t know where I was going, I just-“

She cuts herself off, and any lust fades from them both as she looks down at the table. Working through whatever it was she was thinking, whatever she was feeling. It was his fault, the things he’d said to her that night, lashing out at her because he was so scared of himself, of his own problems.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “About what I said, you’re not-“

“I am,” she interrupts, looking up at him with hazy eyes, “I am a coward, you were right.”

The resignation almost breaks him. Behind the thick walls of his mind he could feel her breaking on the other side, he hated it, hated himself for causing it.

“No I wasn’t-“

“Yes, yes you were.” She looks past him, out the windows beyond, “I flew north, as far as I could into the snow capped mountains, hoping if I flew far enough I would find Terrasen, that I could go home, go back to my perfect life, where I was safe and loved and had never felt the hardships that so many have been through before me.”

She laughs without any humor, “My mother was raised by an abusive monster after seeing her parents dead in their bed. She was a slave, she was tortured, beaten, forced to give everything she was to save the world. My father found the woman he thought was his mate, was to have a child with her, only to have her die while he was fighting for the queen who’d fucked with his mind. And then there’s me, the spoiled little princess who falls apart because she’s lost.”

Those silent tears fall down her cheeks, her breathing is steady, no sobs, just this quiet breaking. It shatters his heart.

“And I’m such a coward, that instead of facing my own bullshit, of pulling myself together,” she continues, “I try to force myself on you, try to force you to fix the broken parts of me. I don’t blame you for not wanting that, for calling me out on it. I ran away because you were right, and I couldn’t handle it. I ran because I couldn’t face the truth that, that I am nothing, my family is filled with hero’s, of stories, and I am nothing but a coward who failed her own.”

“No-“

“Yes,” she takes a deep breath, “I failed so spectacularly that I almost got myself and you-“

Her voice breaks for the first time and Azriel wants to hold her in his arms, to hold the shattering pieces of her together, but there’s the cursed table between them, holding him back yet again from her. He rests his hand on the table, scarred palm up in offering, for her to take it, for him to hold them both together, she takes it.

“I almost got us killed,” she breathes, voice so soft and broken, “and that scared me so much, and that scared me even more, the fear of losing you, of being the reason of it-“

“You’re not going to lose me, Princess.” He squeezes her hand tightly in his own, “We will figure this out, we will get you home, I promise.”

He hates himself for the selfish though that crosses his mind, the hope, that they wouldn’t figure it out, and if they did, maybe she would chose to stay with him. He knew she wouldn’t.

“Together,” she says, “No more fighting, we’ll do this together, shadowsinger.”

And he nods, ignoring the cracks in his heart, “Together, Princess.”

Y/n felt so tired, so raw after that conversation, after baring her heart and soul to Azriel. Any lingering heat in her from the night before, from that morning, had disappeared with every broken word that came from her lips. Azriel seemed to understand that without her having to tell him, like he always did. If she didn’t have that protection engraved into her brow, she’d assume he was a daemati, as Rhys had called his power, able to reach into her mind and read her thoughts and emotions.

Instead of dragging him back to her room, like she had originally planned during their walk to the dining room, she asked him to fly with her. And he said yes without hesitation.

The wind felt marvelous on her wings, the early morning spring chill still lingering. Velaris was beautiful in the morning light, though she knew it truly shone at night beneath the stars. There were fae roaming through the streets, some brave enough to look up and wave at the shadowsinger as he passed. Y/n almost laughed when he awkwardly waved back.

She dove down towards a bustling market, the palace of salt and bone if the delicious scents of fresh bread and spices drifting through her nose were any indication. With a flash she was in her fae form again, walking through a crowd of fae who starred at her and her winged companion who lands directly behind her.

“Trying to give someone a heart attack?” He asks, rolling his eyes at the grin she sends over her shoulder.

Azriel falls in step beside her and she notes the lack of his usual shadows. It reminds her of their first encounter, when she hadn’t been able to understand him, scared and hurt. He’d sent them away to not frighten her anymore than she already was. The people of Velaris were well aware of who and what he was, and by the gleam in most eyes they passed, she was sure none of them would be truly scared of the shadowsinger.

“The markets in Orynth are a lot like this,” Y/n says, admiring a baker’s stand, “My mother and I go once a month to buy as many sweets as our hands can carry.”

“I assume you inherited your sweet tooth from her?” Azriel picks up a decorated cookie and pulls a few coins from his pocket for the high fae female behind the stand. “Here.”

Y/n grins and takes the cookie from his outstretched hand, “My father swears he doesn’t have one but I’ve seen him sneaking through our hauls. And he always has a chocolate cake for his birthday. My mother once made him one, he told me it was the worst thing he’d ever eaten but he ate every single bite.”

Azriel chuckles, “If she’s anything like you I’d say he’s a smart male.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” she glares, fighting back a grin.

Azriel smirks, “nothing, Princess.”

“Careful, shadowsinger.” She lets a small ice cold breeze push through his hair, over his wings, noting the shiver that runs down his spine, “Oh? Are those sensitive?”

And something she never thought she would see happens. A flush covers the shadowsinger’s cheeks, faint and barely visible on his deep tanned skin. But she sees it and her smile turns feline.

“I can see the idea forming in your head,” Azriel says, forcing that calm mask over his features to hide the blush, “don’t start something you don’t want to finish.”

“Oh I definitely want to finish,” Y/n says, letting another breeze cross directly over the sharp talon at the tip of his wing, “I have a score to settle, remember?”

Azriel takes a step closer to her, looking down at her with delightful intensity, “Careful, Princess.”

“Or what?” She lifts her hand, lightly dragging a finger over his forearm, “Big sensitive male, can’t handle a little teasing?”

“Careful,” Azriel says lowly, so no one passing can hear, only for her, “Or I take you into the shadows, and we’ll see who’s more sensitive.”

Her toes curl, the pit of her stomach turning molten, “Scandalous, shadowsinger.”

The hand on his arm gently reaches back, dragging over the soft membrane of a single wing. Azriel doesn’t let her dig her claws into him, he wraps those scarred fingers around her forearm and she’s engulfed in shadows. The familiar feeling of transporting falls over her, like stepping through a door into another part of the world. Her uncle had the ability, one of the rare few in her world, he’d taken her on many adventures using the ability, she was used to the disorienting feeling.

She doesn’t have the chance to see where they are, the world still covered in shadow, before her back is pressed to a wall, her hands held firmly above her head. Azriel’s mouth collides with her’s in a burning kiss. No gentleness, only fiery passion. Each stroke of his tongue sends a shock of need through her, all the way down to her core.

“You test my patience,” he grounds out against her mouth, nipping at her already swollen bottom lip, “Is this what you want, to be fucked against a back alley wall?”

He doesn’t let her respond, only takes her mouth again in that claiming kiss. She wants to touch him, to run her hands over those wings and see just how sensitive they really are, but he keeps her hands trapped against the wall above them, both wrists held in just one of his scarred palms. His other hand trails down her body, ghosting over the places she really wants him to stop and take his time.

She tries and fails to arch into his touch, his body pining her to the wall, one of his legs shoved between her own, thigh pressed to her aching center. Her hips writhe, seeking the friction she desperately needs.

Azriel laughs against her lips, “What? Can’t handle a little teasing?”

He mocks her words from the street and she’s almost to lost in the intensity of everything to be annoyed by it, almost. Y/n nips at his lip like he’d done to her, catching that already spilt bottom lip with her canine.

Azriel winces, just enough for her to be satisfied, “Vicous little creature.”

His hand grips her hip, almost painfully, coaxing her to move against his thigh. The motion makes her dizzy, her head falling back against the wall. Azriel takes the opportunity to attack her neck, almost instantly finding that spot that makes her see stars, giving her a matching bruise on the other side of her neck.

“Az,” she gasps, “Gods please.”

She can feel him smirk against her neck, and she almost sobs when he backs away.

Her hands fall to her sides as she gapes up at the smirking male, “What are you-“

“The first time I take you,” he says wickedly, that insufferable smirk growing wider, “will not be a quick fix in an alleyway, where anyone could walk by and catch us. I plan to take my time with you, Princess, to make you scream without a potential audience.”

She glares up at him, “You bast-“

“You can curse at me all you want,” Azriel says, “when we get back home, Princess.”

Home, for the first time since she’d been here, the word didn’t send a shock of pain through her. Azriel gives her a look, like he knew what she was thinking, like he was asking her if she was alright. Surprisingly, she was.

“Lead the way, shadowsinger.”

Azriel holds out a hand to her, pulling her close to his chest when she grabs it. Shadows wrap around them and they step through that invisible doorway. It’s bright when they emerge, and they’re falling, towards the house of wind far far below them. Azriel’s arms wrapped tightly around her, wings flaring to catch the wind, it feels strange to fly not in her hawk form, to rely solely on another’s wings to keep her from plummeting to the ground below them. But Azriel hold firm, and they gently drift to the balcony. Y/n is itching to get on the ground, to drag him to her room.

They land, Azriel gently setting her feet on the floor, arms still wrapped around her, pressing her close to his body, shadows dancing around them. She can feel them whispering against her skin, she can’t understand them, but Azriel’s eyes shine with an emotion she can’t read.

“What are they-“

Footsteps, thundering down the hall beyond the open archway behind her. Her head snaps towards the sound, Azriel holding her tighter to him. His shadows press closely to her like they would shield her from whoever was running towards them, whatever danger they’d bring with them.

“Wrap it up lovebirds,” Cassian’s booming voice, he rounds the corner, wings flared wide in a fighting stance, “Something’s wrong with the gate.”

Y/n’s heart stops dead in her chest, she barely feels the way Azriel’s arms loosen in shock around her. She could feel it suddenly, that ancient and wicked presence, distant but growing stronger, pay the price.

She rips away from Azriel, wincing at that voice growing stronger, louder in her mind, it felt like claws tearing into her brain, gods killer, pay the price, pay her price.

“Rhys and Feyre are containing it as best they can, neither of them could reach you,” Cassian says, the voice of a general, “Nes is on standby with the trove.”

Y/n barely registers the words, what the trove was she didn’t care, just prayed that whatever it was could help them. She’s running for the hallway, only to be stopped by a strong hand wrapped around her bicep.

“You’re not just going to run in there,” Azriel says, voice as hard as the hand on her arm, “That thing wants you, I can feel it chanting your name. It’ll kill you.”

She could too, could hear it in her head, Y/n, Y/n, pay the price of the gods killer, pay it Y/n, pay it.

“I’m not going to sit here and let it kill all of you instead,” Y/n snaps, tugging at his iron grip. “Let me go, Azriel.”

His harden gaze breaks just enough, showing the fear behind the rage, “Y/n, don’t do this, we’ll figure this out together, I can’t, I-“

“Let me go, Az,” she repeats, more gently than before, yet still demanding, “Let me go.”

Cassian steps forward, a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “We’ve got to go, Az. They can’t hold it back forever.”

His whole face shutters, and Y/n feels the echo of his pain, it hurts her heart, her soul. She stands tall on her toes, tilting her head to capture his lips on her own, this kiss is the opposite of any they’d shared before, no heat, no passion, just the soft broken promise of whatever ties them together, whatever could have been between them.

“Let me go,” she whispers against him, and this time when she pulls her arm away, he lets her.

Come to me, Y/n, pay your mother’s price.

She’s running towards that voice, to that promise of death, she had no idea what she would face, no idea if her death would be painful, if there would be anything left of her soul or if she would be left with nothing.

Cassian and Azriel run after her, their footfalls like the ticking hands of a clock, marking the dwindling seconds left of her life. She’s half tempted to shift, to fly through the halls as fast as she can, to leave Azriel far enough behind so he wouldn’t have to witness the carnage.

They round the final corner, the green light of the gate flooding the hallway through the open door. Y/n charges inside, ignoring the shouts of warning from the males behind her.

Rhys is holding Feyre close to his side, both High Lady and Lord intensely focused on the shield they forged around the open gate. The black depths in the center reveal nothing of the world it resides in or creature beyond, but she can feel its presence, it’s anger.

“It’s waiting,” Nesta calls from the other side of Feyre, a glowing steel sword poised to strike in her hands, another is strapped to her back, the hilt as black as night, “It hasn’t moved since we got here.”

Cassian runs to his mate’s side, “Where’s the trove?”

“Ready,” Nesta replies, “In case this all goes to shit.”

Shadows wrap around Y/n’s wrists, gently caressing the skin and winding up her arms. Azriel stands by her side, the mask of deathly calm firmly in place, the only mark of his fear, his hand that firmly grips her own. She holds him just as tightly, he has to feel the way her hands shake.

There she is, finally. The voice shifts, female, ancient but somehow young. Your mother’s pride and joy, her precious Mala’s fire burning in your veins.

Y/n’s fire stirs in response, that deep well of it in the pit of her stomach waking up like the goddess had called for it, like it recognized the name of the other goddess it had come from. She has to dampen it with her own ice kissed wind. Keep it contained.

“Should I talk to a void,” Y/n says, using that bravado, hiding her fear, “Or are you to vicious sight to behold.”

The black hole ripples and a glowing pale hand reaches through. They all shift, drawing weapons, raising them towards the creature that crawls through the portal, the shield that Feyre and Rhys hold is reinforced by Y/n’s wind, and a red light from the siphons on Cassian’s armor. A blue light surrounds Y/n, and she doesn’t have to look to know it’s from Azriel’s own siphons.

The female that emerges from the inky black is beautiful, glowing skin, dark black hair that flows over her turned down face and across her body, a simple white gown covering her, long slits at the sides revealing sleek long legs, feet clad in golden sandals. Beautiful. Yet when she looks up, when her hair parts, Y/n feels like she’s going to be sick.

Turquoise eyes, ringed with silver, stare at her from a face so scarred that the rest of her features are barely discernible. Her mouth moves in what Y/n assumes is a grin.

“Beautiful,” the goddess says, “am I not?”

She’d survived the creatures her mother had subjected the gods to, somehow she’d managed to live, barely, but she’d survived.

“Who are you,” Nesta says, that blade pointed directly at the goddess’s throat.

Those eyes narrow at Nesta, and pass right through her towards the High Lady behind her. The attention draws a warning growl from her mate’s throat, one from Nesta as well, the goddess ignores them both.

“A huntress,” she coos at Feyre, “I’d recognize one of my own anywhere.”

Huntress. Y/n’s body locks up, and Azriel at her side takes a casual step in front of her, like he could sense exactly what dots she was connecting. The shadows wrap around her, that blue shield settling over her like armor.

The motion draws the goddess’s attention to them, her head tilting in a predator like motion, “Well this is interesting.”

“Deanna,” Y/n breathes, “You’re Deanna.”

The goddess chuckles, “So she didn’t erase us completely. Do the mortals in your realm still worship us faithfully? Or do they worship Aelin Galathynius, their glorious savior?”

Deanna practically spits her mother’s name, and that well of power inside of Y/n rumbles. Azriel, squeezes her hand once, twice, calm down, he seems to tell her, like he could feel the fire beneath her skin, warming their joined hands. He doesn’t flinch from the heat, doesn’t shy away from her, only holds her tighter, not afraid.

“Did she raise her precious daughter to hide behind pretty males?” Deanna laughs, “She didn’t want to share the spotlight I’m sure.”

“What do you want?” Azriel says, cutting straight to the point, “Why are you here?”

Deanna tuts at him, “You males have no manners. Someone aught to train you.”

To fast, she moved to fast. Y/n didn’t see her arm raise, didn’t see that bow materialize in her hands, didn’t see her draw back that string, all she saw was that golden arrow, flying through the air faster than it possibly could, propelled by that ancient magic of Deanna’s. It splits through every shield, through the wall of shadows, directly into Azriel’s chest.

She felt it in her own, that sharp searing pain, his and her own. The scream tears through her, ripping her throat to shreds, bleeding through her lips. Azriel falls, the grip on her hand falling with him, his shadows disappear, scattering into the corners of the room, leaving their master below her, bleeding, dying.

Dead, dead, she killed him, gone, dead. There’s this string tied to her heart, twisting and pulling, reaching for him, a tether between that she yanks on, begging him to stay. She’s screaming and screaming and lunging through those shields, Azriel’s own dagger in her hands, she doesn’t remember grabbing it.

Deanna is smiling beneath those scars, laughing, “Finally.”

Fire, burning through her, Mala’s fire, so hot it burns blue. It imbues into the dagger, the black blade spitting those blue flames as Y/n takes it to the goddess’ throat. Deanna doesn’t move, doesn’t fire an arrow, doesn’t burn her with that moon fire.

She simply sighs, “Pay the price, Y/n, finish what your mother started, let me finally rest with my kin.”

Y/n gives her exactly what she wants, what she gave Azriel, death. His dagger finds home in her throat, fire burning through the goddess, turning her to ash from the inside out. Time seems to completely stop, seconds turning to hours, to days, to years, Deanna burns and burns for a millennium, till there’s nothing left but that ancient bow and the golden arrow in Azriel’s chest.

Time shifts, moves faster and faster. The inner court is screaming around her, screaming for a healer, for Azriel, for her. She doesn’t hear them, doesn’t even know who or where she is, she simply collapses, throwing up a shield of hard air around her and Azriel. And she lays her head on her mate’s chest and screams.

Tag list

@inloveallthetime , @microwaveallthedemons , @nayaniasworld , @thecraziestcrayon , @fightmedraco , @blackgirlmagicforever , @nikt-wazny-y , @fangirlloza010 , @thisiskaylin , @wolfgirl624 , @khaleesihavilliard , @fluffy-bnny , @mariahoedt , @durgenyx , @glitterypirateduck , @byyalady , @amberlynn98 , @ferrarisbitch , @a-cup-of-nightshade , @breella , @hnnybee0 , @superspideyparker , @that-one-little-soybean , @thebeautifulmysteriesoflife , @websterss , @sassybluebird , @fakesocialmediaa , @balsalmic-vinegar , @lees-chaotic-brain , @yashiw , @a-mexican-waffle , @thefairlyaveragegatsby , @tele86 , @emidpsandia , @nickishadow139 , @basicwhiterat , @namelesssreaderrr , @feyres-fireheart , @some-person-somewhere , @flowersinvegas

[cheerleaderman]

🎃Can you find the Pumpkin King?🎃

Event Summary [ Closed]

It’s that time of year again in Twst, hearing about what happened last time with endless Halloween ghosts invited NRC to their kingdom to participate in their grand activities.

Their biggest event is to a scavenger hunt to find the Pumpkin King.Everyone has been split up into groups and will start at the castle where the king is supposed to be.Travel around the kingdom solving puzzles, gathering clues and having fun but be warned there are many tricks along the way, you may even see some fake Pumpkin Kings.

Most of the kingdom will be playing along acting worried for their king, providing clues and secrets. Talking to the right person may get you some treasures. Of course having you making you do something for them to gain information.

This year Yuya has been appointed the Pumpkin King. The thing is no one knows what Yuya will look like and their face will be covered. Yuya can also play tricks on teams with what the ghost has given them. Who knows they might just slip under your noses.Once actually found and the group completes the final mission Yuya will lead them to the treasure and the Halloween party can finally start now that the king has returned.

(More under cut)

Rules and dress code.

As this is a Halloween event everyone must be dressed up in costumes. People can choose what costumes they want just No pumpkin themed costumes like a pumpkin witch with the exception of Grim and make sure to keep it appropriate.

No NSFW

Anyone can participate! Ocs and Canon characters by making cards, writing fic, voice lines,Fan art etc.

Make sure to tag me and use the hashtag #Findpumpkinking

This event will last until November 5th when I will spin a wheel and announce what team found the Pumpkin King.

I’ll spin with the teams that have participants and I will make some kind of drawing for the wining team but what kind will be based on my mood at that time

Pumpkin King

Yuya Florence | Yuya’s Second card [will try to do voice lines for participants on this one]

Teams

Group Jack-o-lantern

Rook, Deuce, Jade , Leona, Ortho ,

Sylvie ( @sherryclover), Hopper O’Latock( @amatsuchan-eiliniel)

Group Skeleton

Jamil, Lilia, Kalim, Vil, Trey

Flori Mohn-Prinz ( @bunniehunn), Reese Kingbit ( @kickasscentral), Yumi Yozakura( @marinahavik), Flurin Prinz( @amatsuchan-eiliniel)

Group Grim Reaper

Sliver, Azul, Epel, Idia by me

Hopper ( @theolivetree123) , Galen Donnelley ( @the-trinket-witch), Swallow Reynard ( @offorestsongs)

Group Witches

Cater, Malleus by @gl00myb3arz , Ace ( @mirioho), Grim , Sebek ,

Sophie ( @gl00myb3arz), Kalmia von viradin ( @skriblee-ksk), Hebe Göttel( @honibumii), Reyu Carrera ( @mirioho) Rebecca ( @0honeybones0)

Group Vampire

Riddle, Ruggie , Floyd, Jack

,Joseph Akaba( @readsrandomstuff67), Yumi Hitsuji( @twisted-wonderland-memories)

Group Werewolf (staff member only)

Sam, Crewel, Trein, Vargas , Crowley

Zayn Weatherwax( @twstinginthewind)

Background

(It’s from nightmare before Christmas)

Will you be able to find the Pumpkin king?

[mcumorningstar]

A Rose By Any Other Name || Part Two

part one part three

series pairing: tommy shelby x reader, hints of john shelby x reader, hints of tommy x lizzie

summary: After your interaction with Tommy, there is a rift between you and Lizzie but an apology and the Epsom Derby threaten to strain your friendship further.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, mentions of prostitution, mentions of sex, alcohol consumption, typical peaky blinders content, (slow burn sorry)

author’s note: Thank you to everyone who read part one and interacted! There's no smut just yet but be patient it's coming (and so are Tommy and reader ;) !!!) Also I picture Thelma to look like Queenie from Fantastic Beasts but interpret her however you please <3 Enjoy!

After the ordeal with the Shelby brothers, The Garrison felt off-limits. Lizzie wasn't exactly pleased when she found out, and so you and Thelma decided to spend the night at The Marquis of Lorne.

The Marquis was packed, wall to wall with rowdy men and women from the BSA. You weren't planning on working tonight but, if the right man came along, you were in no position to turn him down.

The only upside of the job is that you didn't work in a whorehouse. People, however cruel, were even crueller to whorehouse whores. There was a strange level of acceptance, as if the men soliciting you could forget you were a working girl because they met you in places they meet regular women.

"Apparently there's a secretary job going," Thelma looked around the room at the smartly dressed women, "At the BSA."

"Have you applied?" You asked, sipping your gin. Employment was a sore subject between the two of you. Nobody whores unless they're desperate.

Thelma shakes her head and fiddles with the placemat under her glass. She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes fixed on the table.

"I wouldn't get it anyway."

"Why not? You can type, you can count, you're friendly-"

"I'm a whore," Thelma interrupted, amusement and hurt swimming in her eyes, "These women in here would be my colleagues. They don't think I'm worth the sheets I was born on... Sorry, we're supposed to be having fun."

Thelma blinked quickly and sat up straight, grinning, "Fuck it. Fuck them all."

She raised her glass and you met her toast.

"Fuck them all," You laughed, taking a large swig of your drink. The clear liquid burning your throat as you swallowed and exhaled.

Offering to get the next round of drinks, your attention was pulled by a heated argument by the bar. Two men in suits were subjected to verbal abuse from a drunken BSA worker.

One of them was a Blinder. You recognised him from The Garrison.

In a split second, fists were flying and knuckles were bloody. The Blinder and his friend were outnumbered but they held their own. Fruitlessly, the owner yelled from behind the bar for them to stop.

A table was knocked on its side as two men wrestled onto it and landed on the floor. Glass shattered somewhere in the room and the patrons of the bar tried to run.

Grabbing Thelma's hand, you yanked her to the exit. The crisp cold air of Small Heath seeped through your coat as you hurried towards Garrison Lane.

"Y/N?" Thelma asked once she realised the direction you were headed in.

"The Peaky Blinders need to know that two of their men are outnumbered," You replied, compelled by the power of the gangsters for the first time. They would fix this.

"What about Lizzie?" Thelma was now walking alongside you, matching you step for hurried step as you turned the corner.

The amber lights of The Garrison illuminated the pub and you rushed towards it like a moth to a flame.

Yanking the wooden door open, you pushed your way through the crowd, looking back to check Thelma was still with you. The door of the snug was open and three of the four Shelby brothers sat playing cards. Lizzie was tucked into the corner, chatting to Esme.

You lingered there for a moment before knocking lightly. All eyes turned to you, and Thelma gave a little wave. Lizzie's eyebrows shot up but she quickly neutralised her expression.

"Hello lovely," Arthur's voice boomed as he leaned back in his chair, "What do we owe the pleasure?"

"There's a fight at The Marquis. A Blinder and a boy. They didn't start it," You answered, the night's drinking deterring any nerves.

"But we'll finish it," John tossed his cards onto the table.

The three brothers got to their feet but Finn was shoved back into his seat.

"Nobody breathes a bloody word of this to Polly," Arthur threatened, his booming voice bouncing off the walls, "We will tell Tommy when he's back, alright?"

No Tommy? You assumed Lizzie turned down your offer tonight to spend her time with him. You were more confused than hurt, but the Blinder family was a family you had no desire to understand.

"When- When will Thomas be back?" You held your head high despite a wave of embarrassment rushing over you, "I owe him an apology."

"Don't know. Rich women are mad for working class cock these days," Arthur chuckles deeply, gulping down the contents of his glass and slamming it down, "I reckon he'll be back tomorrow."

Out of the corner of your eye, Lizzie shifts in her seat and straightens the skirt of her dress.

"I shall see you tomorrow then," You confirmed before the two men from The Marquis stepped into the snug, with scuffed knuckles and bloody collars. They smirk and grin at each other.

"We'll leave you," You nodded and disappeared out of the snug, back onto Garrison Lane.

Thelma giggled, "They certainly are intimidating."

You laughed a sigh of relief, surviving another interaction with the Shelby brothers. The door of The Garrison swiftly swung open and shut, as Lizzie joined you, pulling her coat on.

"Yeah yeah I'm a fool," Lizzie scoffed, sadness in her eyes.

"Who's the rich woman?" Thelma asked, hooking her arm around Lizzie's. Your eyes widened.

Lizzie lit a cigarette, "May Carleton. A toff who trains his horse. Rides his cock too. You don't have to apologise. I'm well shot of him."

Despite her foolishness when it comes to Thomas Shelby, you appreciated her forgiveness but there wasn't a world where you weren't going to apologise.

Three of the Shelby brothers witnessed your declaration and frankly you were afraid of the consequences of not following through.

The following afternoon you found yourself walking towards Shelby Company Ltd. There was a Blinder stood by the door, smoking a cigarette.

"Hello. I'm here to see Mr Shelby. Is he here?" You asked the gruff-looking man, who looked you up and down. Making his decision, he pushed the door open, eyes not leaving your body.

Being a whore really does get you in anywhere.

Inside was a foyer with gorgeous paintings decorating the walls and another set of double doors with Shelby Company Ltd embossed on the frosted glass.

With no sense of direction, you pushed through the double doors to find a few steps leading you down to two desks, facing one another.

"Y/N?" Lizzie's brow furrowed as she rose from her desk to greet you at the bottom of the steps, "What you doing here?"

"I promised Arthur and John I'd apologise. Is he here?" You winced.

"They won't cut you," Lizzie smiled, laughing softly, "He just got back. Oh, this is Michael, he's Polly's son."

Lizzie motioned to the desk opposite hers. The boy from The Marquis sat behind the large desk in a clean, pressed suit.

"Hello Michael, I'm Y/N," You reached for his outstretched palm and shook his hand.

"I remember," Michael smiled, youthful mischief danced in his eyes, "Thanks for the help last night."

"You looked like you needed the help," You joked, pulling a laugh from him.

"Alright, Tommy isn't paying you to flirt with my friend," Lizzie teased, guiding you to the doors of Thomas' office and knocking. After a moment, she pushed the door open and you followed her in.

"Y/N to see you," Lizzie announced, leaving you alone with him before he could respond. Thomas sat behind his desk, staring at the phone with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

The door closing jolted him from his reverie and he moved an opened envelope into the top drawer of his desk. Thomas cleared his throat and looked to you, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Take a seat, Miss Y/L/N," His gravelly voice rumbled from deep in his chest, motioning to a chair opposite with his hand.

Sitting in the plush leather chair opposite him, you crossed your legs and braced yourself under his burning gaze.

"Drink?" He nodded to the glass decanter of whiskey on his desk, an already half-full glass sat beside it. Thomas rose to his feet and rounded the desk, retrieving another glass from a cabinet by the window.

Finding your words, you nodded, "Yes. Thank you Mr Shelby." Maybe a drink in your system would loosen you up.

A soft scoff fell from the man's lips as he poured whiskey into your glass, pushing it across his desk towards you and collapsing into his chair.

"None of that, alright?" He stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray, the smoke floating in the air in one wispy streak.

You sipped your whiskey and swallowed hard, "Of course Mr- Thomas. I stopped by to apologise... about the other night. You went out of your way to help me and it was wrong of me to- to slam the door in your face. So I'm sorry Mr- Thomas."

Thomas' blue eyes scrutinised you as silence hung in the air between you. Fiddling with the glass in your hand, you cleared your throat and ruminated over your apologetic words.

Worry washed over you as you entertained the possibility that he didn't accept your apology.

"Would- Would you accept a drink on me by way of apology?"

Thomas' head tilted to one side at that. A small smile toyed at the corner of his lips. You shifted in your seat under his gaze.

"That won't be necessary," He shook his head once and the metallic click of his cigarette case opening sounded in the space between you. He ran a fresh cigarette along his plump lips, deep in thought for a moment.

"Have you ever been to the races, Y/N?"

Your brows shot up and your breath caught in your throat. Was he asking what you thought he was?

You shook your head and Thomas nodded, "I'll pick you up Saturday 9 o'clock."

Was this his was of accepting your apology? A favour for a favour? You weren't going to get on his bad side a second time and so, with confusion and apprehension, you agreed.

"I don't have anything nice to wear," You shyly admitted, a weak attempt to save yourself from further involvement with the Shelbys.

Admittedly, you were intrigued by the man before you. It brought a sense of shame but there was something captivating about the Peaky Blinders, especially Thomas Shelby.

Thomas reached into his pocket and thumbed through a sizeable roll of notes. He set two notes onto the table and tapped his index finger against the paper. Okay so you were definitely going to the Epsom Derby.

"9:00 Saturday, alright?"

"Yes Mr Sh- Thomas."

"Since we're going to Epsom together, you can call me Tommy, eh?" A small smirk tugged at the corner of his pink lips as he leaned back in his chair.

"Of course. I'll see you on Saturday Tommy," You smiled politely and made your leave. Anxiety rose within you as you passed Lizzie's empty desk, anticipating her reaction to your alarming news.

Wondering how you were going to tell her the man she loves is taking you to the races, you hurried out of the building and headed home.

You've only encountered Thomas Shelby on two separate occasions and it was clear that he was going to be the death of you.

[xxcrystalinerose]

Next up in the Sabzerus designs: Tighnari and Cyno!

I know this is unrendered, but I already committed to not rendering these two until I finish Haitham and Kaveh's designs which, in hindsight, is difficult atm because I have more ideas about Collei's design over them. With the recent release of Sethos, it seems that it would have to wait until I finish his and Collei's designs when I get to them. I'm writing a fic now lol so it the wait is probably quite long.

Tighnari's is relatively easy and I'm so pleased with the results! He finally looks put together and not... odd, palette-wise (to put it mildly). His clothing is based on the traditional dress of the Kabyle people, an Amazigh ethnic group from northern Algeria, with some modernized touches (I used references from modern-day photos of Kabyle dress!). The highlight is the burnous (hooded cloak), originally a symbol of resistance in the Algerian War of Independence and now a garment worn in special occasions such as religious festivals. I think it would be appropriate of Tighnari to wear one for his Sabzerus dress.

Cyno is so far the most difficult one to design. I have 0 references outside of speculative fashion plates and museum pictures of jewelry. I struggled so much with the outfit components, but I persevered and this is the result. His clothing is based on what Ancient Egyptian high priests of the New Kingdom wear. The long shendyt (kilt) and shawl are made from linen, which in higher social classes are woven so finely they appear as though transparent. Not just luxurious, but also airy for comfort against the desert heat.

Previously on: Nahida + Wanderer | Nilou

As usual, close-ups and some more thoughts under the cut:

Tighnari's canon design is incredibly confusing to me, because unlike some other Sumeru characters I have absolutely no idea which part of Algerian (or Arab, but that's a very wide ballpark) dress it's supposed to be based on. Where is that white fabric wrap even from? However, when I looked at his hoodie, I realized that it's probably supposed to be a "modernized equivalent" of a burnous. Probably.

The belt accessory is actually an article I always see on women's robe kabyle, but never men's. I think they look neat and Tighnari wears belt accessories, so I incorporated them. (If any of you seeing this are Kabyle or Amazigh, do tell me more of the nuances. Are they exclusively feminine accessories? I also read that Kabyle women tie their sashes differently depending on marital status, but does this only apply to sashes or does it also apply to these cord belts?)

It's not very obvious, but the burnous has a split back, so Tighnari's tail can poke out comfortably. It's also pretty fun to try and incorporate elements of his official design, such as the paw-print gloves, the boots, and the turtleneck. To me, Tighnari without a turtleneck is unimaginable for some reason.

I've been tentatively calling Cyno's design "the one time Cyno puts some effort into doing his hair". The little braids aside, his hair is actually in a half-up bun. I really should draw these refs from more angles... and this is unimportant in the grand scope of things, but I gave him some beef. My guy deserves more beef (and I apologize for covering his chest regardless).

The wesekh (wide collar) is made from gold and various precious gems/minerals. This one has gold, carnelian, and turquoise. The narrow golden beads on the outermost layer represents beetles, which in turn symbolize resurrection (i.e. Hermanubis' indwelling within Cyno).

I've always been baffled at the fact that Cyno wears mostly black, but would prefer for my design to contain elements from his actual design, so I kept the sash and helmet black. However, I do know that too much dyed linen (and animal fibers) are inappropriate to wear in temples. Unless you are a funeral priest, where you wear a leopard skin as a part of the rites. Then again, Cyno's biggest inspiration is Anubis, so perhaps he could get some leeway here...

To continue with the flower theming, I chose the Sumeru Rose for Cyno and Tighnari wears the yellow flower on his canon clothes once again. It's never mentioned in game, but I'd like to think the Sumeru Rose is among the national flowers of Sumeru along with the Padisarah, so it's appropriate for the General Mahamatra to wear it.

Lastly, I gave them matching double piercings. Tighnari wears them on his right ear (as per his canon design), and Cyno on his left. Another matching set :)

[jenneyquinn]

𝐠𝐫𝐮𝐯𝐢𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

in which he finally makes her his! (after 100 yq)

also no beta we die like gruvia

first date

because in her head, they’ve been dating ever since they first met, gray “lover boy” fullbuster has to be the one to ask juvia out—that’s how you know it was gonna be a special one

though he should feel confident, given all the research he’s done purely for this moment, his mind draws a blank

he only thinks about juvia’s interests and what she would like to do… but it’s hard when the person you’re going out with doesn’t have much interests besides yourself

on the day of, he meets up with juvia at the guild hall—the latter excitedly running up to hug from the side (as per usual)

gray takes her out to a little café that just opened since he knows she likes to bake (even if her creations sometimes are a hit or miss)

they reminisce on the times where they ate together—the caramade franks, the gray- and juvi-buns, and when they were living together—and they look back on them fondly

little did they know, they were gonna get a slight intrusion from their comrades

in the next table over, lucy, natsu, and happy are also seated—the salamander and the exceed feasting on the baked goods like there’s no tomorrow, causing the ice mage to stare past juvia and looking at the two in disgust

is everything alright, gray-sama?

he then notices that she probably thought he was looking at her all grossed out, but points out that their guildmates have also decided to try out the new café as well

she turns around and they exchange happy greetings, the five of them finishing their meals together

and though gray wouldn’t mind spending time with his comrades, he was looking forward to just spending the day with juvia (not that he’d actually admit that out loud)

so while juvia talks with lucy while natsu and happy continue ravaging the food on their table, gray just sits aloof, but leaning back on his chair as he drapes an arm over juvia’s

where are you guys planning on going after this? we’re going shopping since there’s this new dress i got my eye on

when lucy asks that question, gray was hoping that they’d just split ways after they were all done at the café, but he’d think that juvia would say no anyways—after all, why would she let her date spend any more time with one of her love rivals, right?

juvia thinks she knows what dress lucy-san is talking about, she wants to check it out too! what do you say, gray-sama? for sure, you’d like to see juvia in a cute new dress~

his cheeks flush red

he did not want to go to some girly store at all

but at the same time, he had a golden opportunity right in front of him

tch—whatever you want, i guess…

and that’s how the fairy tail members end up at the boutiques, the celestial-spirit and water mages trying out a mountain of clothing

… as well as bumping into erza, wendy, and carla—who seemed to have a similar idea as well

so this first date gradually became a group hangout, which gray tried very hard to not be bothered by, but his mind couldn’t help but itch for some alone time with juvia…

does she feel this too? he thinks, taking a glance at her typically-cheery self, is she feeling this now?

but juvia remains unbothered, so gray is content with just glancing at her—the smallest hint of a smile can be seen on his face

ICE PRINCESS HAVE YOU GONE DEAF??? OR YOU GONNA KEEP MAKING GOO-GOO EYES AT JUVIA???

and there goes his calm

at the end of the date, gray drops off juvia to her apartment—he’s stoic but deep down he’s bummed that their date couldn’t have turned out better

thank you for the great date, gray-sama! juvia had a fun time!

he’s clearly taken aback when she not only hugs him, but also gives a quick peck on his cheek, which instanly goes warm

you’re not sad the guys crashed our date?

of course not! juvia’s happy she spent the day with gray-sama, because she knows gray-sama has the most fun being with his team! … did you enjoy our date, gray-sama?

did he have a good time?

when he thinks back on the day, his mind only recalls all the moments where he saw a twinkle in juvia’s eyes, every time his heart does a little jump when she laughs, and most importantly—how she kept smiling the entire time

so, he smiles warmly at her, placing a kiss on her forehead before answering

i wouldn’t change a thing

in general

they usually spend most of their dates indoors, either at juvia’s or at gray’s

but their favourite outdoors dates are between market strolling and picnics... gray gets more affectionate if their picnics are in secluded areas

their mutual love languages are definitely quality time and physical affection

individually, juvia's is more towards words of affection, and gray's is acts of service

whenever gray has a day-long job, juvia wakes up extra early to make him a homecooked bento

between jobs, when he’s back in town, juvia doesn’t mind whenever gray lounges around her apartment, happily doing his laundry and serving him homey meals

anything to keep him from crashing at lucy’s place, right?

speaking of laundry, gray’s saved a lot of jewel from going to a tailor to get his clothes fixed because juvia does it for him!

sure, they’re all personalized since she sews their initials inside a heart for every garmet she mends but the embarrassment is a small price to pay than actually having to pay a tailor

on top of the scarf she’s made for him, juvia has knitted him sweaters, hats, and mittens (though the last one was pretty tricky and she accidentally added an extra finger to one of them)

juvia also sewed together a juvi-doll for gray to take on jobs “in case if he misses her”

he actually makes more of an effort to not lose the doll over his own clothes

they’d cuddle over the night, gray won’t admit it though—he’s comfortable spooning juvia when she’s in a deep sleep

they also have recurring nightmares (especially gray, who’d then hold onto juvia tighter)

sometimes, when he holds juvia tight enough, to the point where she wakes up, she soothes him by running her fingers through his hair and stroking his head until his teeth stops grounding

she prefers being the small spoon, but the payoff from being the big spoon is more heartwarming to juvia

and it's not like he'd ever admit it, but gray loves being small spoon

typically juvia would only go for jobs with gray, but eventually she grows comfortable with taking on jobs on her own

but if she did need a companion, gray only feels comfortable if it were just girls accompanying her, and gajeel as well

actually maybe not cana... they get too chummy with each other...

erza neither... they're even more chummy... but at least it's nothing to worry about because they're in the same team anyways

yep, gray definitely gets some possessiveness issues

he knows it’s stupid, but he also knows it would be more stupid of him to expect her to wait around the guild hall like a sad puppy until he came back from a job

not that it’s ever happened to him before

juvia gets less possessive, but gray gets more possessive

her love rivals decrease down to just lucy and other women who openly express their attraction to gray (even after she and natsu finally get together)

meanwhile, gray's pda actually peaks whenever lyon is in radius of them, and even though juvia insists that she and her ex are back on good terms platonically, he can never leave her alone if they bump into him

after all, if the jerk could easily dump her at her worst, he didn’t deserve to have her at her best

and even if a guy merely checks juvia out, gray already has 23462348 ways in his mind to take that perv down

juvia still initiates all the hugs, but now that they’re together, gray eagerly returns them

in fact, juvia's physical affection doesn't really intensify nor tone down when they start dating, but gray definitely blushes more

they don't regularly have tease-offs when they're alone, but in the guild, whenever the others start to tease gray while juvia's being all lovey-dovey and teasing him as well, gray easily shuts everyone up the moment he starts teasing juvia back

despite the 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 juvia is, it really doesn't take gray much to have her all sheepish and bashful, and everyone else is just immediately uncomfortable

after all, every single time gray teases juvia back, his clothes are gone in a thanos snap—and that's already bad enough

you'd think the guild would get used to it after knowing gray for so long... they never do—and now they've got something else from the ice mage to be disturbed by

as for pet names? it pretty much stays the same

juvia’s: gray-sama, gray my love, my darling gray, gray my beloved—his name is too important that she can’t give a proper pet name unless his actual name is in it as well

gray’s: juvia (rarely “my girl”, “my woman”, “my wife”, “mine”—just any possessive title, really)

but never babygirl or pookie—those per names are cursed to him

gray doesn’t give juvia a pet name—her name is just that special to him, he doesn’t feel the need to add flowery words because her name is already worth more than precious metals and stones

that’s why if he ever hears somebody call her name a bit too friendly for his liking, gray’s already on edge

juvia always asks gray what he wants for dinner or his bento

unless if gray has a specific craving, he usually just tells her to surprise him (because he loves pretty much everything she makes so he already knows it’s gonna be good)

special dates

juvia keeps track of all the anniversaries (months, years, when they first met, when they first got together, their first date, their first kiss)

legend says she still knows how many days passed since they’ve met

as for gray?

he only needs to know one day—her birthday

because of all the dates she keeps track of, sometimes she tends to forget when her own birthday comes up

and when that happens, gray pulls out all the stops

breakfast in bed (he saved some jewel for lessons), a vase of flowers, a fancy restaurant dinner, and a moonlight stroll

and of course, he plans a midday surprise party at the guild hall (but passes it off as the whole guild’s plan and fails)

and during gray’s birthday, even though the ice mage prefers to just lounge around and cuddle with his partner, he just goes with whatever juvia has planned

it makes him happy since he loves seeing her face light up from the planning alone

double dates

usually they go with gajeel and levy

they’d also go with natsu and lucy, but since gray and juvia get together before they do, it never really counted as double-dates until the dragon slayer and celestial spirit wizard finally make it official

juvia stops being as hesitant before going out with gray and nalu (once the latter makes it official, that is)

gajeel and gray don’t really butt heads in the same way gray does with natsu, but there is definitely tension between the two

apart from levy, juvia also brings a sort of ray of sunshine vibe to the dark, bleak, edgy angst that gajeel “doesn’t really” like—sibling dynamics, yunno

so god help gray if he fucks that up

on the other hand, the bluenettes always have fun, even moreso when gale’s baby joins them on their dates

gray is perfectly normal about seeing juvia’s maternal instincts when she babysits for them like— baby fever who??

but unfortunately for gray, having the baby around just fuels gajeel’s paternal instincts and the overprotectiveness just goes through the roof

so that’s all the headcanons i’ve got so far, i might make some nsfw hcs but i’ve got a paper to work on for school this month as well as all the other stuff i’ve got going on here that i’ve been putting off…

anyways hope y’all enjoyed reading this lol

[doeidawn]

☁︎ — see you next saturday

a night at the bar turns interesting when a masked stranger crosses your path. he's far from approachable, but something about him draws you in until you're coming to the bar every weekend just to see him. he's enigmatic and exciting—exactly what you needed to interrupt the monotony of life. 11.2k

⟢ pairing: ghost x f!reader

⟢ tags: MDNI/18+; author is american and apologizes in advance—this probably isn't how bars in the UK are, sorry; ghost is unnamed for 95% of the fic but it pays off; alcohol consumption (no one gets drunk, it's just some sipping); awkward first meeting; slow-burn??? idk sex doesn't happen til the very end; implied size difference; biker!ghost; semi-public sex; fingering; table sex; praise; unprotected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it); oral sex [m receiving]; facial

Another excited cheer from the table behind you tells you that one of the football teams on screen has scored. Though you couldn’t care less about the game, you catch a glance at the television hung on the wall near the bar to watch the score rise. Aside from sipping on the same drink and watching people filter in and out all night, you didn’t have anything better to do, anyway.

A night out at the bar probably wasn’t the most efficient use of your time, or your money, but after a week of grueling work and the ever-increasing stress of life, it felt nice to ignore everything for a while. As long as you didn’t drink enough to hate yourself the next morning, who were you to deny yourself some fun? Well, as fun as watching drunk people mingle could be. A cheap local bar wouldn’t give way for much excitement.

You were almost thankful for that. The wrong kind of excitement only would’ve added to the weight on your shoulders. Yet, a part of you still yearned for something more than the monotony of asking the bartender for another round while your eyes scanned the crowds. Only two drinks in and already you were practically praying for an interesting face to look your way and add something that resembled anticipation to your life.

You set your glass down on the bartop with a sigh. Another cheer comes from your left, drawing your attention towards the table of patrons with their eyes glued to the television wearing their excited smiles. It’s only a momentary glance, but with your head turned in their direction, you notice the first interesting face you’ve seen all night.

Rather, it was the lack of his face that drew you in. Just a few seats down the bar stood a tall man, dressed head to toe in dark clothing, sliding an empty glass toward the bartender. Perhaps the most notable thing about him is how his hood sits on his head and a mask covers the bottom half of his face. Is that skull print on the fabric?

Whoever he was, he didn’t seem too keen on letting other people know. Part of you was surprised he was even allowed to be served. To say he looked suspicious would be putting it mildly. 

But there was something about him that caught your attention and wouldn’t let go. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the air of mystery that clung to him, or maybe it was your desperate need for excitement. At this point, you couldn’t quite tell what the reason was, but his presence was magnetic. 

His head turns slightly to look up at the television mounted near the bar. For a split second, you thought he had noticed you somehow. You don’t know why it affected you enough to make your heart leap into your throat, but it was enough to make you stop staring out of fear you’d come off rude.

Your leg bounces nervously on the barstool, itching to walk you over to him. But, Christ, you’ve been out of the game for a while, and you have to assume his…unique sense of attire was to wade off any unwanted conversation. What would you even say to a guy like that? Compliments aren’t easy when you can’t see any part of the man’s face. 

Your fingertips run over the edge of your glass and you can’t help but bring your eyes back over to him. Still focused on the game. 

“What’s with the mask?” The words leave your mouth before you can give them a second thought. You regret it almost immediately, hoping that maybe between the music and the surrounding conversations that he couldn’t hear you. 

There’s a slow turn of his head in your direction. His eyes meet yours, but instead of curiosity you find nothing but a piercing gaze that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s hard to tell in the dim light of the bar, but you swear his gaze moves over you before he turns his attention to the bartender.

Bummer. Well, it was worth a shot…even if you think you’ll have to order another drink to prevent yourself from cringing on the memory later. 

You huff another sigh and swirl your drink, watching the liquid move in the glass. If nothing else, at least you got a good night of people-watching and paid enough attention to the game to know what your coworkers will talk about on Monday. The next sip burns your throat as you swallow. 

“Tactical advantage.” A baritone voice—suddenly very close to you—comes from your left and startles you, making you jump in your seat. 

Your eyes dart to the side, wide in panic, meeting a masked face looking down at you. You curse under your breath, unsure whether it’s appropriate to feel relieved.

“Pardon..?”

“You asked about the mask,” the man gestures vaguely towards his fabric-covered face as he moves to sit on the barstool next to you. The old material groans under his weight. “Tactical advantage.” 

You couldn’t help but continue to stare at him. You could tell he was a bigger guy from far away, but, Jesus, he was even bigger up close. Not just tall, but his shoulders were broad and his hands practically dwarfed the glass he was holding. He was, objectively, terrifying.

Yet, you couldn’t help but smile at his simple, concise words. “Yeah? And what advantage is that?”

“To hide my face.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt at comedy. “Well, I coulda guessed that.”

“You asked.” He looks over at you and instead of the piercing gaze from before, there’s something much warmer in his eyes. You wish you could see if he had a smug smile to accompany his words. 

“That I did.” You take another sip of your drink, hoping it’ll continue to keep your nerves settled. “So why d’you wanna hide your face?”

He’s silent for a moment, looking down at the bar as he folds his arms and leans against it. You faintly hear him sigh before he shrugs his shoulders. “No need to show it.”

“Gotta be hard to drink with a mask, no?”

“Not if you lift it up.”

“Or you could just…take it off.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“‘Cause then I’d get to see what you look like.”

His eyes—you make a mental note of the deep brown color they are—narrow at that. “Oh, I dunno if you want that.”

“I think I do.”

The stool beneath him creaks with his weight as he sits up, straightening his back and reminding you just how tall he is. His chest expands against his hoodie in another deep breath. “Determined, aren’t you?”

Another smile creeps its way onto your face. “C’mon, I’m curious.” You want to lean in, to tease him with your proximity, but you withhold yourself.

Those blond eyebrows that peek out from the rim of his balaclava raise slightly. His eyes move over you in a movement he doesn’t seem to bother being subtle about. Though the gesture makes your heart skip a beat, his silence is deafening.

“Alright, alright,” you concede, hands up in defeat. “I get it. No face.” He makes an affirmative sound at that.

“Smart girl.” He says it so fast, a one-off comment that told you to not bother pressing him for any more information, but something about it makes your breath catch in your throat. 

You have to look down at your drink when you feel your cheeks grow warm. Even though it was nearly gone, you certainly didn’t have enough liquid courage to flirt openly. You wanted to ask his name, to ask where he’s from—what if he lived close by?—but if he wasn’t even willing to show you his face at the bar, you knew the chances were slim. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him shift in his seat again. He digs in his pocket, pulls out his phone, and barely looks at it before he starts to stand. Was he leaving already? Why?

“Where you goin’?” You ask before you can really think about why you cared so much.

“M’needed elsewhere.” 

Blunt, simple, and vague. That seemed to be how he operated. 

“Oh, a popular guy, are you?”

“You could say that.” Your eyes follow him as he moves, but he doesn’t look your way when he stands. Christ, he was a big lad. 

“You didn’t even touch your drink.”

“It’s not mine.” He moves the full glass down the bar until it clinks against your own. It’s then you notice it’s the same color as your drink. Same glass, same serving. Did he really buy you a drink?

“Have a nice night.” You look back at him to see his eyes meeting yours. Maybe it was the last drink still swimming in your system, but you weren’t able to form the words to respond. “Get home safe, yeah?”

And with a nod of your head, he weaved his way through the room until he was out of your line of sight. Despite his size, he was easy to lose in the crowd. You turn back to the bartop and stare at the two glasses. The one on the left—the one he’d bought for you—was invitingly full.

You reach out, fingertips skimming the rim before you bring the glass to your lips. It was the same drink you always ordered when you went out—your favorite. Only somehow it tastes sweeter on your tongue this time.

You’ve never made it a habit to go out and drink. As stressful as life could get, it just wasn’t an outlet you ever turned towards. It was expensive as hell, and you weren’t stupid enough to ignore how much it sucked to be hungover. 

But despite that, you found yourself back in that same barstool when the weekend came around. And for the first time, it wasn’t because of the overpriced liquor.

Only a few sips into your first drink of the night and you were already looking around in hopes that you’d find a skull-patterned mask looking back at you. Desperately you tried to tune out the chatter of people around you, hoping you’d be able to pick out his voice. Maybe it was stupid. It was definitely wishful thinking. 

For all you knew, he wasn’t even in town anymore; you figured he probably wasn’t the type of guy to stick around one place for very long. And, hell, he left so abruptly last time, who’s to say he’d even want to see you again? You hated the tightness that built in your chest at the thought of that. 

Well, you might as well enjoy your drink since you’re here. You tried to pay attention to whatever sport was on the television this time, tried scrolling on your phone, but nothing held your attention. Every sip of your drink tempted you to house the entire bar. But you didn’t figure yourself that pathetic. Still, you were pathetic enough to keep looking over at the entrance, hoping you’d see that tall figure slinking through groups of people.

But you never do.

Fuck. It was stupid to hope anyway. You curse yourself under your breath, rubbing at your temples like it’ll help clear your head. With a huff and a sigh, you finish the last of your drink. It doesn’t taste as sweet as it did last time. You’re more disappointed than you wanted to allow yourself to be.

You decided rather quickly that you’d rather mope and feel sorry for yourself in the comfort of your own home. It wasn’t worth wasting money on another lonely drink.

There’s a chill breeze outside that cuts through you, making you shiver as soon as you walk out the door. You cross your arms, trying to preserve some body heat, as you make your way down the pavement. A still-lingering part of you doesn’t want to leave but your legs don’t stop carrying you further away.

You eventually come to a stop, leaning against a light post as you dig out your phone. Even though you’re supposed to be looking up the rideshare to get you back home, you can’t help but look around last time. You think yourself too desperate for your own good until you see a tall figure just a few steps away.

Standing next to a motorcycle that you can only assume is his, the hooded figure drops a cigarette to the ground, his boot grinding against the pavement to stomp it out. You thought it might be too good to be true, but then he turns just enough for you to see him pull that skull-patterned balaclava back over his mouth. He doesn’t seem to notice you—a fact you quickly want to remedy.

“Hey, big guy,” you call out to him, the nickname a subconscious one you immediately cringe at yourself for. Fucking ‘big guy’? Yeah, that’s not gonna go over well.

But it certainly gets his attention. His head turns in your direction, if only barely. He does a double-take before stopping in his tracks and staring back at you. You have to hope and pray that he doesn’t think you’re crazy as you walk over to him. Luckily, he didn’t move away from your advances. Instead, he turns towards you as if to welcome your approach, dark eyes raking over you in that same conspicuous motion.

It’s when you’re face-to-face with him—well, more like mask-to-face—that you realize you didn’t quite know what to say. You were too sober to be making a fool of yourself like this. After an awkward beat of silence of you taking in once more just how tall he was compared to you, you finally manage to conjure up something.

“I just wanted to say…thank you for buying me a drink the other night. I…I appreciated that.”

“Course.” You’d almost forgotten the gruff sound of his baritone voice. “You leavin’ already?”

You hesitate for a moment, a lie stewing on the tip of your tongue. No, no, I was just hanging out in the cold, what a coincidence, right? How much you wanted to spend time with a man you barely knew was almost pathetic. You resign the thought with a sigh. “Sorry, you’re too late. I already had all my fun.”

“What, waitin’ f’me?” 

You didn’t know if he was just confident or if he somehow truly knew that was what you were doing. Either way, it made you feel like he could see right through you, like he knew you found him interesting. “Maybe I was hopin’ you’d come by.” You bite your lip, gaze hitting the ground before looking back up at him. “You were the most entertaining thing at that bar.”

He takes in a deep breath at that. “M’sorry I missed it.” Yeah, me too. “Can you get yourself home?”

“Yeah. Well, a rideshare can.”

“How ‘bout I take you home?”

The suggestion makes your heart skip a beat, staring up at him, frozen and probably looking half-crazed. The rational part of your brain was sounding every possible alarm. Why would you ever trust a man you met in a bar who never takes off his mask to take you home unless you had a death wish? And yet the winning part of your brain was the one that was extremely curious about his implication.

“Ah, take a bloke I barely know back home? How drunk d’you think I am?”

He looks over you again in a beat of silence. “You aren’t. That’s why I’m askin’.” Knowing he didn’t want to take advantage of you eased some of the lingering anxiety in the back of your mind. But, as if he could sense that anxiety, he continued, “You don’t gotta let me in, I jus’ wanna make sure you’re safe. I’m cheaper than a rideshare, anyway.”

“Well, can’t beat that, I suppose.” You move around him to approach his parked motorcycle. You didn’t have to know much about bikes to realize it was a nice one. Sleek, but not flashy. Your fingers glide over the leather of the seat as you eye the streetlights reflecting off of the shiny black body. “I’ve never been on a bike. People say they’re dangerous.”

“They can be, if you don’t know what you’re doin’.” You hadn’t noticed how close he was—moving as silent as ever—hovering just behind you as he grabs the helmet strapped securely to the bike. Holding it out towards you, he gives you a nudge. “Here.”

You take the helmet, holding it carefully like you’re afraid to leave your fingerprints all over it. You could already tell it’d be too big, but the consideration was nice. “I trust you know what you’re doin’, then?”

“Most of the time.”

Well, wasn’t he quite the comedian.

You slot the helmet over your head with a roll of your eyes. As you guessed, it was certainly too big, tilting forward over your brow and obscuring your view. A bitterly sweet smell floods your senses as you clasp it in place; you can only assume it’s his sweat, mixed with a faint air of tobacco, embedded into the foam lining.

A heavy hand rests on the side of the helmet, holding it steady while he slides the visor up. His head tilts as those dark eyes of his greet you. “Bit big on you, innit?”

“Yeah, just a li’l.”

“How far we goin’?” You should have been a little hesitant before telling him your address, but you don’t even stutter. He spoke like he had to know, like ordering people around was what he did for a living. An affirmative hum comes from behind his mask as he slides the visor back down. “You’ll be alright.”

You struggle to balance both yourself and the helmet long enough to swing your leg over the seat. You were thankful that the helmet obscured your face to shield some of the embarrassment, at least. Then you feel that same heavy palm on the small of your back, trying to keep you steady, only to make your body tense up. The helmet swings lazily on your head as you finally straddle the seat.

Once you’re situated, after asking if you’re comfortable, he slides his hand off of you. He has no problem getting himself sat, taking up the front half of the seat as he slots in the space before you. He turns his head and, though you have to lift your head awkwardly to see him through the visor, you hear his voice say, “Hold on tight. Can’t have you fallin’ off.”

What, did he plan on speeding out of here? Hesitantly, your hands find purchase on his waist. It was gentle, barely enough pressure to feel his hoodie under your fingertips, let alone his body underneath.

You think you hear him scoff. “I’m sure you’re stronger than that.” His fingers wrap around your wrists, guiding your hands forward until they rest on his chest. The movement shortens the gap of space between your bodies as your arms hover awkwardly around him. “I promise you won’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re afraid of. C’mon, tighter than that.” You strengthen your hold, closing the distance between your chest and his back, practically hugging him. “Atta girl.”

Your face heats up at that, and you were thankful the helmet obscured the sheepish smile that had painted itself on your face. 

The engine suddenly roars to life, loud enough to surprise you. The power behind it vibrates through the leather seat and seeps easily through the padding of the helmet. Though his takeoff was as smooth as it could’ve been, it didn’t stop you from tightening your hold around his body. 

The cityscape passes by in a blur of vibrant lights and towering buildings. The hum of the motorcycle’s engine overpowers the surrounding cars, echoing off of the asphalt and thrumming a rhythmic hum during the ride. The already-cool night air bites at your skin as it whips past. 

Though you have no reason to, you find yourself gripping him tighter on every take-off after a stop. And despite the chill on your skin, you felt the heat rise to your face as you realized you could feel how rigid and tough he was under that hoodie. 

There was a thrill, you realized, that ran through you and made your heart race. Not only because you were on a bike for the first time, but because of how close you were to the man in front of you. Holding on tight to a stranger whose name you didn’t know so he could bring you home safely sounded like something out of a novel. The smell of him embedded in his helmet and filling your senses, your body close to absorb some of his heat, the pure generosity of even offering to drive you home: everything made you want to abandon all self-respect and invite him in when you arrived.

The internal battle you fought over that distracted you for the rest of the ride.

You could barely see out of the helmet without cocking your head awkwardly, but you could tell when the trip was nearing its end. A pit formed in your stomach—a part of you unwilling to let the ride end just yet. It wasn’t until he slowed down enough to pick out your building that you realized how difficult it was to see over his broad shoulders. With a point and a nudge in the right direction, you guided him to your stop.

He pulls the bike up to the pavement before parking it. The sounds of the neighborhood replace the monotonous hum of the engine as he turns it off. Your movements are hesitant as your hands slide off his body, something you quickly regret and hope he hadn’t noticed. He helps you off the bike just as he had helped you on, reminding you of his gentle touch, thankful yet again for the helmet obscuring your shy smile.

You don’t ignore the sense of disappointment you feel knowing that he has to leave. Just taking off the helmet was enough to make you miss him and ache for something more, even when he stood right by you on the pavement. You knew it was strange to feel close to a man you barely knew, but he gave you more comfort than most. He made you feel intrigued in a way no one else did. 

“So,” you start, dreading the awkward silence, “do I get to know the name of my chauffeur?”

He pauses for a moment of consideration. Your heart beats faster, something akin to excitement making you hope for an answer. Finally, he looks up from the pavement. “Maybe next time.”

Initially, you felt more disappointed than you wanted to allow yourself to be. Surely his name was the one thing he could give up? But then you find yourself clinging on to that phrase. Maybe next time…Did he expect a ‘next time’? Should you expect a ‘next time’?

As you walked up to your door, he didn’t follow, staying true to his words from earlier. He kept a respectable distance to not crowd you, as if he didn’t want to make you nervous. If only he knew everything about him made you overthink your every move.

There’s a beat of silence when you grab your keys. An invite inside sits on the tip of your tongue, fighting with the rational part of your brain, consequences be damned. But his voice beats you to the punch as he breaks another long and empty silence.

“So d’you go and drink every Saturday?”

Your fingers toy with the keys in your hand as you debate your answer. “No, I don’t,” you admit after a beat of silence.

He hums a deep sound that you can’t quite identify the emotion behind. “So just a coincidence, then?”

You don’t respond to that. Instead, while fighting your sheepish smile, you look back at him. 

“Thanks for takin’ me home.”

“‘Course.”

“Maybe next time you should drink with me.”

Your heart pounds in your chest when the words leave your mouth. Eagerness didn’t seem like such a shameful thing anymore. Not when you were sharing body heat with him just a few minutes ago. Not when he knew where you lived because he cared enough to make sure you were safe. Maybe it was too hopeful to expect him to want to see you again, but when your eyes meet his under the streetlight, you’re confident the hope isn’t unfounded.

His eyes rake over you in a slow one-over as he nods. His voice is low in that same charming gruff timbre when he responds, “I’ll see you next Saturday, then?”

Fighting off an over-excited smile proves to be the most difficult thing you’ve done in a while. You sigh, calming your racing heart. “If you’re on time.”

“It’s a date.”

It wasn’t actually a date.

Surely he couldn’t have meant it literally. Still, it was enough to have you barely managing a flustered goodbye before fumbling with your keys at the door. Even after you were in the comfort of your home your face felt hot, your body practically vibrating from adrenaline. All from a stranger. The faint sound of the revving engine of his motorcycle moments later only served to remind you of his voice, the warmth of his body, and—hopefully—the promise in his words. 

You had to remind yourself constantly, every time your mind wandered throughout the week, that you were hoping for too much. You were daydreaming about a face you hadn’t seen yet from a man whose name you didn’t even know. And, God, that made you feel more pathetic than ever.

It was just a night out, spending time together over a drink, nothing more. Maybe you could learn his name if he was feeling generous enough. But to hope for anything more—a follow-up or anything deeper than friendliness—was foolish. Still, your mind kept wandering back to his words. It’s a date. 

No, this wasn’t a date, you scold yourself in the mirror, shaking your head as if it’ll dismiss the thought faster. That was just a throwaway line, something to draw you in to make sure he’d see you tonight. Nothing more, nothing implied, nothing to hope for. You knew that by now, practically drilled it into your own head. 

So why did you spend way too long looking at yourself in the mirror, obsessing over every little detail you could nitpick? Why did you drudge through your entire closet to make sure you picked the “right outfit”? Why did you stress about what perfume to wear and what drink to order? It wasn’t a date after all. 

Right?

It was too late to fight yourself on it once your rideshare pulled up. The implication of his words was irrelevant at this point; your heart seems to beat quicker with every turn of the wheels that brings you closer to the bar. Despite the cool air making you regret choosing to wear a skirt, you felt hot and stuffy—just downright nervous. Christ, you nearly felt like you could throw up when you saw a familiar tall silhouette outside the bar. 

He was on time. And he was waiting for you.

Every insecurity you nitpicked before comes to the front of your mind the moment you step onto the pavement. You force the thoughts away with a sigh and, for the first time in your life, your steps towards the bar are hesitant. His eyes meet yours as you approach and you almost wish you could see his reaction under that mask. But the more you thought about it, maybe you were better off not knowing.

He straightens up, pushing himself off of the wall, looking down at you with a face obscured by shadows and fabric. “I was startin’ to think I came too early.”

It was a huge relief to see him here, waiting and willing to see you again. You couldn’t hide your smile if you tried. “Well, lucky for you, I like an eager man.”

His steps are confident as he makes his way towards the entrance. “That’s definitely one way to describe me.” You barely hear the sentence when he utters it, which only makes your heart beat faster. He pulls the door open, holding it for you to make your way in. 

The bar is as crowded as it is every Saturday. Plenty of people scattered around, watching whatever team was on the television this weekend, drunkenly shouting overtop of the music. It never fails to overwhelm you when you walk through the entrance. A hand rests on your back, grounding you and making you all too aware of your posture, slipping to your waist before guiding you through the bustle of people.

Your date—it still felt weird to call him that—guides you towards the bar, towards the backend where fewer people crowded the space. His presence was comforting despite his silence. Not to mention how perfectly his hand slotted against your waist, a thought that had you too nervous to bring attention to his sudden touchiness.

The stools squeak and groan as the two of you settle into your seats. The bar is anything but quiet, yet an awkward silence hangs in the air between you. Something told you he wasn’t the type to care about the awkwardness, but you were far too sober to not overthink every thought that popped into your head.

You clear your throat, hoping it’ll boost your confidence to speak. “I wasn’t actually sure you’d show,” you admit. “But I’m glad you did.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You weren’t sure how to respond. He raised a good point, one that spit in the face of your insecurities and anxiety. “I dunno…guess I worried I wasn’t exciting enough for you.”

“Well, you’re no mask-wearin’ bike rider.” He leans in your direction and nudges you with his elbow. “But I think you’re plenty excitin’.” You look up at his eyes just fast enough to catch his wink.

Flustered, you avert your eyes to the bartop as you laugh. “You don’t know me well enough, clearly.”

“I’d like to. That’s why I’m here.”

That brings your eyes back to his. You may not have been able to see his face, but those eyes told you everything about his sincerity. There shouldn’t have been any doubt left in your mind after that. The man admitted to having an interest in you—in getting to know you—and it surely set your heart on fire. 

“Well, that and to drink, I’m sure.” Your smile is an attempt to distract from the way you stare at him. It was like you had yourself convinced you could make out his features if you just studied him long enough. 

“Ah, that’s just a bonus.” He gestures for the bartender with a simple wave of his hand before fishing in his pocket for his wallet. 

“So what’s the drink of choice for a bloke like you?”

“Bourbon.”

You aren’t sure why that admission surprises you; of course a big guy like him would drink whiskey. Something about that fact makes you feel warm inside. You request one for yourself, an excuse to have something in common with him. 

Your eyes follow the bartender as they move, but your mind is far from the alcohol. Everything was going well—probably the best it could’ve gone meeting someone who could still classify as a stranger for the third time. But there was still something gnawing at the back of your mind, festering insecurity and uncertainty.

“Can I ask you something?” You almost surprise yourself with the lack of hesitance with which the question leaves your mouth.

“Shoot.”

“That night we met, when we spoke for the first time, you left awfully quick.” Your fingers tap against the bartop in an anxious rhythm. “What was that about?”

From the corner of your eye, you see him shrug. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was work. It asks a lot of me sometimes.” Work calling at such a late hour was hard to believe, but the way he said it—a layer of exhaustion sullying his words—had you convinced. “Trust me, I would’ve preferred staying to talk to you.”

You believed that, too. 

“What do you do for work?”

He pauses, taking in a deep breath, like he’s thinking about how to phrase his response. You’ve started to learn how deliberate he was with his words. “A lot of dangerous shit.”

That definitely piques your attention. You hear the two glasses clink against the bartop, but you were more concerned with him than the alcohol. “Yeah? What kind of shit is that?” You didn’t have a lot of hope that he’d open up any more than that, but the curiosity ate at you. 

He reaches for one of the glasses, sighing as he moves. “The kind of shit that makes you want to drink to forget it.” He lifts the glass in your direction. “So let’s drink, yeah?”

Even if he didn’t completely open up, it was a sentiment you could sympathize with. You may not know exactly what he spent his time doing but you knew enough to hope he saw your company as comforting. You reach for the other glass and lift it until it clinks against his own. “Just don’t drink enough to forget me.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be forgettin’ you anytime soon.”

You smile at his sentiment, taking a sip of whiskey to wash away the anxiety-borne tension in your throat.

It’s done in a split second before you notice it, but he lifts the bottom of his balaclava over his mouth, resting the hem on his nose. It gives you a view of the blond scruff that dusts the sharp angle of his jaw, of those peach lips that look surprisingly soft as he raises his glass to take a drink. The way his mask sits makes you aware of the crook in the bridge of his nose—a sign of cartilage broken multiple times over. He’s rugged and rough underneath the soft cloth, far more attractive than anything you could’ve conjured up in your own mind. And that was without seeing his entire face. They were features that any other man could have, but he hid those features from the world for reasons you couldn’t fathom. Maybe that was what made him so alluring.

“You’re starin’.”

It takes a moment for his words to register in your head. You only realized he was speaking because you could actually see his mouth move. You scoff, brows furrowing as you finally blink for the first time in a while. “I wasn’t starin’.”

He grunts in response. You didn’t have to hear him speak to know he doesn’t believe you. Hell, you didn’t believe yourself. You roll your eyes at the sound, taking a sip of your drink and averting his intense gaze by catching a glimpse of the television behind the bar. You didn’t care one bit about the scores on the screen.

Especially when you suddenly felt the warmth of his hand on your thigh. There was no way he didn’t notice the way your muscles tense, flinching at the sudden contact. It’s indescribable the way it makes you feel. His rough and calloused touch barely underneath the hem of your skirt to feel the smooth and tender flesh of your thigh sends a jolt down your spine, a heat coursing through you that you haven’t felt in a while.

“You’re a terrible liar.” It isn’t lost on you the way his voice deepens when he whispers to you, leaning in close and quiet so he can make sure you hear him.

Your mouth suddenly goes dry, your face hot and your heart racing. “Piss off. The…bourbon’s just strong.” You force the words out in a half-hearted tumble as you bring the glass to your lips. 

His grip tightens ever-so-slightly, gently squeezing your thigh. Something about it tells you he doesn’t buy that lie either. “Ah, s’that what it is?” 

The sarcasm in his voice makes the whiskey burn as it slides down your throat. You take in a breath to try and combat the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. Squirming in the stool, you press your thighs together to quell some of the heat pulsing through your veins. Nerves and excitement battle for control over your body. 

“I didn’t take you for a touchy lad.” Your own voice quietens to a whisper, almost too nervous to acknowledge his bold move.

“Usually m’not.”

Setting your glass down, you’re almost disappointed to find the mask is settled back over his face when you finally make eye contact again. “Mm. You must like me, then?”

The question wasn’t really meant to have an answer, but he didn’t hesitate to give you one. “Was that not obvious before?”

“The confirmation is nice.” You force the words out before you can think too hard about his reply. 

He liked you. One of the most enigmatic, confusing, intriguing people you’ve ever met—who should’ve made you feel scared—actually liked you. It was relieving and exciting and terrifying all at once.

You look down to see his hand on your thigh. The sight is enough to turn excitement into something much stronger that pools in your core. You run your fingertips over his knuckles, the discolored skin telling you they’ve been wounded multiple times over. You didn’t have the guts to ask. The contact makes his grip tighten slightly, his thumb slowly brushing gentle strokes against your skin.

The whole thing had your mind running wild. You certainly didn’t have enough to drink to excuse the images that flashed in your mind. But seeing his hand on you—feeling his touch—in a way you could only describe as intimate had desire pumping through you. You don’t know how good a job you’re doing at hiding it, either, but you’re certain he can feel when you squeeze your thighs tightly together.

“So,” you start, clearing your throat as if to excuse the rampant thoughts in your head, “do I get to know your name yet?”

You look over to see his eyes lingering absentmindedly on the television. “Depends on how this night goes.”

Well, it wasn’t a ‘no’.

You scoff, feigning annoyance. “What, y’gonna wait until I’m too drunk to remember it?” Your hand moves to your glass, raising it in his direction before taking a sip.

“Oh, I’m not gonna let you get drunk.” He says it so matter-of-factly that you couldn’t argue if you wanted to. Then, his hand moves carefully, readjusting his grip until the plush fat on the inside of your thigh is squished between his fingers. “Can’t have any fun if you get yourself plastered.”

At least now you knew you had no chance of embarrassing yourself in a drunken stupor. But your mind was far more preoccupied with that word—fun. Sure, he could have meant it literally; maybe he planned on taking you somewhere more exciting than a cheap bar after this. You silently scolded yourself for being disappointed with that reality. 

“I suppose you’re right…” The words came out breathlessly into your glass. You didn’t know if he heard you, but it didn’t really matter. He seemed like the type of man to be dead set on whatever he was determined to do. You just hoped the ‘fun’ he had in mind was the same type that had your heart pounding whenever you thought about it.

His hand slides off you and—God help you—you almost whimper at the loss of contact. Your eyes follow his movement, watching him slide his mask up enough to take another drink. You didn’t think you could ever forget what he looked like. It was a sight you swore you could spend the whole night staring at, but you looked away before he had the chance to tease you about it.

“Y’know,” he says with a voice quiet enough that only you could hear, “if you need somethin’, you can just ask.”

Your eyes dart over to him with an unconscious, wide-eyed look of guilt and confusion. There was no doubt in your mind that you needed something from him, but you hadn’t intended that to be obvious. A bewildered “what?” is all you manage to force out while you try to convince your rapid heart to slow.

“If you need somethin’ from me, you can just ask me for it.” He speaks slowly this time, looking in your direction with brown eyes so dark it was like his pupils had blown wide. Fuck, did you look like that too? He sets his glass down with a sigh when you don’t respond with anything more than a confused scoff. He leans in close, so close you could feel his breath on your ear and a whiff of tobacco and musk in your nostrils. “You were practically humpin’ my hand.” You swear he growls the words. “That makes me think you need somethin’.”

That immediately shot down any hope you had that you were doing great at hiding your wandering thoughts. Excuse after excuse ran through your mind, trying to justify why his touch made you squirm. But…was there really any point in denying something he so clearly had picked up on? He read you like a goddamn book—not that you were difficult to read—and something about that only made the desire heavier. And, most importantly in your mind, there was no sign that he disliked it.

Your lips quiver as they part, hesitation making your mouth run dry. “Maybe…maybe I do need somethin’...” It feels like your heart has jumped in your throat. But it wasn’t nerves that made your skin run hot. “Are you…offerin’ me somethin’?”

He straightens in his seat and pulls the balaclava back over the lower half of his face. From the corner of your eye, you watch him tap his fingers against his glass. Just before you think he’s going to end the conversation there, you hear the rumble of his voice from behind the skull-patterned fabric. “There’s a storage room in the back hall, last door on the right. Hardly anyone goes back there.” His tone is almost conspiratorial. “If we go one at a time, less chance of being noticed. We could have some privacy there.” There’s a pause before he looks in your direction, not bothering to be subtle when his eyes move over you. “That’s what I’m offerin’.”

Holy shit.

There was no reason to think he was joking, but you still couldn’t believe it. You also couldn’t believe that you were so desperate that turning him down didn’t even cross your mind. “You’re serious? Here? In the bar?”

He shrugs like the thought is obvious. “Well, you said it yourself: can’t take a bloke you barely know back home.” He leans in again, eyes boring through you. “I promise I’m worth all the hassle.”

Somehow, you didn’t doubt him one bit. You play off the disbelief and hesitation with a scoff, shaking your head. “Yeah, you better be.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you for a moment. You wish you could hear his thoughts or see his face, get some inkling of an idea of what was running through his mind. 

Then he sits up straight, cocking his head in the direction of the back hallway. “Go on, then.”

Truthfully, his impatience had you relieved; at least now you wouldn’t have to be the one to initiate. But that didn’t mean you wanted to be the first to get caught sneaking around the back of the building. “Why am I goin’ first?”

“So I can make sure no one follows.”

“Is that your specialty?”

“Somethin’ like that.” You weren’t sure how to feel about that confession. Just how much sneaking around was a guy like him doing? “Go on.”

You’d marinate the thought later. With a sigh, you slide off of the barstool. Looking at him you find his eyes on the television screen once more. With no reassuring glance or even a flirtatious wink, you set your sights on the hallway in the back of the bar.

You’re relieved to find that no one was waiting in a line outside the bathrooms. At least that would make the sneaking around part a lot easier. You felt ridiculous, like a teenager trying to avoid their parents when they snuck out. But the promise of what could’ve been awaiting you was enough to will you to walk down the dim hallway.

There was a door towards the end of the hall, on the right side, just past the bathrooms. Just like he had said. You didn’t have time to wonder how he knew it was here, or how he knew it was a storage room. But sure enough, after slinking past the bathrooms and quickly pushing the door open, you were greeted with a room full of boxes, cleaning supplies, and old furniture. The smell of mildew made your nose crinkle as you stepped further inside.

It was then you realized he didn’t tell you how long to wait. Your thoughts spiraled from there; What if he flakes? What if an employee comes back here? Each second felt like an hour, your anxiety mounting with every moment you were alone in the stuffy room. You move to an old table shoved in the back corner. A thin layer of dust coats your finger when you run it along the trim.

Your heart jumps when you hear the door click. You were prepared to play the part of a drunken fool looking for the bathroom in case it was an employee, but you’re relieved to see the large figure you’d come to recognize slink through.

“Hey,” you call out to him, casually greeting him like you hadn’t snuck in here under the implications of sex.

His steps are slow as he moves towards you. “Hey.” That gruffness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. The room feels smaller with every step he takes in your direction.

“So,” you sigh, “do you take all your dates to storage rooms?”

“Only the lucky ones.”

He stops just in front of you, closer than he’s ever stood before, making your breath catch in your throat as you look up at him. “Suppose I should feel lucky, then.” You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you weren’t too concerned with appearing composed.

“I’d hope so.”

“I will if you take off that mask.”

You think you hear something resembling a laugh from beneath that skull-patterned fabric. He tugs at the mask and, for a moment, you think he’s actually going to remove it. But the hem only moves to the bridge of his nose, taunting you by not revealing any part of himself he hadn’t already. You must look expectant, or disappointed, because he gives you an incredulous look in return. 

“What? You seemed plenty happy with this earlier,” he gestures towards the lower half of his face, earning an eye roll from you. He scoffs, leaning in and tilting his head to follow your gaze. “If I remember, you couldn’t stop starin’ at me.”

“Fuck off. I liked what I saw.” His teasing made your cheeks feel hot. That same heat thumps in your veins when your eyes meet his again. “...Still do.”

You barely feel the warmth of his fingertips as they graze your skin, tracing your jaw. He was gentle, exploratory, like he was waiting for your approval. When all he got from you was a sharp intake of breath, his thumb ran gently over your bottom lip. 

“So do I.”

You’d chastise yourself for leaning in if you were any more self-conscious. You’d blame the eagerness on the alcohol, or the way he seemed to pull you closer with his hand, but there was no denying the want stirring in the pit of your stomach. Nothing else mattered except making your lips meet. And when they do, all you find is gentle hesitance and the taste of whiskey. 

It was soft and careful, yet completely consuming. His lips were as soft as they looked and moved perfectly against your own. You couldn’t stop yourself from sighing into his mouth and inching your body closer, bringing your hand to his chest and feeling the soft fabric of his hoodie go taut as you curl your fingers into a fist. Afraid he’d move away if you didn’t, you kept your grasp firm and pulled him closer. 

He was the one to close the gap between your bodies. It was like he was waiting for that confirmation that you wanted this. His hands move to your waist as his groan vibrates against your lips. Gentle kisses slowly turn more desperate as both of you breathe heavily. The taste of cigarettes and alcohol is sickeningly sweet on your tongue.

Strong hands move down your body and over your hips. You half expected him to grope you and leave it at that. And while you would’ve been fine with it, you’re surprised when you feel his hands move down to your thighs to lift you off the ground. The sudden movement makes you yelp and gasp into his mouth, fingers clawing at his hoodie to keep you balanced while he haphazardly sets you on the edge of the dusty, wobbling table. 

It’s brash and hurried but it’s exciting. The type of exciting that makes you forget about the dust on the tabletop and the possibility someone could walk in. Nothing else mattered when his mouth was on you, trailing over your jaw with hot and wet kisses that took your breath away. 

“You’ll tell me if I’m too much, yeah?” The rough sound of his voice surprises you, grounding you amidst the overwhelming sensations. 

You nod, running your hands over his shoulders to try and feel the rigidity under his clothes. “Y-yeah, course.”

“Good girl.”

A small kiss is planted on your neck before he pulls back enough to look you over. As your hands fall from his shoulders, he hastily rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie. Not only does the sight of sinewy muscle hidden underneath make your blood pound in your veins, but the intricate sleeve of tattoos on his left arm catches your attention. In any other scenario you’d ask him question after question about each line and symbol. But right now his hands are running up your thighs and under your skirt, the muscles in his arms flexing as he kneads the fat between his fingers. 

The way he groans at your softness makes you throb. He nudges your legs further apart—a movement you would have done on your own volition—and pushes your skirt up as he moves to hold your hips. You lean back on your hands and watch mesmerized as his eyes lock onto the sight between your legs. 

“Pretty pair,” he mutters as his thumbs rub circles against your hips. It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about your panties. “Makes me think you were hopin’ I’d see ‘em.”

Seems like it paid off to overthink every part of your outfit. “Maybe I was.”

“Yeah? Hopin’ I’d see how soppin’ wet they are?” His thumb moves inwards, running over your slit through the wet fabric. The fabric clings to your sensitive skin, proving his point, as does the way you whimper and buck your hips.

“Yeah, that too.”

His fingers hook into the strip of fabric covering your cunt, pulling the garment to the side with a forceful tug. And you swear, even in the dim light, his pupils dilate at the sight. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Two fingers drag through your slit, through that slick that told him just how much you wanted him. His fingertips are rough but his touch is gentle. You gasp when he finds your clit and toys with the swollen bud by circling it teasingly. His lips find yours again with bruising kisses that swallow your sounds as you pant into his mouth. His fingers spread you open, gliding over your cunt and teasing every inch, gathering your slick as he circles your entrance.

Even though he moves slowly, the stretch of his thick fingers is certainly more than you were expecting. You whine as they curl and pump in and out in a rhythm that makes your cunt flutter and squelch with each push. Your head falls back with a moan when he hits something deep inside that sends shockwaves through you. 

His mouth moves down to your now-exposed neck, marking your skin with wet and sloppy kisses. “So fuckin’ wet for me,” his voice vibrates against you. “This is what you needed, isn’t it?”

You hum a broken “mm-hmm”, unable to focus long enough to form a proper response. But it’s that confirmation that has him moving faster and harder until your hips are jerking forward to meet his movements. 

“Yeah, y’couldn’t sit still ‘cause you were achin’ for it.” His free hand cups your face, gently squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. His eyes are dark with desire and something desperate that bores into you. “Just needed your pretty pussy fucked, huh?”

Your cunt flutters around his fingers at the praise, heat building in the pit of the stomach. Your pants turn into a moan as your breath catches in your throat. “Yes, I need it. I need it so fucking bad.”

His hand picks up speed as he coos a soft “I know, baby,” against your lips. His fingers curl and push just right, hitting every soft spot that makes your toes curl and your cunt tighten. One of your hands flies to his chest to claw at his hoodie as your body begins to tremble.

“Fuck,” you groan, barely able to get the words out, “d-don’t stop…”

���I won’t, love. Not ‘til you cum for me.”

For him. He wanted to see you fall apart under his touch and cling to him like he was the only thing in the world. You’ll care more about the sweetness of the thought when you aren’t stuffed full and moaning in the back of a bar. 

Whether it’s that thought or his touch or the heady mix of both, it’s not long before the muscles in your thighs go taut. Your breathing turns heavier as your moans and whines grow louder on each exhale. If it wasn’t for your subconscious fear of being caught and his need to feel your lips against his own you’re sure you would’ve screamed until the sound echoed off the walls. 

But even if your sounds were restrained, the sensations surely weren’t. That heat stirring in your core spilled over and your cunt clenched around his fingers until all you could hear was soft squelching as he pushed your slick cum back inside. Your thighs trembled and your chest heaved with the effort to catch your breath. It wasn’t until you could see straight against that you noticed the sweat along your brow and the ache in your back.

His fingers slid out, their girth just enough to leave you feeling loose. Before he could even take his hand off of you, his mouth was latching onto your neck for another set of rough and wet kisses.

“Turn around,” you barely hear his gruff instruction over the sound of your own breaths, “bend over.”

Still, you aren’t one to disappoint. You land on shaky legs after sliding off the table, using his sturdy form to balance yourself as you turn around. Your forearms rest against the table as you bend over the wobbling piece of furniture. 

You feel your skirt flip up, the fabric resting along your waist, before his large palms run over the swell of your ass. They’re warm and heavy and you can feel each callous as he kneads the fat in his grasp. He’s not rough, but it’s like he wants to savor the softness he finds.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum.” That was enough to make you twitch, but then he runs a finger over the cum-slick fabric of your panties. “Think you can do it again for me?”

You barely muster a nod and an “mm-hmm” before his fingers hook into your panties and pull them down to your knees. His impatience was only riling you up, especially when you felt him spread you apart and groan at the sight. 

“Christ, look at you…” you hear him mutter, the sound accompanied by the jangle of a belt buckle coming undone. 

You could practically feel his stare boring into you, branding your skin with his gaze. You think you hear him spit before a hand rests on your ass to knead your skin again. That hand moves to your hip, holding you firmly in place while the head of his cock glides along your slit and stops at your entrance. He isn’t even attempting to push in and it already has you whimpering. You can feel it—thick and warm and heavy—waiting to split you open. 

“Breathe for me, baby. Just relax.” His voice is soothing, deep and soaked in desire, and it makes your body obey without thought. 

A few deep breaths later and your mouth is falling open in a loud gasp as he pushes in. He moves slow, pausing every time you whine to mutter soft encouragement through clenched teeth. And while his voice was soothing, it didn’t exactly ease the stretch that had your cunt pulsing around him. Nothing had made you feel so full before.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way he groans when he’s fully seated inside you. Both of his hands hold your hips tight as he mutters a curse under his breath. Slowly, he starts to move, pulling back only to push in deep. You swear he hits deeper every time, every push forcing the air out of your lungs in a desperate moan. 

“That’s it, you can take it.” His voice was somewhere between gruff and breathless, tense beneath clenched teeth and restrained moans. Your back arches and your hips push back to meet his movements halfway to encourage him to speed up his steady rhythm. “Oh, good fucking girl.”

All you can manage is broken strings of curses and moans. Between his constant praise and the fullness of his cock, you couldn’t think straight long enough to focus on anything except the pleasure shooting through your veins. If your nails were any sharper, you might’ve left claw marks on the table beneath you as you held on.

“Fuck me. H-Harder.” You knew you were being greedy, aching for more every time you accustomed to his pace. But you were still so sensitive from your recent climax; you knew it wouldn’t take much more to hit that high again, especially when his cock kissed that spot deep inside that made your eyes roll back.

“Yeah, you need it harder, baby?” He put up no argument as he moved his hands to your waist for a better grip. He pounded into you with a force that made your legs shake, his hips meeting your ass with an obnoxiously loud sound that you couldn’t care less if anyone heard. “Goddamn, this cunt’s perfect.”

Underneath your squeals and whines are his own moans and growls, each one making you clench around him just to draw another one out of him. Knowing he was as lost in pleasure as you were filled you with pride. 

His hands move up your body, snaking under your shirt, feeling you tense and tremble underneath him. Strong palms find and grope your chest, kneading you eagerly while he bends over you. His thrusts don’t cease even as his lips find your neck.

Soft bites and hot kisses only add to the sensations wracking pleasure on your body. You almost don’t hear him when he mutters against your skin, “Simon.”

“...Huh?”

“Simon.” He repeats, moving his mouth to your ear so there’s no doubt you’ll hear him. “Say it.”

“Si—fuck…Simon…” The name comes out in a moan, something he seems to enjoy judging by the receiving growl in your ear. 

“Atta girl. Now you know what to scream when you cum for me again.”

Your panting lips curl into something resembling a smile. Simon. You were too far gone to recognize the implication of trust behind his sudden openness, but you did know how sweet his name felt in your mouth. And, evidently, it wouldn’t take long for you to mutter it incoherently as your body begins to tense.

Heat and pleasure and everything warm builds in your core with each hit of his cock. He—Simon—mirrors your heavy breaths with his own. He must feel the way you tighten; his fingers dig into your skin so tight it’d probably hurt if your mind was less hazy.

“M’gonna cum—shit, you’re gonna make me cum, Simon.” Your eyes flutter shut, all your focus narrowed to the pleasure between your legs. 

“I know, love. Cum for me, let me feel you.”

His rough and steady pace makes the build-up all the more sweet. When your climax hits, it hits hard. White-hot pleasure shoots through you, making your hips twitch and your legs shake, a breathless cry that you try (and fail) to hold back ripping through the room. Your cunt pulses around his cock, sucking him deeper while he fucks you through the high with much gentler strokes. The obscenely wet sound is accompanied by his groans on every push. 

“Fuck, y’gonna make me cum squeezin’ me like that…”

That was enough to snap you out of your haze. Perhaps a much less restrained version of yourself would’ve let him finish inside you right then and there, but you’ll entertain the thought another time. Still trembling and panting, you force yourself to sit up. “Wait, wait. Pull out, hold on,” you urge, pushing him back with your hand.

He follows your movements, his hands sliding off of your body as he leans back. The emptiness that follows as his cock slips out of you leaves you feeling gaped in the best way possible. Your body aches, sore from the rough treatment and the wobbling table underneath you, as you stumble to your knees in front of Simon. Your eyes immediately land on his cock, a dumbfounded grin you’re sure looks ridiculous painting itself on your lips.

Fuckin’ hell…that was inside you?

It was every bit as impressive as it felt. Thick and heavy and so damn hard you could practically feel it throbbing with the need to cum. No wonder he needed to prep you, and no wonder you felt so stretched regardless. 

“Enjoyin’ the view?” Simon’s voice startles you, bringing your mind back to reality.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it to your mouth as you lean in. Licking a slow, wet stripe along the underside makes him hiss and twitch against your tongue. You could taste yourself on him, your cum mixed with his musk, and the heady combination made your head spin.

Your eyes flicker up at him, at that mask still obscuring half of his face. “Dunno if I can take all of you,” you admit as your hand glides up and down his cock. “You’re a big lad.”

Simon curses and you watch his jaw tighten as his cock twitches in your hand. “Don’t worry about it. After the way you felt around me, I’m not gonna last long anyway.”

You flash him a smile—a cheeky one that, no doubt, showed how proud that made you feel—before closing your lips around the head of his cock. His musk hits your tongue and fills your nostrils and you can’t help but groan at the taste. The rest of his cock fits in your hand, throbbing under your palm while you stroke. 

“Christ, that’s good, sweetheart.” One of his hands lands on the back of your head. He doesn’t push you down or force more into your mouth, he just rests it there, watching you through heavy eyes. “Real fuckin’ nice…”

You swallow around him, taking more of him into your mouth. His hips buck involuntarily in a movement that makes you gag when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat. He mutters an apology that you ignore, groaning around him as your head bobs and your tongue swirls.

“Fuck, I can’t…” Simon’s other hand flies down to his cock, replacing your grip as he wraps it around the base. “M’gonna cum, baby.”

The way he growls the words makes you hum, the sound vibrating through him. You give one last firm suck as your mouth slides off of him. “Cum on my face,” you utter before you can even catch your breath.

“Y-you sure? Your makeup—”

“M’not askin’, Simon.”

“Fuckin’ hell.” He can barely get the words out as he strokes himself, fisting his cock with a lewdly wet sound thanks to your spit and cum coating his sensitive flesh.

You can hear his breath grow heavy, slowly turning to moans as his body tenses. All you can focus on is his face—what parts you can see—watching his mouth as he pants and seeing his brows furrow in pleasure. You think you’d give just about anything to see him like this without that mask on.

His hand stills on his cock just before he mutters a curse and spills onto your face. His cum lands in thick, warm globs across your skin, and you’re thankful he seems to have enough awareness to avoid your eyes. He taps his cock against your lips, spreading his cum just to revel in the sight. 

Simon’s growling breaths steady out as he comes down from the high. “You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he sighs, peach lips curling into a smile.

Your tongue darts out to clean your lips, tasting the unique saltiness that painted them. “You’re not too bad yourself. Simon.”

He offers you a hand and pulls you up to your feet. His thumb brushes against your cheek, collecting some of his spend before bringing it to your mouth. You gladly accept his digit into your mouth, moaning around it as you suck it clean. With a growl and a curse, he pulls you into a rough kiss.

“Next time,” he starts, still panting as his breathing steadies, “how about we go to your place? Then we can have a proper go at it.”

Your heart skips a beat. ‘Next time’…he wanted a ‘next time’... 

“As long as you’re a gentleman and drive me there.” You pat his chest before pulling back enough to readjust your clothing. There wasn’t much you could do about the smeared makeup and tousled hair, but you weren’t the only person in the bar who looked a little worse for wear. 

“Deal.” You can hear the shuffle as he refits his own clothes. Thankfully, the mask doesn’t come back down. “You fancy another drink?”

“Uh…m’not sure, why?”

“‘Cause if you don’t, I can take you home right now if you’d like.” You meet his eyes and he matches your smile with one of his own.

“Deal.”

[princesskenny1998]

Diary Of A Wimpy Kid | Rodrick Heffley x confident!grungy!f!reader ~ New In Town

You sit in the corner booth of a dingy diner, stirring your coffee absentmindedly as you take in the sights of your new town. The place is small, suffocating even, but it has a strange charm that keeps you from completely hating it. Outside, the streets are quiet, the afternoon sun casting long shadows through the windows. The greasy smell of burgers and fries clings to the air, mixing with the low hum of conversations from the other patrons.

You’ve only been here a week, and already you’re getting the familiar looks. People don’t seem to know what to make of you — the ripped jeans, the band tee, the old, worn-out combat boots you’ve had forever. In a town this small, the fact that you dress in anything other than pastel skirts or varsity jackets is enough to draw attention.

Not that you care. You’ve always liked standing out, always been the one to push buttons. It’s kind of your thing.

As you take another sip of your coffee, you hear the bell above the diner’s door jingle. Your eyes flick lazily to the entrance, and that’s when you see him.

A lanky guy in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, shaggy dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s got a bit of a slouch to his posture, and his hands are stuffed deep in his pockets as he saunters over to the counter. For a moment, you think he’s just another grungy kid in town like you — someone who doesn’t quite fit in.

But then you notice how his eyes keep darting toward you, like he’s trying to be sneaky about it but failing miserably. His gaze flickers in your direction every few seconds, like he’s afraid you might catch him, but also like he can’t help himself.

Oh, you think, stifling a grin. This is going to be fun.

You lean back in your seat, watching him with a knowing smirk. He’s clearly trying to act casual, like he doesn’t notice you at all, but the fact that he’s so bad at it makes it even more obvious. It’s kind of cute, really.

When he finally places his order, he steals one last glance in your direction, and this time, you meet his eyes. He freezes for a split second, like a deer caught in headlights, before quickly looking away, his ears turning red.

You raise an eyebrow. Seriously?

Amused, you decide to push it a little. Sliding out of the booth, you grab your coffee and make your way toward the counter. You can practically feel his nervous energy as you walk past him, deliberately brushing your arm against his as you go.

“Oops,” you say, flashing him a sly smile. “Didn’t mean to bump into you.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, he just stares at you like he’s not sure what to say. Then he blinks, shaking his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts.

“N-no problem,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. His voice is deeper than you expected, with a bit of a rasp to it, and you can’t help but find it kind of attractive. But you’re not about to let him know that.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your staring, either,” you add, a playful lilt in your voice.

His face turns beet red, and he opens his mouth to protest, but no words come out. Instead, he just stammers something unintelligible, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

You laugh, leaning against the counter next to him. “Relax, dude. I’m just messing with you.”

He swallows, looking like he’s trying to figure out how to form a coherent sentence. “Uh, yeah… Sorry, I wasn’t— I mean, I didn’t mean to—"

“You’re really bad at this, aren’t you?” you interrupt, still smirking. “It’s kind of cute.”

He looks at you, startled, and then his eyes narrow slightly. “Wait… you’re teasing me.”

You grin. “Obviously.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but then the waitress hands him his order — a milkshake and fries. He takes the tray, holding it awkwardly as if he’s not sure what to do with his hands now.

“So,” you continue, eyeing him up and down. “Do you always check out new girls in town, or am I just special?”

He scoffs, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You think pretty highly of yourself, don’t you?”

You shrug, sipping your coffee. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong, am I?”

He glances away, his cheeks still a little flushed. “You’re definitely something,” he mutters under his breath.

You raise an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, taking a sip of his milkshake as if to hide behind it.

You chuckle, leaning in slightly. “C’mon, what’s your deal? You’ve been staring at me since you walked in. If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, like he’s weighing his options. Then, finally, he shrugs. “Alright, fine. You wanna know? Yeah, I think you’re cute. Happy now?”

You blink, taken aback for just a second. You didn’t expect him to be so direct. But then again, you were the one who pushed him.

Still, his bluntness catches you off guard, and for a split second, you find yourself blushing. But you quickly recover, grinning at him.

“Well, at least you’re honest,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “I’ll give you that.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smile on his face now. “Yeah, well, you’re kind of hard to ignore.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Oh? How so?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “You’re literally one of the only people in this town who dress like that.”

You glance down at your ripped jeans and band tee, shrugging. “Guess that makes me special, huh?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, something like that.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the teasing banter fading into something more comfortable. You find yourself relaxing around him, despite the fact that you’ve only just met. There’s something about him — maybe it’s the way he’s not trying too hard, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s so adorably awkward — that makes you feel at ease.

“So,” you say after a pause, “what’s your name, anyway?”

“Rodrick,” he replies, taking another sip of his milkshake.

You raise an eyebrow. “Rodrick, huh? Sounds like a name from a bad 80s rock band.”

He smirks. “Yeah, well, I happen to be in a band, so…”

You laugh. “Of course you are. Let me guess — you play guitar, right?”

“Drums, actually,” he corrects, a hint of pride in his voice.

You nod, pretending to be impressed. “Nice. I always did have a thing for drummers."

He grins, clearly enjoying the compliment. “Oh yeah?”

You shrug, giving him a playful smile. “Maybe.”

Rodrick leans against the counter, his confidence growing now that the initial awkwardness has faded. “So, what’s your deal? You new in town?”

You nod. “Yeah, just moved here last week. It’s… different.”

“Different good or different bad?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You think about it for a moment before answering. “Different… boring, mostly. Not much to do around here.”

Rodrick chuckles. “Yeah, you’re not wrong about that. This place is pretty dead. But hey, we’ve got a decent music scene. You should come to one of my shows sometime.”

You tilt your head, considering. “Maybe I will.”

He watches you for a moment, and you can tell he’s trying to think of something else to say. There’s a pause, and then he clears his throat, looking a little more serious.

“So, uh… about earlier,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I was just—”

“Relax,” you interrupt, smiling at him. “I’m not mad. You’re kind of cute when you’re all flustered, you know?”

He blinks, surprised by your response, and then a slow grin spreads across his face. “Yeah? Well, you’re not so bad yourself.��

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re smooth, Rodrick. I’ll give you that.”

He shrugs, looking pleased with himself. “I try.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then you reach into your pocket, pulling out a pen and a scrap of paper. “Here,” you say, scribbling down your number. “Call me sometime, drummer boy.”

Rodrick’s eyes widen slightly as you hand him the paper, and for a second, he just stares at it like he can’t believe his luck. Then he looks up at you, a crooked smile on his face.

“Seriously?” he asks, sounding a little disbelieving.

You nod, smirking. “Yeah. But don’t get too cocky. I still plan on making fun of you.”

He laughs, folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket. “Deal.”

With that, you turn to leave, but not before giving him one last teasing smile over your shoulder. “See you around, Rodrick.”

As you walk out of the diner, you can’t help but feel a little satisfied. Rodrick Heffley may have had an instant crush on you, but now you’ve got him right where you want him. And honestly? You kind of like it.

After all, teasing boys like him is just too much fun.

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Paris, 1889

steddie, omegaverse, starving artist eddie, moulin rouge dancer steve

Eddie Munson knows he’s lucky. Some days he feels like the luckiest man alive. He lives in Paris, he’s doing what he loves, and most days he has enough money to eat three meals.

And yes, most of that money is charity from his beloved uncle, and NOT from selling his artwork. 

In the year he’s been in his tiny garret, committing to La Vie Boheme, Eddie has sold one painting. He picks up odd jobs, sells sketches on the street, but paints are expensive.

So is coal. 

Winter is fast approaching, and to save on fuel costs, Eddie stays out of his flat as mich as possible, soliciting gallery owners and doing his best to get something in front of the eyes of the Paris elite. Then, in the evening, he goes to the Moulin Rouge.

It starts out with him trying to stay warm as long as possible, as late into the night. And to get cheap drinks.

The Can-Can dancers are just a fun bonus, fun to watch from the back, but little more.

At least until a new omega starts, wide-eyed and covered in beauty marks.

Now he’s *very interested* in the dancers, and even more annoyed with the fact that they’re dancing. He just wants to stare at the lovely omega, to capture his beauty in charcoal and chalk and oils. Eddie pulls out a little sketchbook, doing his best to get his features down.

He’s so absorbed that Eddie nearly forgets that the purpose of the dance is to titillate, the movements quick, the kicks showing off the splits in the dancers’ drawers, the shadow of pubic hair, and a hint of dusky pink.

Eddie wants to draw that too…

He goes back every night, trying to get a bit closer to *his* omega. Night after night he moves closer to the stage, finally close enough to smell. Most of it is heady perfume, he’s fairly certain the majority of the dancers are betas, but there’s a fresh note, sweet and green.

Staring dumbly up at his pretty dancer, Eddie prays for him to look his way. Three nights pass before their eyes meet, the omega flashing him a soft smile.

That night he builds up enough courage to wait at the dressing room door, to show his sketch to the security guard.

To get a name: Stéfan.

The guard agrees to ask Stéfan to come to the door after Eddie slips him a handful of francs. He’ll gladly give up breakfast tomorrow if he can speak to his new muse.

“Bonsoir,” a low, sweet voice says, startling Eddie from his reverie.

He’s wearing a long coat, buttoned up to his neck, hat on his head, but just as enthrallingly beautiful to Eddie. So enthralling that Eddie says as much, murmuring, “Good evening, Angel.”

“No need for that, Stef is fine.” The omega smiles. “You’re an artist, yes?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

Stef reaches for Eddie’s hands, turning them to show off the black smudges of charcoal on his fingers. “And I’ve seen you drawing in the audience.” He drags a finger up the center of Eddie’s palm. “What are you always drawing?”

“You,” Eddie blurts.

“Me? Why?” Stef asks with a laugh.

“I’m surprised every alpha you meet isn’t driven to catalogue your beauty.”

“Flatterer.”

“It is the truth! I’ve never seen a lovelier omega on this earth.”

“I doubt you’ve seen much outside of Paris.”

“It is still true,” Eddie pouts.

Stéfan is still holding Eddie’s hand, both of them blushing. “Are you hungry? There’s a café I like down the way, we could eat a late supper and maybe… You could show me some of your drawings?” He leans closer, sniffing not so discreetly at Eddie’s neck. “And tell me your name?”

“Édouard! My name is Édouard, um…Eddie, call me Eddie. And I would love to get supper with you.”

🎨🍾💗

Stef goes home with Eddie that night, showing him just how covered in beauty marks his body is, moaning as Eddie worships him with talented fingers.

At the end of the month, Eddie sells a painting: a sensual portrait of Stéfan in their bed. 

part two