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No turning back now.
The glass vial is cool against your fingertips when you pull it from your back pocket, uncorking the stopper before bringing it to your lips and tipping its pale green contents onto your tongue. You fight back the full body shiver that threatens to wrack through you as the bitter liquid burns its way down your throat.
It tastes awful.
Flicking the empty container into a nearby garbage bin, you hastily wipe the back of your hand across your mouth, making a mental note to include a neutral additive next time you find yourself thumbing your way through your grandmother’s crumbling grimoire. The old coven never did pay any mind to the foul taste of their ancient elixirs.
Eyes darting to the neon sign hanging above the building across the street, its colors reflecting in the puddles strewn about the sidewalk out front, you sigh. Now for the annoying part.
You dog-eared the page on this vitality spell years ago, intrigued by the rejuvenating properties of the concoction that your grandmother’s gnarled old hands had once made use of in days long past. Most of the ingredients were easy enough to procure, and the elixir need only be saved for the full moon for maximum potency. A moon that hangs bright and heavy over a blissfully clear, star-speckled sky tonight.
But the reason why you’ve put off this tempting spell for so long is the final ingredient that you’ve now begrudgingly come to collect—shifter saliva.
Wolf shifter saliva, to be exact.
When you step through the front doors of the bar, you wrinkle your nose at the decidedly canine scent that invades your nostrils. Not that it can be helped, given that you’ve purposely chosen an establishment frequented by them to make this as quick and transactional as possible.
It’s not particularly ideal—traipsing around in a building full of wolf shifters on the full moon. While the waxing and waning crescent does not dain to dictate their transformations, their power finds an apex, just as yours does, on nights like this. You can feel the buzz of it in the air, licking against your skin, the tendrils of magic bearing an earthen touch.
It takes you all of ten minutes spent perched on a stool at the end of the bar to find yourself confidently approached by what appears to be an easy contender. A shifter who introduced himself as Eren now sits beside you, his dark brown hair half pulled back into a messy bun, knee lightly brushing against your own in a way that treads the line between a polite mistake and a subtle invitation.
He’s cute, and he’s caught your interest enough that you might even be willing to let him get a hand or two up your shirt when you inevitably stumble your way into a bathroom or alleyway to make out and swap spit. Nobody said you couldn’t at least try to get some enjoyment out of this, after all.
That is, until the last voice that you’re expecting to hear on this fine evening unceremoniously interrupts your conversation from somewhere behind you.
“And what do we have here?”
Stiffening, you turn to face none other than the head of the Trost pack in all of his annoyingly handsome and insufferable glory—Jean Kirstein.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath.
Jean ignores your comment, though there’s not a single doubt in your mind that his wolfy hearing picks up every word loud and clear.
“I think Armin’s looking for you,” he tells Eren.
Eren raises a brow, taking a slow sip from the glass in his hand. “Nah, I doubt that.”
He returns his gaze to you, but Jean steps closer, putting an arm around his shoulder as he leans in. “She’ll eat you alive, Jaeger. You know what she is, don’t you?”
Eren smiles, canine teeth on full display; it’s less friendly and more of a challenge. “I’m a big boy, Kirstein.”
Jean’s eyes flash, and he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear, “Take a fucking hint.”
There’s nothing remotely cordial in his tone now.
The two men are quiet as they stare at one another, the air thick with tension, and you can almost feel the shift when Eren’s hackles finally drop as he seems to think better of challenging Jean’s dominance. Looking at them side by side, you can’t say you blame him, though you’re loath to admit it.
“Whatever man.”
Eren offers you an apologetic nod, shooting Jean one last annoyed look before he disappears into the din of the bustling crowd. Meanwhile, the pack leader slides into the now-empty seat without preamble, all long limbs and unnervingly bright eyes, the sight of his messy brown hair and the hint of stubble on his jaw bothering you for reasons you have no desire to examine.
“Really?” you bite out.
Jean doesn’t answer you right away. Instead, he picks up Eren’s cup and takes a sip, lips immediately curling downward in disgust as he puts it back down and makes a brief gesture in the direction of the bartender. It’s only once a glass full of something else is placed in front of him that he finally looks at you.
“Hm?”
You wonder just how much trouble you’d land yourself in for punching a pack leader right here in the middle of a shifter bar. He takes a long pull from the glass, clicking his tongue against his teeth in satisfaction after.
Yeah, you’re definitely going to punch him.
“What the fuck was that about?”
Jean shrugs, smoothly dragging a coaster toward his drink with his middle finger and wiping away the ring of condensation left behind on the dark wood countertop with the side of his hand. When his eyes meet yours, the light brown of his irises nearly gold in this light, something hot unfurls in your chest.
“Believe me when I say you don’t want to fuck Eren Jaeger,” he replies evenly.
You scoff. “I wasn’t going to fuck him.”
He raises a brow and says nothing.
“I was just going to…why the fuck does this even concern you anyway, Kirstein?” you snap.
Elbow now placed on the counter, he leans his cheek into the palm of his hand, like he has nowhere better to be than mercilessly cockblocking you on a Friday night.
It’s ironic, really, given the origin of your perpetual disdain for him.
Maybe it’s a bit immature to hate a guy for turning down your tipsy advances on a night out with your friends.
They were all convinced he’d been staring at you from across the room for the better part of the evening. But the rough scrape of his words against the shell of your ear when you finally found the courage to approach him still echoes in the recesses of your mind all these years later—”Go home and sober up, little witch.”
It’s always bothered you more than it should, the sting of that casual rejection. Like he couldn’t even be bothered to entertain a moment of your company, if not a drunken kiss that would have very well been a dime a dozen at a place like that anyway.
What made it worse was all of the subsequent times you’ve had the misfortune of running into him after. He makes a game of it, flirting with you. Calling you little witch. Like he wants to subtly remind you of how you embarrassed yourself that night, to toy with you just for the sake of driving you to the brink of the relentless, burning ire you feel in waves every time you see him now.
“I know you have some problem with shifters, and you’re here on a goddamn full moon of all nights. So I’m just trying to make sense of this,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “I have a problem with you.”
He puts his shoe on the metal rung of your stool beside your right foot, voice dripping with sarcasm as he replies, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you can feel the tug of the unfinished spell swirling restlessly inside of you. Waiting. “I need wolf saliva.”
Jean’s brows shoot up, and it would almost be comical, if you weren’t so goddamn annoyed. He recovers just as quickly. “So you thought you’d waltz in here, suck face with some poor, unsuspecting pup for a bit and then break his little heart when you skip off back to your coven with your special ingredient?”
Well, he’s not wrong, per se.
“Oh, is that why you barged in on my conversation? You were worried about me hurting Eren’s feelings after I let him cop a feel in one of those dingy bathrooms over there?”
You swear Jean’s eye fucking twitches.
“Jaeger’s a bastard, and he’s not worth your time.”
A flash of hot anger prickles over your skin. “Why is who I kiss suddenly any of your concern now, Kirstein?”
You place emphasis on the ’now’ without quite meaning to.
Jean’s nostrils flare as he inhales. Without another word, he gets up and walks away.
And for whatever godforsaken reason, you stalk after him, fists tightly clenched at your sides.
After weaving through the crowd, you find yourself standing in the deserted back alley behind the building. You quickly regret your decision not to grab your jacket from the hook beside the door on your way out of your apartment, the air much more brisk now than it was when you left.
Jean whirls to face you, the look on his face softening a fraction when he sees the way you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself. He tugs off his leather jacket without fanfare, draping it around your shoulders before you have a chance to protest.
You hate how good it smells—the rich, woodsy scent that you’ve long-since come to associate with him, its musky notes almost dizzying at this dangerous proximity.
And as you unconsciously finding yourself soaking in the residual warmth that lingers in the material, you’re reminded of just how very hot shifters run.
“Walking away in the middle of a conversation is generally considered rude amongst most species,” you mutter, leaning on the brick wall and bending a knee to press a foot flat against it.
Jean drags a hand through his hair. “There are some conversations I prefer to have beyond the vicinity of a bunch of nosey wolves with good hearing.”
“What, you didn’t want your friends overhearing a witch tell you what a gigantic asshole you are?” you drawl.
Sighing heavily, he runs a hand over his face. “I find it mildly infuriating that you have zero fucking sense of self-preservation and thought that fooling around with a shifter you don’t even know during a goddamn full moon is somehow a good idea.”
He makes finger quotes at the last two words, and for whatever reason, that’s your last straw this evening.
Jean Kirstein may have sharp teeth—but he seems to forget that you do, too.
“Go fuck yourself, Kirstein,” you grit out. “I’m not even going to pretend to understand whatever kind of twisted amusement you get out of mocking me at every given chance. But do me a favor and go stick your mangy nose in someone else’s business, and maybe I will go back inside and fuck a shifter after all. There sure are plenty in there to choose from.”
Between one breath and the next, the space between you and Jean rapidly dissipates as he crowds you against the building, one hand resting beside your head.
“I don’t give a shit about whatever witchy little spell you’ve got cooking. I’m not letting any of those moon drunk idiots touch you,” he rasps.
His words do something to you, something that has rogue electricity expelling its way down your spine. Something that has you biting the inside of your cheek.
Something that makes it difficult to breathe.
“I already drank the elixir. I’ll probably get sick if I don’t finish the spell,” you retort.
The now-golden shade of Jean’s eyes up close is mesmerizing in a way that has your heart trembling against the shackles of your ribcage.
It makes sense right now—why your grandmother used to warn you about the wiles of shifters.
He huffs a small laugh, a warm puff of air filling the space between your faces. “You sure are confident.”
You glare at him, at the jab that you know the comment is meant to be. “Can you just let me go take care of this? It’s a harmless spell that’s the equivalent of a witchy energy drink. I’m sure you can point out at least one half decent shifter in there for me to chat up.”
Jean tucks part of his plush bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”
You can’t help it—you bark out a laugh right in his face. “You’re fucking joking, right?”
Something that can’t possibly be hurt flashes in his eyes. “No?”
“Why would I embarrass myself like that again?”
Jean blinks, tilting his head sideways in confusion. And the gesture would almost be cute—
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Exhaling in annoyance, you cross your arms. “You’ve already shot me down once, Kirstein.”
He straightens. “Are you…what? Seriously? You were drunk.”
A fresh wave of embarrassment prickles over you. “You shot me down and told me to go home like some child.”
“Because I didn’t want any of the shithead shifters that were lurking around that night to take advantage of you.”
Now that you’ve broken the dam, the words just keep on spilling out. “And you take advantage of every opportunity to make me feel stupid for coming on to you in the first place, even now years later.”
Jean looks taken aback. “Is that what you think I’ve been doing this whole time?”
You frown. “...yes?”
He pushes his hair back, and the way the brown strands relent and fall against his brows when his fingers move away has no right to look as attractive as it does. And yet—
Jean takes your wrist in his own and tugs you forward, until your positions are reversed, and he’s the one backed against the opposite wall of the alleyway while you stand before him. He doesn’t let go of your hand, and you find your fingers pressed to the soft fabric of his shirt.
The soft fabric and the feeling of his hot skin beneath—
“I turned you down because I don’t entertain drunk witches who think a night with a shifter is a novelty,” he says slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “And I flirt with you now because I like you. Even if you’re hellbent on hating me.”
You can feel his steady heartbeat beneath your palm.
“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, not quite certain if you’re more shocked that you said the words, or that you actually meant them.
You’re not sure what compels you to do it, to reach up and brush back a rogue strand of Jean’s hair. But it’s worth it for the way his eyes momentarily fall shut, his throat bobbing as he swallows.
“No?” he breathes out, voice a little rough.
You’ll marvel at the memory of this later, this sight of Jean Kirstein bathed in moonlight and bending to your touch.
“No,” you tell him.
Jean laughs quietly. “Then finish your spell already, little witch.”
There’s an odd sensation that ripples over you, a tug. Like the fire and brimstone of your magic feels the wind and earth in Jean’s, like it’s begging to touch—
Jean meets you halfway when you cup his face and begin to lean in.
And when his lips find yours, your magic sings.
It’s instant—the way you can feel the spell’s completion ripple through you as Jean’s mouth slots against your own, a sunny sensation fizzing in your veins.
It’s instant—and it’s how you know everything that follows has nothing to do with the elixir and everything to do with Jean.
Jean, Jean, Jean.
Your blood pulses everywhere Jean’s touching you—one hand cupping the back of your head, the other curled at your waist.
Your magic surges and shivers, cresting higher as he parts the seam of your lips with his tongue, deepening the kiss. A moan slips out of you of its own accord, and Jean growls softly.
As a shifter, Jean can’t wield the power that lives inside of him with his bare hands, not like you can. But you can feel every tendril of it as it curls around your own, as your magic grasps for his almost desperately.
Jean flips your positions, pressing your back to the wall once more, and his fingers press into the small of your back.
And his magic is hot and wild as it seeps into you, as he drags hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, as he groans rough and deep at the little keening sounds that tips out past your lips when his hips press into yours.
“Jean,” you whimper.
A plea.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, mouth hovering near the damp patch of skin he was just sucking at below your earlobe.
He’s so hard against you, his erection straining against the front of his pants.
You shake your head, pressing forward into him, and he groans, cupping your chin. His eyes bore into yours as he drags his thumb along your lower lip.
And then he’s dropping to his knees right there in the alley, thumb pressed to the swollen bud of your clit through your stockings as he pushes your skirt up out of the way.
“Were these expensive?” he asks casually.
You blink down at him in confusion. “No? They were like—“
Jean doesn’t wait for you to finish your answer before he nudges your thighs slightly further apart at the ankle and tears a hole in the stretchy black material right between your legs.
“It’s too cold for you to take them off,” he murmurs by way of explanation, as if your brain is capable of focusing on anything other than the feeling of him tugging aside your panties and dragging two fingers through your slick folds.
“Oh,” you gasp, knees already threatening to buckle.
Jean grasps your hip to steady you, eyes glinting in amusement as he stares up at you while he slides one thick finger into your tight channel.
“What kind of spell was that?” he teases, as if you’re not dripping fucking wet from him and him alone.
“N-not that kind,” you gasp as he sinks in knuckle-deep.
Jean seems pleased with this answer, slowly pumping the digit in and out of your aching cunt. You bury your face in his jacket to stifle your moans as you tremble in pleasure.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasps, the lewd squelching sounds only intensifying when he stretches you even further on a second finger.
Part of you wishes you were somewhere soft and horizontal, so you could feel the slide of his tongue on yours in a messy, spit-soaked kiss while he fingers you deep and slow until you’re a whimpering, sobbing mess.
You wish you were naked and pliant beneath him, feeling the touch of his burning hot skin against your own from head to toe.
But the fantasy is short-lived, tucked away for another time when Jean brings his mouth between your legs and laps a firm, broad stroke through your slit. When he groans at the taste of you, large hands tugging your legs even further apart as he buries his tongue in your cunt and begins to devour you whole.
Because when he pauses to look up at you, to marvel the way you can hardly hold back your keening sounds as he fucks you with his tongue—he looks just as wrecked as you. Just as desperate and unwound with his mussed hair and golden eyes and your slick, sticky arousal painted all over his face.
It’s what has your hands winding in his hair before you can even reach your impending climax, dragging him upward for a filthy kiss as your fingers scramble for purchase against the button of his pants.
Jean hisses when you get your hands on his cock, and your now-empty cunt spasms around nothing while you stroke his girth.
“Jean, please,” you pant against his lips.
You can feel your stockings rip even further when Jean hoists you up, the bricks pressing into your back as you wrap your legs around him. The material is soaked with spit and arousal as he pushes your panties aside once more and lines his cock up with your dripping entrance.
And it’s all encompassing—the way your magic explodes in a burst of heat and energy as his cock plunges into you, every cell in your body vibrating with searing hot pleasure like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
“What the fuck—“ Jean chokes out, groaning as he kisses you hard, his grip on your hips tightening beyond measure.
You know he feels it, too.
“I know,” you gasp, and he takes your lower lip between his teeth.
The pleasure surging inside of you begs for release, your muscles tensing harder with each deep, thick stroke of his cock against your slick walls.
He’s all you can see. All you can smell and feel and taste. You want to feel him everywhere, want to let his magic sink so deeply into yours that you lose where you end and he begins.
You’re so fucking drunk on Jean Kirstein, you might laugh—if you could do anything but moan and whimper and sob his name right now, that is.
“Jean I’m close—“ you whisper, voice breaking.
“Then come on my cock,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you come all over my cock, pretty witch.”
Your pleasure erupts in a gushing flood of euphoria, and your walls expanding and contracting rapidly on the stretch of Jean’s length as he fucks you through your orgasm until his own thrusts grow sloppy, too.
“Come inside of me,” you breathe out, feeling the way Jean tenses and growls at your plea.
“Fuck,” he groans, cock still pumping into your fucked out hole in deep, rough strokes. “You feel so good, fuckfuck—“
Jean comes hard, burying himself to the hilt when his cock begins to pulse inside of you, filling your cunt with rope after rope of sticky, hot cum until it begins to leak out and drip down your thighs.
—and without warning, your pussy spasms as you climax once more in an unexpected surge of pleasure that has you whimpering and shaking in its wake.
There’s a exhilarating, magical edge to it.
Jean stares at you, lips slightly parted as he marvels at the sight.
“Was that—“
“Well the spell called for spit, not cum,” you exhale shakily, cunt fluttering as he pulls out, and you whine.
He watches you closely as he brings a hand between your legs, slowly rubbing your swollen, over-sensitive clit.
”Oh,” you breathe out, fingers digging into the front of his shirt.
You rock your rips into his touch, and all it takes is the tease of the pad of his fingers circling around your tight hole to have you coming again on his fingers.
“Wow,” he murmurs against your lips, lazily slipping a digit back inside of you to feel the sloppy mess of cum that’s dripping out of you.
And it still feels so good.
“I think I fucked up the spell,” you gasp, already on the edge of another orgasm.
“I think I can help you take care of that,” Jean rasps, kissing his way down your jaw to sink his teeth into the soft, plush curve between your shoulder and neck.