#also love stepping outside my comfort zone w this
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sand god.
#sharking draws#naruto#naruto shippuden#gaara#sabaku no gaara#gaara of the sand#gaara of the desert#WHY DOES HE HAVE SO MANY TAGS😭#anywhooo i did some more painting practice :-3:#rly getting into using watercolor brushes on ibis#also love stepping outside my comfort zone w this
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Hi! Absolutely love ur work💕💕 Okay so could you write hcs with all four members (separate) that have a quiet/ shy type s/o?
(Sorry that this req is short but my brain is running out of juice rn, love the work, keep it up😘😘)
ᡣ𐭩 tokio hotel w shy s/o
thank u so much! and don’t worry, you’re doing great! let’s appreciate all my shy and quiet homies out there! y’all deserve some more appreciation in your life.
headcannons down below!
bill
loves loves loves that you’re shy, he thinks it’s so cute
usually one to go for loud spontaneous girls but you’re like a stick in the mud, and that drew you to him
since you don’t talk much you’re a really good listener, and bill is known to ramble a lot
appreciates the fact you listen to him attentively
because of how tall he is, loves the fact that whenever you’re out to meet new people you hide behind him, how you have to peak behind his shoulder once he introduces you to his peers or acquaintances and is always holding your hand through it, squeezing it to ensure everything is okay
hand holding in public gets you super shy but bill loves to show you off in any way possible
his love language is definitely words of affirmation, so will out of the blue compliment you to see how you react
hiding your face, not knowing how to respond, running away from him to only catch up to you quickly
he fucking loves that shit
“aww come on baby, am i not allowed to tell you how beautiful you are?”
tom
just like bill, usually goes for spontaneous girls
but when he saw you at the club and how flustered you became when he hit on you, MANS WAS DRAWN INNN
physical touch all the way, makes you insane and knees weak, and he just lives for that
sudden grabs of the waist, hugging, holding your neck gently to swiftly pull you into a kiss
maybe if he’s feeling bold he’ll sneak a hand on your ass
the eye contact goes crazy, once you look at him and he catches you, he’ll never break his gaze
finds it super adorable that you’re always the one to break the stare down, laughs and pats your head always afterwards
omgosh loves and i mean fucking loves it when you hide yourself in his clothes especially his sweaters when he’s wearing them how you’ll just tuck yourself into the sweater bodies pressed together engulfing like FUCK do this more often he loves it
whenever you go out to get food, you’re shyness doesn’t allow you to take to service workers so he always offers to order for you, eventually it becomes a habit and does it himself
“how’s that baby, i made sure to get your coffee just how you like it.. oh me? a coca cola!”
gustav
introvert x introvert ALL THE WAYY BABEYYY
the way you and gustav show affection for one another usually comes from physical touch or acts of service
communicating with each other isn’t hard, it’s almost like a spidey sense where you just know what the other person wants or needs and can simply do that for them
expect soo many cuddles, movie marathons and baking/cooking sessions, gustav loves to cook and bake with you, the playlist on in the background that the two of you curated for one another simply enjoying each other’s company is enough for the both of you
on the other hand, if you guys wanted to step out of the comfort zone to go outside on a date, expect to play rock paper scissors to see who has to talk to someone to either order food or request a table at a restaurant
you and gustav can also have one on one sessions with each other deep conversing, talking about anything and everything
can immediately notice when you’re uncomfortable or feeling way too shy or nervous in situations
will either step up, say something, or simply bring you somewhere else where it’s now just the two of you
if you tell and express to him how you feel, will fully listen to you, holding your hands together caressing them
“i understand.. we can either leave, or if not, you can sit next to me! i’m right here with you.
georg
is the biggest shit ever
even more than tom, loves to tease you, you can find him tapping your shoulder and running away leaving you confused or whenever you compliment or tell him you love him will make you repeat it loud and clear
but if it comes to that case, will have to beat the shit out of someone if they make a comment about how shy or quiet you are
not much of a talker, but when he does find himself talking a lot more than you in conversations always asks what you think and what your opinion on it is
does it solely just to hear you speak because he loves your voice and doesn’t get to hear it enough ugh y/n what’s wrong w u??
expect him to rest his arm on your shoulder, head on chin, and bear hugs, he thinks that just because you’re quiet he treats you as if you were someone smaller than him
but he this is just how he publicly shows how in love with you he is
constantly compliments you on how you look, the outfits you wear, how good you are at things vice versa nd that
but you finally snap back at him and compliment him even further and woah honey you have him in a chokehold rn
“fuck, i didn’t expect you to say that, can you say it again? please? i wanna’ hear it one more time..”
#tokio hotel#tokio hotel fluff#tom kaulitz#tom kaulitz fluff#bill kaulitz#bill kaulitz fluff#gustav schafer#gustav schafer fluff#georg listing#georg listing fluff#2000s#fyp
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solicitation
Murph Connors x AFAB!Reader
IT'S HERE BABES. AT LAST. this was so so far outside of my comfort zone but i'm finally happy with it I think. thank you for your patience and your love for this silly goofy guy. I just adore him and I hope you do too.
You go undercover as a sex worker, determined to nail the Major Crimes Unit for their casual disregard for the law. Unfortunately, the blonde one is...really cute.
5.1k words. Porn w/ plot. Everyone's a cop including reader. Drinking & drug use. Canon-typical douchebag behavior. Murph knows like ten words and nine of them are "fuck." Smut, fingering, very mild dirty talk. Murph is thicc iykwim. He's also a sub and reader is more dominant as a result. Creampie bc we DESERVE IT. Apologies in advance for all the side characters in this lol.
In theory, this had the potential to be a cut-and-dry operation.
The Major Crimes Unit wasn’t exactly shy about their complete and utter disregard for the law. All laws. Every law. The running joke was that the only difference between the MCU and the guys they took down was a badge. Unfortunately, they tended to pull results out of the smoldering wreckage left in their wake, and that had lent them a truly maddening amount of immunity.
No one had come at them from this angle, though. You were a pioneer of sorts. A pioneer with a wire taped between your boobs.
You didn’t probably need to be wearing actual lingerie. The dress was enough. But it was a mental thing, being undercover. Started from the ground up. So you looked stunning yet attainable, sweet and a little spicy. Fun. You looked fun. This was going to be fun.
Technically, when Detective Henderson had made the offer to you and a few of the regular corner girls to stop by suite 243 at the Haven on Vine, that had almost been enough. He had been deliberately vague about the nature of the invitation, but money had changed hands, and the implication hung in the air. You could get him for that, if you dug your nails in.
But you didn’t just want Henderson. You wanted all of them, but most of all, you wanted O’Brien. To see that smug sonofabitch slapped with a solicitation charge? You just might sell yourself for real to make that happen.
So you agreed, along with the rest of the girls, hitched a ride with a couple of them about an hour later. Only one of them knew you were a cop, the one who had tipped you off that the MCU went looking for party favors every Saturday night. You’d had her back a few times. She’d keep your secret to herself.
The cacophony of three pairs of pleasers clacking up the cinder block stairwell was deafening. You made your way down the hall to 243, watched your girl rap on the door with fingers tipped bright pink and glittering. When the door flung open wide, O’Brien was standing there with a beer in one hand and a blunt in the other, all bad tattoos and worse attitude.
“Ladies!” he boomed. “Come in, come in, please.” He stepped out of the way, ushered you in, grabbed your ass as you passed. You hid the grit of your teeth behind a silly smile, kept it pasted on as you surveyed the scene.
The gang was all here. Detectives Henderson and Connors were hunched over a poker game. The pool was a mixture of cash, drugs, and someone’s silver lighter. Detective Magalon had cards in one hand and a hooker in the other. Detective Zapata was snorting coke off the countertop with not one but two girls, bringing the grand total of dirty cops up to five, sex workers up to six, counting you, and crimes in progress up to twelve or so.
“Make yourselves at home,” O’Brien said. “Can I get you something, a drink, a smoke?”
The other girls opted for drugs. You needed your wits about you, weren’t supposed to drink undercover, and so you declined altogether. This was met with general disapproval.
“Come on,” Connors teased. He winked at you when you met his eye. He was cute, you thought. Kind of scruffy.
O’Brien levelled a stare at you from beneath his heavy brow. Much less cute. “What, you underage or something?”
You had to play the game to win. “What do you got?”
“Well, we’re fresh out of pina coladas. What kinda night you hoping for, honey?” O’Brien held up a bottle of vodka and a fifth of whiskey.
Vodka always hit you hard and fast. “I’ll take the whiskey.”
“Atta girl,” Henderson muttered.
“Your wish, sweetheart.” O’Brien poured you a generous serving into a glass and leered at you. Maybe the whiskey was a good idea after all. You batted your eyes at him and took a delicate sip, let it seep across your tongue until the burn turned to cinnamon and cloves. He grabbed your arm and kissed your cheek as he walked by. “Let’s fucking party, boys!”
Zapata cranked the volume on the speaker thumping R&B from an iPod – a genuine third-gen iPod Touch. The room was stifling, smelled of coconut body spray and weed. This job always took you to the nicest places, but you hadn’t expected to be blasted back to a shitty house party in 2009.
You sipped your whiskey sparingly and trailed O’Brien around the room like a lovesick teenager for a while, laughing at what passed for jokes, hanging on his arm every chance you got, making sure to get every one of the men’s voices on record. You danced with one of the girls for a song or two and listened to countless stories told by dirty cops, which all amounted to basically nothing. No details, no evidence, no incrimination. Apparently, you just had to be there.
The whiskey was warm in your hand by the time you decided to give it a rest. You were putting in work and getting nowhere fast, and you truly could not stand Nick O’Brien. You choked down one more sip before tipping it quietly down the drain. You’d had too much already.
Leaning against the countertop, you tracked your mark from across the room. He took a shot, punched Magalon in the arm, dropped to the couch beside Connors. You watched him lay a heavy hand on the blonde’s shoulder, lean in close, whisper something to him that you couldn’t make out. Connors’ gaze lingered on his cards, then floated across the room and up the length of your body before meeting your eyes.
“C’mere, princess,” he said, patting the space on the couch beside him.
You rounded the poker game, felt both detectives watching you. “My friend here needs some company,” O’Brien said, clapping Connors on the back.
You paused, regarding both men with doe-eyed interest. You were being pawned off, just like that. You weren’t sure whether to be relieved or offended. “What about you, baby?”
O’Brien smirked. “Flattered, honey, but I’m married.”
Zapata snorted. “Since when?”
O’Brien scowled at him. “You were in the wedding party, dipshit.”
“Uh-huh, so where’s your ring, Nick?” Henderson folded, set his hand on the table.
O’Brien shrugged. “Left it by the sink or some shit.” He stood up and maneuvered past you with his hand on your waist, nudging you toward the couch. “Sit down, honey, Murph don’t bite unless you ask him to.”
“That’s the truth,” Connors said as he folded too. “Borracho, you gonna show us your hand or what?”
Magalon withdrew his tongue from behind the teeth of the girl in his lap just long enough to say, “Fold.” He threw his cards down on the table. Henderson and Connors groaned.
“Man, you won that round,” Henderson grumbled. “You ain’t even playing.”
You sank down onto the couch beside Connors and tried not to feel like you were being handed a consolation prize. You reminded yourself that there was evidence aplenty tucked in your cleavage. With their luck and yours, it would probably amount to a month’s suspension. A goddamn paid vacation. Fuckingridiculous.
“One more round?” Henderson asked, shuffling cards.
“Nah.” Connors leaned back and put his arm around you, nudged you into his side. “Got better things to do.”
You rested your hand on his ribs, looked up at him through your lashes. The night was still young. You could play this right, maybe land an actual criminal charge on at least one of them. Of course it had to be the cute one. His thumb drew circles on the bare skin of your shoulder.
“Hey.” He smiled at you. He had killer eyes, you noticed. Sky fucking blue. “What’s your name, baby?”
“Selene.”
“Selene,” he repeated. You liked his voice. Had that been your real name, you’d have butterflies. “Name’s Murph.”
”Is that short for something?”
He chuckled. He’d probably been answering that question his whole life. “Nah. Just Murph.”
You examined him up close. He had a tattoo on his neck, the most basic compass rose you’d ever seen, black ink bleeding a little from age and sun exposure. You wondered if he’d been a sailor in a former life, maybe ex-Navy. His shirt was a size too small, clinging to him like a second skin, tight on his biceps.
“You work out, Murph?” you asked. Low-hanging fruit.
“Every day, baby.”
“That's about all Murph does,” Henderson said, shuffling the deck. “Can’t get rid of the double chin under that beard though.”
“What do you do, Henderson?” Murph shot back. “’Cause I never see you at the gym, skinny motherfucker.”
“C’mon man, you know if Gus ain't working he's praying,” Zapata offered from the kitchen.
“Look, I'm a man of faith,” Henderson said as he pulled the pot towards him with a glance at Magalon, who could not have cared less.
Zapata scoffed. “Name one book in the Bible, dude. One.”
Murph pulled you in closer to be heard over the sound of their bickering. His cologne was smokey and musky, made your nose tingle. “I don’t just work out.”
You cracked a smile at his defensive tone. “What else do you do?”
You felt his nose against your temple, his beard bristly on your cheek. “I surf, too. You like the beach?” His lips at your ear sent chills down your arms.
“I love the beach.” You hated the beach.
“You surf?”
“I’ve tried it once or twice.” An outright lie. “I’m not very good at it.”
“Bet you look hot as fuck in a bikini.”
“I do, actually.” This was true.
His gaze flicked to your mouth and back up. “What do you do for fun, princess?”
You cocked your head. “You mean, besides this?”
Murph laughed. “Yeah. Besides this.”
“I like to cook. I jog. Got a couple dogs, take them to the park on weekends.”
“You ever been to the dog park on 11th? Real nice, has a little obstacle course and shit.”
“How long does it take you to run through it, Murph?” Zapata interrupted.
“About the same amount of time as it takes to fuck your mother.” You snorted and he snickered in your ear, conspiratorial. “Got him.”
Morons, every one of them. You couldn’t keep from rolling your eyes.
Murph didn’t seem to notice. “C’mere, baby.”
He patted his knee and you slid into his lap, looped an arm around his neck. Your tits were nearly in his face and you had to sneak a surreptitious glance down the front of your dress to make sure that the mic wasn’t visible. His jeans were rough on the bare skin of your thighs. He held you against him with one big hand splayed on your waist, the other on your ass, and gave you a squeeze. “You’re fine as fuck, girl.”
You ran your hand over his stomach. Considerable muscle was tucked beneath the foundation of a beer gut. He probably looked good without a shirt, wet and sandy. Too bad you hated the beach.
“You wanna take this somewhere else?” you murmured. Risky. You were skirting the line. You couldn’t actually offer him anything, not even verbally. You had to be vague enough to leave space for a lawyer to argue it had been Murph’s idea to pay you for sex.
He looked at you with interest, almost made you wish these were better circumstances. His lashes were long and thick. You imagined, just for a moment, how it would feel to watch those pretty eyes roll back. How he sounded in bed. You had to cut that train of thought off quick as you felt it shoot straight to your pussy. You were working, for God’s sake.
For a second, you were sure he was going to proposition you right then and there. The promise of it hung in the meager air between you. But then his mouth twisted into a wry smile and he let you down easy with a kiss on your cheek. “Not yet, princess. Night’s still young.”
He looked away, threw an insult at Zapata, got sucked into a mind-numbing conversation about baseball statistics. You were relegated back to accessory status with his hand trailing aimlessly up and down your thigh.
With determination bordering on desperation, you kept working on him, keying him up a little at a time, making sure he didn’t forget about you. You ran your fingers through his hair, drew circles on his chest. For all he was barely paying you attention, you were terribly distracted by him, kept catching yourself admiring his profile. Your knee was nestled against his crotch and you found yourself thinking he probably had a gorgeous cock. He had just the right amount of swagger for it.
Christ. You dug your nails into your palm to snap yourself out of it. Goddamn whiskey was making you spacey. You were not, in fact, here to get laid. You were here to score something more than a slap on the wrist for bad behavior. A department transfer at least, jail time at best. Breaking up the boys’ club either way.
Across the coffee table, Magalon finally decided to stop dry humping his girl in full view of everyone. He untangled himself to escort her into one of the two bedrooms amidst a chorus of howls and ribbing, threw a theatrical wink over his shoulder before swinging the door shut behind him.
“Get it, my man,” Henderson said with a lazy salute.
“It was just gettin’ good,” O’Brien complained. “I got half a boner here.”
Spurred on by the knowledge there was one bedroom left and four girls looking to make an actual business transaction tonight, you figured it was time for desperate measures. You’d already lost O’Brien; you weren’t about to let the night end without a victory.
“Murph, baby,” you whined softly. You had his attention immediately. The expression on his face was so open and earnest that a fleeting thrum of guilt flitted through your chest.
You stroked his cheek and leaned in slow, giving him the opportunity to deflect you, but he didn’t. His lips were soft and he met your kiss with surprising gentleness. He tasted like weed smoke when you slipped your tongue over the threshold of his mouth. You felt his hands tighten their grip on you just a little bit, like he was looking to stabilize himself.
The room filled with hoots and exaggerated moans from your audience and it was enough, you had him, but you didn’t stop and neither did he. His cock twitched against your leg and you let out a small sound of satisfaction, forgetting for a minute that none of this was real. Your hand slid to his neck. His skin was hot under your fingers.
When he broke the kiss and leaned back, he regarded you with a look on his face like he’d underestimated you. His lip shone with your spit. You wanted to suck on it.
“Get outta here?” he mumbled. You nodded and rose unsteadily from his lap. He took your hand and picked his way past the coffee table, leading you to the other bedroom.
“Make good choices,” O’Brien called. “Use protection.”
Murph flipped him off before swinging the door shut behind you.
You turned and opened your mouth to back him into a corner, ask him just what he was hoping for, but his hands were on your waist and he was kissing you again before you got the chance to speak. You meant to push him off – of course you did – but you balled up his shirt in your fists instead, parted your lips for his tongue. He groaned low in his throat and you pressed yourself against him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, backing you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress and you dropped to a seat.
“Murph –”
“You’re so fucking sexy.” He braced himself on the mattress and bent to kiss the skin below your ear.
“Murph, wait –”
“Tell me, how long have you been a cop?”
You froze. Had you heard him right? “…what?”
He lifted his head and met your eyes, a smug, reproving smile on his face. “Nick clocked you in the first fifteen minutes, baby. Told me to keep you busy. This ain’t our first rodeo.”
Your mouth dropped open in shock. You had no words.
Even in the wan yellow light filtering in through the blinds, you could tell he was enjoying himself. “What you wearing under that dress? A thong? A wire?”
“…both.”
Murph grinned. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said loudly, “let the record show she kissed me first. That’s entrapment, detective.”
You scowled. “Fuck you.”
“Now let’s talk about that,” he said. “You seem pretty committed to the bit, huh?”
You hesitated. “I…I don’t….”
“It’s okay. The thing is, I really want to fuck you too. Don’t pretend like you haven’t been thinking about it all night,” he said, cutting off your protest before it could materialize. “Bet that thong’s nice and wet, huh?”
You smacked his arm. “You’re an ass.”
“I know it.” He leaned back, gave you a little space. “Look at it this way. You absolutely can’t use that recording now, right? So this has been one hell of a waste of your time.”
“Looks like it,” you shot back.
“It doesn’t have to be.” There it was again, that sweet, sincere expression. “Let me make your night, princess. We’re two consenting adults.”
“No way.”
“Why not? I’ll even tell Nick he was wrong and you are just a whore.”
You scoffed. “What an offer.”
Murph chuckled. “Come on, baby doll. You know you want to.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek, mind racing. He was right, any evidence you’d managed to collect had gone up in smoke the moment he’d outed you on tape. For all intents and purposes, after you left, you were never here. And if he could shield you from Nick O’Brien’s wrath….
He tucked his finger beneath your chin and leaned in. “Please?”
Your breath caught. You did want him. You let your eyes drift shut as his lips found yours. His kiss lacked any hint of malice, was all softness and sensuality. Your hands hovered to his face and you caved, kissing him back, kissing him harder, grabbing his shoulders to tug him on top of you.
To your surprise, he resisted. “Mm – hey.”
“Shut up.”
“Wait.” He pulled back. “Probably best we get that wire off, huh?”
You narrowed your eyes. “The wire, or the dress?”
Murph shrugged. “Both. I’ll get naked too, if it makes you feel better.”
He peeled his shirt off and you were right, he looked damn good without one. The hair on his chest was blonde and curly, the hair on his stomach a shade darker, disappearing into his boxers. He had a tattoo of a shark on his left hip. You shimmied out of your dress and there was the mic taped securely between your breasts, the wire running down your stomach to a small receiver at your hip.
“Fuck.” He reached out and peeled it off, the brush of his thumb sending goosebumps flaring across your skin. “You’re gorgeous, girl.”
You grabbed him by the beltloops. “Come here.”
“Whatever you say.”
He sprawled on top of you and you caught him on your lips, scrambling up the mattress and pulling him along with you. He scooped you into his arms and rolled onto his side, hitched your leg over his hip, grabbed at your ass. You palmed him through his jeans and he threw his head back and moaned.
“Pants are too fuckin’ tight,” he complained.
“Whose fault is that?”
“Yours.”
You undid his fly and slid your hand into his pants, feeling him up through his boxers. He was thick. He writhed as you stroked him purposefully, caught between working his jeans off and melting into your touch.
“What’s the matter?” you teased.
“Driving me fucking crazy. Hold on. Fuck.” He swatted your hand away and stripped off everything at once and you must’ve been on your game at least a little bit tonight because he did indeed have a gorgeous cock. You wrapped your hand around it before he could even settle back beside you and he groaned, collapsing onto his back.
“Jesus Christ, Murph.” Your fingers only just met around his girth. “You’re huge.”
“I know,” he grumbled. “We can take it slow, it’s – fuck – it’s okay.”
You didn’t expect him to be so considerate. “That’s awfully sweet of you.”
“It’s nothing, c’mere. Let me touch you.” He slipped his fingers past your panties and you sighed as he eased them along your slit. You could feel how wet you already were. So could he. “Goddamn…you want it bad, huh?”
“Been pressed up against you all night.”
When his thumb found your clit you jerked and gasped. “Take it easy, baby, I got you. Like that?” He worked you in soft, slow circles that had you bucking against his hand.
“Yeah. Like that.”
You were wound up and desperate for him by the time he pushed his fingers into you, cursing under his breath at the sound they made as he scissored them in and out. The man could multitask, rutting into your hand as he fucked you with his fingers. His kisses were sloppy, without pretense. When you squeezed his balls he moaned shamelessly into your mouth.
“You like that?” you asked him coyly.
“Yeah.”
“Feels good?”
“Feels so fucking good. Get on top of me, girl.”
You obliged, straddling his hips, holding his dick where you wanted so you could grind against him. His head lolled and he let out a vocal sigh, grabbing at the blanket, grabbing at your waist, arching his spine. You were torn between watching his face and watching his cock part your lips as you rocked back and forth. When you reached behind your back to tug at his balls again he whined.
“Need to be inside you, baby, please?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready yet.” You were absolutely ready.
He squeezed his eyes shut, furrowed his brow. “That’s fine, yeah. That’s okay.”
“I can try….” You lowered yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, easing just the head of his cock into you.
“God – fucking – “
“How’s that?”
“So good, baby, that’s so g – fuck.” He bit his lip hard as you sank a little further down. “It’s perfect, you’re perfect.”
You sighed in bliss. “You gonna cum already, Connors?”
“No way. I’m good. You good?”
“I’m great.”
You took him all the way at a glacial pace just to see him squirm, half an inch at a time until he filled you completely. His gaze was locked on your pussy, stretched snug around him, and when his eyes finally wandered up to meet yours his pupils were blown in the darkness.
“Fuck me?” he said breathlessly.
You rolled your hips slow and he groaned, gripping the flesh of your thighs. You rode him lazily, reveling in every little sound that escaped from his mouth, the way his lashes fluttered when you switched up the angle. When he fumbled for your clit in the meager light you took his hand and guided him to it, letting out a soft squeak when he found it. Your cunt clenched tight and he shuddered.
“Easy, tiger.” You slid your hands up his stomach, over his chest. When your thumbs brushed across his nipples he responded with a broken moan and a full-body flinch. “Oh, sweet boy.” He was done for.
You bent low over him and laved your tongue around his nipple, sucking greedily, worrying the other one between your fingers. He choked out a sound that was downright indecent, tangling his hand in your hair and grinding up into you, helpless and needy. The change in position pressed his cock to your g-spot and you rabbited your hips in short, quick thrusts until you were both frenzied and panting.
His beard was coarse as you combed your fingers through it, admiring his flushed and handsome face. “Pretty boy. You feel so good.”
“You’re hot as fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That pussy is – fuck.”
You smiled at him. He was sexy like this, so thoroughly dazed and disheveled, whimpering when you flexed around him. “What are you gonna give me if I let you cum inside?”
“A million dollars,” he said immediately. “Are you for real? Two million dollars.”
You laughed. “No way you have two million dollars.”
“I can get it.” He said it like he meant it.
You gripped his hair and kissed him, lapping at his tongue. His big hands were warm and gentle on your waist. “How about you let me finish first?”
“How about I let you finish first and I give you my number?”
“Is that for my benefit or yours?”
“Mutual benefit, baby doll.”
“Deal.”
His muscles flexed under your hands as he sat up and adjusted you in his lap, wrapping his arms around you, kissing you hungrily. He dug his nails into your back as your mouth wandered down his neck, licking the sweat from his skin, blazing a trail of love bites and kisses, sucking a sultry purple hickey into the center of his tattoo.
“I got work in the morning,” he protested weakly.
“Good,” you said. “They’re gonna love it.”
He offered you his thumb and you wrapped your lips around it, watching his expression turn desperate as you sucked a shade past innocence. He tugged it from your mouth with a pop, snaked his hand between your bodies and felt for your clit.
You made a soft, dreamy sound when he stroked you just right. He was damn good with his hands. “Let me make you feel good, baby,” he murmured. “Wanna make that pussy fucking drip.”
You let him work you up for a minute and then took up a gradual rhythm, eyes closed, grinding on him with intention. Wave after wave of steady-building sensation coursed through you, tightening the clutch of your body around him. You were so full, pulled tight, the friction addictive. You could feel it, that swing and pull like gravity, his body coaxing yours to the brink.
“That’s it, princess, let me see it.”
You pawed at his shoulders. “Murph….”
“You gonna cum for me?” he breathed.
“Yes – God –”
“Fuck, you better cum for me, I can’t –”
You felt the swell of your release in your core and cried out, burying your face in his shoulder and clawing at his biceps, riding him through it. Pleasure washed through your veins. Your cunt spasmed in staccato bursts, stretched to its limit.
Murph inhaled sharply, his whole body tense. You felt him quiver inside you. “Baby – baby – please –”
Hazy and gratified, you strung kisses along his jaw, snapped your hips until he started to come apart. “Come on, big boy, cum for me.”
With satisfaction, you watched his eyes roll back as he let go and it was better than you’d imagined, the way his lips parted and a strangled groan twisted free, the way he threw his head back like some feral animal under the moon. You gasped at the throb and pulse of him inside you, sending vestigial sparks spiraling off into your core.
He slumped forward with his forehead pressed to yours and let out a heavy sigh. “Fuck,” he mumbled.
“Fuck,” you agreed.
You moved to extricate yourself and he grunted, tightened his arms around you. “You got somewhere to be?”
“We should probably get back out there.” You had no idea how much time had passed. The music was still going strong in the next room; you couldn’t imagine anyone had called it a night.
He pressed a kiss to your temple. “No way, baby.”
You laughed, smoothing his hair back from his brow. “We can’t stay in here.”
“We could,” he said. “We could sleep here.”
You shook your head. “O’Brien’s going to be pissed at you.”
“He’s always pissed. Don’t bring him up. This is a nice moment.”
With a laugh, you said, “You’re right. It is.”
You laid your head on his shoulder and listened to his heartbeat for a few minutes more before pulling away in spite of his protests. “You’re breaking my heart,” he complained.
“You’ll have to text me later so I can break it again.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“No, I’ll call a cab.”
“You don’t want a police escort?”
“I’m a fucking cop, Murph.”
“Oh. Right.” He watched you dress. “What’s your name? Your real name.”
You told him, smiled when he repeated it to himself. “Do you really surf?”
“All the time. I love it.”
“I have a confession. I hate the beach.”
Murph gave you a crooked smile. “Bet I can change your mind.”
He offered his arm to stabilize you as you stepped into your absurdly high heels, wound the wire around his hand neatly and gave it to you to hide away in your bra. He called after you as you made for the door. “Hey.”
You turned. He sat on the edge of the bed, hair mussed, light from the streetlamp out the window cutting lines across his bare chest.
“Kiss me goodnight?” he said without a hint of sarcasm.
Fuck, he was cute. You wobbled back across the carpet and took his face in your hands, kissed him long and sweet. “Goodnight, tiger.”
He took your hand as you pulled away and kissed your fingers, and then finally, reluctantly let you go. “’Night, princess.”
You slipped back into the main room, met the chorus of heckling with a beatific smile. You exchanged a few words with your girl from the corner, let her know you wouldn’t need a ride home. She gave you a look; you gave it right back; she gave you a subtle nod of approval.
On your way out you shot a glance at O’Brien. You couldn’t help it. He had a look on his face that could curdle milk, watching you like a hawk. You supposed it was alright you hadn’t managed to get very far with him, all things considered.
You gave him a delicate finger wave, blew him a kiss. “Thanks for the invite.”
“Get the fuck out.”
You winked at him as you ducked out the door. “Your wish, sweetheart.”
#murph connors#murph connors fanfiction#not tagging this den of thieves bc this fic is not for people who unironically enjoyed this movie let's be honest#my writing
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OMG RENNIVERSAY???? HAPPY ANNIVERSARY AGAIN YAYYYY GUSH PASS IF U WANT HEHE 🎫🎫🎫
😭💕💕💕 THANK YOU NIIICK!!!!!!! for both the oushiversary and the renniversary (and honestly all of the time), your tags on rbs make me so giddy and emotional and i'm always so thankful ;w; wah.
i have a hard time expressing just how much ren has done for me this past year so... it's rambling time ksjdnfjk...
[pet death mention] my baby boy cyrus had lost his battle with cancer just a week prior to The Dream. i won't ramble about him here, but he was my biggest support when home life got fuck-y; losing him was like losing a part of myself. [/pet death mention end]
unfortunately i didn't have much to focus on afterward... i was trying to keep busy, but the art parties i'd been attending went on a long hiatus shortly after this, and while i TRIED vrc for a bit i found The Social Anxiety meant it wasn't the best choice for me ;;
and then i had this long, cinematic dream, about befriending and getting flirty with a dorky, fruity scientist from the c.dc (lol. lmao. i would NEVER!!!!! that's the very first thing i changed about him KJASNDKJN) who was fun and goofy and was so so loving to his niece who followed him around everywhere ;w;
and then he did a little villain heel-turn after being infected by a sentient parasite (also lol. lmao. my brain trying to bully me and make me feel bad... but it does it in the form of a cute bisexual man? 🥴). and of COURSE when his niece and i acted afraid of him he did the whole "i'll destroy everyone powerful in this city. and i won't let anyone or anything harm you." thing and i just OOUGHHHH. there's more to it than that, and i don't want to ramble TOO much, but he was so clearly twisted-justice-but-loves-people-so-hard core. that's the good shit ughhh.
and so! according to the document timestamp, i woke up at 5:45am, opened my ipad, went into procreate, and went to town scribbling down a vague idea of his face and mannerisms before passing out again. i KNEW i didn't want to forget this guy; i immediately felt he was special. most of my ocs come from dreams in some form, but he was already almost fully formed. The Ideal. To Me...
and when i woke up for real, i spent the day nailing down his design. and i was Officially Doomed from then on u_u
he's changed SO MUCH in the past year (just the fact that i had to revive his supernatural villain form as a separate AU a few months ago is proof of that KJANSDKJN)... as have i. he gave me someone to focus on as i healed, a reason to continue drawing in spite of the aforementioned art party hiatus, pushed me to join the selfship community For Real, lead to me meeting so many people and making so many friends outside of my teeny tiny a-couple of-friends-from-college circle, helped me appreciate the oc creation process and AUs so much more, pushed me to do monthly art challenges that i haven't done since before i fell ill...
and just... made me love myself more. made me appreciate the things i didn't like about myself. helped me realize the potential of selfshipping in general, to be a tool to see oneself as deserving of love, even if it takes making a fictional character play messenger between the self-doubt and self-acceptance bits of your brain.
i likely would have just stayed in my own little corner -- my quiet little oushirou blog that i didn't have linked anywhere, chatting in stream chats but not talking to any chatters outside of that -- if not for ren. i've met so many people who have similar struggles! different struggles! similar and completely different interests! gone completely outside of my comfort zone and found such a good circle of people who uplift each other!! HELL, my art blog has multiple times the followers as i have here, but they only ever interacted with my umi.neko art LMAO -- here it feels like we all want to support each others' art and writing and other creations and rambles and and and.
and it's because ren gave me a reason to make that step. start tagging things, start following people and reaching out, chatting with people who reached out to me... he's genuinely changed my life for the better. ;w; i don't think i'll ever be able to express just how thankful i am that he came to me at the exact moment i needed him most. i love him so so much rghhhrgh. gripping him in my fist and kissing him all over his face forever and ever. 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕
#thank you nick kajsndfkjn this got so long again lmao i just. he's changed my life so quickly and drastically.#i was isolated for YEARS before he pushed me into openly selfshipping. i can't get across how important he is to me succinctly ;;;#i don't believe in the traditional fandom definition of 'soulmates' but... according to my views on it he definitely is one for me 🥹#📌 [ my posts. ]#[ asks. ]#[ oomfies ; nick. ]#[ renniversary. ]#🧃 [ who is in control. ]#🍄 [ lying on the blade of an emotion. ]#pet death -#<- clearly marked; 2 sentences right under the readmore
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just saw your post abt rejection! do you have any tips on how you'd push yourself to get out there despite rejection anxiety and/or how you deal with getting upset from being rejected?? i'm trying to push myself to deal with it better too but it's tough
hi!! i’m still mastering this myself, but i’ve come a long way ever since i embraced the idea of rejection as being a good thing for me. my tips/mental hacks for this are:
recognize that everyone you know in your life got rejected at some point. the person who’s interviewing you, your professor, your crush, your best friend, your neighbor, your favorite celebrity, people you idolize. everyone goes through it. absolutely everyone. rejection is inevitable, and trying to avoid it is much the same as trying to avoid air. it’ll always catch up to you, so there’s no point fearing it.
remember that rejection builds character. it’s a positive feedback loop: the more rejected you are, the less you’ll care, and the more you’ll be willing to go outside of your comfort zone.
as for how to apply these principles: talk to strangers. i know this sounds odd, but it works so well bc you’ll never see them again. if you start a conversation with a stranger & it’s very awkward/stilted, you can always walk off & not have to deal with the repercussions of being rejected by them. if you’re an anxious person, that’ll provide a safety cushion of some kind: the idea that you won’t have to deal with the aftermath of a rejection. the purpose of doing this would be more so to focus on getting used to the feeling of rejection itself.
put yourself out there, but couple that with an activity. what i mean is: if you want to approach people/make more friends, do it in a context where if you fail, it won’t be so disappointing. if you’re really into bowling & join a bowling club, half the fun will be getting to bowl. the other half will be making friends along the way. if you’re not so successful at approaching people, at least you’ll get to bowl. it won’t feel entirely like a failure to you. putting yourself out there is important but exhausting; if you can do it in a way that’s enjoyable, it’ll make it so much easier.
see rejection as an opportunity to grow. if you got rejected for some shortcomings, your next step is to improve on them & make yourself a more attractive choice—whether it be for a job prospect, love interest, etc. don’t let rejection destroy you, but use it as a vehicle to motivate yourself to be better.
recognize your own worth! it’s not just you missing out on them; it’s also them missing out on you. learn not to only operate through a lens of what people think of you, but also through a lens of what you think of them. people are faulty, & sometimes their rejection/reaction to you will be unfounded. be critical of that & recognize it’s not always you that’s the problem. recognize that rejection can sometimes have nothing to do with you and everything to do with the other person.
believe in yourself. believing in yourself is 50% of the struggle. you can always pull yourself back up. if one opportunity didn’t work out, the next one will. there’s always a Plan B. this world is so vast & the possibilities are endless.
embrace the journey of self-improvement. it’s okay to be a work in progress. don’t despise yourself for not “being there yet.” just keep working to get better, keep asking yourself how to do things differently, and keep becoming a better version of you day by day.
don’t take things so seriously!! life is a roller coaster of ups & downs. that’s what makes it fun. just go w the flow & always try again!
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Something that works for me with your art is the interesting use of shapes and angles? I think I followed you for your obey me art originally??? I like the way that you draw Levi, I feel like it's a more interesting look than his canon design. I also like that your colors tend to be bright but also tend to feel unified
its always really nice to hear something like this abt my levi bc i was Terrified when i started drawing them bc i wasnt used to going off canon that hard. and now here we are.... aka this is lovely to know!!! i do try to step outside my comfort zone w angles so im relieved it pays off too -×-
#ive been trying to find a good middle ground w colors too bc like#ur from obm so that was an area where i was experimenting n tbh wasnt v happy w the results but i.... think i figured out why
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unpopular opinion: people who shit on folie a deux and mania are just afraid of change. I Can understand not liking them, but people have to realize what it takes to create such beautiful music, and how brave you have to be to step outside of your comfort zone and make music you know people won’t like. Also hot take: folie a deux is their best album objectively and subjectively (next to IOH) thanks for your time! :)
yep!!!!! very much agree!!!! so much w stuff like this is like. Absolutely understandable if those albums aren't your thing compared to others, for Sure, but what Isn't understandable is to undermine the undeniably artistry those albums have And, as you said, how brave they are!! fob were taking such huge risks w both those albums, them doing that at all shows their heart and passion and Love for what they do, and that isn't something that should be ignored. they are not bad albums, they are incredible albums! they should be appreciated for those things, even if you don't like them!
i personally think ioh is their best objectively (and abap is my fav subjectively) but i really respect that opinion god folie is such a good album!! a pure work of art!!
-send me your unpopular fob opinions!-
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Man, I know you shouldn’t do this. But I was staring with increasing bitterness at the kudos/hits on Chrysalis and sinking further and further into the whole “what even is the point” mindset I’m so prone to. Probably this was triggered by having come to expect a handful of kudos with each new chapter and this time I didn’t get… any.
I think Bri is probably the only person who knows how personal this fic is to me and how much of myself I’ve poured into it. And I don’t really want to divulge what that means to everyone - maybe one day - but just rest assured this fic isn’t just the manifestation of an irrational love of a video game character (which it is, of course) but it’s… somewhat healing for me. And a gift to myself. And it took a lot, and I mean A LOT, for me to even put it out there.
I’m not saying everyone needs to shower me with praise and affection at all times, or that I think I’m uniquely incredible at what I do, or that I need validation to keep going - I am much more motivated by spite anyway lol. And I for sure don’t want to minimize the folks who have been devotedly commenting on every chapter, have texted me outside of here/AO3 to talk about it, have made FAN ART (which is crazy!!!!), have reblogged every chapter and sent me asks. I appreciate it so so so much and it means more to me than I could ever verbalize.
But like, damn. Sometimes the sadness has hands and sometimes it’s the absence of folks you thought would be there that’s all you can see, y’know?
And then I decided to look at the other Heisenberg/OC fics, and the ones that are purely platonic, and basically anything that isn’t 2nd person w/smut or part of a popular canon x canon ship. I looked at ones that came out right around the game’s release, ones that came out last week.
And like, damn. Chrysalis has a staggering amount of engagement in comparison, especially when you consider I published it two years late. I didn’t have an AO3 account at all until fucking February 2023. And that makes me feel sort of good, but now I’m just mad again lmao. You should not have to jump into things at peak popularity or have an established following or include popular pairings/tropes to have your work get noticed. I mean, logically, I know this is just how media and art works to an extent - and I’m not saying people who do write/create in the popular fandoms for popular ships are doing something wrong - but it really shows how unwilling folks are to step outside their comfort zones and read things that they think they’re not interested in or won’t like.
There are platonic, x oc, rarepair etc fics that are so stunningly beautiful that it feels criminal for them to only have a handful of commenters and kudos. And honestly the people writing these are doing so with an insane amount of passion because you HAVE to in order to keep finding the strength to publish that next chapter when you know you’re explicitly going against what people insist they want. Again, this extends to more traditional art forms too - how many fucking brilliant books and paintings are out there gathering dust because the creator didn’t have the right connections or they didn’t make something that had mass appeal?
I always try to do the “what advice would I give to someone in my position” exercise with stuff like this. And of course I would reference the reality that if you have ONE person who is cheering you on, it’s a whole complex person you’ve made happy and that’s a miracle in and of itself. And some folks don’t WANT to be noticed - they are much happier with small circles and good for them! But also - I don’t think people are wrong when they start feeling crummy from seeing their work get steamrolled or comparatively ignored.
Idk. Idk where I’m going with this except to say I really wish people would expand their fic libraries (and their media/art consumption in general) to include more than just whatever the current hyperfixation is because it gives them serotonin. Take a chance on something different, within reason. (I know someone will try to respond with OH SO YOU’RE SAYING I SHOULD TRIGGER MYSELF or something like good god, no.)
There are some truly awesome popular works and creators out there. Please don’t interpret this as me being some bitter small platform blog ranting because I’m not being elected prom queen. All I’m doing is thinking out loud and sorting through my own spaghetti brain. I think I’m gonna spend part of this weekend sorting fics with the least engagement/popularity first and leaving some comments on them.
It’s a brave and beautiful thing to make and then share art, no matter the form it takes. People deserve to be reminded of that. Frequently.
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back lol
january 4th, 2023
4:57 am
feeling: cozy
listening to: datajam.wav mix by djkisspink
HAPPY NEW YEAR !!! LMAO ! I am 4 days late. I did wanna do an entry on new years but I was pooped. anyways, A LOT has happened since I made my new entry... good things !!! me and my twitter "oomfie" met up in san francisco 2 weeks ago !!! and they're no longer just my oomfie, we're in a relationship now !!!!! lol. we've been talking for a few months. we were moots on twitter and we instantly hit it off. they were so sweet to me and helped me when i was going thru that shitty time. I really started to get feelings for them after a while. we started sleeping on the phone all the time and got closer and closer. then yeah, we decided to plan the trip. I was SO FUCKING NERVOUS. but tbh I ended up being nervous for no reason cuz it went really well !!! the trip was def a step outside my comfort zone and it feels good to do things i'm afraid of. we both went to a club together for the first time ! it was also my first time taking a trip alone w someone. he spent the night with me and hung out my house the first night. after we headed to sf. the airbnb was really nice apart from racist white folks and the weird landlord lady who was mean to us lol. we ended up cooking together, hanging at the park, went shopping, went to japantown, went to the pier, chilled on the balcony and had coffee, went on walks and watched movies together and cuddled. I loved their company sm. It made me feel so much better. TBH this is the first time someone made me feel so safe and comfortable. it just makes all my bad thoughts go away and I feel so so happy. Things just get a lil hard from time to time because they live far but we are planning to visit each other every once a while but also trying to focus on getting our lives together, especially since they are planning to go back to school. I just need to focus on getting a new job and my license !!
(edit) ALSO LEMME ADD SOME PICS FROM THE TRIP !!!
ps. I love u boo !!!
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SORRY post is an hour old but im capital t capital b That Bitch who's going to respond to it but uh you aren't doing anything wrong and im really sorry you're feeling that way. i would argue you're doing everything RIGHT, especially recently. you've really been stepping outside of your comfort zone as of late and good things are bound to come. this doesn't make the bad feel better, but i want to be clear that youre putting the things into action you said you wish you COULD put into action only a few months/weeks ago. it's easy to miss that when youre feeling low.
i know it sucks to hear that things "will get better" so instead of saying that im going to say that through your actions you're bringing yourself closer to a better, happier future and im really proud of you. i know its cheesy but being able to be there as you improve on yourself and do the things that you didnt think you could do or had reservations about doing and building towards the things youve said you wish you had has been an honor.
k thanks i love you my friend, and im proud of you!
amariiiiiiii whadda hell man :( <33 idk how but you always have a way of phrasing things that make everything seem less. dark? its like acknowledging the dark but also the light that comes along w it? it can be relieving. i appreciate it so much
#ive been trying to learn how to not depend so much on others validation but god. hearing someones proud of me really helps :(#i have been working really hard. when i get in lows its hard to say it but i have been#it means a lot that youve been stickin w me though this and i love u <3#frey answers#amari <3#see u at work tmrw hope u are ready for the onslaught >:)
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hey! i stumbled across you on ao3 through genshin (i think? that was in september i have no idea at this point), went to check out your profile and saw my hero academia works there. i am currently very much into it, so i was like let's gooo
sooo I found B♭ and that has been a wild journey.
firstly, i don't have any experience with american school system, so a lot of worldbuilding was new for me. moreover, marching band is something from another universe(aka music lover but never got educated on the matter), so fic constantly challenged me with new details-concepts-vocabulary. stepping outside of your comfort zone while reading? great idea! i think i never learned so much from a fic while enjoying it so much ^^
secondly, i am simply amazed by sheer amount of effort you put into it. i decided to read in publishing order, so non-chronological really impressed me. you're honestly a mastermind being able to pull that off. also, having a song for every chapter with specifically picked out lyrics relevant to the content is so, so cool! the diversity of your playlists should be astonishing, i'm jealous :)
thirdly, the characters are just so real. i love all the canon references, i love the reactions that don't feel exagerrated or too mild. they are acting...exactly as i would expect them to in that circumstances and setting. i just accepted leads' ways of thinking and reflecting so naturally
i also read the extra notes when they were available and just...how much thought is put in is mezmerising. for some reason i never thought pulling directly from your life experiences when writing? but it actually makes a lot of sense and it brought me some ideas to try out so hehe ;)
as i am very smart and hadn't scrolled down on the order post, i didn't see until quite late in the reading that the end of perfect harmony is published as notes, so that was a surprise. i understand your reasons and the fact that you're not even in the fandom anymore, but you mentioned in some extra notes that it's ok to ask for them even if years passed so...here i am three years after, complimenting B♭ :D
anyway, i finished it a couple of days ago, and even the notes are quite detailed. images of described shenanigans popped into my head just like that, and i really appreciate that you published them and i got to know what happened next!!
i actually wondered why were the comments disabled since i really wanted to comment on a few chapters bc your work deserves it so much...but yeah, that's what led me here so i guess congrats, you get my thoughts all nicely packed in one place ^_^
there's probably a lot of specific pieces, details, ideas i liked about B♭, so that is merely a summary of exciting things i remember!
i'll say goodbye using my favourite oneshot title:
thank you for the music ✩°｡⋆⸜(ू｡•ω•｡)
not gonna lie i'm kind of obsessed w/the way you just glossed over the fact that you (probably) found me through my (anonymous) genshin fics, which means you jumped through the (minimum three) hoops required to get here, my (named) fandom blog, and then proceed to gush abt a bnha series i did. like i would assume that if someone put in the effort to find my other fandom fics from my genshin stuff, then there must've been smth really worth looking into w/the genshin stuff lmao
for the sake of my mutuals' dashboards, since this ask is so long i'm just gonna chuck the whole (long) answer under a cut lol
anyway yes Bb!! the amt of effort n planning i put into that series was legitimately insane. i made school schedules for EVERY SINGLE BNHA CHARACTER and PUT IT ON A SPREADSHEET so that i could PLAN WHO COULD WALK WITH WHOM TO THEIR NEXT CLASSES n have PLOT-RELEVANT CONVERSATIONS LIKE THAT. i made little profiles for each of the characters, where i chose their favorite musical key (and why), how many years/instruments they play, and gave them each a funny little quote/catchphrase!!!
what possessed me to do this for ~20 different characters i honestly could not tell you
i definitely loved working on Bb a lot. i remember sitting down three years ago, practically to the day by this point, n hashing out the events of every single chapter to the epilogue, then reorganizing them into a proper timeline (i also kept a calendar in my notes with the chapters in order), all while occasionally looking out my bedroom window n thinking how wonderfully bright n warm n sunny the world was becoming again. bc really, 2019 was a very struggle year for me, n i didn't take the time to appreciate the sunlight then the way i have every year since. from there, i worked off that very strict outline, and most of the note-chapters that were eventually put up are primarily just copy-pasted straight from there.
i remember being on youtube a lot for music recs when working on perfect harmony too!! a bunch of them changed in the years btwn walking away from the series n actually publishing the notes (which were actually published mid-december last year, then backdated to 2020 a few days later ahaha), with a number of the tour arc alternate chapter title songs coming from songs that didn't even exist at the time of the fic's original planning. my mp3 collection grew a lot during the planning phases of Bb lmao.
i'm glad the characters felt so real!!! while no one character was based entirely off one single person i knew irl, one could say that writing Bb was a bit of a love letter to my time in high school band in some places, both the events i partook in n the people i knew there. it was a very "write what you know" type of fic.
anyway haha yeah the end of my bnha days were not fun, but i still loved Bb enough to hold onto the idea of returning to it Soon(tm) that i put off publishing the chapter notes for almost two years. even then, that was a difficult decision for me to make bc a part of me wasn't ready to close that chapter of my life. i think ultimately it was the best decision to make though, since the fics are p heavily tied up in a much sadder part of my life that i'd just rather not return to.
the main reason comments were turned off of Bb (and indeed, the majority of my bnha fics) is most simply described as "resentment". it's different from how i feel abt my old snk fics (where i turned comments off of them so that i could pretend no one's really reading them anymore), which is more impersonal "oh my god i was so young back then and i give fewer than negative shits abt any mistakes i might've made on them or what anyone thinks of them" bc in bnha it's kind of hard to avoid the fact that i had a Name in the circles i typically traversed for a while. it wasn't that big of a name, but it's certainly more than nothing.
it's not really a feeling i like to dwell on, so i just archive-locked the responsible works n turned off comments for the most heinous culprits (mostly sparklers, but even tho i love Bb as a story, i do not love Bb as a publishing experience, if that makes sense), and for the most part, that keeps the resentment contained.
still, i'm genuinely happy that you enjoyed the au so much!!! i honestly love love love how goddamn SPECIFIC the premises are for this fic. the world was truly built with love, and the music puns for every title were always such a joy to come up with c':
thank you for the ask!!!! :D
#asks#kid-of-yesterday#long post#if you really did come here from my genshin fics last SEPTEMBER then boy howdy do i know Exactly which fic you came from#(if it was in september then it Must have been the saucy xv fic abt the sharp teeth bc pure identity didn't come out til oct)#i have a lot of Feelings abt my time in the bnha fandom that i just don't rlly like to talk abt publicly tbh#mostly bc (most of those Feelings are 'resentment' lmao) i try actively to not be a bitter person anymore#but also i hate admitting that people Knew me bc it feels like vanity or bragging#(bc if my name had ever been ''worth anything'' then why did Bb not garner the attention i'd hoped?)#i know that those thoughts aren't true n all but they're overall very complicated feelings#regarding how fandom at large treats fan creations and creators that ultimately led to my current decision to publish anonymously#ofc my feelings towards fandom n the fan-fan creator relationship have shifted w/time again n i do often consider just de-anoning#but it's... Tricky.... to say the least#haha sorry for unloading a little gloomily onto your lovely ask but i also think you deserve my honest thoughts#and not a saccharine falsehood / partial truth (oh hey that's the main thesis of rhythm lol)#ALSO to have an izch fic as your fave is exemplary taste when combined w/krbk#i am handing you a plaque that says 'certified good taste in ships'
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youtube
Music Monday #241: Chungha - Eenie Meenie (feat. Hongjoong (ATEEZ))
release: March 2024
genre: Kpop
cw: flashing, mild lens flare, lasers
Who me, playing favorites? Of course I am. Are we surprised? Not if you've been here for more than a hot minute, I'm sure. XD Besides, this song has been stuck in my head, catching me off guard any time it wants, since the day of its release. And not just because of the featuring artist, dammit. XD
Amused that the captain who insists we should only have eyes on him is the first to feature on an outside artist's track. Not at all surprised though that from the moment she started talking about it, Chungha had nothing but praise for Hongjoong, crediting him with helping her step out of her comfort zone a bit on this song (he has writing and producing credits). I wouldn't go quite so far as to call it pirate pop, but there's a fun and slightly funky vibe to the beat, at least partly from that string bass syncopation that's the grounding for the whole song. Chungha alternates between sung and spoken lines, utilizing more of her vocal range in the process. How deep a read you want to do on the song is up to you - on the surface, it's a girl power bop about having one's choice in boyfriends. If we look a bit deeper, one finds a call to know yourself well enough to know what you want and to not settle for something less.
There's enough breaks away from the performance of the song's dance to keep this from being a performance video as such, but I wouldn't say the video has a particular narrative thread to it, either, and we are completely fine with that. Instead we get three minutes of Chungha and her dance team in a variety of settings, from a back alley to the middle of a street, a closed coffee house to an actual sound stage. The choreography is looks deceptively simple in the way that it flows like water to the beat.
There is a performance video, like the music show stages, it's just Chungha and her dancers, with Chungha doing lip sync to Hongjoong's rap. It better shows off the choreography for that part that isn't centered in the MV, since Hongjoong was directed to just go with the flow and do what felt right for the vibe rather than worrying about specific moves. This was likely in deference to the fact that they only had him for a few hours -- the reason the music shows have been Chungha only is that ATEEZ's schedule has had them in Japan for most of the last month and in fact Hongjoong flew in (and back out the same day) to shoot the video around his other schedules. Keen eyes will also catch both the Crazy Form bunny move the dance crew does during the rap section (a move the choreographer specifically put in to honor ATEEZ), as well as Hongjoong's own Bouncy reference. Some Atiny have been quick to jump on the silver chain mask of the masked dancer as another ATEEZ callback, though it isn't exactly the same as the Z lore mask, but hey, close enough? And if that was the intention, then it's another sweet gesture from a seonbae towards her hoobae.
Eenie Meenie (and it's c/w I'm Ready) is available via the usual streaming options. As much as I would love to have seen a live stage with both Chungha and Hongjoong, I know better than to expect it. Still, a jagu can dream, right? ;)
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okay i need advice from someone that seems like they give big sister advice.
my friend (who lives in a different country) is visiting her family. we grew up together and she goes back to our home town but i moved out and going back gives me anxiety due to events that happened there. plus i absolutely hate that place. some how i’m made into the bad guy when i don’t go down to visit but she can travel to another state (multiple states away) to visit her other friends but won’t drive three hours to come stay with me for a day.
like do i have a reason to feel upset about this? she knows that i hate our home town and that it’s not good for my mental health to go there. plus i’m super busy with life at the moment and don’t have time to go stay with her for a few days
i’m sorry, you don’t have to answer this i just feel conflicted and know if i ask other people close to me they’ll tell me to go down and stay w her regardless of how it effects my mental health.
Hi, love! This sounds like a tough situation and I’m sorry that you’re having to go through it! I know what it’s like to feel like you’re the person who always has to go out of your way for someone, without the favor ever being reciprocated, and I know how frustrating that can be.
On the one hand, I would say traveling from another country is a big deal, but since you mentioned that she’ll be traveling to other states to visit people, it seems really strange that she won’t travel a few hours to see you.
I definitely think you have a right to feel upset! Everyone is entitled to feel how they feel. Have you tried asking her why she’s so resistant to traveling to visit with you, instead of it being the other way around?
At the end of the day, I think you have to do what’s best for you and your mental health. Are there times when we have to step outside our comfort zone and do things we don’t want to do for people we care about? Of course! But if this person is really your friend, then she should also try to see things from your perspective.
I hope you’re able to work it out! But please don’t ever feel like the bad guy for expressing how you feel! Sending all the good thoughts your way ❤️
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ENGLISH TRANSLATION (by me)
WESER-KURIER (28/08/22)
By Eric Leimann
https://www.weser-kurier.de/kultur/habe-mich-wie-eine-praesidentengattin-gefuehlt-tom-neuwirths-hassliebe-zu-seiner-figur-chonchita-wurst-doc7mi0mm27jmtrwvhke53?fbclid=IwAR1mfbphtrIFJbHFbdsALvsLvAArObmXX8DHjLOg8lTrdTnuCMEXmXIsGs8
Interview on "Music Impossible"
"I felt like a president's wife": Tom Neuwirth's love-hate relationship with his character Chonchita Wurst
In 2014, Tom Neuwirth won the ESC for Austria as Conchita Wurst. However, the fictional character that broke gender boundaries did not fit into everyone's world view. On the occasion of his new ZDF format "Music Impossible", the 33-year-old thinks about the blessings and curses of a life as a symbolic figure.
Eight years ago, Tom Neuwirth aka Conchita Wurst won the European music competition ESC for his home country Austria. As a singing diva with a beard in an evening dress, he became a symbol for the opening up of traditional gender roles. But at some point Neuwirth realized that he felt like a "president's wife" who was not allowed to say or do anything wrong. The 33-year-old from Salzburg is now moderating the new ZDF format "Music Impossible" (Friday, September 2, 11:30 p.m., ZDF and in the ZDF media library). In the show, two very different musicians meet and try each other's art. In the first episode, these are hit icon Marianne Rosenberg and rapper Eko Fresh. In the interview, Neuwirth talks about the burden of being a symbolic figure that changes society and the differences between him and the German ESC winner of 2010, Lena Meyer-Landrut.
W-K: In each episode you meet two very different stars who record their music in the style of the other. What is your role in this?
Tom Neuwirth: I'm the presenter, moderator and of course a fanboy. Meeting Marianne Rosenberg like in episode one is reward enough for me to take on the job. However, I was also very excited because I am "starstruck" without end. Whenever I meet idols, my heart just sinks in my pants.
W-K: Are you also the right "host" for this show because you yourself stand for diversity in the pop business?
Neuwirth: I think yes. Thinking outside the box - both musically and in the presentation of art - is really important to me. I hate narrow-mindedness and the stupid idea that everyone has to stay within their own boundaries. What are our limits? And who sets them? What I like about "Music Impossible" is that established stars step out of their comfort zone and endure visibly, noticeably insecurities. It's something that should encourage us all. Because it shows that we are all only human.
"CURRENTLY I SUBMIT TO THE ALGORITHM"
W-K: How many episodes are planned?
Neuwirth: We initially recorded two. In the first episode Marianne Rosenberg meets the rapper Eko Fresh. In the second episode we then see pop star Mike Singer and the German heavy metal queen Doro Pesch. We hope to be able to produce a full season of more encounters after that.
W-K: You, too, have changed your image again and again and, after the big ESC ballad, recently recorded electro-pop. Are you looking for a new musical direction?
Neuwirth: I've already done a lot in my career and I intend to continue trying out many things. For now, I'm surrendering to the algorithm. It says: You have to release a new song every six weeks to get noticed. I'm doing that right now! At least every six weeks a new issue of mine appears, and no two are alike. This is my current project and experiment.
W-K: It seems to be less important today than it used to be which musical style a pop star cultivates. But what about the image - has it also become more variable?
Neuwirth: It's definitely easier to do something completely new these days. Artistically, at least as far as pop is concerned, I think the world has become more open. I've always felt the need not to fit into any category. As far as changing images are concerned - this has also become easier in the age of social media and especially TikTok, because only the moment counts there. The snapshot has gained so much weight today that it outshines the idea of an image. As a result, we public figures become much more flexible - if we want to.
"IN THE PLAY THE BEARDED WOMAN STANDS SYMBOLICALLY FOR THE COHESION OF SOCIETY"
W-K: But is it really possible to exchange something like an image or a brand essence so quickly? It would go against a lot of what the history of stardom and pop has taught us for decades...
Neuwirth: We also live in a new era. On the other hand, many artists don't want to change their image at all - you have to keep that in mind. I'm just saying, if you want it, it's a lot easier today than it used to be. Of course, every star needs some identifying feature, otherwise you would be completely interchangeable.
W-K: Is it your beard?
Neuwirth: Maybe (laughs). In fact, I love changing my outfits, stage characters and music too. I think you don't trust the audience enough. I trust everyone to do everything, that's why I move so freely.
W-K: You have largely stripped off your character Conchita Wurst. After your ESC victory, were you ever annoyed by the role of ambassador for diversity?
Neuwirth: I wasn't annoyed, but I indexed myself. Because I realized: I am so much more than that. When I think about Conchita Wurst, I would say: It's not me anymore. It was an idea, a moment, a belief, an emotion. One that will forever be visually recognizable. And the further away it is, the more it becomes an iconic image that I perceive separately. Of course it was a privilege to be Conchita Wurst. I was talking to a journalist the other day who told me about a bearded woman in a play she had seen. The bearded woman in the play symbolized the cohesion of society. It is a gift to have initiated such a character. At the same time, I cannot accept this gift because it is no longer me.
"NOW LIFE IS DEFINITELY MORE RELAXED"
W-K: How exhausting was the time as a national, albeit controversial, icon of Austria?
Neuwirth: I felt like a president's wife. You want to represent well, do everything right, say nothing wrong and not offend anyone. You want to promote something that you represent and in which you also believe. Also, I wanted to look good. Conchita was usually dressed very conservatively after the song contest. And she was also conservative in the things she said. For that reason alone I had to put it behind me at some point. I wanted to stop liking a system just to be able to function in that system. Life is definitely more relaxed now than it was then.
W-K: Lena Meyer-Landrut also gave the impression at some point that she was annoyed by her image as an ESC winner and a national symbol. Do you know her - and how well can you understand that?
Neuwirth: I know her and of course I can understand that. In my case, I was mostly annoyed by myself. From operating in this drawer. After all, you do it voluntarily, nobody forces you to do it. At the same time, you think the thing is so big that you can't brush it off. After all, we are in the "Hall of Fame" of the ESC winners. What's more, I've been an unbelievably big fan of the ESC all my life. Winning this thing was the best thing that could have happened to me in my life. Ever since I was a kid, I sat in front of the TV and soaked up every minute of this competition. My parents were often already in bed when I was still watching and cheering. The ESC was my gay heaven.
"IT MAKES A DIFFERENCE IF YOU - LIKE ME - PARTICIPATE AS A FAN"
W-K: That's probably different than with Lena...
Neuwirth: I could imagine that. It makes a difference whether you are a musician - and more or less by chance have success at the ESC - or if you - like me - take part as a fan. As someone who feels this kind of expression, entertainment and lifestyle as a personal home...
W-K: What plans do you have for your future career? With "Music Impossible" you are the moderator and talk-show host, not a musician...
Neuwirth: It's definitely a role that I really enjoy. I love meeting people and getting to know them better. I can definitely imagine something like this continuing to happen. In addition, my team and I have started our own video streaming platform, where fans can watch exclusive content related to my artistic work. Film and visual arts are definitely something that interests me a lot. I love to entertain people - in as many different ways as possible. I'm a spontaneous person and I want to keep it that way in my art.
#conchitawurst#wurst#tomneuwirth#singer#artist#esc2014#escwinner#music#songwriter#performer#celebrity#queer#interview#article#translation
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First Times Anthology, ch6.5: let go
work summary » Intimate, vulnerable, gentle. Concepts Levi is a stranger to, until you.
ch.summary: You and Levi have a heart-to-heart. There was never going to be another answer—it’s time to let go. Afterwards, you both step outside your comfort zones.
content/warnings: healthy communication😌, brief description of a panic attack, Erwin gives romance advice, so much love, use of tobacco, Hange being a menace, oral (f!m!receiving), edging (m!receiving), light subspace/description of subdrop, eating Levi out, slight exhibitionism, confessions, multiple orgasms (m!receiving), light use of gags/restraints (f!m!receiving), (very) heavy petting, bittersweet end, everyone is fragile
wc: 16.6k
a/n: I AM SO EXCITED FOR THIS!! beware, this chappy is mainly 10k words of smut 😭 with lots of emotions. i even got all weepy while editing one of these scenes (guess).
i feel like it's also helpful to add that it's year 849 (1 year before canon aot) seeing how this is a precanon fic n all.
only one left :33 i hope u guys enjoy. also this song goes well w/ this chapter!
previous part・work masterpost・next part
Listened to while writing:
taglist: @peace-for-levi | @sckerman | @jayteacups | @levi-my-beloved | (if you’d like to be added, lmk!)
When the frigid night air hits him, Levi tugs his suit jacket tighter around himself and descends the marble steps. Without thinking he does so two at a time, but the tension leaves his shoulders when he sees that you haven’t gone far at all.
Around the paved path, bunches of carriages form an arc. Every one of them looks the same, as if one after another they’ve been cloned, but there’s only one dark silhouette donning a flowing dress: you.
He’s confident, because even if he got the carriage wrong (which isn’t likely; Levi has a good memory), he’d always know you, even while draped in shadows.
You look like a helpless little thing that’s been locked out of the house for too long. Once your head shoots up in his direction, there’s surprise, crumpled relief, and then a mask of neutrality falls over face; count that as double when he gets past the quip that you look extremely shitty and he goes to ask what’s wrong. He knows all the tells of your anxiety—tearing at your sleeves, scraping the cuticles around your fingertips raw—but he won’t assume anything of you when you look so out of sorts like this.
It only prickles him when you tell him nothing is wrong. Further, how it was thoughtful for him to come and find you, but it’s about time you let all those lights and all that food and all those people swallow you back in again.
But, you’re fighting air, which is why he feels something inside shrivel up, and plants a hand on your shoulder to stop your yammering. When he frowns, gets a good look at you under the streetlight, you don’t look well. He feels under his palm where your shoulders lift with your breaths; like the outside world has been vacuum-sealed.
“Stop,” he says, both hands on your shoulders now. Though the order is careful, he means it as just that: an order. “Breathe.”
Your gaze swivels between him, then this way and that. “The party—”
“Doesn’t exist right now,” he finishes for you. It’s just you two here, right now, for however long it takes until this notion that the world is ending evaporates. Maybe he can’t comfort even a little kid, but he can coax your attention towards him well-enough and try. Eventually, finally, your arms slip around him, and your frame becomes a little less like razor wire and more like a heavy blanket.
Suddenly, he no longer hates what he wants, what he does, what he is. Suddenly he’s not a predator. He’s a watchdog, or a pillow. He can be something safe and strong for you.
It’s “Relax, alright?” and, “Good job. Keep going,” and when you give a heavy sniff, he cradles the back of your head. Your hair is delicately done-up, not too unlike his own, but he can’t bring himself to worry much. This is the least he can do.
You’re lovingly crushed under the weight of how much you have to thank him for right now; but first, you swallow like a stone is in your throat, and pull away a fraction. He looks as concerned as you’ve ever seen him, and that measuring frown pulling his lips down twists your stomach again. You feel so anxious that it hurts.
“Thank you… But, we should still go back,” you resolve with a sigh, and try to stand up a little straighter. “Wasted enough time.”
The side of his mouth twitches. “Wasted? You’re kidding. You needed air, so you got air.”
He notes the fine sheen of sweat on your brow with an air of caution. “Did this whole thing really get to you that much?” Maybe it’s his fault, for leaving you alone. “Something happen?”
Vehemently, you shake your head, and it’s honest, which is why you can’t be honest about breaking down over nothing. Or maybe it’s a string of every little thing that mixed to create a ripe concoction stinking with panic.
“No, really,” you try. “I'm just a little tired… It’s not worth all this fuss. I know you’re worried,” you give his arm a reassuring rub, “but I probably just haven’t been sleeping well.”
His gaze sharpens, because if that’s truly the case then that’s his fault too. “Not sleeping well? Why?”
You shake your head dismissively, and immediately regret it when the world does a few extra wobbles. “Stress, maybe. I don’t know, but I don’t want anything bad to happen to our funding because of me, so—”
“You’re a lot more important than pig cash.”
In the dark, his stern glare looks almost supernatural. Without thinking much of it, you give a little shake of your head. Frankly, arguing is making you feel worse.
He makes sure it doesn’t show on his face, but it feels like hot coals in his chest, hearing you fully admit that you’re nothing but slop for those pigs. It makes him sick.
Of course securing funding is important—it’s the second lifeblood of the regiment, besides lives—but why should he give a damn about that now, when the night is a step from being done with and something is wrong with you? That is, you can’t breathe and the air becomes calcified to his lungs too? Maybe this problem isn’t all that catastrophic in the grand scheme of things—maybe you’re just the air Levi breathes—but it’s still his fucking air.
You really do look ill. Your skin isn’t running terribly warm when he touches the side of your face, but he feels a cold sweat sitting on your temple that tells him you’re anxious and drained and overwhelmed.
He doesn’t want to leave you alone—“It’s just for an hour.”—and you’ve done enough; he bets they didn’t earn half of what they would have without you—“Please, that’s not true. You don’t need to lie to make me feel better.”
A careful sigh slides between his teeth. It’s not new, you talking like this, but self-depreciation isn’t helping your case (nor did it ever) because for one, he’s stubborn and set in his feelings, and two, you’re his air. He maintains careful patience, though, because it’s worse than usual.
You stare at him, pleading. “This isn’t a big deal, ‘Vi. Just tired. I’ll nap in the carriage and you’ll be there when I wake up, right?”
Those words chew him up and spit him right back out. He has to steal a breath, because something is cutting at his insides.
“Shut up. Don’t–” he wrenches back, “–ever fucking say that.”
Your brows shoot up to your forehead, stunned. Then you understand, and guilt floods your stomach.
“Don’t.”
“No,” you breathe. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
You are tired, to be fair—from all those faces, from three or four days worth of supper lining silken tables, from some kind of unbearable pressure crushing you that is invisible and attacks from nowhere.
You have to be better; anxiety feels like a cheap excuse, even though it isn’t. It isn’t at all. You wish calling for help didn’t feel like speaking mute. You can’t put on a sugar-coated mask and convey to the world that you look okay, act okay, sound okay—and be okay. It’s not possible to be fine all the time; but how fucking weak that makes you feel.
It’s mildly tempting to say you didn’t ask him to come, but you feel cornered. You shouldn’t have lashed out when he was trying to help, and the very fact that you didn’t ask is likely why he went looking for you. It’s not his fault you’re like this.
His tongue feels too swollen in his mouth to say anything. He doubts snapping at you for something you didn’t even mean helped very much. It’s not your fault he’s like this.
“Tell me it’s nothing one more time.”
You don’t; it doesn’t even cross your mind. While you deliberate, your hands stray to your sleeves again, and gingerly, he pries them apart. He doesn’t say anything either, but he won’t look at you: just off to the side, rather.
A little sigh. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“I get it.” He does.
“I am,” you insist, “and I need you.”
He nods like a mannequin would, squeezes your wrists, and his touch goes away. “Okay, tell me what…” What you need, except you already said that. “…what to do.”
Your smile is fragile like a feather. The most you need to ask for in words is a moment by yourselves; in the carriage, that is, where the seats are comfy and it’s quite dark—save for the slender streetlights and what little of their gold trickles through the windows.
You sit side by side as Levi allows you to drag his hand over and fidget with his bony fingers. It lets air enter your lungs easier, not fixating on yourself but Levi, who you like much more than yourself.
The coarse skin on his palm runs a little cool, but you sense the strength in it under just a few fingers. There’s the creases and edges etched into it, the myriad of tiny, wobbly lines, his own fingerprints; they’re unlike yours, or anybody else’s. These countless little rings remind you in more clarity that Levi is unlike any other person, and you’re unlike anyone else, too. Billions of patterns which are clear, even pleasant to the eye, others tiny and unknowable unless you took your time searching. He has a jagged, almost invisible scar on the fringe of his palm, below his thumb. You trace it and recall that when you asked, he couldn’t remember where he got it from.
Now, your head rests on his shoulder like there’s a pillow there. You have to slouch a little so his head rests on your head. No surprise that his eyes are heavy.
“No,” he’s saying, “I only heard of her through Nile, since he’s married to her. Two kids and a house or something.” He’s not sure why you’re asking. “Erwin really gave you a straight answer about all that?”
You snort. “He never gave you one, did he?”
“I never asked.”
Now you laugh, and he’s inclined to smile a tad from a fond feeling.
You were curious about Marie, a woman who Commander Erwin was apparently set on marrying before he graduated from the Cadet Corps. Though, the couple guys in the Garrison you spoke to who claimed they graduated with him insisted it was the other way around. But of course, that’s something only Erwin and Marie know, and if the Commander never chatted with Levi of all people about it, then it’s a closed case.
It was the first you heard about it, and it made you wonder; not why he chose the Titans over the supposed ‘woman of his dreams’, but why she didn’t fight him tooth and nail on it.
You imagine—in some faraway, alternate universe—living day by day for three years in the Cadet Corps with Levi. Even though you’d still be fighting for that fresh, unknowable haven—freedom—and even though it must come first, you would do just that. No matter if you or he ended up making the ultimate sacrifice; that excruciating moment that would tear through you as time freezes and the air becomes sludge, only to be buried in the cold aftermath of love’s death. Even further, even if you were forced to live the rest of your days half-alive until you eventually met a similar fate—there would be nothing you wouldn’t do.
“Maybe he just didn’t like her that much,” he quips, forcing you to muffle an amused little huff into his fine suit jacket, where you gladly drown in his cologne.
But he honestly doesn’t know. He knows that—once every three blue moons or so—Hange grows low and serious and insists that joy is a diamond cradled in the mud at the bottom of a swamp cradled deep deep deep in the bedrock of this world.
“Seriously, shorty,” they’d sigh. “You have no idea what you’re gonna miss if you keep on this will-we, won’t-we stuff.”
In lieu of leaving you high and dry and without a likely answer, he decides to settle on, “Erwin’s got his own ambitions. Who fucking knows how many laws he broke getting me here in the first place?”
You squeeze his hand, and he bullies his fingers between your own to squeeze back. “You think it’s a little selfish?”
“Maybe.”
“Aren’t we?”
His lips press into a line. Yes, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Despite all the reasons we shouldn’t be.
Selfish, like the times (many times) where you lay sprawled on Levi’s little sofa in his office. The thing’s pretty small, so your knees tend to dangle over the armrest. On those days, you always do your paperwork your own way. All the while, he’s hunched over his desk, doing nothing at all spectacular—signing his name, reading, maybe—but your eyes dart over to him, watching him do nothing while the giggles start bubbling up in your throat.
The smile reaches the apple of your cheeks, showing teeth, and when he shoots you the exact opposite look and asks, “The hell are you laughing at?” and subtly glances down at himself in case something’s out of order—you can’t offer him any real answer. You just get the feeling of flowers and flapping butterfly wings and a good night’s sleep when you look at him.
And through the little giggles you try (and fail) to hide under your hand, you tell him, “I don’t know. You’re just–” and you have to pin your lips between your teeth. Cute isn’t the right word. “I like you.”
And he stares at you, the way he would a stubborn stain. “...Alright then.”
Levi’s knocked from his mind when your hand lands in his slicked hair again. He has to do the unthinkable and grab your wrist, then do something less unthinkable: slide his grip down so he can link your fingers together.
He forgot all about your current topic of little talk, which he and you—but mostly him—still pretend is hypothetical: what would change, what it meant if you took the leap. There’s been a surprising amount of long pauses so far.
Normally, he avoids this topic like the plague, and you don’t push him. It’s not so scary to muse on, though, not like it used to be. As for you, your shakes have gone away, like the anxiety has spit you back out so you can clamber to your feet.
“...I wouldn’t have to lie to everyone. And you,” he eventually answers, well and truly grasping at straws now. “About wearing your stupid sweaters.”
You bump his cheek with your nose: you have too much lipstick on to risk stains. He’s adorable. Since the biggest sweaters of yours puddle around his waist and swallow his hands, Hange loves to point it out while Erwin pretends not to avidly listen.
“Honestly?” You turn your head, and your voice is clear. “I already knew you loved them. You really think I mind?”
He rolls his eyes at the word you use. Of course you don’t mind, and of course you know how he feels. He’s the same. You’re both a week of sleepless nights past agonizing over selfish feelings, actions, and maybe even promises.
“How could I forget?” he retorts. “You know everything.”
You nudge him and shake your head. “I don’t think anyone knows anything.”
He recognized a long time ago that you’re much smarter than he is, which is why he can’t contribute anything that meaningful and instead changes the subject. He needs to talk to Erwin, but he’ll be back, so: “Don’t move. I’ll send a search party if you disappear again.”
Your brow wrinkles as he shuffles away from you. “What about?”
“Your job is to kill Titans, not schmooze to assholes,” he replies, after a little deliberation. “The night’s almost over, anyway.”
A pause. You open your mouth, close it. “...Okay. I trust you.”
“...I know.”
Cold air slaps him in the face, but the sound the carriage door makes when he shuts it feels final, in a good way; something like closure, the gavel going down after the judge deems you innocent. It feels like you came to an understanding somehow.
And he helped you. He knows how important performing well at this thing meant to you; but proving yourself is always important to you.
Old habits die hard as well. He knows all about that.
Navigating the crowd inside is a challenge, but the Commander has hair like cornsilk and he’s as tall as a tree. Levi gets a sinking feeling when he spots him schmoozing to a few straight-edge looking corpsmen with green horse patches on their leather. Good thing Erwin has his priorities straight, because the MPs clear away almost as soon as Levi’s name is out of his mouth. It seems he still has a reputation with them.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Levi crosses his arms when he gets the suspicion Erwin is carefully concealing a smile. “It’s not—whatever filth you’re thinking of. I said she’s not feeling well…These things make me sick to my stomach too,” he grumbles.
Erwin hums wisely around his cocktail glass, but that funny look in his eye has gone away now. Levi informs him you got overwhelmed, and Erwin agrees that’s understandable, considering the circumstance. Levi believes he means it without question.
“Things went well enough, right?” he goes on, a little dumbly.
“They did. The results of our last expedition contributed to that. You work well together, both on the battlefield and off of it.”
As much success as they reaped then, he’s referring to the two injured in Levi’s squad. You two played quite the role in ensuring Petra and Eld lived back then.
As Erwin speaks, he turns his back and heads in the direction of at least three table’s worth of drinks. Levi obediently follows behind, thinking to himself that Erwin should lay off the booze, but he doubts any one of them will be appreciating their livers in another fifteen years. It’s understandable, even, what with the heightened responsibility Erwin carries. Levi doesn’t envy his job at all.
He says nothing.
“Those casualties weren’t your fault. You’ve always been masterful at quick and efficient decision-making.” He sets the empty umbrella-shaped glass down on a table of crystal.
Unimpressed, “The sun will rise before you get to the point you’re trying to make.”
Erwin’s lips crinkle at the edges when he smiles, reminiscent of a genie, or a guy who thinks he knows everything; for all Levi knows, that might be the case. He can never quite tell what Erwin’s thinking until he goes on and says it.
“What I mean to say is, you ought to make a choice before you lose the chance.”
Cryptic as ever. Then, Levi’s eyes widen a fraction with understanding: he comes to Erwin and requests you both return to HQ early, and Erwin decides it’s time to divulge romance advice for the first time ever.
“Normally… I wouldn’t lecture you on personal matters. It isn’t my place,” he goes on, uncharacteristically sheepish. “But I wanted to speak from personal experience. It’s none of my concern, one way or another.”
Levi blinks up at him. “I intend to.”
“You’re welcome,” he teases.
“Ugh. Shut up.”
With that, Levi turns his back and leaves this friendly exchange. He marches away like Erwin just gave him an order, but he didn’t, and ironically enough he already planned on it. He already decided.
Back in the carriage, actually.
The sight looks promising: you, no longer hunched up inside the carriage, but leaning against one of the paneled doors, smoking a fat cigar. You have to raise it to your lips around the giant, puffy sleeves, and suddenly he’s no longer just relieved, but amused.
“You must be feeling better.”
“Mm.” You sigh. He presses the back of his hand to your cheek just in case, and it’s deliciously warm. “I threw up.”
Levi takes a perilous look around your immediate vicinity. He repeats after you, incredulous, before you insist that you feel better now; not that you caught a bug, but this time anxiety triggered your stomach, as it has on more than one occasion in the past.
He believes you, mostly because he’s seen firsthand. Then again, he wants to know where, exactly. “–not in that tiny box we have to get back to Trost in, right?”
You shake your head. Your mouth feels like tumbleweeds and acid. “Those ‘pigs’ will have something to clean in the morning… Did you know they keep a whole box of cigars just—in the carriages?”
He knows very well: a pig’s favorite pastime, after all, is indulging in good mud. But he only indulges in tobacco every once (once) in a very long while, because otherwise you’d go around stinking like smoke with teeth like baked corn. That shit never comes out.
Thing is, everyone and their mother in the Underground smoked. Kenny in particular always had a pipe in his hand when it wasn’t a knife or a tankard, but if Levi wanted to be adventurous, Kenny would dangle it above his head before locking him out for the night—to be certain Levi learned his lesson. Very kind in retrospect, considering the man Kenny is, or was.
The smoke is a comforting, disgusting smell, but either way Levi still does it. As for you, you indulge only when you’re past carrying all the stress your shoulders can handle.
You swallow. Quietly, “We’re not going back?”
No. Erwin already thinks you’re sick besides, which is why Levi cranes his neck to get a look at where the stagecoach should be, and isn’t. Odds are, they’re off rolling tobacco or chowing down on whatever slop that doesn’t measure up to what the guests get. Either way, you can’t leave. Maybe that can work out.
The chilly air cuts when he breathes too deeply. He’s thankful when you offer him the smoldering cigar, trapped between all five fingers.
Around a huff of amusement, he takes it between two of his own. All these years, and you still handle your tobacco like a toddler.
“What?” You sound like you know what he’s thinking.
He spares you by saying nothing and inhales deeply, pleased with the rich taste that curls over his tongue; pig’s mud indeed.
A smirk threatens one side of your mouth. “Only you can make smoking that stuff attractive.”
He blows the smoke out one side and clears his throat, flustered. No way you’ve always thought that and just never told him—you’re fucking with him. His eyes go somewhere else. “Tch. Watched and learned is all.”
You decide to tease him if he’s going to assume you’re doing that already. “Am not. It’s only sexy on you, princess.”
He opens his mouth, stammers horribly, and shuts it with a buzz in his head; probably the tobacco. “Th-That’s–” He plants himself against the carriage. He needs to recover. “Shut up. Now. Shut your sh-shitty mouth.” You don’t. His lips wrinkle. “Stop laughing already… That’s enough.”
He flicks your forehead and your laughing dissolves into giggles. How thankful he is that it's dark: he can feel the heat flock to his cheeks.
“Your joke isn’t funny,” he complains. “Unless you intended to creep me out.”
“Who said I was joking?”
“I did.”
He’s done with this conversation. It’s too late to go back, and while Erwin excused you both, the stagecoach is absent to do just that. It’s not the end of the world, though. Carriage rides, no matter the destination, tend to drag on so long it’s worth more of your time to find patterns in the upholstery than look around outside. Neither of you are inclined to add nearly an hour to the trip by sitting inside.
Let’s look at the stars, you suggest. He caves, surprisingly without much fight at all, considering it’s colder than the underside of an ice cube tonight.
But first, he’s bullying a mint between your lips and thoroughly, furiously lathering every bit of your hands with a cloth soaked in something clean and cold he draws from the depths of his lapels. Just in case, he claims; who knows what germs stew around in the stomach all day?
“What is that?” You almost gag. “Gin?”
“Absinthe. Stop fucking—” he spreads your palm, “—jerking everywhere.”
I’ll jerk something—
You laugh, mostly at yourself. “Where’d you get absinthe?” That’s some strong alcohol, the sort heavy enough to even roll Levi over like a train.
The side of his mouth twitches as he tells you he has friends in high places, as if that means anything. He probably threatened someone rich. You let it go and shake your hands out, appreciating the clean taste of the mint.
That’s until he swipes the absinthe-rag across your lips—“Ugh! ‘Vi–”—and dabs around your mouth like you have crumbs stuck there. He considers asking you to suck on it like a lozenge, an old trick for stomach problems he learned from no one other than a boozehound like Kenny, but it might just put you out. It usually worked for Levi, though.
“Why?” you ask incredulously around a shot of nausea. Your nostrils feel like you’ve snorted floor cleaner. “Lemme guess. It put you to sleep?”
“No.”
You don’t get an explanation at first. He’s too busy tossing the rag in a bin, drying his hands, then fiddling with his waxy hair with a sour look on his face. You take initiative, and he melts a little.
“It got me drunk, and I threw up,” he finally relents, expression thoroughly pinched with disgust. “But you’ve had enough of that for one night, right?”
You tut. “Yeah. Not very romantic.”
Saying that, you slip your arms around his waist and tuck yourself against him. His skin is soft and fairly salty here since you’ve been under lights all night. You note also, with a touch of longing, how his whole body clams up before strong arms stray over your shoulders. Technically you’re in public here, where not a single person doesn’t know you and him by your faces; it’s not the anonymity you’re privileged to in Trost, or even Stohess.
Nerves turn your stomach. You bury your face a little deeper to escape it, and his chest lifts with a deep breath. Under an oily night like this, it’s unlikely you’ll be noticed, but you hope you didn’t make him uncomfortable anyway.
“You’re warm,” you whisper, voice muffled as if by a pillow.
His eyes sting when he allows them to slip shut. Maybe he’s tired or amused or fond, but there’s a raw feeling in his chest that glows to hear you say that. You’re warm, too.
He pets your hair. “C’mon.”
With all the factories tucked in the industrial district south of Mitras, the air is more clogged somehow. It doesn’t taste as clean as the countryside air in Wall Rose, let alone outside it in what is now Titan territory.
The height of the castle, however, makes up for it plenty. If the stars could somehow be reached, touched, taken—those mere pinpricks in the fabric of the nighttime blanket—then the castle stretches far enough into the sky to convince you of that illusion. Tons and tons of drops of pure light.
You both lounge on a long, shady stretch of cobblestone, protected at all sides from a finely-cut stone barrier. The chill nips at your bones much more up here.
Once you settle in, Levi goes very still and very quiet, almost as if he was at a funeral, but he’s just craning his neck to marvel. It’s a solemn sort of wonder, one you understand.
“I’m gonna sound crazy,” he mumbled once, but he didn’t need convincing to admit it. He always has one last weak defense in his arsenal; always before exposing a raw and very tender nerve. “But just listen. Doesn’t it look like you could….”
The quiet was severe that late at night, even at the Trost barracks. You understood. “Like maybe… You could reach out and touch one?”
And he stopped looking for one moment to shoot you a sidelong, thoughtful look; you and the blanket over your shoulders, because Levi always runs hot and he didn’t like to cuddle back then.
“Am I wrong?”
He looked away and didn’t say anything for a long time. So long you didn’t think he’d reply. “Not at all.”
You weren’t sure if you quite pinned down what he was thinking, whether you read his mind exactly right, or whether you said something he never considered—it’s still hard to tell now, sometimes. Levi has a million facets to him, some quieter than others, no matter how far your history stretches. Some a stranger can discern with just a passing glance, some only you know; no matter what, you always get to learn something new about him this way.
In comparison, your heart is permanently tethered to your sleeve, and you talk freely about this or that. He’s a very good listener, always sharp-eyed and attentive. That’s how it is now, though this evening’s chaos bouncing about your mind doesn't allow you to go on and on as much as usual.
The night is stunning. You think back: a dark, mildewy blanket of a sky, endless and echoing into nothing—that’s what the Underground ceiling is like, or that’s how he always described it when he opened up about it. You can’t imagine growing up in darkness: trapped, small, never-ending.
But a kind word, an I’m sorry goes a bit over his head, always has. You learned to accept his grief for what it is, just like he learned to console you when you so much as forget to tip a waitress. You learned an apology is what you give your subordinate when your handwriting is a bit too messy to make out, or you show up a few minutes late to a meeting. True sorrow is as rare as true love: just as you can’t mend a crater in the earth with a bandaid, you can’t convey true love with words like, “You’re warm.”
You know what you share, and you think he knows that too. Part of this means listening rather than just hearing him, and if you can’t understand his trouble, you always understand how he feels. The amount of times he’s spared you the same reverent attention makes your head spin a little.
For all these little facets of what you share, a smile is drawn to your lips when you breathe in his cologne. It’s hard to pinpoint a time you’ve ever felt closer to him (nevermind the scarce amount of physical space between you now), though you’ve almost always been—in some invisible, demonstrable way—together. You walk on air.
Cross-legged, Levi does nothing to stop you as you toy with his long fingers some more, tracing patterns all over his hand. Beneath moonlight like this, his skin looks more like porcelain, making the baby hairs and pasty scars here and there a little more shiny.
“You have small wrists.”
Your sides touch, and you vaguely register that he’s fidgeting the slightest bit.
“Keen observation,” he drawls, thick with sarcasm. “Did you happen to notice my eyes are gray?”
You’re scandalized. “Huh? They’re blue!” You ignore his surly glare. “Like… Like how starlight looks. Or the sky when the sun’s about to come up. And in the dark? Right now? It’s how water looks when the moon’s reflecting off it. Don’t you get it?”
A flare of embarrassment ripples your chest—you’re rambling, and it’s obvious you’ve ruminated on his eye color, of all things—but he doesn’t mock you. His eyes are a touch wider, and the exact color you just described. The pull of some emotion raw and blatant looks outright uncanny without his bangs in the way.
You ask if he ever gave such a thing much thought, and really, no. Parts of himself he can’t change—the shape of his face, the slope of a small nose, his short, stocky build—he never gave much mind to. There’s no part of him capable of spewing poetry like you just did.
Suddenly, he feels convicted.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, furrowing his brow. “In general. Not just tonight,” and to add onto that, “Not just your looks, either.”
The look on your face reminds him of a very soft, pretty flower. He resists the urge to look away and leans forward, kisses you smooth and slow. You kiss back with earnest. It’s a shock to his senses when your chilly hand lands on his flaming cheek.
Your eyes are quite dazzled. Your lips part, then they close. “Have you given it any more thought?”
He knows that thin pull in your voice isn’t because of anything he’s done wrong, but he wants his arm around your waist anyway. It’s without a moment of hesitation that you shuffle up close. He stretches one leg out to make room, and suddenly his mouth is dry.
He realizes he didn’t answer you and nods a little stupidly. All day today (technically, since two nights ago when he last slept properly) he’s been ‘giving it thought’.
“I shouldn’t have asked, sorry. I don’t want to rush a decision like that, but you make it hard when you–” you nose his cheek, kiss the flaming skin there, “–call me that.”
You, as in all that you are. He doesn’t just stop at a pretty face, but it’s the little quirk in your laugh and the way you walk; your subpar cleaning skills and your knack for putting on a brave face no matter if it’s the fall of Wall Maria four years ago, or if a yowling cat trapped in a damn thicket. It’s just a word, but it means so much; you can’t quite tell if you’re overreacting or not.
His answer: A hand buries in your hair and he shakes his head. “It just isn’t easy for me. I don’t even…”
He stalls, because the first explanation he jumps to, he realizes, is a lie. “I know how I feel. I know how you feel, and it’s selfish. But I wouldn’t have regrets,” he head hangs, “I’d—I’d rather suffer than regret anything with you.”
You give a small, sure nod. “Me too.”
Your heart is on a rampage in your chest, but you’re very still, like a statue. You fear any slight move could dim this moment, or make him quiet. If only you could stay like this forever, or at least until the sun comes up. Together.
He’s reminded of how you reassured him shortly before Mayfest. Unsurprisingly, he still carries those words with him: “We’ve been through everything together, this is no different.”
He clears his throat, but his voice remains rusty. His duty demands he reiterate this: “W-We have a job to do. But even so, things have always been the same between us.”
“Yeah... Hange will always be making kissy noises when we’re in the same room together.”
That too. His heart twists up, and an ocean of warmth washes over his chest. He feels protective suddenly; with both arms he cradles you closer, and nudges your temple tucked beneath his chin. He has to strain his neck a little to do it, but he doesn’t care at all.
“You’d t-train one-on-one with me s-several days a week,” he blurts out. He keeps fucking stammering. “On ODM, too. That’s, my condition.”
You’re happy to—thrilled, in fact, to bust your ass a hundred times and slash at cardboard Titans every day out of the week, if he preferred. His lips part like he plans to go on, but doesn’t. And don’t get killed, you think he’d say; Don’t get killed for me. Neither of you can uphold a promise like that.
There’s no air in his lungs. His voice is like thin, crystalline glass. “So, if, if you’d live with me, then…”
He stalls; he knows the answer. When you kiss him, you knock your noses together. It feels like fire and tastes like spirits. There’s no need to use so many words.
Where he’s slowly grown remarkably tense, his shoulders fall, welcoming your arms around them. The cold bristles your cheek where his hand leaves you in favor of the nape of your neck. Stay here, it says, and you mimic him. Stay with me.
Levi stews in the confusion of this solid, warm feeling cramping his chest; it begs tears when there’s nothing to grieve. Death of the past, maybe. Too many sentiments roll around in his head to speak any aloud. You’d probably be better off counting the stars. The frustration is like a red-hot coil, deep in his chest. He feels the longing like a pinprick in the middle of his ribcage.
He tilts his head and pushes more passion into the kiss. You must understand that this is him, trusting you, and giving himself away; and he will take care of you in return. He’d be horribly remiss to do any wrong by you.
More; the way your thin breath stutters and your fingers dance at the prickly hairs, short of where his undercut lays. Your lashes kiss his cheeks and your pulse thumps beneath his thumb. If you wanted to kiss any deeper, he'd have to part his lips for you.
He imagines—in some faraway, alternate universe—in which things never led to this moment, like naming a color no one’s ever seen. It simply wouldn’t make sense. He wants you to keep in your mind, to never think of yourself as any less than Levi at the best moments you have framed of him in your mind.
He thinks himself lucky, despite the rest; one precious jewel this world finally, for once, took upon itself to hurl at him despite all its wretchedness. But, that would be giving the world too much credit.
He wants you.
Your velvety tongue rolls across his lips, allowing you to breathe each other in, warm, hot and heavy, and a ghostly moan rises from his chest. For all his patience, he doesn’t want to stop; that’s until his palm lands on your cheek, and finds cold, sticky tears there.
He pulls away as if he’s been burned, but you’re smiling with abandon; you tell him, “No, I’m just so happy,” and he is too. If only he had any say in this world’s inane rules, tears wouldn’t walk hand-in-hand with joy. Why should people cry when they’re happy?
“Oh,” he replies.
He wets his lips, tastes absinthe and mint and you; your lipstick is smeared, which means his are stained red. It doesn’t feel like he can move when you look at him this way. The shine in your eyes puts the stars to shame.
Then, your thumb traces his high cheekbone. He twitches and realizes he’s trembling all over, like a cornered mouse.
“You see?” You smear a silent tear from his cheek. “You’re doing it too.”
He has thick lashes; no matter how he blinks, tears stick to them. His nose is stuffy. If you were to ask if he’s happy, so happy, then he would melt. You kiss his smile—again, again, then once more. Tremors lay in his thumbs as he wipes away the tears pasted to your cheeks.
“For the record,” you tell him a very long while later, when the flashy lights and sounds from inside have dumbed down, when suits and flowy gowns have poured out onto the sidewalks, “you’re beautiful too.”
No, Erwin won’t mind that he ended up fibbing by spending the death of the evening anywhere but riding back to HQ. You ask him how he can be so sure of that, but he shakes his head. If by the slimmest of margins Erwin does mind, the excuse is your missing stagecoach.
Levi locks his arm with yours as you walk—one part not to lose you to the crowd, mostly because he can—and you’re scarcely able to avoid the Commander, but there’s no such thing as avoiding Hange. They’re steering Moblit in all directions (as they please) despite being exponentially more wasted than him, and nearly pass you both by. Levi is propping the carriage door open with his elbow and lends you his other hand while you pick up your dress so as not to trip over the steps.
You’ve just gotten situated when a screech—“Captain Shorty! Looking dashing as always!”—that could only be Hange sounds from very close by. Moblit may tear his arm off in efforts to drag them in the opposite direction.
If they get a good look at him, his hair askew, his collar utterly rumpled despite all your attempts to straighten it, a scene will be made. There also may or may not be red splotches from your lipstick on his neck, so all he can do is flee into the carriage. Already you dash for the hatch and slam it shut.
“It’s not over,” he croaks, and on cue the door lurches under Hange’s two hands. They stare in through the round window, big brown eyes wide with curiosity.
He darts back just in time. You have to slap your hand over your mouth so as to not laugh your head off.
Finally, peace and quiet once Moblit gets a handle on them like the good assistant he is. Not soon enough, the carriage lurches forward, and you both start breathing again.
You’re still laughing as you attempt to comb his greased hair back to its original shape, and the only reason he stays still and takes it is because it’s the only thing that can unwind his frayed nerves. It’s helpless until he can wash it out, but it’s a valiant effort on your part.
But (and for once), he’s not so stressed just because of Hange’s antics. You share another cigar, but only his hands are steady enough to light the match.
It’s a dirty habit, even dirtier to light it up inside someplace small and confined like this, but the evening and its happy lunacy warrant a little indulgence. He can wash, iron, and dry your outfits later, all you like. He can brush his teeth a hundred times and you can wash his hair until he’s brand new. You can do anything.
You take a small toke of the fat cigar. “We need a shower when we get home,” you say without thinking, and at his raised brow, you blanch. “Oh.” You think fast. “This reminds me of something that happened between me and my first boyfriend.”
Like a dolt, he blinks at you. He opens his mouth, then closes it. You’ve never mentioned this person before. “What did you say?”
You knock his shoulder, eyes wide and expectant; it reminds him of a little kid. You play innocent, insist that he knows him, like it’s the most basic of information. He nearly goes cross-eyed wracking his memories for any mention or face of some man you’ve dated in the past.
You always strongly disliked the heart-eyes one of your past subordinates always shot you, besides this faceless steelworker or that stablehand. His brows furrow and a frown tugs his lips down. Jealousy sweeps over him in longer and larger waves.
Finally, he shoots you a petulant, vaguely helpless look. “Who are you talking about?”
Your lips break into a snarky grin. You sigh as if you’re about to explain something to a child, and climb astride in his lap (careful not to tangle your dress in the process). Close and comfortable.
He doesn’t move. “What–”
“It’s you, dummy. You’re my first.”
Before you can congratulate yourself on your wit, Levi sneers and captures your lips. His hand seizes the back of your head so you can’t try anything.
It isn’t the first time you’ve accidentally referred to Trost HQ as ‘home’, but he’s also feeling petty from that joke; enough to pinch your bottom lip between his teeth, enough to do nothing when your dress slips from your neckline and exposes your shoulder to the rapidly warming air.
Your round thighs squeeze his hips, stoking warmth below his belt, but still manages to act petulant between the wet smacks of your lips: “You’re such a pain in the ass–” kiss, “–idiot.”
“Dummy.”
“Idiot.”
You pass him the smoldering cigar as a peace offering. His tongue darts across his shiny lips as he takes it. Spicy tobacco smoke plays around your nose until you duck your head and taste his soft cologne, his salty sweat. He nods his head back to make room, and regrets it as soon as he sucks a strangled gasp through his teeth when you circle your tongue around his adam’s apple. Your lips are smoldering.
The tobacco has his head spinning brightly, and your teeth make his cock stir. Briefly, he abandons the cigar to just feel.
A sweet shudder tickles your spine. You love to feel him cling to you despite how hard he fights to smother the slightest hint that you’re getting to him. You’ll never get over how reactive Levi is, perfectly pliant under your mouth, your hands.
You can’t help yourself. As you suckle a stretch of skin (that his cravat has no hopes of covering) between your teeth, you roll your hips where you’re perfectly slotted together, and gasp when you feel the ridge of his half-hard cock through your slip.
He screws his eyes shut. “You better stop that.”
You only vaguely ease off. “Why?”
“‘Cause I don’t wanna deal with a hard-on for two fucking hours.”
You whisper in his ear, “What if you don’t have to?”
He almost drops the cigar, which is only barely still clinging to life. His free hand squeezes your shoulder—more for his stability than yours, honestly. “Ah, I see how it is. You’ve gone crazy.”
It seems you try to rub your thighs together, but you only manage to squeeze his hips instead. Your mouth has quit though, your hands gone still just in case he really means that.
You watch his dark eyes grow glazed when you wet your lips, and insist: “Tell me you’ve never thought about it. Like this, here…”
But he has, and he’s no liar. He sighs instead—in defeat, lust, relief, or all three—and drags your hips over his lap with both hands. The way the friction has your breath audibly catching in your throat stokes the fire low in his belly.
He wishes he could see more, with your dress and all the other barriers out of the way.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Have it your way.”
You catch him in a bruising liplock, sharing hot breath, tongue, touch; as if it’s been ages since you’ve brushed paths, as if close has never been close enough until this very moment.
Levi takes care to flick what’s left of the scorched cigar-butt into an ashtray so he can make a desperate grab for more of you. You sling both your arms around his neck and cling.
Your lipstick, ruby-red, makes the drag of your lips like honey. It mingles with the sticky taste of tobacco, but he needs more, so he takes your bottom lip and licks into your hot mouth when he first gets the chance. He loves it when you moan for him.
Your hand snakes up, massaging where his hair is prickly and short. Higher, where all of it is at your disposal, as slicked as it is—the sensation has pleasant shivers shaking up his spine. His lungs beg for air.
A moment to breathe. His blue-grey eyes have gone glazed and a tad lidded, and strawberry-colored smears decorate his swelled ones, and all around his mouth. You kiss his cheek, and revel in the saccharine satisfaction of the stain that’s left behind. There’s something about leaving a mark on him that licks flames at your insides. Irresistible.
You’re going to be forced to clean up later, but a part of you wants others to see the lipstick stains on the apples of both his cheeks; following down his sharp jaw, his high cheekbones, even his forehead.
He doesn’t stop you either. In fact your heart leaps because, as breathy and small as it is, he very well could be laughing (his voice always cracks when he laughs for how rare it happens), so you start to laugh too. Then you’re laughing and kissing and grabbing at each other like two drunk idiots.
Your lips fall below his chin, driving a shiver up his spine. Goosebumps rise to his skin, then his skin between your teeth, and he lightly gasps. He makes a blind grab for your thigh, but comes up with a handful of silk instead.
Levi remembers himself finally— “Fucking dress,”—and scoops the hems up in both hands. He catches sight of fine, fleece stockings colored like snow; then garters. Fine, black lace following up beneath your slip, surely clipped to your panties.
A breath is punched from his chest. Your heels clatter to the floor with the haste that he hitches you up further, closer. His belly does somersaults and his mind fucking melts.
“The fuck—didn’t you tell me?” His hands roam all over, gliding up and down and under the thin lace. You laugh at the incredible petulance in his voice; shiver nonetheless when he thumbs under the stocking’s frills and has them snap back against your thigh.
“Our outfits were surprises, weren’t they?”
He scoffs, thoroughly through with your tricks. His palms slip inside your panties instead, taking two handfuls of your ass, and the gasp he gets in return has his chest fluttering. It’s your hips he takes hold of next, rolling his hips up shamelessly.
You curse in surprise, burning like a fever has come over you. So much fabric bars you from feeling him, and that has to change.
“Are you—”
“Don’t stop,” you gasp. You’re not going to be the one calling the shots this time, and thrill like a firework shoots through your belly.
He holds you close, and doesn’t stop. When you begin meeting him in the middle, rutting hard against the hard ridge of his cock, he curses under his breath and throbs.
You like the look on his face—pinched, bloomed pink—so you bite that feather-sensitive spot under his ear and his whole body shudders with a barely-concealed cry. He starts panting.
“I want what you want,” you whisper.
Levi wastes no time. He puts you where he wants you: your backside on the cushions, sat up with your dress a heap in your lap, knees bent.
Before he slides down to the fuzzy carpet, he kisses your chin. “Not a sound, right?”
Your teeth clack from shutting your mouth so abruptly, nodding like a bobblehead though that’s certainly not a promise you can keep. Between your thighs, your clit is throbbing.
Kneeling, he decides you’re not close enough and abruptly yanks you closer by the fat of your thighs.
Your soul leaves your body, the ease with which he handles you. He could easily drag you into any position he wants—like now, he spreads your legs wide—and you would go limp and pliant and let him take you any way he’d like.
Now he hitches both your legs up over his shoulders, exposing your soaked panties to the cool air, and his mouth. You cross your ankles over his upper back, where his shoulderblades lie, and hear your heart like a stampede in your ears.
You want what he wants—and he wants to taste you. Somewhere there’s a twinge of surprise inside you, but there shouldn’t be; that first time he shuddered when he first licked you, and seized your thighs to take more and more and more.
Like now: he licks a long line over your panties from your hole to your clit, and though you gasp from the bottom of your lungs, though you urge his head right there, he’s determined to tease you.
He made out with your messy cunt until you whimpered if he so much as kissed your shaking thigh, that first time. You shook like a leaf all over in fact for the latter half of that night, and in the morning there was a crick in his jaw.
Now he thumbs your panties to one side, spreading your lips with his other between two fingers. His tongue—deliciously hot, heavy, and wet—laps between your sloppy folds, no barriers left, and you were crazy to ever imagine staying dead silent to be possible.
Occasionally, blindsiding you, his lips will close around your clit and suckle, and the gasp that leaves you makes your head spin. Your gasping is obnoxiously loud, but so are the squelching noises his lips make smacking on your swollen clit.
It doesn’t even register that your hands are greasy from the gel slicking his hair. Half of your attention is paid to staying quiet and the other on mashing his face in your pussy.
And he gets off on you jerking him around like this; yanking him any way that pleases you, getting used by you.
He never knows what to do or how without bruising his mind thinking, and this way it’s so much easier to let go and let you take him. There’s no reason to doubt that you want him, either. Need.
Spread open for him, he breathes hot and open-mouthed over your glistening lips. You’re soaked because of him. He did this, and a feeling randomly seizes him.
He yanks your panties further aside, practically ravenous, only for fabric to tear abruptly, like yanking off a bandaid. If he didn’t pull them aside they’d drop from your hips on their own, surely.
Through a thick haze you hardly hear, just feel him stop. You look up, and by the rueful look on his face, Levi must’ve forgotten his own strength.
“Sorry.” He actually sounds genuine.
You could laugh. “Come back here,” you whimper, giving his collar a small yank, and before you even finish he’s back between your slippery thighs.
He breathes carefully through his nose and adjusts you for an easier angle. Only now, distantly, does he notice himself idly rubbing his thighs together when that thick, heavy sweetness rolls over his tongue once more, and the realization vanishes.
A squeak just barely dies in your throat, your grip painful again, and he wants to fuck his hand so bad he aches. He paints your clit with his tongue, drags his heavy tongue through your soaked folds and actually whimpers, it’s so hot, so damn tight.
Your thighs pin him where he is, and it’s a wickedly appealing desire to have your thighs to smother him; cushion his head so those sheer stockings mess his hair while he makes you come on his face again and again.
Your voice—breathy and high and choked—has broken the surface; he can tell you’re close. It’s wetter, soaking his face from the slope of his nose down his chin, and he sweeps his tongue to lap it all up, but your hips keep fucking his face and there’s more every time he licks into you.
Over and over is a grossly appealing idea right about now, all fucking night.
He sucks your clit, and you jerk, fighting for air. You gasp his name, and flames lick at his lower half. So close. He needs it.
Faster, he strokes your clit with his tongue, for the first time uses his fingers to circle your entrance, and you’re in grave danger of keening out loud at the ceiling.
For him too, a moan is almost wrenched from his throat. Shit, because the carriage is rocking—he’s licking you out in a fucking carriage—and there’s no way you’ll stay quiet this way.
He squeezes your thighs so he can pull away and climb up between your legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as does. Cushions hug your back, your thighs awkwardly pivoting back to accommodate his waist.
“Sorry—”
His palm falls over your mouth and he holds his finger up, glistening with your cum, to his lips in a way that says: Quiet.
You breathe noisily, gasping really, and tilt your hips towards him, silently begging.
Your thighs are hefted up high next—folding you almost completely in half—so your ankles end up dangling helplessly over his shoulders. Your thighs strain immediately, a dull pain, but it’s thrilling to be exposed this way; from the waist down you’re spread open, allowing the air to kiss your glistening cunt. You vaguely register that you’re trembling.
He leans forward and props your chin up on two fingers. “Can you handle this? Or too much?”
You open your eyes. His lips are plump and shiny, and a daring sheen in his bright blue-greys tells you Levi likes having you at his mercy like this. Still, he asks, and for some reason that leaves your head reeling.
It’s a touch too painful for your thighs, being bent like this, and without so much as batting an eye he props your knees up high around his midriff instead. You cross your calves behind his back while he spreads his knees apart further so your backside doesn’t slip forward.
“Better?” He whispers this.
You sigh in relief. “Thank you.”
An abrupt bump in the road forces him to brace himself against the wooden rail above your head. Before you can yelp, he has you taken care of. His palm slaps back over your mouth, and your nostrils flare.
“That’s another problem.” He thumbs at your bottom lip and forces your lips into a pucker. “This mouth of yours. So,” he searches your eyes, “you gonna shut up this time? Or do I need to do it for you?”
Your pussy flutters hard, and the sound you make in kind has him huffing in amusement. Clearly not.
Experimentally, he bullies three fingers past your lips while his free hand falls between your thighs to play with your clit.
You just about gag in surprise when his fingers press your tongue down flat, and swallow around them to compensate for the whines that vibrate around his fingers. Your cheeks hollow out, and as much as he likes to watch—you make his heart thump in his ears and his cock strain between his thighs—it’s no good.
You notice him yank his cravat free from his collar because he’s forced to pull away from your clit to do so. The ones pruned from your mouth he wipes off on his pant leg.
You swallow furiously, nod your head and breathe hard as it’s knotted tight around your head. Obediently you bite down, experimentally working your tongue around it. It’s silkier than most of his others, but you taste what light scent he wore this evening, plus thick traces of spice from the cigar. It’s good, you decide.
You’re to pinch him if something’s wrong, and it takes every last speck of your patience not to force his hand and beg him not to treat you like thin glass that could shatter.
The carriage keeps on rocking, but he’s got you. It sharply occurs to him that you may be very short on time now, so his hand falls down to smear more cum coating thighs and pussy up, all over your clit.
The way he rubs you in these quick little motions reminds you of the way he handles the ODM triggers. Grinding your teeth, you force yourself to stay near-silent. Your hips jerk sloppily, out of rhythm, shameless.
He sighs and sinks two fingers into your cunt. In the next breath he picks up a quick, steady rhythm, and finger-fucks you deep.
You’re already drawing up shivery and tight, whining for him, groping his shoulders. The squelching sounds have you physically hot all over; your fabrics stick to you like an ugly sauna.
Between the gag, he thinks you’re trying to say his name, and kicks his hips forward at nothing but air. A third finger slips through your folds before bullying in beside the others and your chest lifts, head nodding back.
He swallows a groan, not that he's interested in getting caught, but no matter how he tries you just can’t obey his order. That’s how good it is for you, that’s how much you crave him, and that’s what’s getting him off. You’re far from silent, but quiet enough.
“That’s better,” he sighs, curls his fingers in a c’mere motion, fucks them deep, and is forced to cradle the back of your head so you don’t end up hurting yourself, you reel back so hard.
While you’re trying to say, Levi Levi Levi, he pecks one of your stuffed cheeks, then kisses, suckles your bottom lip. They’re split by spit-soaked fabric, but he’s too fond of your muffled, broken attempts at his name to resist.
You’re turning your knuckles white for how desperately you’re clinging to him. His thumb slips through your sloppy folds to give your clit some needed attention, and your cry, this time, is audible.
He’s attacking your throat with kisses. Never does he ramble so much, you’ve found, than when you’re fucking.
“Dirty girl.” His voice is severe. “Wish you could see yourself, getting fucked on my fingers,” he’s panting, “gagged and soaking wet for me. I want it, give it to me.”
So tight—your pillowy cunt split around his three fingers, your thighs locked around his waist. The first wave makes your vision flash between tumbling breaths over a high, red-hot peak. It shakes its way through you and then a little more.
Levi groans under his breath, fat cock pinned to his thigh, and protectively shades your face in his throat while your slippery cunt gushes all over his fingers. All for security, safety, privacy—and, this is for his eyes and ears only.
It’s quick and it’s dirty; drool paints both sides of your pretty mouth while he works your pussy through those last little flutters.
His fingers slow until your hips have picked up a tiny tremor, shying away the slightest bit this position allows. The world floats like a heatwave behind your eyelids, then fingers are working in a flurry behind your head, and you’re free.
Soaked spit webs his cravat and your tongue, connecting them. With a sore tongue you wet your lips and just breathe. Your thighs seem to vibrate, but he’s letting your legs down, sarcastically asking if you’re alive.
A smile breaks your cheeks. Your hand moves without much thought at all, in lieu of words you simply don’t possess right now; stroking his cheek, then to his destroyed hair, which you rub affectionately.
Your eyes are still closed, but they open as he briskly goes about fixing up your appearance (however you’ll have to go without panties; he throbs at the thought) in order to straighten him out too.
“Fuck,” you giggle like a dream. His pupils are round with lust, cheeks stained red by a blush (and darker lip-shaped imprints speckling his face). Dark strands of hair can’t decide whether to stay pinned back or fall over his forehead, where they belong. You decide on the latter, and through a glowing fog ask how he can talk like that.
Embarrassed, scorched by pride, he smugly pretends to not know what you mean. You like to think even Levi blurts things out in the heat of the moment sometimes.
Beside you, he flicks the curtain back, finds the glass fogged as if by a hot shower, and whips it closed again. You’re likely both stinking like sex, and all he has are mints.
Your rumpled hems find the carpeted floor. Attempts to smooth them down are in vain, but you’re both in various states of rumpledness.
You’re dabbing a clean cloth over the lipstick stains on his chin. “Are we close?”
A snort, making you pout. Clever choice of words. “We’re here.”
He flicks his cravat in a wastebasket, and just when you’re about to apologize—silk costs a fortune these days—he points out that your underwear is wrecked, and neither of you paid for these outfits.
He wouldn’t be able to see himself ever wearing that cravat again, anyway, out of his others. Wearing refined silk or jewels, expensive furs and this fabric or that—it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Always has.
The wheels stutter when they come to a stop over gravel, the carriage itself shuttering with it.
He keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs, and you’re asking, “Mine or yours?” while the echoes of slamming doors shutter outside. Levi suspects Hange and Moblit, but mostly Hange.
“Mine,” he replies, then works his jaw in that strange way he does when he’s stressed. “Or both.”
Without needing to speak, you both already agreed to retreat inside after the rest of your comrades have passed, but now question marks wobble in your mind. The air grows somewhat awkward.
“Both?” Your mouth dries up. “You mean ours?”
He shoots you a little glance. “You’re still getting our clothes mixed up when you stay over, right?”
You laugh at this while Levi pretends to be casual, but his eyes are just as bright as they were on that balcony and of course, obviously, “I’d love to.”
The door only slams shut when you shove him against it as soon as you’re even remotely inside. Your kiss is a mess of heat, tongue, and salty perfume, reawakening his earlier lust with a fiery vengeance.
All this, but he still manages to fumble for the lock before his wrists are seized and slid up above his head. You hold tight.
Instinctively he gasps around a sloppy kiss, stomach dropping into somewhere bottomless, and bows back against you. He’s trapped, pinned, and he can’t decide if he likes it—not until your thigh pushes between his legs.
His cock surges, and the fear feeling evaporates. Your breath is trembling—or maybe it’s his own—where you suck his skin between your teeth.
All of this happens in a whirlwind, but he manages to hook his leg around your waist so he has you closer, tighter, harder. He gasps when the rolls of your thigh grow desperate, and throws his head back so he doesn’t make an embarrassing noise.
Then you, whispering filth in his ear. He tastes metal, because squirming isn’t enough, and the pain mashes with the pleasure so exquisitely that he doesn’t register that he’s right on the edge.
His hips are rolling, humping your thigh like a filthy fucking animal, and you’re whining in his ear, “Ah, never took you for such a whore, Captain,” which flashes his mind in blinding light.
“Fuck—” he slurs, “—wait, fuckwait—” but he’s already shaking through his climax. He throws his head back, gives up, so he has no choice but to let you rub him through it.
This realization prolongs the throbbing in his cock and has him whining towards the end of the hot waves. For a long, endless moment you’re both (but mostly him) catching your breath. But then—once he has his mind back—he tugs his wrists free and gives your shoulders a weak shove.
You stumble a little, startled. “Oh, I thought you–”
You’re doing my laundry tomorrow,” he huffs, shedding his vest, undoing his buttons in a flurry then yanking his shirt over his head.
But when a beat passes without your reply, he watches you with his shirt bundled in his arms, good-natured, because he did like it.
“Well?” he says weakly. He’s struck by an odd sense of insecurity.
Your mind catches up from moments ago—from calling Levi a slut and him shaking in your hold, the heat you felt spill under his slacks—to this very moment in a flurry. Your cheeks heat like an oven.
“Yes,” you manage, taking the bundle from his arms once you’re close enough. “I just wanted to make sure that was okay. Clearly I was right.”
Better, actually. His adam’s apple bobs when he swallows; this between a neck riddled with hickies. “You’re being embarrassing.”
“Do you want to stop?”
He wants to ask what there is to stop exactly, but there’s a mischievous glint in your eye and he can feel he isn’t quite satisfied yet. Stamina like his can be a nuisance sometimes.
His endurance, too, is normally relentless, but not this time. Partially he blames you, but unsurprisingly, he’s a stranger to his own tastes. That much is clear.
You’re not mocking him either—behind your eyes or otherwise—which makes whatever you’re implying much more tempting.
Finally: “…I’m listening.”
“Undress, then.” You’re actually smirking. “On the bed.”
He pretends getting ordered around like this doesn’t make his knees weak, and follows your direction.
It’s pointless to act prude and fold everything, not with the state of his slacks and underwear (disgust and relief war inside him to be rid of them finally), so he shucks everything in the same pile by the foot of the bed, along with his socks and shoes.
You’re left in just a thin, silky blue slip when you push him on his back and crawl between his legs. Casually, you stroke his thighs until he parts them slightly, but he can read your nerves, and he feels clogged with them too.
“What’re you planning?” he murmurs, now half-hard and certainly not squirming at all. His inner thighs are glistening, mostly around the creases of his pelvis.
Honestly, you’re not completely sure. He gives it quite a bit of thought before shaking his head when you offer to try restraining his wrists above his head, and you get a shaky feeling imagining going any further than what you’ve tried so far. You imagine that’d be too much for him, too.
This is how you both agree, simply, to do as you please. His cock twitches a little against his thigh as your heavy tongue traces trails over his mess, speckling pecks, then long, open-mouthed draws of your tongue.
“Ah.” The hard muscles on his belly tense. He can’t quite bring himself to lay back than to watch you through thick lashes as you dutifully lap up his cum—now scraping your tongue through the wiry hairs below his navel.
Where your mouth goes, his skin cools, causing goosebumps to prick up.
It’s completely unlike how he licked you in the carriage—rushed and feverish—this time you’re clearly making it a point to work him up slowly. You kiss his big thighs almost innocently, nudging bruises into the pale skin with your teeth.
That’s the part that’s getting to him the most. He can’t recall ever being treated like this before. His elbow falls over his eyes, somehow embarrassed, thighs twitching.
Without his realizing, he’s inching them shut. He only realizes when you tell him gently, “None of that,” and gently pry them apart again. “Legs open, princess.”
His chest lifts. He doesn’t know what to do with himself besides exaggerate your request—using his absurd flexibility to his advantage to spread them much wider than you probably wanted—then feel his hips twitch up and into the soaked heat that closes around his tender cockhead. Just before, you called how he spread himself perfect.
A mumbled version of your name is smothered by his elbow, pleading. He’s still sensitive, wracked by overwhelming jolts so soon after just coming—but somehow, it feels good. He can’t help twitching away from your mouth, the feeling borders on pain, but you hold him still and it feels like liquid heat.
You lick into his slit, gently pumping the base. The only reason you pull off is to say his name. You want him to watch.
His lower half melts. Somewhere, he’s knuckling the sheets. If he allows you to look at him, he’ll just embarrass himself. He’s too exposed like this.
“I can’t.” He shudders. “It’s. You’re goin’ too slow.”
You lay your palms spread across his thick thighs. Muscles draw a little tense. “You want me to go faster?”
Somehow, you doubt he’s upset about any more than being touched like this. His fat cock, almost fully hard again, idles up high in the crease of his pelvis. It’s even leaking from the flushed head already.
You’re hot between your legs, but you don’t want this to be about you anymore. He deserves to be loved on too. You gently beckon him with his name.
“No,” he whispers, though it sounds more like a question. He peeks over his arm at you, hesitant. “I don’t know.”
“That’s fine,” you lean over and kiss his forehead, “You don’t have to talk, or even look. I just want you to feel good.”
You wrap him in a tender fist, and his eyes fall into slits. “I already do.”
He can hear the smile in your voice. “You know what I mean, ‘Vi.” Your spare hand roams his strong chest, swiping over his nipple. He grunts. “I want you to do two things: tell me to stop, if you need to…”
His hips rock into your hand, face pinched. “I don’t.”
“If.” Your lips quirk. “And tell me when you get close, okay?”
He still doesn’t know what you’re planning—though, he suspects you intend to try something new—but he nods. That specific command makes him heat up. He wants to please you.
Another kiss, and then you’re back between his legs, still pumping him. Faster, then slower. He’s beside himself with impatience, waiting for what you’ll do. Then one stray finger, he feels, slips down to rub his taint, and his thighs nearly jerk shut again. His heart is in his ears.
You’re already there prying them apart. Then, still rubbing, sweet heat swallows in in his cockhead—already sucking. A soft moan dies in his throat, and blindly he’s groping for your shoulder, then the nape of your neck; not to push or pull, but for something to cling to. The sheets aren’t enough.
His mind is buzzing. You suck him in so tight, soft like velvet, sticky and buttery and warm. It’s not his first time getting similar treatment, but it’s different when it’s with you; when you treat his body like something to worship, and reel in his pleasure instead of roughly taking it.
It’s you eagerly lapping salty cum welled over his slit, your heavy tongue tracing that sensitive vein on the underside, your touch down below, alternating between gently massaging his balls and sweeping over his taint.
He still can’t bring himself to watch what you’re doing to him. Instead he feels you squeeze his ass in both hands while hollowing your cheeks around all you’ve taken so far, and he snaps his hips forward with a wet moan. This has his swollen girth pushing past your lips and over your tongue, bottoming out finally.
You only gag a little before going down on him harder, bobbing your head even, which has him throbbing under your tongue. His hand buries in your hair, panting hard. Another falls over your bulging cheek. He can feel himself just on the other side, a fiery realization that punches a gasp from his lungs.
Maybe his grip turns a little tight in your hair, maybe it happens just for the hell of it, but a long moan kisses the sticky heat swallowing his cock, and his head falls back. His hips rock and he tosses his head to the side.
Gasping, “I’m close.”
The sound that follows your mouth slipping off his cock makes his toes curl. At first he’s confused, then his climax fades and whittles away, and he’s filled with desperate disappointment.
“What—” He was staring at the backs of his eyelids so long the scarce lantern light on the bedside blinds him for a moment. Then he spots the self-satisfied smile you kiss his thighs with. “What’re you doing?”
“Making you feel good,” you rasp, going on smacking kisses that do nothing but frustrate him. “How about you just be patient, hm?”
A curse. Miserably, he squirms around, attempting to both earn back your mouth and distract from his red, swollen cock, but you can’t be swayed.
“That’s not—fair,” he tries, still watching you. No reply. Between a soft sigh, his hand falls over his chest, and he hisses his pleasure.
You most certainly don’t seem to mind, for you sigh too, breezily, and soothe a smarting bruise you left upon a scar with your tongue—that is, a deep indent years of ODM have impressed on his body. These stretch around both his thighs in double rings.
Where he needs you most—his cock, hard and glowing with spit, besides what cum has spilled over since your mouth left him—remains ignored.
His hips stutter. Both his nipples are sensitive to the very air from his pinching the next time he speaks, bright and peaked. “Fucking do something already.”
“Watch your tone, Levi.” Immediately, dark thrills shoot through his stomach. “I’ll leave you like this.”
He freezes. Chancing a glance down at your expression, he can tell you’re at least halfway serious, so he shuts up.
Three fingers abruptly fall over his taint, rubbing slow, hard, then buttery heat swallows in his balls. Your tongue massages them.
His hips nudge up, craving more, only for your other arm to pin him down by his waist and stay there. It draws a rough groan from his lips. He feels unbearably high all the sudden, up in clouds, drowning in sweltering waves.
He’s out of control, and he actually likes it. He’s in your hands.
Over the rush in his ears he can vaguely register his voice cracking between all the sounds he’s making. You’re not even touching him; you’re bowed between his legs, tonguing at his taint, kneading the firm flesh of his ass with two spread palms.
So, he plays around his weeping cockhead instead, smearing cum. His muscles ripple, lips parting with a shuddering moan. No part of his body wants him too, but he warns that he’s close again.
Your tongue was so dangerously close to dragging over a tight, much more sensitive spot too, which is why he whines so loud when you pull off. His lost climax feels so much more this time; his balls are heavy, cockhead as red as his lips, and he shivers, feeling you mindlessly rub his thighs and kiss his eyelids.
But you also brush his sweaty bangs off his forehead, and that’s much better at least.
Your voice is silk. “You’re so pretty like this, ’Vi. I wanted...” You laugh a little. “…I just always wanted you like this.”
He really likes that—knowing what he’s doing is right. Complaints are outside his mind. His eyes open now, but he looks away instinctively. “Well… you got it.”
And he really is pretty; with his pretty cock straining between thick, muscular thighs, these bruised in places. Above, where dark hair dusts up his navel, soft muscles twitch under your touch. His nipples are hard, as red as the lips he hooks his teeth into; these still a shade darker than the rich blush stretching over his face, down his bruised neck, sharp collar, heaving chest.
You find yourself admiring him more than his patience allows—if he has any left at all. The fact he warmed your heart by accepting a compliment without shying away confirms that. The trust he holds to let you worship and unravel him in this way puts a flutter in your chest.
Carefully, you wipe what tiny tears have pricked at the sides of his eyes. “Give me one more, I’ll let you come.”
Finally. “Then hurry,” he whispers without air. As for what he wants, what there is to ask for or what to say—he’s helpless. A wobbly feeling.
When your lips meet he grabs for you, rougher than he meant. His arms over your shoulders, gliding all over the silk that hugs your waist, lightly scratching down your back. He’s humming strained as you lick into his hot mouth, almost a whimper.
Your hand falls around his thick shaft, steady at first; slow enough to let him fuck your fist. Then, you abruptly speed up as if you mean to get him off right there, in a sloppy flurry. He’s teetering on the edge in moments.
A moan is wrenched from his chest, vibrating between your open mouths. “Ah, coming I’m gonna—” he gasps—
—But of course you stop, stealing the release he’s in dire need of and all his breath in your wake. He’s on the very cusp of begging. That’s why the relief when your hand wanders lower has him shivering. He craves something to do with his hands, but there’s nothing, so they clench into pointless fists behind your back instead. All that’s left is to cling and writhe.
You watch his jaw clench, and ask breathlessly, “Have you ever been touched here?”
He nods, aching too bad to lie or even consider lying. His pride died the exact moment you both stumbled through the door.
It’s up to you, whatever you wish to try, if anything. You don’t have to, and he reiterates this at least three times in the time it takes for you to kiss and lick back down his rippled body.
Also for the third time, you shake your head. Your heart is pounding; you’ve never tried, but you want to.
He squirms around to accommodate you, so his knees end up bent apart, his feet flat on the bed. This pleases you enough to hum where you’re licking; a place that already has him twitching and resisting the irresistible urge to whine.
Sensitive, reactive—as always. You’re glad to know you’re doing this right. He tastes good, like clean sweat and spice, all complimented by a heavy musk that belongs to only Levi. Wet smacking sounds.
“Yeah,” he whispers, and a hair lands lightly in your hair. Much of his earlier nerves sound like they floated away. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”
His hole is pink and hairless. You sigh, unable to resist rubbing your thighs together. After spreading properly you glide your tongue over that very spot; once at first, to hear Levi’s low, punched cry; then you gain confidence and drag your tongue in even strokes up and down. Your surprise to feel it twitching under your tongue is burning hot.
He’s been so shamelessly loud since the third time you deprived him. Maybe this is even the loudest you’ve heard him, period. The most desperate. You shiver.
Your tongue circles his hole like you’re drunk, or that’s how much he’s squirming, and almost constantly, little sounds are punctuated with his breaths. All with abandon. It’s a challenge to force him still.
A tiny thrill shoots through your belly. You often forget that in any situation he can easily overpower you. This makes the fact he’s gasping and mashing your face flush with his tight entrance bordering on a mental aphrodisiac.
Shuddering, you let yourself go completely slack except for your lapping tongue; above you, he’s grinding his hips down on your heavy tongue, riding your face.
Your lips are swollen and tender, and spit dribbles down to your chin. It’s a challenge to breathe, but that problem is whisked from your mind when you realize just how loose and pliant he’s become.
After just a brief reprieve for air, you suction an obnoxiously loud kiss right between his cheeks, and a cry shatters the air before a hand abruptly tugs you away.
“Lev’—?”
Panting, he shakes his head helplessly, trembling all over. “…Too close. I, you didn’t—” he stops for air, “—I’m too close.”
You blanch. No wonder: thanks to your tongue, his hole is lewdly pink and glistening. Silvery cum has drooled all down his girth, and compared to his entrance the head blushes a swollen shade of red. It strains helplessly above his full, heavy balls.
“No, honey.” You wipe your mouth, and, not understanding his panic, reach for one of his hands. Immediately, his hold turns deathly tight. “I said one more, didn’t I?” A fretful pause. “‘m sorry, I should’ve been more clear.”
You’re doing nothing but holding his hand, yet he’s outright panting.
“You didn’t say I can,” he offers meekly.
Any moment it looks like he’ll shy away under his elbow again. You search his wide blue eyes, and sense his state of mind has definitely softened, or grown somehow weaker.
He seems almost fragile, so you’re determined to treat him as such. To some extent he’s right, too, so you reach forward and gently tug his arm while your hand makes a brief home in the absolute disaster that is his hair. With soft words you reassure him.
A stuttered sigh, and he shakes and shakes. A prick of clarity makes him realize he ruined the moment. For some reason, the guilt finds him like a punch in the gut. “Sorry.”
It’s almost endearing, but you shake your head—“Levi, angel,”—and bring your hand down to play around his slit.
First he gasps, then immediately tosses his head from side to side. It’s too good. He blushes a deep, dark shade of crimson.
“I’m not mad. You know how wet you’ve made me?—just by watching you?”
You keep talking, all in that sweet, buttery voice of yours. He barely hears, what you’re doing is so fiery and confusing. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. “N-No.”
You’re jerking his slippery cock properly now, bowing over and licking his hard nipple into your mouth. He clings to you and fucks your fist, his head thrown back. Ghostly sighs rise into half-weeping, half-moaning, falling from his parted lips.
“Keep making those pretty sounds,” you sigh by his ear, and, “You need it so bad, don’t you, angel?”
His nails dig into your arm, the one you throttle his cock with. Thick thighs hug your waist and he tosses his head feverishly, hips rutting. “Gonna—gonna come…! Don’t stop don’t—”
Suddenly he goes very still, his back draws into the tightest arch (nearly throwing your balance), followed by what can only be described as a soft wail from his open mouth. Even the wet sounds are smothered by him.
He shakes through the first wave with a hard shout into your sweaty neck, but even then he’d be heard if someone happened to pass the hallway beyond his office. Loud enough to be unmistakable, which is why you all but collapse on top of him and let him thrash and jerk and bow up underneath you.
The whole time he’s shooting ropes of cum between your bodies you’re cooing by his ear, working his pulsing cock. You're close enough to feel his jaw slacken against your cheek and enjoy the sweetest moans that leave his parted lips.
“That’s right—” muffled, he’s moaning your name, “—that’s so fucking good, Lee.”
So messy. Heavy spurts of cum dribble down his cock until he’s weakly rocking into your tight fist. You’re watching avidly, not slowing at all.
“F-Fuck…”
With the receding waves he writhes in your arms, pretty sounds from his shiny lips dissolving to hiccuped sighs. There’s a heavy sheen of sweat on his temple you lick away, the unbridled bliss etched on his drawn brow falling gently slack, then tight again when you thumb his slit.
Breathlessly, “Can you give me one more, ‘Vi?” and he’s nodding, spreading his thighs, then shuddering when you guide his palm down around his twitching cock. It’s hardly gone down at all.
It takes nearly a minute, if even, while you’re hugging one of his thighs and licking around his hole. You even dare to reach between your thighs and use the thick wetness to breach the tight ring of muscles with two fingers.
His second climax is a testament to just how much you worked him up, especially since you were too worried about hurting him to finger-fuck him too hard, nor any deeper than your second knuckles.
He’s working his cock and desperately grinding down on your face when he shudders again and his muscles lock up tight. Your name, again.
A soundless cry with the first, pounding pulse of his second (technically his third) climax. It’s a white-hot heat—almost as strong as the last—that crests, then seizes his whole body in amazing tremors.
Where his thigh muscles are twitching hard through the last tremors, you slow your thrusts. They shake. You’re still partly drunk on the way his walls clamped down when he came.
Breathing hard, you manage to sit up and work them out from inside him while he reels.
Amidst the warm weightlessness he must feel everywhere, his softening cock pulses gently where it lays across his pelvis. His shaky gasps for air while he catches his breath is the loudest sound in your bedroom. The air positively reeks; of heavy sex, sweat, and—you huff gently to yourself—debauchery.
He’s melted, he’s convinced. Grasping for even a modicum of a thought, all he comes up with is the warm buzz wrapped all around him like a blanket on the inside; he can’t remember a time he’s ever been this tired. Pleasantly drained. His fingers twitch. Drowsy.
Then, he hears his name quietly murmured from the side. You’re carefully soft in all you do, including touching him; your hand on his waist is enough to break his skin in goosebumps.
He surfaces from a thick warm place to you gently tracing his brow with your thumb. Then your voice and the words attached finally register: “—did so good, Levi. So good.”
A sleepy sound he’s never heard himself make rumbles in his throat somewhere. He needs a long breath before his eyes finally crack open.
Then he spots it: the cool thing gliding over his middle is evidently a rag you retrieved between his utter blackout and now.
“Are you okay? That was a lot.”
“I.” His muscles sing when he shifts. If it’s possible for his dick to be sore, it’s sore, and there’s sweat pasted to his skin, especially his back. He feels used, in the best of ways.
Shutting his eyes again is an appealing idea, but you look very spent, and very very beautiful.
Finally he blinks at you and mumbles, “Kiss,” like he can do much more than quirk his lips a little while you lean down and give him what he needs.
“Bath?”
“Can’t move. Your fault,” he mutters, but as he says this he meagerly tries anyway. He ends up braced on his elbows, stomach dropping from just how sweaty, messy, and especially hickey-ridden he is. “Ugh. Gross.”
You’re still wiping streaks of cum off his pelvis. “So this is gross, but I’m not?”
He feels weightless and glowing. Like a golden light. “It doesn’t taste good,” he settles on.
You pause and gawk at him. “You tried it?”
There is nothing even the least bit intelligent he can say to defend himself, so he lays down again. The sheets are too damp for him not to make a face under his veiny forearm he’s slipped over his eyes.
You ask if he’s alright. A nod. More than anything his eyes are weighted by stones. The last time he slept properly was two nights ago and you fucked his brains out just now—he’s so thrilled to finally sleep.
A thread of feeling makes him a little sorry he can’t do anything for you, but you shush him before he can even be done talking.
“Let me clean up, and change the bedspread at least.” You trace his jaw. “Clean clothes?”
Tonight his world flipped right side up, everything that locked into place, rolled over, changed. But, he’s at least going to shower off. He doesn’t want to fall asleep before you, either. Doing nothing isn’t how he’s wired.
A pause before you nod. When you kiss him next, your lips don’t glide together as much as lock lazily. You both need rest.
So, while you put on fresh bedspread and clean up, he sighs when rushing hot water hits him, then washes down his body like a waterfall.
He doesn’t need but five minutes, but he regrets not inviting you in here with him. All by themselves his fingers hold a tremor still, like his mind has neglected to quite catch up from the onslaught you gave him; maybe he’s still back on that roof even.
He cried, he was so happy, and you did too. His throat tightens now like he wants to cry, but for polar opposite reasons too profound to describe.
It’s an awful yearning. It would be easy for him to believe, even, that you’ve somehow disappeared into thin air and don’t plan on coming back. This horrible emptiness is cold mud.
Afterwards, he steps back into the dim room while the mirror is still steamed up, and smothers the hell he feels; you only need a few minutes to shower. The candles you lit are like little stars—he smells soft lavender and fresh vanilla. You kiss him with a smile.
He’s shucked on fresh underwear, but he feels a little lost when he throws a look at the neatly made bed. Laying down means sleep, which means falling asleep before you, but before all else he’ll lay there alone.
The feeling still hasn’t left him, so that idea for some horrible reason, is more than enough to leave him standing, despite how he wavers.
Instead, he stupidly idles by the bathroom door for a long while, clenching and unclenching his trembling hands, waiting.
It blindsides him. He’s low and depressed, clingy, and not in the way he’s used to, not in a way that’s good anymore. Heaven’s gates only open when the water finally cuts off.
Breathing hard, he’s looking aimlessly at a bookshelf, the window, the floor in fast rotations. His legs are jelly.
Then you open the door and you must be surprised to find him just standing there. Your eyes grow a touch wide directly to concern.
“Levi, what’s wrong?”
He doesn’t know where to put his hands, or his eyes. “Nothing. I just—” But it’d be stupid for him to miss you. “—I don’t know.”
You step very close and rub his shoulders, to which he immediately melts. At once he goes very slack in your embrace, tugging at your sweatshirt, then anywhere he can reach, really. A gust of relief falls over his chest to be squeezed so tight.
You ask, but in no way did you do anything wrong. Your shoulder turns into a pillow for his head while you suggest he’s much more sensitive (Stupid, he’s apt to correct you, but doesn’t) after so much. Like a raw nerve.
“You could’ve told me,” you try, a little hurt.
A sigh. What he wants to say gets garbled somewhere, so ends up overlapping two sentences at once: “Don’t need to worry about me,” crosses with, “Didn’t want to worry you.” It’s better he just stop talking, he decides.
A precious kiss to his forehead. “Let me take care of you.”
“We can’t drop everything every time something’s wrong,” he grumbles, but also puts up no fight to be pushed down into bed, under the covers, then tucked so close to your side he can feel your slow breaths drift across his cheek.
You nod, because you know that. “But you don’t need to hide.”
“Neither do you,” he retorts. His eyes shut as soon as he settled into the mattress, but he cracks them now to make sure you agree. Softly, you hum.
This is so much better than before. He doesn’t have to think when you’re cocooned in thick blankets, not while you stroke his back in lazy circles. To the bottoms of his feet he’s very warm all over, even inside.
In kind, you sigh blissfully and rest your hand on his nape. His arm is a firm, protective fixture around your waist, and lower, your legs are even tangled. It tickles to move.
Persistently, he’s just barely trembling. Nothing is wrong, but it’s not quite right.
He tries again. “Are you…good?” Alright or Okay are dull words.
“I’m good,” you snort a little. Many, many leagues above good, in fact. “But your legs are hairy.”
“Get lost then,” he sighs. A shadow of a ghost of a retort he actually means.
This makes you laugh, which encourages him to admit it. He hides in the crook of your neck.
“It’s too good,” he whispers, and nuzzles a little. This is a secret he’s telling you. He repeats himself. “It’s too good.”
At his cheek he can feel you smiling lopsidedly. “What, the sex…?”
“No,” he scoffs. “Or, yes. All of it.”
As soon as the words leave him, affection grips your heart and you want, terribly, to tell him you love him. You’re stunned into silence.
You’re not one to hide your feelings: if he did something wrong you’d be the first to admit it hurt, and you were the one to chase him as much as he tried to pull away when what you share was still blooming.
Years later, the first time he ever broke down to tears before you was over a month ago, right around the time you first tried intimacy; much less, your relationship only took its first breath hours ago.
You’ve loved him for a long time.
“Oh,” you say, a little tearfully.
He goes like a board and stiffens. Feverishly he searches for a reason that may upset you, but finds none.
It’s been ‘too good’ for a long time. Yet, he still struggles to mold a racing heart and sweaty palms into something definable. He’s never admitted this out loud until now.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he gathers, unmoving. He’s frayed glass.
He prepares for you to pull away and stumble through some kind of denial, but you only do so to kiss him so hard he’s pushed back a little by the force of it.
“Not at all.” You’re still kissing him all over his plump cheeks and the cupid’s bow above his lips.
The way you look at him hurts, it’s too good. He never wants you to stop looking at him like that.
“You’re good,” you say.
His eyes fall shut, dazed and warm and sleepy. He whispers back, “Yeah,” even though he means, “You too,” and muses to himself that if you both had more time to settle, he could learn to believe that.
For once in his life he could relax and be normal. If you had more time, you yourself could live your life unapologetically. Your emotions tear through you like you fight without armor or even skin—you feel heartache like a raw nerve feels a strike—and if there was time, you could leave your ball and chain behind.
But every hour is a privilege, every passing day trickling down an hourglass. Time is precious, let alone times of peace that allow for such faraway dreams.
He again thinks, and he again can’t imagine a world or chain events that didn’t lead to this very moment: the two of you.
Soft blankets scrape his chin. Upon a weightless sigh, he pulls you closer into his strong arms.
Time is precious. All of this. He thinks, I’m a fucking fool, because, like he confessed on the rooftop, he would rather suffer than regret this life with you; barreling towards the blinding end of a fight that he, nor you, may very well never see.
In any other circumstance, it is foolish. But his feelings can’t be changed.
No regrets, indeed.
| levi masterlist | main masterlist |
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I have a request. :) What if coops were watching a scary movie together and Sirius is getting actually scared so he is just trying not to watch and cuddle into Remus instead. But he is too embarrassed to ask Remus to turn it off so he just tries to suffer through it. You can decide if you want Remus to notice and turn it off and comfort him or not. Thank you for all of your amazing writing!
This is such a cute ask, and lots of fun to write! Thanks for suggesting it <3 Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove, but Hattie is mine!
TW for mentioned blood and gore (in the movie) and general fear
“That’s a lot of blood,” Remus remarked.
Personally, Sirius thought that was a bit of an understatement considering the gorefest happening on the screen, but he had been terrified into silence twenty minutes before and simply nodded in response.
The shrieking, wailing, and rending of various body parts continued. Hattie whined and buried her nose further into the small of his back. Smart girl, Sirius thought, cuddling just slightly closer to Remus’ side. The horror movie had been a last-minute, pick something or we’ll both be frustrated decision—now, an hour into the worst television experience of his life, he regretted every choice he had made that led them to this spot.
He turned to place a kiss just below Remus’ ear. If it also served to hide his face from the literal demonic entity that just popped out of nowhere…well, that was nobody’s business but his own. “Hey, I’m kinda tired,” he mumbled, though every nerve was alight with fear and he wasn’t sure his eyelids would ever shut again.
“Oh?” Remus kept his gaze on the screen. I love you, but you confuse and terrify me.
“Mhmm. How much is left?”
Remus picked up the remote; half a second before he paused, one of the lead characters got fucking stabbed in the back by something that had not been there mere moments earlier. Sirius jolted, stifling a shout of surprise. Remus remained absolutely still. “Whew, that was a good one,” he said mildly as Sirius struggled to regain control of his stuttering heartbeat. “Just under fifty minutes left.”
Why am I doing this? Sirius wondered internally. I have nothing to prove.
“The effects are pretty impressive, huh?”
Sirius hummed vague assent.
“No CGI or anything. Pretty cool.”
“No, yeah, definitely.”
Bones weren’t supposed to do that. Kids certainly weren’t supposed to bend like that. Sirius’ mouth was drier than desert sand and he gave up on dignity, squishing himself as close as possible under the safe haven of Remus’ arm. “The, uh—” Remus was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream that froze Sirius from the inside out. He cleared his throat. “The—I heard the director has been trying to make this for ages. It was in the newspaper last week and everything.”
“Was it?” Sirius’ voice sounded weak even to his own ears.
“Uh-huh.” Please keep talking, please keep talking, please keep talking. “Sorry, I’m probably ruining this for you.”
“No, you’re all good.” You are the only thing keeping me from crawling under the blankets with the dog.
They lapsed back into silence and Sirius squeezed his eyes shut as what was left of the main group turned their backs to the basement. The creepy-ass door was going to open—yep, there’s the creak—and then they were going to go down the rickety staircase, and then everyone was either going to die or be traumatized for life. No matter how formulaic it was, Sirius still felt ice trickle down his spine.
The next forty-five minutes passed at a glacial pace. More blood than Sirius could have imagined spattered the set, and he had stopped trying to follow the plot entirely so he could zone out instead. “Ready for bed?” Remus asked as the credits rolled, sounding entirely unfazed. Hattie crawled into their laps with a soft snuffle. “Oh, lovey, were you scared?”
Yes. “Poor thing,” Sirius cooed with as much control as he could muster, lifting her up to hide his shaky arms. Remus ducked into the kitchen to put away the popcorn bowl; as soon as he was out of earshot, Sirius leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You and me both, ma petite. You’re sleeping on the bed with us tonight.”
“What?” Remus called from the kitchen.
“Oh, nothing.” He set Hattie down. “I’ll be upstairs when you’re done.”
Sirius made it to the base of the staircase, then paused. The hallway at the top was dark; fear prickled the back of his neck. There’s no such thing as demons, he told himself, grabbing the bannister. His palms were sweating. Nothing to be afraid of. “Honey?”
“Merde!” he yelped, letting go as if it had burned him.
Remus gave him a look of alarm. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just—” He flailed a hand around, pulse pounding in his throat. “Just thought I saw a spider. Startled me.”
“…alright.”
He turned the lights on as soon as they reached the landing. Sirius had never been so grateful for the power of modern electricity. The hall was just as they had left it, looking ridiculously normal and unthreatening—embarrassment reddened his cheeks as he changed into his pajamas. Scared of your own house? Really?
Well, that wasn’t quite true—he wasn’t scared of the house itself, just the murderous entities that may or may not be living in the dryer vents. That was all.
He was feeling better until Remus turned the lights off and slipped into bed beside him, leaning over for a ‘goodnight’ kiss. “Sleep well, baby,” he said, resting his temple on Sirius’ shoulder.
“Love you.”
The trees swaying outside looked like long, bony fingers; if he concentrated, he could hear low weeping in the wind. Sirius felt an irrational fear rise when he tried to close his eyes and focus on Remus’ slow breaths—what if he woke up and there was something in the doorway? What if he had nightmares? What if his fear wasn’t irrational at all, and there was an omen he was missing—
“Sirius?”
“Yeah?” he whispered back.
Remus hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. “Can we turn the light on?”
“Oh, thank fuck,” Sirius said around a sigh of relief. “Yes. Also, please never suggest a horror movie ever again.”
“I hate them,” Remus confessed as they sat up. “I saw a commercial for The Conjuring in seventh grade and had nightmares for two full months.”
“Why did you recommend it?”
“I thought you liked them!”
“I was about to hide under the couch!” Sirius laughed, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Mon dieu, that was the w—holy shit!”
The fuzzy thing under his foot made a high-pitched noise and moved; Sirius scrambled back with a strangled shout, nearly toppling them both over the other side. Remus clung to him as they both shrieked in sheer panic until the only sound was their heavy breathing. The shadow by the edge of the bed shifted again, then whined.
Sirius groaned, releasing his death grip. “Really, Hat Trick?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Viens ici.” He patted the side of the bed and the blob of inky black hopped up, then settled at the foot of the bed with an indignant huff. “Did I step on you?”
Hattie grumbled and stretched her long body across the mattress. Remus turned the bedside lamp on, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “Well, that was mortifying.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, but I don’t really want to go back downstairs.”
Remus laid on his back and held out his arms. “Cuddles?”
“You read my mind.”
They snuggled up to each other as tight as they could, leaving only a sliver of space between their bodies as Hattie warmed their feet. Sirius kissed the top of Remus’ head once before closing his eyes once more; they laid in silence for a moment longer, then let out twin sighs as he pulled the covers all the way up to their necks to create a cocoon of warmth and safety. The soft glow of the lamp chased away the shadows, and within a few minutes he fell into a dreamless sleep.
#fanfic#my fic#sirius black#remus lupin#lumosinlove#sweater weather#coops#wolfstar#scary movie#horror#hattie
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