pinklemonadewithsugar - Tumblr blog

pinklemonadewithsugar · 4 days ago

Text

⭒ 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯𝑯𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵

gn reader x blade, dr ratio + moze ( separate ) ; fluff - sfw. you prank them by withholding affection. i’ve already written a similar drabble for sunday here. stoic men who have become too attached to affection unwillingly. ₊ 𓂃 masterlist.

⭒ BLADE

As much as Blade may not be the type to cling to your side or shower you in kisses— he was the type who got used to it. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy your displays of affection, it was actually quite the opposite, it came more from a stoic place than one of distaste.

He’d found himself silently enjoying the farewell kisses you’d give him before a mission— followed by the welcome home ones that would be waiting for him coming back. You were more familiar with the acts that he was, but he’d gotten into a habit of seeking them out as he’d grown used to you and your relationship.

Which is why Blade can’t exactly hide his frown as he rests beside you now— holding his sword in one hand while you bid him farewell, holding onto the other.

You’re wearing the same cute expression as always, but you’re not leaning up to wrap your arms around him like you normally would be right now. Your lips aren’t on his cheek, then on his own and he can’t help but grumble at how much colder his skin feels in the absence. It makes his hand squeeze where it holds yours.

“What’s wrong? Are you nervous about the mission?” You ask innocently, though you know exactly what Blade’s waiting for as you try hard to not let your sly smile show.

“Not at all.” His response sounds as more as huff than anything else, and despite the way you know he’s due to leave in a few minutes, he makes no attempt to leave your side as he stands there silently— staring at you. Though he only seems to last a few extra moments of silence before he’s grumbling again.

“Alright. That’s all then.” Blade groans, yet he remains still besides the way his eyes seem to narrow ever so slightly. The act always makes you smile as you fight hard to resist the temptation to just give him his goodbye kiss— but you want to see when his breaking point is. Even if just out of curiosity.

And he looks quite cute when he frowns.

“Hurry home.” You’re smiling now but the Stellaron Hunter looming over you only seems to find himself sighing despite the bright response. His patience doesn’t appear to last much longer when his next movement is to suddenly lean down beside you, as if to give you a better angle to press the kiss he’s waiting for onto his cheek.

Even when you don’t immediately, Blade just waits there as you gape at him.

Though ultimately you do decide to give in eventually when he seems to make no attempt to stand back up straight again. Seeming quite content to lean over and wait for your lips to press against his skin, and you find yourself giggling when you finally give him just that.

Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders and his arm quite quickly comes to wrap around your waist as he holds you there, feeling you press quick kisses against his features before he’s turning to meet you with the next. It’s deep the way Blade kisses you, pressing his tongue between your teeth as he twists into your mouth, and it makes you feel suddenly unsteady on your feet— though thankfully steadied by his strength as he presses himself into you.

But just as you find yourself melting into him, he pulls away. Leaving you a kiss-drowsy mess as you make a feeble attempt to pull at his jacket. The look he gives you afterwards is quite unreadable as you send him a pout of your own— it seems your positions have switched quite quickly now.

Blade turns to leave you as you feel your cheeks burn,

“I don’t understand your games. But for now there is another matter, so you should consider that a good thing.”

⭒ DR RATIO

It had become a sort of routine for you to come into Ratio’s quarters to find him resting on the couch, flicking through a book most likely on natural theology, mathematics… anything of the sort as he offers you a mere glance in acknowledgment.

Your routine normally consisted of you making your way into his side and he’d make space for you much like he always does as you push your way beneath his arm. He’d grown to enjoy the gentle moments between you both— though he’d never openly admit it (because there was no reason to), it was quite obvious given the way he seemed to be ready for you.

So much like always, your routine begins much the same as your footsteps sound softly along the floorboards and you make your way closer to Ratio. You even watch him adjust himself briefly, as if allowing you a route to push your way into his chest but you seem to stop short of doing just that.

Instead, your figure drops down onto the opposite side of the couch and the next look he gives you seems more of a curious glance than anything. You bring your feet up to rest on the cushions, pulling them into your chest as your back rests against the arm of the couch, and you look at him.

“Something the matter?” Ratio’s voice sounds only a few seconds later, though he doesn’t look at you again when he asks. He says it in such a way where it come across as a mere innocent question rather than an accusation as to why you’re not in your usual spot.

So because of that, and who he is, you decide not to jump the gun thinking it’s a reaction too soon.

“What’re you reading?” You respond innocently, not exactly answering his question but he doesn’t seem to pry any further into that for now. Instead, Ratio seems to readjust himself on his seat again as his bangs seem to fall handsomely— framing his features as his eyes continue to linger on the pages.

“If you’re so curious, you need only come closer to see for yourself.” Though it’s subtle, you do pick up the implication in his words. A means to bring you closer to him, though he’s assuming it would bring you up against his chest rather than just close enough to take a quick look. And maybe he’d be right about that, you’d be acting well within his calculations.

So uncharacteristically, you opt to shrug instead, “Yeah but i’m kind of comfy here.”

“Hm, very well then.” There’s a twitch to Ratio’s features as he responds, though he still doesn’t look at you so it’s quite hard to pick up on otherwise. But you can hear the tighter sort of tone his voice takes, he only lets the silence rest between you both a few more seconds before he asks again.

“And you are certain nothing is bothering you?”

“Is something bothering you?” You tilt your head at Ratio and that seems to garner his attention enough for him to turn his head to meet you. There’s something akin to a frown on his handsome face, and as much as he seems to try his best to mask it when he realises— you still can’t help but find yourself feeling like this may actually be affecting him more than he lets on.

He tuts at you, as if he can read your mind. “Not at all. I’m merely questioning your uncharacteristic choices, as one would. And as much as your little game seems delightfully amusing, we’ll see how much longer you can keep it up.”

Ofcourse Ratio would be able to pick up on the fact that you’re no doubt playing a prank of sorts, but that doesn’t mean that he’s able to go completely unaffected by it. Because as much as he may never admit it, it seems he really has become quite accustomed to your close proximity.

You only appear to follow his statement with a hum, feigning your innocence as you press your back a little harder into the arm of the couch behind you. And the man opposite turns his attention back to his book as he sighs, propping up his head on his fist as his brows narrow back on the pages.

A few more quiet seconds pass before you’re smiling, “Are you pouting?”

And Ratio replies almost too quickly, “How laughable. Ofcourse not.” Actually, he hasn’t even turned his page since you arrived so you know he’s not reading, or taking any of it in atleast. Though he seems to be tapping his finger quite impatiently against the sturdy exterior of his book instead.

His tongue clicks again when he notices the way your lips seem to be unable to hide the playful little curl of your grin, before ultimately he opts to give into your little game— only so he can focus on his reading obviously. “Enough of this nonsense. Just come here then, won’t you?” He grumbles as he sends you another frown, sighing. “Subtlety isn’t exactly a strength of yours.”

Despite your game, you waste no time in making your way closer to Ratio with his invitation. Though, not without teasing him a little as you push yourself beneath the muscle of his bicep as he lifts it for you— squeezing it around your waist as you find yourself pressing up against his chest.

“Grown used to me?” You hum, voice taking more of a whispered quiet tone with how close you both seem now.

Ratio turns to face you as you do, well aware of the closeness of your faces, were he to lean in a few mere inches his lips would be against yours. He’s well aware of that, but still— he keeps his space. “Oh please. I just couldn’t bare to see you in such a state of unrest.” Yet his eyes do trace down to admire them as he blinks, covering it up with a scoff.

“Though, one might argue that you were the one who was so easily swayed, were you not? I need to say no more.” Your fingertips rest gently on the muscles of his chest as you smile at his response. Allowing him to have this despite the way you can still quite clearly see the frown he was wearing only minutes ago.

You feel Ratio’s arm squeeze affectionately around your waist as he moves to finally turn the page of his book.

“Okay then. I’ll admit defeat only because you’re far too comfortable, Veritas.”

⭒ MOZE

Your displays of affection when accompanying Moze around the streets while off-duty were subtle but they were something he held quite dearly. Whether that be holding onto his coat or squishing yourself into his side to make sure you don’t get lost— he had become particularly used to the way your hand felt interlocked tightly with his.

Maybe that is exactly why he feels a little out of sorts as you both walk around now, enjoying the quiet atmosphere together side by side. He’s hyper aware of the way your hand hasn’t reached out to intertwine with his yet, and you’re hyper aware of his realisation considering how often he seems to be casting it glances.

It’s like Moze wants to reach out for it, but doesn’t want to make you feel like he’s forcing you to. He wants you to want to hold his hand too.

So in the meantime, he seems to be getting as close to you as he can with every given opportunity. Even in ways that could seem unnecessary— such as ushering you through groups of people with his hand tightly wrapped around your waist, until you’re squishing into his side and he’s covering it up with a “Careful. Stay close to me.”

But then as soon as you’re both in the clear again, you seem to break away from his side and it’s quite hard for Moze to hide the almost disappointed crease in his brows. It almost makes you feel bad for withholding your affection from him, even if it is a prank. Though you must admit he does look quite handsome when he’s lost in thought like this.

You hum to yourself as you feel the man to your side close the distance ever so slightly, he even goes as far as to brush his hand against yours. But then you’re pulling it back to readjust the fabric of your blouse and it’s almost immediately that you find yourself being lured into a quiet alleyway by your lover.

Moze’s expression looks almost pained and he all but looms over you as soon as you both come to a halt, it seems to make you sway when you look up to meet his gaze. Though he finds himself reaching out to steady you quite quickly, as if by instinct. “If I may ask, is there something on your mind?” He asks earnestly and it makes you pout as you offer him a soft blink.

He continues, “You seem different is all.” His voice seems to have taken a softer sort of tone— like he’s making sure not to upset you further. Be that the case as to why you’re acting this way.

But you only shake your head as he lets his lidded gaze hone in on your features, “I’m fine, I promise.” You smile as you respond and Moze finds himself only wanting to come closer.

So he takes another step. “That’s good.” He hums, though he doesn’t seem quite convinced— he opts not to pry as to not make you uncomfortable. So instead, he reaches out to let his fingers graze along yours again and you don’t pull away this time.

“Then is there any way I can be of help to you?” It’s quite sudden the shift in the atmosphere as Moze asks, and you’re not sure if it’s the longing way that he’s looking at you or the deep growl of his question. But suddenly you want nothing more than to be closer to him, and the realisation makes you shuffle on your feet.

You take a half step, “I don’t think so..” And then you pause like you’re thinking. “Do you want something from me?” You’re smiling when you ask, which is proof enough that you were teasing him but even so— he doesn’t seem to have much to say on that.

Instead, Moze’s hand only seems to reach for yours— finally letting his fingers encompass your own before he’s bringing them up to his face. “Hm,” He murmurs as he lets your fingertips rest against his cheek, and he almost looks content when he lets his eyes rest closed with his next blink, leaning into your touch.

Though it’s only for a second before he’s intertwining your hands together and letting them fall by his side this time. He wouldn’t want to let his guard down when you’re together— anyone or anything could be watching you both. (That’s what he’d say anyway if you were to ask about his own almost affectionate display).

So instead you just smile as Moze gives your intertwined hands a satisfied squeeze. “That feels better.” He admits, almost softly and you can’t help but find yourself moving quickly to take your usual spot pressing up into his side with a giggle.

“You’re so cute, Moze.”

“Is that so? Well, then stay close to me.”

line dividers by @ saradika-graphics

#vana!!! you posted !!!! crying sobbi ng!!!’ sk cute

678 notes · View notes

pinklemonadewithsugar · 1 month ago

Text

- Through the Dark

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , dry humping , a bit of pining , tight spaces , NSFW 】

【 note; i've never written smut/nsfw before, so this is treading new grounds for me, but I need to practice for gss because i want that to be juicy. expect more, lol. it'd also be nice to get requests/suggestions to stir by brain a bit if you'd like.

also, the reader's gender is never mentioned but there are gender-neutral they/them pronouns used twice in the middle to enforce that ambiguity. 】

【 word count; 3.391 | read on ao3 】

“Stop… moving so much,” Sunday strains through grit teeth, he’s trying not to sound annoyed or upset, but it’s an uphill battle.

“You’re moving first, I’m just adjusting,” you whisper back, you can’t tell what expression he’s making in the darkness, but you’re sure it’s on some scale of annoyance or frustration by the sound of his voice.

“You–”

You hear footsteps approaching and slap your right hand over his mouth, your heart beats faster as they approach, quick taps against hardwood floors… you feel Sunday still completely, his jaw moves slightly beneath your palm as he swallows thickly. Neither of you move an inch until distant shouts sound and the footsteps fade. You still keep your hand over his mouth for a moment longer just in case. You can’t see out of the closet you’ve squeezed into… what if there’s someone listening on the other side? Just waiting for either of you to make a noise?

Your heart continues to beat rapidly in your chest, you feel it hammering against your rib cage–and you’re sure Sunday feels it too.

After a while, you take a gamble and lower your hand from his face, surely they’re gone now?

“...” Sunday doesn’t say anything, a tense silence falling between you. His voice is a whisper when he finally does speak. “... is this a usual occurrence?”

You have to take a moment to try and understand what he means. “Ha? Being stuck in a closet?”

“Yes,” he just grumbles, disapproval clear in his tone.

“... no,” you mumble in return. The how and why of the situation was irrelevant—mostly because it’s your fault and you don’t want to think about it—what was much more important is that you are stuffed into a closet with Sunday with barely any wiggle room and you’re not keen on facing a horde of angry guards who could potentially be hostile with only you and Sunday to fend them off.

Your limbs barely have any space, Sunday’s arms are above the both of you, his elbows on either side of your head as the space is so narrow he can’t even lower them—there’s no direction wide enough for his arm to bend. Your chests are pressed together so tightly that the ornament on his scarf has nearly poked you in the eye three times and you felt the tickle of his feathered wings against your cheekbone when you turned your head to the door.

The rest… is the uncomfortable part—not that being pressed like sardines in a can isn’t uncomfortable in general. Sunday is slightly taller than you and has to spread his legs on either side of you so that he can fit—the closet isn’t exactly tall either, so the two of you are slightly hunched as well, thus you have to tuck your legs under him so that he’s practically sitting on them, your knees press against the wall achingly and one of your thighs is pressing very insistently and directly between his legs.

The strain in his voice is probably only half due to the uncomfortable, hunched position, and half because with every slight move you make, you’re essentially grinding your thigh against his crotch. It’s hard not to notice the situation, but for his–and your own–sake you pretend not to.

Unbeknownst to you, Sunday is fighting for his life. He hasn’t been touched by another… ever? Not like this, even if accidental. He feels the tips of his fingers prickle and his jaw clench unconsciously as he tries his best not to react outwardly.

“Okay… they should be gone now,” thankfully your hands were bent downwards, and thus you could push against the closet door with your elbow.

But it doesn’t budge.

You press again, nothing. It’s locked, or blocked by something. No matter how you try and push, the door doesn’t budge.

“What is it?” Sunday frowns, he can’t see what you’re doing and the closet doesn’t have any holes or window on the door to allow light in. “Open it, just…”

“It’s locked,” you interrupt him.

He says nothing… and you can almost sense the mixture of frustration and disappointment in him, but a soft, warm exhale fans over your face, it almost tickles. “Try again,” he urges surprisingly softly. “Perhaps it’s just stiff.”

You do as he asks, but no luck. “… it doesn’t open.”

Sunday clicks his tongue. “Alright—stop pushing, be still,” he nudges your head with his elbow. With every press against the door, your body pushes away from it—and your thigh flexes, pressing against him further.

There’s another beat of silence, but you can’t stand it—thankfully, an idea flashes in your mind and you decide to give him a heads up… this will require some wriggling. “Sunday, my phone is in my pocket, if I can get it and send a message to the Express group chat, someone must be able to come and pry the door open.” Never have you imagined a more useful task for Dan Heng’s spear.

“Can you reach it?” he asks as you shift your arm from being stuck between your stomachs and squeeze it between your bodies. His eyes squint at the feeling.

You bite your lip in concentration. “Probably… but I’ll need to try and stretch my thighs and waist to fish it out…”

“I see…” he understands what that entails, but he’s not sure he likes the idea. “Can you reach my phone instead? It’s in my coat pocket.”

You pat around his side and try to find it, it could be easier… but to reach down you have to try and bend forwards—which means pressing your forehead and face directly into his chest. The scarf wrapped around his collar is soft… and it smells nice, like cinnamon. Though his chest itself isn’t very soft, he’s rather skinny.

But no matter how you reached and even tried to tug his coat up, the pocket was too far down and his phone even deeper inside. There’s no other way.

“I’m sorry,” you truly are, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. “Maybe if we just wait…”

“No,” he shakes his head and you feel his hair brush against your nose. “Just do it.”

Deciding to try and just get it over with, you nod and start shimmying your back and ass upwards as much as you can to try and create space for you to be able to tug your phone out of your pocket. And it has the exact effect expected.

Sunday grunts, he tries to bite back any noise and his thighs twitch before he presses them against your hips tightly, as if trying to close his legs… it’s torturous, your thigh drags up and shifts and moves against him as you fish for your phone, he can’t even reach down to still your leg or tug at himself—anything, his arms are at too much of an awkward angle to be able to bend down in the tight space, so he’s stuck just enduring the searing heat that’s pooling dangerously easily between his legs.

Finally, you get a proper hold of it and drag your phone out of your pants pocket, you settle back down which elicits a sound from him that shoots through both of you like an arrow. “Sorry!” you quickly try and apologise, but the soft twitching of his body signals that the apology will do precious little.

Sunday swallows thickly, so much so that you could hear it. His body was warm before, but now it feels like he’s radiating heat against you. He doesn’t want to say anything, worried his voice might not sound right—but the position you realigned into is pressing him almost painfully flat against himself… which also means he feels every small drag or shift you make.

You try to tilt your shoulders in a way that lets you see your phone screen… if you can just text the Express group chat that you’re stuck, surely someone can put off what they’re doing and come let you out.

It’s tricky to turn the phone in your hand with only one to spare and try to unlock it without seeing the screen, where even is the messaging app again? You just try your best to guess… until you try and type, which is when your phone tilts from your fingers and clatters to the ground.

“…”

Fuck.

An exhale leaves Sunday. “You dropped your phone.”

“… yeah,” you sound like a puppy being scolded by its owner. With your phone facing up on the floor, he could just barely see you giving him guilty dog side-eyes.

He couldn’t explain the frustration it brought him that now no one knew of your positions—you had managed to send a … half-message… but it probably didn’t mean much to anyone.

—

[17:42] You: slfep dmgwlsGn f

[17:43] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: Huh?

[17:46] Himeko: Probably put their phone unlocked in their pocket again...

[17:49] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: lol

—

The light from your phone turned off as it was left untouched for too long, and you groaned slightly. Great… now what? Surely you’re not going to be stuck here forever.

He wasn’t going to be able to keep his composure much longer, especially not when your damned body is pressed against his like this, the smell of your clothes and the occasional brush of your hands when you move them in the little space they can be moved.

It certainly doesn’t help that he finds you irresistible.

How could he, after his world had been turned—his beliefs, his ideals and his goals all turned from reaching forward, to halting in front of a mirror, forced to confront his reflection and pick out the flaws in his own mind before himself.

And you treated him just as you would any other person, despite what he had done, despite his false sense of benevolence that he still worked to understand how to redirect to something more realistic, how to understand what it is that drives...

His thoughts are interrupted—unfortunately, because it was distracting enough—when you pat his coat again to try and find his phone, but his skin begins to tingle every time you touch him, his poor body highly sensitive from the growing tension in his pants. “S-stop, be still—please,” he breathes, his voice suddenly far closer to your ear than it was before, his soft hair tickling your cheek.

Oh, that was…

You’ve never heard his voice sound like that—not that you’ve known him for long enough to hear many of the pitches of his voice could make, but the way it rose slightly and cut off before pleading with you…

Why do you want to hear it again? “Sorry,” you say again, losing count of how many times you’ve said it already. “Are you okay?”

He wouldn’t admit to his predicament with a gun to his head, but… it’s impossible to ignore, and there’s no way you don’t know either. He takes a deep—shaky—breath. “You can’t… move your leg?”

You don’t want to lie to him and say yes, your knee is aching from being pressed so firmly against the wall of the closet, and your tailbone isn’t faring better against the other wall. You can pretty much only move it side to side unless you try and straighten your knee out—which as he felt earlier, was far worse. “Not really.”

He swallows again, Sunday is glad he’s wearing gloves and that the closet is dark, or else you would have felt his sweaty hands or seen it on his brow by now. “I see.”

He can’t stay like this much longer, his heart thunders against his chest, he hears it clearly as his breath hitches when he tries to provide himself some relief by shifting his hips to one side—but only proceeds to drag against you again, causing maddening friction that makes his thighs flex.

The tension in the air is so thick you’re not sure if it’s just the fact the closet doesn’t exactly have a vent, or that your nose is a hair’s width from Sunday’s neck, but it’s making your head feel lighter and your breaths deepen the more he tries to find more comfortable positions and fail, letting out short breaths or grunts. At this point he might as well just find the relief he’s desperately holding back from chasing. It would be less painful.

“Sunday,” his name falls from your lips quieter than you meant to, and surprisingly, your own name leaves him equally shyly. A simple breath that made your spine straighten instinctively—causing you to poke yourself in the eye on the ornament on his scarf. “Ow—“

“Stop moving,” his tone sharpens and you feel a palm on your head. “… nhh—“ Sunday’s body twitches, you feel a throb against your thigh and he fears he’s going to burst if this continues. “…”

But he can’t in his right mind just ask you if he can use your thigh to satisfy this torturous ache.

Thankfully, your mind is usually not ‘right’. “Hey,” you muster up some courage, it helps that neither of you can’t see anything. “If you need to…”

“No,” he interrupts you, shaking his head—and a wing slaps you in the face, you feel like your face is taking too many swings today. “No, absolutely not.”

“You sound like you’re about to cry.” His voice is tight, but not because he’s about to cry—he might, if this keeps going for too long—but because he’s reigning in every single willpower he has to hold himself still. “Will it be better if I do it?”

He clicks his tongue, this entire situation could have been avoided if someone didn’t trigger the alarm. He could’ve gone about his day and not had to—yet again—confront a side of himself left neglected. “No… fine, let me.”

It was… tentative, shy, as if he thought that short and subtle movements would mean you wouldn’t feel anything or not notice too much. Every shot of warmth from his waist to his fingers and toes made him shudder and his chest tighten, it was a fight on all fronts to both keep quiet and focus on being careful at the same time.

It was hard to watch, or rather listen to, as the dark was still all-encompassing.

Maybe he would feel better if he didn’t have to think about the uncomfortable silence in the darkness.

You can’t reach up, your hands stuck below your chests, otherwise you would have touched his face first. He likely wouldn’t have been as startled as he was when your lips suddenly—yet gently—pressed against his.

“Wh—mm you—doin—m—“ it’s almost comedic how his question is only half communicated, surprised and confused by the kiss that he slowly eases into, accepting your offer and splitting his attention.

His hips grind against your thigh, slow at first and uncertain, but as your mouth takes half his mind off of it, he begins to move more desperately. He’s been held at a precipice for so many minutes, an agonising hour that felt so long that he thought he would surely explode in some form if it were to continue for much longer. Sunday’s lips are surprisingly soft against yours, warm and inviting as he pushes back, his hand above your head that laid on it is now searching for purchase, as if he wants to take hold of you properly.

The two of you pull back to breathe, and Sunday wastes no time to duck his head next to yours, damp lips brushing past your temple and to your ear. He plants wet, open mouthed kisses below it, the sensitive skin tickled by the sensation as his tongue drags against the shell of your ear.

But he doesn’t give up, taken by the heated moment and relaxed barriers, his hips continue to cant against your thigh, his worldview narrowing to the sensation of your warm skin under his lips, to the delicious friction created by both your pants. “Hahh…“ he breathes out, a string of saliva separating his lips from your skin.

You move your leg in tandem to his grinding, you can’t help but feel his pleasure as if it were your own, the way his body trembles with strain, the breathy sounds below your chin and flex of his hips. You feel your own body respond and warmth pool needily, but you ignore it—he’s the one that’s been suffering for an hour in this stuffy space, you can wait… you try to convince yourself at least, ignoring the subtle throb of your own, at least it was just against air and not pressed against something as well—or perhaps that’s worse.

It’s embarrassing, Sunday echoes in the back of his mind, not only that he’s had to resort to this, but also the fact that he wants more. He doesn’t just want to rut against your thigh like this, he wants to touch you with his hands, trapped at an awkward angle over your shoulders. He wants to feel your own heat, the warmth radiating from your clothes against his a tempting tease, a longing of seeing what’s beneath. Your skin, your hair, your eyes, your neck, your lips—he wants to feel all of it.

Sunday mumbles your name again before his lips find your ear and the top of your throat once more, a hint of teeth as he captures your earlobe between them, a shiver running through you, you can hear his mouth and tongue so clearly... he kisses a reddened spot left below your ear from his single minded focus and his hips falter and his body twitches together, but he only succeeds in brushing his bangs against your chin and his small wings fluttering outward. The surge of heat emitting from his straining cock was unbearable, he moved faster, a breathy sound of your name on his lips again, Sunday says it for the third time as tension fills his body and all he can focus on is the warmth of your frame against his—a bit too tightly in the cramped closet—the soft warm breaths against his ear and the way your hands unconsciously started grabbing at his coat.

You feel him tense and groan, the choked sound foreign on his lips, you never expected to hear such a bodily sound from him, nor could you stop it from raising every hair on your arms. You hold onto him as he practically falls against you, Sunday’s breaths are heavy and his arms tremble by your head, his mind feels like it’s been tossed around a bit before stuffed back in upside down, he can’t straighten up or lie down and has to practically sit on your thigh.

“Are you okay?” you prod and poke at his stomach worriedly. “Was that okay? Are—“

“Please… j-just… one moment,” he pleads, not ready to answer a barrage of questions just yet. His heart is beating so fast it almost worries him, his throat feels dry and his legs are weak. He did nothing but drag his crotch up and down your thigh and this is the state he’s left in? He can’t imagine how you would leave him if he got a real taste—

He shakes his head and you splutter as you get a mouthful of feathers. “I… might have dirtied your pants,” he says shamefully, the sticky wetness between his legs left behind from the height of pleasure was surely going to stain you too. Though it felt good, certainly, he is having some post-clarity… for you to see him so tense and desperate as this—he always has a careful front, not more so than before, but the habit remains.

“I have more,” you try to assure him… you don’t have them with you, but you do own more. “So…”

He presses his forehead against your shoulder. “… I don’t want to talk about it now.”

A small smile cracks your lips and you stroke his side. “Okay, we‘ll talk later… how about a second grab for your phone? Now that you’re all, eh… spent?”

“… don’t send anything until we’re dry.”

#this gave me the most perverted brain rot in the world #I’m so unwell #oh dear god

1K notes · View notes