In a dive bar somewhere in the seedy side of Adrestia stands Ferdinand von Aegir; clad in white leather pants, thigh-high silver boots and an obnoxious red military jacket complete with a ridiculous white cravat that trails his chest like a gaudy waterfall. His eyeliner is as sharp as his tongue and the gold-set crimson jewels that hang from his ears probably cost more than the entirety of most people’s closets.
He looks like both Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet grouped together and vomited on him, and he manages to turn every single head whenever he walks into a room.
Ferdinand coyly tucks a stray strand of burnished orange hair behind his ear and fiddles with the end of an errant curl that hangs level with his rib-cage, just doing anything he can to try and seem like he’s not about to shit his too-tight trousers.
Why? H e’s being accosted by Hubert von Vestra; an idol in the punk-rock scene who looks like he commits murders nightly in darkened alleyways and knows it. In fact, he rolls with it.
His raven hair is messy and too-long at the front but artfully spiked and teased high at his crown, his skin deathly pale and drawn, and his cheeks as sharp as the dagger Ferdinand has no doubt that he keeps inside his battered leather jacket.
He’s all pointy edges and surly glares with pretty kohl-rimmed peridot eyes, and Ferdinand thinks he’s both the most beautiful and the most gruesome thing he’s ever seen.
A fleeting touch to his shoulder here, a coy dip of his lashes there, and Ferdinand has this imposing monster of a man eating out of the palm of his hand. He’s struck by how quiet he is compared to the obnoxious persona he presents when he’s on stage playing his bass so hard his fingers bleed, but he’s certainly not mad about it.
About two hours into heavy flirtations shouted over obnoxiously loud music and heavier petting, a woman of significantly small stature appears between them and breaks them from their lust-induced trance. She folds skinny arms across the front of her chest, her pretty lilac eyes narrowed and almost feline in their severity as she surveys Ferdinand from head to toe with a slow drag.
Her bleached white hair cascades down her back and finishes at her waist, (annoyingly) longer than Ferdinand’s and cut in a razor-sharp edge. Her shoulders are tense beneath her leather jacket; one so similar to Hubert’s it’s as if they’d been made to match, minus the embossed gold spread-winged eagle that adorns both of her biceps.
Ferdinand knows exactly who she is, and he both bristles at her daring to interrupt his attempts at seduction and thrills at the thought of meeting such an infamous figure.
Edelgard von Hresvelg; the Empress of punk-rock and lead singer of the Black Eagles; the very band that Hubert plays for. She’s notoriously protective of Hubert, and Hubert of her in return… in abundance .
So devoted are they to each other that rumours of the two being involved have been the driving force behind the band’s success. Droves of fans speculate nightly over their relationship status, and the calculated sly touches and lingering glances that they share on stage does little to quell such idle gossip.
Something about her puts Ferdinand on edge but also makes him want to contradict absolutely everything she ever says or does.
Her knuckles bleed white where she clutches a half-empty bottle of whiskey, her nails red and sharpened into lethal points as she stares him down, apparently awaiting an introduction. “Hubert. Who’s your friend?”
Before Hubert can even consider opening his mouth, Ferdinand is offering her his hand with an eager grin, one that positively sparkles . “Ferdinand von Aegir, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Edelgard’s pretty eyes flicker to Hubert, her eyebrows climbing high towards her hairline. “Ferdinand von Aegir, huh? A pleasure indeed.”
Hubert clears his throat, a delightful flush painting his cheeks, and Ferdinand is intrigued by the way he seems to wither in her presence. There’s something curious shining in his sunken eyes when he gazes down at her, and it makes Ferdinand want to grab Hubert by his studded lapel and drag him into a dirty bathroom stall to show him what true reverence looks like.
Edelgard continues her not-so-subtle study of him and eventually a smile hooks the corners of her blood-red lips. She takes a generous swig of the whiskey before shoving the bottle into Ferdinand’s arms. “Show him a good time. God knows he needs it,” she says, her voice husky and gorgeous as she tips her head towards Hubert and winks, her unfairly long lashes brushing the top of her cheek.
Ferdinand grins from ear to ear, understanding how she came to be the frontwoman of a punk band with such a fiery disposition. His desire to rile her up and see her combust makes his fingers twitch.
“Edelgard, please ,” Hubert huffs, his mouth twisting pleasantly and the hand that rests against the base of Ferdinand’s spine presses a little harder, his touch burning through his jacket, shirt, skin , right down to his bones.
She shrugs and waves off his protests dismissively, then swiftly disappears back into the crowd with an artful flick of her hair, as elusive and intimidating as Ferdinand had dreamed she’d be. Hubert turns his attention back to Ferdinand and looks like he’s about to apologize for the Empresses brashness, but before he can utter a single syllable his lips are being devoured in a hungry and unforgiving kiss.
He tastes like stale cigarettes and whiskey, and Ferdinand actually keens when Hubert’s tongue boldly splits his lips and seeks entry. Their breathing mingles with their desperation and blood rushes in Ferdinand’s ears as his adrenaline peaks then gracefully tapers off.
He reaches up to card his fingers through the dangling raven forelock that covers one of those tired green eyes and combs it aside as he breaks away to catch his breath. His heart is in his throat, his stomach flipping, bones vibrating as if his skeleton seeks to escape. He hasn’t had enough alcohol to feel affected just yet, so he concludes that he’s simply drunk on Hubert.
“You taste like cherries,” Hubert rasps, his lips kissed red and parted, his voice sounding like thick honey poured over thunder.
Ferdinand drags his teeth over his bottom lip and dips his long lashes, fully aware of the other man's hungry gaze and what it suggests. He then takes Hubert’s hand, and with a smile that edges on wicked, he leads him towards the bathroom.
The muffled music that thrums outside the bathroom door floods Ferdinand’s head and grounds him as he slides a hand down the front of Hubert’s skinny chest, fingers settling upon his heavily studded belt and pulling it open with a delightful click . “I want to make you feel good.”
Hubert’s breathing lifts and Ferdinand feels powerful , thinking about how he could easily bring this imposing man to his knees with a few words if he were to just find the right ones.
“Is that so?” Hubert says, and Ferdinand‘s smile only widens as he gets a firmer hold on his belt and leads him into one of the profanity-riddled cubicles.
He forcefully pushes the taller man back against the stall door with a palm splayed against his sternum before he re-applies pressure to the rapidly growing ( impressive ) bulge between Hubert’s thighs. He watches in open-mouthed wonder as his navel dips beneath his pitch-black t-shirt, the thought that he’s eliciting such a reaction from von Vestra doing little to quell his soaring ego.
“You’re beautiful,” Hubert groans, curling a strand of Ferdinand’s hair around a scarred finger as the other man presses the heel of his palm against the outline of his cock. “Look at you.”
Ferdinand sidles close as he yanks down Hubert’s tight black jeans, eyeing him through the thin material of his briefs that leave little to the imagination. He quirks a single brow and leans in close, close enough to hear the hitch in his breath when he grabs him hard . “Hm… all for me?”
Hubert growls and fists long saffron curls as Ferdinand sinks to his knees, dips a delicate, deft hand beneath the elastic waistband and tugs . “Flatterer,” he hisses. “But yes, all for you, Ferdinand von Aegir .”
Ferdinand’s mouth pools wet as he takes Hubert’s length in his hand, admiring the flushed tip and thick veins that he fantasises about tracing with his tongue.
“Ferdie will do just fine,” Ferdinand hums, working his hand up and down the long shaft and artfully twisting his wrist as he finds a perfect rhythm. He circles his thumb over the weeping crown, spreading the wet that pools there from base to tip and creating a slick glide that he knows will have Hubert’s toes curling in his battered boots.
“I want to taste you,” he says, biting his lip for added effect as he lets his amber gaze find Hubert’s now fathomless green.
The long fingers in his hair tighten, his blunt nails scraping over his scalp, making him want to feel the weight of him against his tongue all the more. “I am at your mercy,” Hubert says, tilting his head back against the door with a muted thud . “ Ferdie .”
The husky tenor of his voice and the way he says his name like a curse makes heat prickle across Ferdinand’s skin. He’s painfully hard in his own trousers simply from kissing and touching this man, the ache almost crippling him, but right now all he wants to do it make Hubert von Vestra scream his name so loudly that the whole fucking bar can hear.
Despite the not-so-glamorous setting of a piss-saturated stall, Ferdinand feels like he’s floating. The way Hubert looks at him makes him want to wither and die, and he furrows his brow through his ragged panting, staring right into his soul.
“I need your mouth,” Hubert says, releasing Ferdinand’s hair and trailing his fingers down pink cheeks. He traces the curve of his cupid’s bow with a calloused thumb before Ferdinand draws the digit into his mouth and shamelessly sucks .
“ This mouth?” Ferdinand grins, chewing on his bottom lip once more and giving Hubert a hell of a show, bringing the head of his cock so close to that wet warmth that Hubert holds his breath.
Another growl, deeper this time, and then he commits to putting Hubert out of the temporary misery he’s inflicted upon him.
Hubert rolls his hips, sinewy muscle shifting in his thighs as Ferdinand parts his lips and swiftly swallows him whole. There’s nothing languid about the way he devours him, the bob of his hand and mouth calculated and devastating. He skilfully sinks down to the hilt and swallows hard to prove a point, his eyes watering as he pulls back to fully appreciate the way that Hubert’s breathing dissolves.
He hollows his cheeks and pushes his free hand up beneath the soft fabric of Hubert’s t-shirt, feeling his abdomen tense and dip, smiling at the way he subtly bucks his hips, fucking deeper toward the back of Ferdinand’s throat.
“ Ferdie… ”
The second desperate utterance of his name only urges him to work him a little harder, so with polished lips, Ferdinand takes him to the root once more, pointedly gagging himself with an honest choke. The noise this little manoeuvre pulls from Hubert’s lips sets a fire in the pit of Ferdinand’s stomach, and he can no longer resist the urge to touch himself. He quickly fumbles to undo his own trousers, shoving his hand inside and curling trembling fingers around his now-aching cock.
He begins to stroke himself in tandem with the clever bob of his mouth, and Hubert whimpers at the sight of his shifting shoulder, knowing exactly what he’s doing and approving with a hearty string of unfathomable curses.
The sound of his name falling quietly over and over from Hubert’s lips soon sings like praises; like a priest blessing a man that pledges his undying allegiance and kneels at his altar. Ferdinand drowns in it, drunk on the knowledge that he’s tearing him asunder and will leave him in ruins.
“Close. I’m close …”
Ferdinand ignores his warning and remains in-place, lewdly swallowing everything Hubert has to offer as he comes hard and messy down the back of his throat with a cacophony of yes, yes, yes spilling from his lips. Just to make sure he really never dares to forget him, when he pulls off and releases him with a slick pop , Ferdinand makes a show of licking his lips, leaving them glistening as he continues to touch himself.
He’s close, so close his brain begins to melt and blur his vision, so when Hubert grabs him by the elbow and pulls him upright with a single, strong tug and slots their lips together in a kiss that tastes like salt and sin , Ferdinand is a goner.
He moans with the effort of his orgasm, the sounds muffled against Hubert’s sticky lips as spurts of come paint his exposed stomach. He shudders through the aftershocks as Hubert takes it upon himself to stroke him until he’s whimpering from over-sensitivity. He watches with wide-eyed wonder as Hubert then proceeds to drags his fingers through the mess upon his stomach and brings them to his lips, lewdly sucking his digits clean with a ragged moan.
“Holy shit,” Hubert says, slumping against the door and fixing Ferdinand with yet another death glare, but this one is lazy and hiding something softer, something strange and fond . “Come here,” he croons, crooking one of those long, long black-tipped fingers in invitation.
Ferdinand exhales, still seeing stars, still tasting Hubert upon his tongue, and it’s too much but not enough all at once. He goes willingly, laughing when Hubert flips their positions and presses him against the door, closing his mouth over Ferdinand’s hammering pulse and sucking on sunkissed skin, creating a vacuum and marking him with blooming macabre petals of purple and pink.
He whispers Hubert’s name and cradles the back of his head in a way that’s certainly too intimate for strangers.
“Come home with me,” Hubert says, and it’s then that Ferdinand realises he’s truly fucked.