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dazzlingjaeyun · 6 days ago

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𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐣𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠

brother's best friend!jay x fem!reader

genre: smut, MDNI!

warnings: mean!jay, brat!reader, a looot of bickering lol, degradation, jay is a little manipulative, nipple play?, oral (f & m receiving, head pusher!jay), unprotected sex (hell no), cumming inside (+ lmk if i missed anything!!)

word count: 4.3k

a/n: biggest thank you to my favorite jay girly, my other half and the one who motivated me to start writing on here in the first place. thank you for proofreading a lot and for letting me yap 24/7, this one's for you mwah @sudi109

↝ dazzlingjaeyun's bookshelf

mature content under cut, minors do NOT interact!

2:47am, your phone read when you grabbed it with a sigh after tossing and turning in your bed for what felt like an eternity. the heat in your room felt oppressing – the flimsy sheets might as well have been a double blanket and your pajamas felt like a winter coat despite barely covering any skin.

with a sigh, you got up from bed and tiptoed to the kitchen. with each step down the stairs you felt the air getting just a little cooler and your tense muscles relaxing just a little more.

you flicked on the light above the sink, before grabbing a glass from the top shelf. it slipped right through your sweaty palms and landed directly in the sink before you could catch it. it didn't break, but the noise cut through the silence of the night so loudly and suddenly that you were sure it could have woken up at least half of the neighborhood.

"fuck," you whispered to yourself, wiping off your sweaty palms on your silky shorts and carefully grabbing the glass from the sink.

just as you thought no one had heard your little accident, a sudden, sleep-laced voice broke the silence again and startled you to a point you almost dropped the glass another time.

"are you kidding me?"

you didn't have to turn around to know it was jay's oh so humble self standing in the kitchen door.

"enlighten me, what's your problem this time?" you asked, although you knew the answer. you kept your back to him as you filled the glass with ice cubes and cold water, waiting for him to reply.

jay's jaw clenched at your words. you had woken him up, just as he'd fallen asleep after hours of tossing and turning on the sofa, trying to somehow ignore the heat that pressed down on him like a weight too heavy to carry. and now you had the audacity to ask stupid questions?

"it took me forever to fall asleep and you wake me up cause you can't even hold onto a glass?" he snapped. his voice sounded less sleepy now – still raspy but regaining the usual edge he had to it whenever he was talking to you.

he was your brother's best friend and you'd known him since forever. you were sure the two of you had gotten along back then, when jake brought him over for the first time – sometime in his first year of high school when you were still in middle school. but just a little later, he'd started to pick fights with you every chance he got, which eventually led to him mostly ignoring you, and if he did talk to you, his voice always had that annoyed undertone.

for a moment, you didn't say anything, bringing the glass to your lips and taking a sip, letting the cold run down your throat and hoping it would somehow also cool off the anger that started to bubble up in your chest.

as you stayed silent, jay's gaze remained on you, only now noticing the light blue silk pajamas you were wearing. they were unnervingly short – more skin than fabric, really – and it annoyed him even more how the shorts outlined your ass perfectly, your plush cheeks just slightly exposed from how little coverage the piece of clothing provided.

when you finally turned around, his eyes shot up to your face immediately. you took in the sight in front of you: jay's messy hair and the way his shirt clung to his torso a little more than it usually would – you were pleased to see that he was suffering from the summer heat as much as you were.

"well," you broke the staring contest between the two of you, involuntarily trying to look meaner than the other, "if you didn't sleep in my living room, maybe you wouldn't have to bother me."

jay's eyebrows shot up at your remark. "or if you were a decent person for once and weren't so inconsiderate–"

"i'm inconsiderate?" you interrupted him. "that's rich coming from someone who moved in here two weeks ago and thinks he can make the rules," you huffed.

jay's jaw clenched another time as he took a step toward you, but you didn't back down. you looked up at him, returning the same fiercey look he gave you.

"you think it's fun living with you of all people?" he asked through gritted teeth, his taller figure hovering over you.

"no, but it's not my fault your girlfriend kicked you out," you replied, keeping your voice steady although your heart started to pound in your chest at the way his eyes narrowed slightly. yet, a tiny pang of amusement at how your words seemed to affect him joined the nervousness of wondering how far you could push him before he snapped.

oh, now you were curious.

"honestly, i'm not surprised," you added, your voice not faltering even when he stepped so close your bodies practically touched. "if you were only half as much of an asshole–"

"shut. up." he snapped, accenting each word.

the corners of your lips shot up into a smug grin. "can't stand me talking back to you?"

"i can't stand you in total."

"i never would have guessed," you replied sarcastically, taking a step back to casually lean your back against the kitchen counter. you brought the glass of water up to your neck letting the cold condensed water on its outside cool your skin. "wonder why you hate me so much, though. i don't remember pissing in your cereal when we were kids."

jay's jaw tightened even more. he was so annoyed. there you were, standing in the stupid kitchen with your stupidly short pajamas showing way too much of your skin that looked so. stupidly. soft. and you were bashing him, although he should be the one to talk you down right now. god, he couldn't stand you and how fucking hot you looked when you were snappy.

"you just make it hard not to," he replied, his voice laced with more annoyance than you'd ever heard from him before.

you chuckled at his words, the sound making his blood boil even more. what was so funny about him being annoyed, borderline angry?

"listen, jay bae," you said sarcastically as you put the glass down on the counter behind you, "if you want to stay with me and jake, you'll stop acting like i'm some kind of tragedy. you either ignore me, or you at least pretend to get along with me. deal?"

for a few moments, he just looked at you, his eyes still full of frustration. then, he suddenly stepped forward, his hand reaching for the back of your neck and his lips crashing onto yours harshly.

you were too shocked by his sudden action and the rush of warmth flooding through you to react. he pulled back just as quickly as he'd leaned in, leaving your lips cold with the shadow of his, and looked at you as if searching your eyes for a reaction.

"what the fuck?" you asked, still taken aback.

you wanted to take a step back, but the kitchen counter was already pressing against your back. jay smirked at the shocked expression on your face.

"i said shut up," he repeated his words from earlier that night, as if that would suddenly validate that he'd kissed you. he placed his hands on the counter directly next to your body, trapping you between him and the cold marble surface.

"you don't get to–"

he leaned in again, his lips brushing along the curve of your neck. you felt his breath against your skin, and despite the heat he radiated, you shivered – your words caught in your throat.

you could have pushed him away – should have pushed him away, really – but instead, you stood there, too stunned to move, with your heart violently pounding in your chest.

his hands found their way from the kitchen counter to your hips, fingertips pressing into your clothed skin in a way that made you almost feel his frustration.

the warmth of his breath brushed against your neck, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes. you could feel your breath coming faster and your mind growing foggy as his lips traced a line to your collarbone, leaving a heat that shot right down to your core.

“w-what are you doing?” your voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it was enough to make him pause.

"pretending that we get along," his lips brushed against your neck as he replied.

your breath hitched as he slid one of his hands under the thin fabric of your silk top, his fingers digging into the skin on your waist as he held you.

you wanted to push him away, really. everything told you to do so. but instead your hand found its way to the back of his head, pushing him towards your neck again. you couldn't make sense of it, but the way his lips brushed harshly against your skin, and the way you fisted his hair slightly whenever his teeth grazed against your skin, felt like you could finally let out the frustration that had been building up over the past two weeks of living with him.

"you're so goddamn annoying," he mumbled, pulling away from your neck only to push your top up your torso, over your head, and mindlessly discarded it on the floor.

just as you were about to cover your bare skin, he attached his lips to it again, moving from your neck to your collarbones and down to your chest. his hands found their way to your shoulders, holding you in place as he sucked one of your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and causing you to shiver, despite the hot summer air. you bit your lip to hold back a moan, yet you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of his tongue against you.

"speechless suddenly?" he asked as he pulled off and brought his lips to the other side of your chest.

"fuck you," you mumbled back before quickly pressing your lips together. your fingers were still tangled in his hair, keeping him close to you, but you would not give him the satisfaction of a moan.

"a little more patience," he grinned, before swirling his tongue around your sensitive skin another time.

his words suddenly made you hyperaware of the situation. you shouldn't have let him kiss you in the first place, much less help him to take off your top by voluntarily lifting up your arms. as the realization hit, you quickly pulled him off of you.

"you're disgusting," you said, trying your best to not sound as breathless as you felt.

"oh please," he grabbed your wrist to hold you in place as you attempted to pick up your shirt, "the way you're acting, you're practically asking for it."

"asking?" you echoed in disbelief. he was insufferable. "you have too much of an ego, don't you think?"

jay narrowed his eyes. "no, i think it's the truth," he said, letting go of your wrist and leaning down to your neck another time.

you swallowed hard. "stop playing games, jay," you said in a warning tone, yet you didn't push him away as his teeth grazed your skin again.

"you started the 'game', and you're losing it, darling," he replied, the nickname dripping with sarcasm.

you hated to admit he was right. maybe it was just your sleep-deprived mind, or maybe it was cause the air was so unnervingly thin, but his touch sent shiver after shiver down your spine, covering you in goosebumps and sending waves of heat through your body all at once. even his annoying words started settling between your legs and no matter how much you pressed your things together, it just wouldn't stop.

"look at you," jay said in an amused tone as his eyes flicked down to your legs, your thighs subconsciously rubbing against each other, "bet you soaked your pretty panties for me and i didn't even touch you."

a wave of heat shot up to your face. you didn't know if it was from embarassment or anger, but you didn't bother trying to hide it. "oh please, jay, you couldn't even make me cum if your life depended on it," you said, the words slipping past your lips before you could stop them.

he looked up, his eyes flashing with something you didn't understand as they met yours. "bet," was all he said before sliding your flimsy shorts down your legs, making sure to cup and squeeze your ass just once after he'd taken them off.

before you could react, he knelt down in front of you, harshly grabbed your thighs to spread your legs, and pressed his tongue flat against your clothed core.

your knees buckled slightly at the sudden contact, and you swore you could feel jay's stupid grin. "like i said. soaked." he murmured as he pulled the wet piece of fabric to the side.

"shut up," you whispered, not quite trusting your voice when the way you felt his breath against your wet core already caused you to clench around nothing.

"someone's sensitive," he whispered back, the airflow hitting your skin yet again.

"i said shut up," you repeated, and without wasting another thought, you grabbed his hair and harshly pulled him to where you needed him the most.

jay immediately licked a stripe along your folds, humming in satisfaction. "mouth so dirty but your pussy's so sweet," he mumbled against your skin before focusing his tongue on your clit.

your eyes fluttered shut, only to open again shortly after, as you failed to suppress a quiet moan. the sound went straight to jay's cock, causing him to hum against you another time as he sped up his movements, eager to pull another moan out of you.

he succeeded when he pushed his tongue into your leaking hole and his nose brushed against your clit. you sounded so sweet, he could cum only listening to you – but he'd never admit that.

you pulled on his hair harsher, subconsciously bucking your hips forward for him to reach deeper, as your legs started to shake more. jay grabbed one of them and rested it on his shoulder, never stopping to lap up everything your cunt gave him.

just as you felt your orgasm approaching, your legs closing around jay's head with a force that almost made him dizzy, he pulled back.

your eyes shot open and you looked down to him with an almsot bewildered expression on your face. he looked so hot with your slick covering his lips, his chin and parts of his nose, but right now you really just wanted to punch that stupid grin off his lips.

"seriously?" you asked as he stood up and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "i was so close to–"

"so i could make you cum," he cut you off with the same annoying grin.

you didn't reply. instead, you tried to bend down to grab your clothes from the kitchen floor, but jay held your wrist again.

as he didn't let go even after you'd shot him a glare, you rolled your eyes. "congratulations, jay. do you want a trophy for your efforts? i didn't think you were so committed to win the gold medal in orgasm delivery–"

"shut up, will you?" jay interrupted, the smirk quickly replaced by his usual annoyed demeanor. "you're playing so hard to get when–"

"maybe you're just hard to want," you cut him off again, but he only raised his eyebrows.

"right," he replied, sliding one finger through your folds and collecting your wetness, the sudden contact drawing a surprised whimper from you. you quickly bit your lip, mentally cursing yourself for letting the sound slip.

"doesn't seem like 'hard to want'."

you glared at him for a moment, before averting your gaze. without another word, jay grabbed your arms and turned both of you around so he was standing with his back against the counter and you were in front of him.

before you could open your mouth to speak, jay placed his hands on your shoulders and firmly pressed down, causing you to sink to your knees in front of him.

"so much talking when you could just put that damn mouth of yours to use," he murmured.

the words made you gulp, but for some reason, they also sent a new wave of excitement through you.

one of his hands moved to cup your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. "let's see if you can only talk big or if you're actually useful for something, hm?" he asked, the tone of his voice almost soft.

the question annoyed you as much as it challenged you. eager to prove him wrong, you hooked your fingers under the waistband of his shorts, pulling them and his boxers down in one go, and only hesitating slightly when his hard cock sprang free.

"backing down?" jay cooed, his thumb gently caressing your cheek.

you didn't reply, just wrapped one hand around his length, gliding your thumb over his leaking slit to use the precum as lubricant, before slowly pumping your hand up and down.

jay hissed at the contact, his hand tightening around your chin and the other gripping the counter behind him to steady himself.

his reaction made your lips curl up in a victorious smile, but you knew you could do better. you stopped your movements, waited for him to look down at you with a puzzled face, and licked a stripe from his base up to his very top. you closed your lips around it and swirled your tongue just for a second before releasing it again while looking up at him through your lashes.

jay groaned quietly, his hand leaving your chin and finding its way to the back of your head instead, where he gathered your hair in a makeshift ponytail before pushing your head closer to him again. his other hand reached to tap on your lips, which you wordlessly parted just enough to close them around his tip again.

jay pushed your head closer, letting you take his length into your mouth – inch by inch until you gagged around him and he grinned smugly.

"can't take more?" he teased, but you were determined to wipe that damn grin off his face.

you breathed in through your nose and moved your head forward in one go until your nose hit his pelvis and you could feel his tip against the back of your throat, swallowing around it to suppress another gag.

the feeling drew a surprised moan from jay that caused you to look up at him with teary eyes. you swallowed again, humming in satisfaction as you received the same reaction.

"c-can't believe you're actually good at something," jay stammered. "do that again."

you obeyed, the feeling causing his eyes to flutter shut and his head to shoot back with another quiet moan.

he slowly pulled your head off his cock only to harshly push it back forward again after you'd swirled your tongue around his tip. he continued, his movements growing faster and rougher as his hips started to thrust forward every time he brought your head close – hitting the back of your throat each time, while you tried your best to not gag and he tried his best to not moan too loudly, not wanting jake to hear.

your hands reached to grab his thighs, attempting to somehow ground yourself when he slammed his hips forward another time. your jaw was tense, your eyes were burning from the tears that dared to roll down your cheeks, your head hurt from the force with which jay pulled your hair together, and yet all you could think about was finally making him cum and proving him wrong.

as his hips stuttered and his breaths started coming ragged, he held you in place, your nose pressed against his abdomen and the tip of his cock against the back of your throat. you eagerly hollowed your cheeks and swallowed again, pushing him over the edge.

"stay there," he ordered in between quiet moans. you felt his cock twitching as ropes of his cum ran down your throat. you quickly swallowed, yet couldn't stop a little from running down your chin as he finally pulled off.

you quickly wiped your chin with the back of your hand and stood up on shaky legs, shivering at how your arousal made your thighs stick together.

jay looked at you, his chest still rising and falling quickly. "hard to want, hm?"

"my god, fine. just fuck me already," you replied, your voice laced with frustration, which caused his lips to curl up into a little smile.

he turned you around and firmly pressed his hand on your back to guide your chest down onto the cool marble countertop.

"beg for it," he said in the most casual way possible.

you turned your head back and looked at him in disbelief. "seriously now?" you tried to stand up straight, not willing to feed his enormous ego more by begging, but his hand stayed firm on your back as his other slowly pumped his cock a few times before he guided his tip up and down your sensitive folds.

you clenched your fists, trying to move your hips back against his, but jay stepped back.

"i said beg for it," he repeated sternly.

when you hesitated, he lifted his hand from your back, attempting to step away fully. you squinted your eyes and mumbled out a quiet "please." you felt the embarrassment wash over you, but you just really wanted to finally feel him.

"what was that?" jay asked, stepping closer again.

you sighed. "please, jay," you repeated, still quiet but a little clearer than before. a hint of relief rushed through you as you felt jay's hand on your back and the tip of his cock against your needy hole again.

"please what?"

srew that. you were desperate but not desperate enough to ruin your pride entirely.

"you know what, fuck off, i–"

the words caught in your throat as jay suddenly pushed his entire length into your aching hole, knocking the air out of you. the stretch was so intense that you desperately searched for something to hold onto, but jay didn't give you any time to adjust as he pulled out almost entirely only to snap his hips forward harshly again, drawing a chocked moan from you when his tip hit your cervix.

"gonna finally put you in your fucking place," he said, hissing at the way your walls sucked him in so perfectly with each thrust.

"j-jay..." you whimpered once the pain gave way to pleasure, hating yourself for giving in to him, but also not caring enough to make him stop.

he groaned lowly at the way his name rolled off your tongue, mixing perfectly with the sounds of your wetness and his skin slapping against yours.

"takin' me so well," he mumbled in between his thrusts. you felt so warm and tight around him, the moans you tried to muffle clouding his mind until there was nothing left but you and the way you felt.

the sudden praise caused you to clench around him involuntarily. his hands moved to grab your hips, holding you in place as he continued to pound into you. he looked down to where your bodies connected, watching as his cock disappeared in your pretty cunt with each thrust.

"you're so stupid," he muttered, slipping back into the way he alway spoke to you, "for ever letting other idiots have their way with you when i was right there all the time," he blabbered out, slamming his hips into yours even harder.

you wanted to speak back, but each thrust knocked the air out of your lungs all over again as you placed your hands on top of his to somehow ground yourself.

"so tight for me," he mumbled at the way your walls clenched around him the closer you came to your high. "mhh, so wet"

"o-only for you," you managed to slur, way too far gone to realize what you'd just said, only focusing on the tight knot in your stomach that was dangerously close to snapping.

"jay, i-", you cut off as your orgasm washed over you in waves, each feeling heavier than the one before. jay brought one of his hands to your mouth to cover it, muffling your moans as his own high hit him at how strongly you clenched down on him.

you felt his cock twitching inside you before the warm ropes of his cum painted your walls white. he thrusted into you a few more times, sloppy and less energetic, riding out his high, before coming to a halt.

he took a few seconds to catch his breath. then, he quickly pulled out of you, the sudden feeling making you hiss. as you slowly lifted your chest from the counter, turning around on wobbly knees, jay had already pulled up his shorts again.

he bent down, picked up your pajamas and threw them in your direction. you caught them, wordlessly putting them back on as the reality of what had just happened started to crash down on you.

jay walked past you, opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, before giving you one last glance and heading toward the door.

"wait," you held him back. he turned around to look at you, raising his eyebrow in question.

"what," you hesitated, "what... are we doing now?" you asked, averting your eyes and looking at the floor in front of you instead.

jay shrugged. "pretending that it never happened," he said casually before walking out the door.

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these-lovely-monsters · 30 days ago

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The Sweetest Nectar

[NSFW | 18+]

Characters: m!mothman x f!reader

Content: aphrodisiac, oral (f!receiver), p in v, mating, claiming

A/N: In classic fashion, this started out as drabble and ended up being waaayyy longer than intended. Oops 🤷‍♀️

#19 Wings from @ozzgin’s Monstertober 2024 prompt list

⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ⋆

You've been working the graveyard shift at the mall for a few months now. Whenever you're on break, you like to go down to the park nearby and watch the moon and stars twinkling above. The vastness of it all is mesmerizing and you've always wondered what it's like up there in the sky.

Tonight is no different as you huddle into your coat, trying to stay warm in the cool night air while munching on a sandwich. Just like every other night this week, you spot the pair of glowing red eyes watching you from the darkness of the trees. When you first saw them, you were terrified and your heart nearly stopped. You could just barely make out a massive figure hunched in the darkness and you knew, instinctually, it was a monster of some kind.

But as you held your breath, waiting for the creature to attack, they never did. They just stayed there, watching from a distance. After a while, you figured they didn’t mean you any harm and decided to let them be. Just because they’re a monster doesn’t mean they’re dangerous. You’ve seen what true monsters look like and it has nothing to do with being inhuman. Soon, you grew to find their watchful presence comforting in the lonely nights.

Tonight, you’re feeling particularly bold and decide that it’s time to say hi to your silent monster. Setting down your sandwich, you wave to the shadows and call out for them to join you. The bright crimson orbs blink for a moment and then disappear. You wait patiently until they reappear again a minute later.

“You…want me to come closer?” A deep, hesitant voice emanates from the shadows. The sound is nothing like you’ve ever heard before. It’s inhuman and has a buzzing quality as if it’s coming from a broken stereo.

“Yeah,” you say, patting the seat next to you. “Come sit with me.”

The eyes blink again and you see the faint outline of its head cock to the side. Then, ever so slowly, the figure starts to creep forward, easing out of the shadows and into the bright moonlight.

You gape in awe at the giant masculine creature that stands before you. He has a thick chest with a tapered waist and long spindly legs that bend backwards at the knees, much like a bird’s. He also appears to be covered in a sort of black fuzz that you instantly want to run your hands through. When he cocks his head to the side again, you notice two feather-like antennae bobbing above him.

Mothman! You think, not entirely surprised that he’s actually real. Even though you’re not afraid of him, a thrill runs through you at being so close to such a legendary cryptid. He’s also so much more beautiful than you thought he would be based on all the depictions you’ve seen.

When he just stands there staring at you, you hold out your hand, beckoning him closer. You hear a little intake of surprise come from him before he tentatively approaches the picnic table and sits down beside you. You watch in fascination as his wide mouth splits open to reveal several rows of razor sharp teeth in a terrifying smile.

“So, how long have you been watching me?” You ask, smirking at the way his antennae flatten back on his head as he looks away.

“A while…” He replies vaguely.

You smile at his sheepishness. “Hmm, have you now?” He just jerks his shoulder in an awkward shrug, still unable to meet your gaze. Deciding to cut him some slack, you change the subject. “Hey, can you fly?”

“Of course!” he exclaims, puffing up his chest.

With a woosh, a pair of massive wings spread out wide behind him as he shows them off. You can’t help but marvel at the gorgeous patterns. There are two sets on each side, one higher than the other. Black and brown rippling lines cover the edges and each wing has an eye-like circle in the middle. When he flutters them, it appears as if the eyes are winking at you.

You laugh at his antics as you reach out to trace a finger along one of his wings. “What’s it like to fly? To be up there in the sky?”

He shudders at your touch, staring down at you with an intense look in his eyes. Realizing what you were doing, you quickly pull your hand back and he exhales softly.

Shaking his head slightly as if remembering your question, he asks, “Would you like me to show you?”

Gasping in excitement, you nod eagerly. Without hesitation, he scoops you up in his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist as he tucks you into his body. Large, slender hands grip you tight, pinpricks of pain sending shivers down your spine as claw-tipped fingers dig into your skin. You cling to his neck and bury your face into his chest. He’s unbelievably soft and warm and you think you could probably stay here forever if he’d let you.

“Hold on tight,” is all he says before he leaps into the air, pumping his wings with enormous force and lifting you both into the air.

Within moments, you’re soaring high up in the sky, the wind whipping your hair as the town below you shrinks in the distance. Your shout of excitement gets lost in the roar of the wind and your cheeks burn from how wide you’re smiling. He looks down at you, a twinkle in his eyes as he soaks in your joy.

You fly together for what feels like hours as you watch the land below whizzing by, the people and buildings like tiny figurines on a playset. Eventually, you start to shiver from the cold, your clothes growing damp from the moisture in the icy wind. He seems to notice and begins to veer off towards a nearby mountain.

Wondering where he’s taking you, you hold on tightly and watch as he begins to descend to a small cabin nestled in the mountainside forest. When he lands, he sets you down gently on the porch and then takes your hand, leading you inside. It’s a warm, and cozy space, filled with old wooden furniture and mismatched decor.

He sets about lighting a fire as you sit shivering on the couch. When the hearth is blazing, he grabs a blanket and places it next to you. Slowly, and with gentle hands, he begins removing your cold, wet clothes. He looks at you, pausing as if waiting for you to push him away. But you have no intention of stopping him, utterly bewitched by this terrifying yet sweet creature and desperately wanting to see what he’ll do.

Once he has all your clothes off, he drapes the warm blanket over your shoulders. Then he carefully picks you up off the couch and lays you on the plush fur rug in front of the fire. When he leans back as if to move away, you grab his hand, pulling him down until he’s kneeling between your spread legs.

For a moment, he just stares down at you, watching the firelight flicker across your naked skin. Red and yellow flames illuminate your curves in a mesmerizing dance.

“Are you sure you want this, little flower?” he asks in a voice that sounds strained.

“Yes,” you whisper on a breathy moan, “I want you.” And it’s true. From the moment you saw him, you were intrigued. And now your body is buzzing from the thrill of flying, needing an outlet for all that excited energy.

When he takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly, you gape at him as two long appendages gradually extend from the depths of the fuzz at his hips. They reach out and brush against your inner thighs and your legs twitch at the sensation. They’re covered in soft hairs and it tickles as they swirl around your skin.

Soon, a tingling sensation spreads along your legs and then the rest of your body, making your muscles relax as warmth spreads through you. The room begins to swim around you and you grab hold of his arm to keep from floating away. The warmth of his body and the softness of his fuzz is like an anchor in the fog. At the sight of Mothman looming over you with lust filling his eyes, your pussy tightens in need and you groan, squirming on the blanket beneath him.

His mouth opens on a pant as his chest rises and falls rapidly. As the two appendages at his hips begin to retreat into his body, a long, straw-like tongue unfurls from his parted lips and he bends down to drink up the sweat gathering at the hollow of your neck. A groan escapes him and he quickly shuffles downward, gripping your thighs and spreading them wide for his shoulders to fit between your legs.

Without hesitation his tongue dips into your dripping core, sucking up your juices greedily. “Mmmh,” he growls in that buzzing voice, “you taste like the sweetest nectar.”

You moan at the vibrations that ripple from his tongue against your entrance. He traces it upwards and begins to twirl the narrow tip around your clit, making you writhe at the intense, concentrated stimulation. The tip flicks at the sensitive bud, pressing and swirling around it with unerring precision. The zaps of pleasure mix with the weightless feeling of your body in a heady cocktail.

After a few moments of teasing your clit, he moves his slender tongue back inside your pussy, plunging deeper this time until it flicks against your g-spot. You gasp and jerk at the foreign sensation. His tongue isn’t nearly girthy enough to give you the fullness you so desperately crave but the feeling of the probing, sucking tip curling around your inner walls is just as erotic.

Soon, he moves back to your clit, repeating his earlier ministrations before returning to your pussy once more. He does this over and over, spending just enough time at each spot to bring you close to the brink before he switches back again. Before long you’re completely wound up, gasping and desperate to come.

Between the warmth of the fire, the tingling along your skin, and his torture on your clit and g-spot, your body feels like a tightly wound coil, ready to explode. When he reaches up to pinch a nipple between two sharp claws, you do just that. Your back arches off the floor as your orgasm crashes into you and you cry out in ecstasy. Waves of pleasure wash over you as he draws the orgasm out as long as he can until you eventually slump to the floor, twitching with aftershocks.

As you start to come back down, he slows his movements, gently lapping up the wetness that’s coursing down your thighs.

“Mmm,” he hums against your sensitive core. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get enough of your sweet nectar”.

Before you’ve fully caught your breath, he’s climbing back over you, nipping and sucking at your stomach, chest, and neck as if wanting to taste your pleasure everywhere. You moan at the sensations on your hot and overstimulated skin. When he leans back to sit on his heels, you gasp at the sight before you.

Where there was once just fuzz, a massive length protrudes from his groin. It’s sort of like a cock but nothing like a human’s or anything you’ve ever seen before. It’s long and girthy and the shape is gnarled with bumps and whorls along its surface, almost like a dark gray tree branch. Your core clenches in desire as you watch his slender black fingers wrap around the length, stroking up and down a few times until a bead of sap-like precum wells up from a slit in the tip.

With one hand, he holds your hip steady while the other guides his glistening tip to your entrance. Locking his bright ruby eyes with yours, he slowly pushes inside you, letting you feel every ridge and bump of his unusual cock slide along your walls. His lust-filled groan joins yours as you grip the furs above your head, gasping for air at the feeling of your walls being stretched impossibly wide.

When he’s fully seated he pauses, letting you both catch your breaths for a moment. He places both forearms on either side of your head and leans down to press his forehead against yours, his warm exhales ghosting against your face.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, the strain of holding back evident in his voice.

When your body begins to adjust to his size, your muscles relax and your pussy begins fluttering around him, clenching in need.

He snarls at the sensation and quickly pulls out almost to the tip, then slams back in again in one swift motion. Your cries of pleasure echo against the walls as he begins to fuck you roughly into the rug, setting a brutal pace. With every thrust the gnarled bumps on his cock drag against your walls and your eyes roll back in your head.

The wet sounds of your bodies colliding fill the small space as he takes what he wants from you. Each thrust is so forceful that your body begins to slide up the rug. He sits back on his heels again, lifting your hips up to wrap your legs around his waist. Digging his sharp claws into your ass, he uses the leverage to bury himself even deeper than before.

With the new angle, his cock hits your g-spot perfectly on every thrust and your cries turn into sobs at the overwhelming bliss and you squeeze your eyes shut. Between the bolts of electricity shooting up your spine and the pricks of pain from his claws buried in your skin, you hurtle towards your orgasm.

Feeling your walls beginning to clamp down, he snarls, “Look at me.” Your eyes flutter open and he pins you with his gaze. “There you are. Such a pretty petal.”

At his words the dam bursts and you careen over the edge, your screams filling the room as you take him with you. He roars in pleasure and his hips begin to stutter. Your walls ripple, milking him as his hot cum spurts inside you, filling you up until it seeps out around his throbbing cock. Your orgasms drag on for what feels like forever and you get lost in the intoxicating haze of ecstasy.

When you finally drift back down from your high, he slumps down on top of you, draping his large form over you but taking care not to crush you with his weight. After several moments of contented silence, you almost drift off to sleep from the warmth of his body and the crackling fire. But you’re roused from your half-conscious state when he sits up and gathers you in his arms, tucking you into his lap as he leans back against the foot of the couch.

With a rustle, his wings unfurl from his back and drape around you, cocooning you in a soft embrace as a plume of powder puffs into the air. You watch as it drifts in the firelight and settles on your skin.

Running your finger through the powder coating your arm, you turn to look at him in curiosity. “What is this?”

Sheepishly he replies, “It’s a…mating dust.” He drops your gaze as he looks into the fire. “For creatures like me, wings are very sensitive and intimate and we only allow mates to touch them. The dust is a way of marking you so that others know who you belong to…”

Mating dust?

You should balk at the idea of being marked like that but you can’t seem to bring yourself to be annoyed. In fact, you kind of like the idea of belonging to someone. You took comfort in his watchful presence all those lonely nights in the dark. His soft and gentle caresses. The way he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The way he fucked you with a wild and desperate need…

At your silence, his antennae flatten along his head again and he tenses. “I’m sorry, I should have asked but I couldn’t help it—”

“Don’t be.” You say, placing a hand on his chest as you nuzzle into his warmth. “I just wish I had dust of my own to give you.”

He relaxes and you look up at him, your heart warming at the grin that spreads wide across his face and the way his antennae flutter in delight.

“Don’t worry. You’ve given me something far more precious.”

Pink stains your cheeks as you smile, his words sending a flutter through your stomach. Resting your head against him, you listen to the steady beat of his heart, marveling at this beautiful creature holding you in his arms. Soon, the slow rise and fall of his chest begins to lull you into sleep.

When a big yawn splits your face, he strokes a hand down your back and whispers in your ear, “Rest now, my sweet blossom.”

With that, you drift off into a peaceful sleep, dreaming of soaring wings and scarlet eyes.

Tip Jar :)

#monster fucker #monster lover #monster smut #terato #monster x human #monster x reader #monster boyfriend #these lovely monsters #tlm musings #m!monster #f!reader #mothman #tlm mothman #monstertober #monstertober 2024

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byuntrash101 · 10 months ago

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cheerleader

f!reader x yunho x mingi x san x seonghwa smut | mdni 1.6k the boys always like to celebrate victory with their biggest cheerleader after a game nsfw tags under the cut

#18: blowgang + bukkake (twt p☆rnlink) soccer players!ateez, blowbang (m rec.), facials and a lot of cum (bukkake), dom!ateez, sub!reader, gentle!yunho, mean!seonghwa, praising, degrading (whore, slut)

a/n: okkk so this is the first request for my 3k celebration! i hope you enjoy it! look forward to the other ones <3

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You almost squeezed the hotdog out of the bun as Yunho scored the last winning goal. The crowd rose in unisson for the college team. The euphoria took over you when the tall team captain sent you a flying kiss for the goal celebration.

Him and the whole team knew they owed you a lot. Rare were the fans that were as devoted and cheered as loud as you. And you planned to show this devotion once again after the game. Like you always do: on your knees.

***

The floor of the locker room scraped your bare knees but you couldn't care less about the pain when nearly half the team was standing in front of you, fresh out of the shower, hair still wet, droplets of water trickling down their chests and torsos to reach the white towels tightly wrapped around their waists.

“You saw, baby?” Yunho said, wrapping his big warm hand around your neck to pull you closer. “I scored just for you.” He pressed his clothed half hard cock to your cheek and you bit your lip to repress a moan.

“Shut up, you scored one goal. I caught like five attempts.” Mingi, the goalkeeper, scoffed side eyeing his tall captain that didn't pay him any attention as he was guiding your hand over the outline of his cock. Mingi also approached you, ripping the towel off him.

“Here, love” Mingi said gently, wrapping his hand around your jaw to turn your head away from Yunho and to his direction. “Suck on my cock. I saved the game”

You started to lick your lips hurriedly as your mouth started to water at the sight of Mingi’s juicy length.

“Excuse me, what about us?” San interjected also coming into view with his rock hard cock in hand. Instantly your eyes traveled from the thick and veiny appendix to the sculpted V on his abdomen then to his pecs and board shoulders, his skin was still wet and glistening. “Seonghwa and I defended like our lives depended on it! I think I did a good job. I should get my dick sucked.” San said poking his cock into you other cheek.

“Come on, guys” Seonghwa finally said, also stepping to you. “There’ll be enough of our favorite cheerleader for all of us. Right, darling? You’ll be a good girl and suck all of our cocks?” The oldest said with a half smirk, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. You felt arousal pool between you thighs at the mere mention of having all these cocks into your mouth and nodded immediately.

“Yes. I’ll suck all of your cocks for as long as you want” you replied looking at the four men circling you.

“Good little slut.” Seonghwa said, stroking your cheek and guiding you on his length. You immediately opened your mouth to take him past your lips. The smooth tip glided on your tongue while you moaned and Seonghwa sighed in pleasure.

“Sorry boys, eldest privilege” Seonghwas said in a breath as the others were grunting in disapproval.

“Here babygirl use your hands” Yunho said as he wrapped your fingers around his huge and dripping cock.

“Me too baby” Mingi said, taking your other hand. And you started to jerk off the two men while you bobbed your head on Seonghwa length’s coating it with your spit as all kinds of beautiful sounds erupted from them.

“Fuck what about me?” San complained as he stroked his cock while looking at you being at your maximum capacity.

As soon as you heard him whine you popped Seonghwa out of your mouth to shove San’s cock into your mouth. His tip hit the back of your throat instantly making him groan and moan.

“Fuck baby, that feels… so g-good” San said throwing his head back, putting both hands on his nape.

“Fuck baby grip harder” Yunho said tightly wrapping his big hands around yours. Thrusting his fat cock into your ballad fist. “Yeaah like that” he sighed in bliss.

Seonghwa gathered your hair in one of his hands and pushed your face on San’s length while his other hand jerked himself off, his spit-coated cock making wet squelching noises in the process.

“Yeah that's it, baby. Suck his dick just like that. Show me what that pretty mouth can do” Seonghwa encouraged.

“Fuckk” San whimpered when your nose touched his pubic bone with the eldest's help and you repressed a gag before popping him out with a cough amd gasping for air.

Only seconds later Seonghwa was stuffing your mouth and throat with his cock again. You didn’t even have a second to breathe you were already being gagged on his length as he relentlessly fucked your throat.

Mingi whimpered and Yunho grunted as you balled your fists tighter in response. Both the men thrusting into your hands while tears bloomed into your eyes. Seonghwa looked down at you with a satisfied grin when two big tears rolled on your heated cheeks before he released you.

You coughed up again and let go of Mingi and Yunho.

“Come on baby, you’re not already tired are you?” Yunho said, lifting your face to look up at him. You shook your head unable to respond verbally due to the burning in your throat and earned another praise from the tall man.

You opened your mouth once again, wrapping your hand around Mingi’s length with one hand and around San’s with the other one. You started to slurp on Yunho's cock, bobbing your head a couple of times before popping him out and going to Mingi. The man threw his head back. You did the same thing before taking San back into your mouth. Then you were back to taking Seonghwa. You alternated like this for a while until San pulled on your hair to get your avid wet mouth off his cock. He shut his eyes tight and breathed in heavily, large beads of sweat rolling on his temple and hanging on his sharp jaw line.

“Fuck that was close, almost busted” San said in a short breath.

“Baby you’re so good with that pretty little mouth of yours you almost made San cum” Yunho cooed.

“Do that on me baby” Mingi requested and you immediately gave him your undivided attention. You wrapped both your hands around his base while you slipped his tip inside your mouth, licking the slit, your eyes fluttering close at the taste of his precum filling your mouth. Everytime you bobbed your head your hands followed your mouth, perfectly gliding on his length thanks to your spit.

“Oh fuckfuckfuck b-baby” Mingi hurriedly said. also pulling on your hair.

“Yeah she’s good” San said with a smirk while you let Mingi out and aimed his tip onto your face, making him spill his load right onto your cheeks and lips, your hands still jerking his twitching cock until you eventually milked him dry.

“Fuck baby” Mingi said shuddering and short of breathe, “that was amazing.”

“My turn” Yunho said, breaching your swollen lips. “God f-fuck” he groaned as he felt your throat tightening around him. He was also quite close after this much teasing. Your hand wrapped around San’s cock and you started jerking him off again.

“Fuck you look so pretty my cock shoved down your cock and covered in cum” Yunho groaned, his raspy voice getting strained.

“Just for you” you briefly said before taking him back into your mouth and bobbing your head even faster.

“Fuckkk… g-gonna cum. ” Yunho said. And you popped him out and immediately taking Hwa’s cock inside your wet hole, continuously jerking off San.

“Look at me baby while you suck on Seonghwa’s cock. Look at me while I cum for you.” Yunho’s raspy voice whispered as he was lifting your chin to him and he jerked himself off. As Seonghwa fucked your throat you turned her head slightly to receive Yunho's warm load on your face you moaned around Seonghwa as you felt the hot cum come in contact with your heated skin.

“Fuck I can't hold on anymore. Baby my turn” San said as you didn’t stop pulling and pushing on his cock with your balled fist. You aimed his cock to your face where he came immediately after Yunho the three big loads mixing and decorating your pretty face, becoming indistinguishable.

“Fuck what a fucking whore you are baby” Seonghwa said also getting out your mouth to stroke his cock over your face “open your mouth, slut.” You immediately executed the command.

“She’s so hungry for cum that’s crazy” San noted with a smirk that you could hear.

“Insatiable,” Yunho added.

“Want one more?” Seonghwa asked and you didn't even have the time to agree before beautiful thick ropes of cum spurted out of his slit to soak your face with yet another warm load. “Fuckkk” Seonghwa moaned while you hurriedly sucked on your lips and scraped the cum on your cheeks to your mouth, avidly sucking on your fingers, your brain officially switching off to focus solely on the taste of the four men in your mouth.

“Hmmm so good.” you moaned against your fingers. “More.” And Seonghwa chuckled.

“Let's call back the rest of the team to take care of you, baby” Seonghwa said pushing your hair out of your beautiful fucked out face.

“Four of us isn’t enough, right darling?” Yunho asked but you were way too far gone to answer anything.

“On it” Mingi said as he picked up his phone from his locker “Yeah, Joong, can you come back to the lockers? Yeah… y/n is here. Yeah we already started but we need back up.”

a/n: what. a. start!!!!! I'm super excited for this event! I hope you had as much fun reading as me writing. look forward to the other fics <3

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arminsumi · 1 year ago

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S. Geto ★ Brother's Best Friend

Breaking the bed with your brother's best friend!

★ Requested by anon

★ Pairings : fem reader / badboy!Geto

★ Synopsis : even though he made a promise to your brother, Suguru Geto just couldn't keep his hands off of you.

★ Warnings : 18+ content, secret sex, brother's best friend trope, toys, visiting adult store, mutual m*sturbation, solo male m*sturbation, fantasies, creampie, pillow riding, sexting, wall/standing sex, mentions f*ngering, mentions bl*wjob, +++

Your brother always made sure that you and his best friend weren't alone together for too long. He totally restricted you and him from becoming friends, because he knew that neither of you two would be able to stay just friends.

Whenever Suguru had your company, he got flirtier. His mannerisms. His word choices. Compliments just spilled from his lips. He'd undress you with his eyes.

The chemistry between you two always made you squeeze your thighs together tightly.

Suguru Geto was a sorely attractive and alluring man. How could you not be turned on by him?

He had that slim-fit physique. Tattoos. A natural sultriness. That mysterious "he could be a cult leader for all I know" feeling about him.

He was also honest and spoke his mind.

"No offence," he said to you once, "But all the men you've dated are losers. All they've done is leave you with a broken heart."

You replied exactly how he'd hoped you'd reply; "I know. Do you know any better man?" you said suggestively, inching closer to him.

"I wish..." he huffed with a smile.

You pawed at his chest, "Suguru, my brother doesn't have to know about us..."

His heart beat rapidly and he felt his neck tense up.

Gently, he grabbed your hands and pried them off of his t-shirt.

"No, I made a promise to him that I wouldn't mess around with you. Okay?" he said determinedly.

Your funny little pout hurt him, because even though you tried to be comedic about his rejection he could still sense your deep sadness and desperation for him.

****

So many times during sleepovers, you had to get off on your pillow after hugging Suguru goodnight.

He was definitely being a bad boy, taking risks like hugging you when your brother was around. It earned a tense response from your brother, but Suguru quickly scurried off to the guest bedroom and acted like he did nothing.

Your bedroom was situated right next to the guest bedroom.

The walls were thin.

You could vaguely hear him grunting and throatily groaning as he pounded his fleshlight in the middle of the night.

He was most definitely being verbal on purpose, because in reality he was one of those silent type guys during sex. Suguru knew what he was doing. He always knew what he was doing, even when he wore those thin-fabric sweatpants that showed the outline of his huge cock snuggling against his muscular thigh. And all those times you "accidentally" walked in on him changing his shirt, he made his abs twitch and flex a little for you.

Suguru was always doing things in consideration of your horniness. He knew you had a hard time holding back, so he tested you — he tested your determination to not fuck your brother's best friend.

It was difficult to refrain from sneaking into the guest bedroom and hopping on his dick, it really was.

You rutted against the pillow and tweaked and pinched your nipples, chasing your pleasure.

The sound of slapping balls and lubed up thrusting carried through the wall as Suguru gave his fleshlight a heavy, sloppy pounding.

Suguru spiced things up and called out your name in a soft murmur, hoping you were listening.

"Mmm." you hummed back. He just barely heard it, but it made him grin naughtily.

He stopped pounding away at his toy, and drew his forearm across his forehead to wipe his sweat. He pulled out his phone and texted you.

📨 1 NEW

Suguru: i heard that. someone's wide awake 👀 You: yeah :( ur fault!! Suguru: my fault? how? 😗 You: u hugged me too tight earlier n got me worked up Suguru: haha just hugging got you horny? that's adorable You: stfu i didn't say i'm horny 🤬 Suguru: yeah right. bet you're humping ur hand listening to me rn lol You: nope Suguru: i don't believe u 🤨 u were totally listening. my fleshlight told me. it was pussy to pussy communication You: lol You: yeahh i was listening You: and squeezing my tits with both hands and riding my pillow 😇 Suguru: fuck Suguru: come over You: haha no way i'd wake up the neighborhood Suguru: dw i have ways to shut you up 😉

If your brother knew that at 1 AM that night, you snuck out and let Suguru finger you to your orgasm and gave him a blowjob, then he would have grilled both of you like meat on a barbeque.

But he never found out. Suguru held his moans in and gritted his teeth, and he covered your mouth with his big hand to stifle any noise coming out of you.

Suguru was turned on that he had this little secret with you.

Sleepovers became more anticipated. Your brother was confused sometimes, because while he liked having his best friend staying the night, Suguru was often over-enthusiastic at the idea.

"Oh I can stay the night?" it was the way his eyes lit up and his tone raised like he'd just gotten a hint about his Christmas present.

It always played out the same.

Suguru would be jerking off to you, thumbing through his favorited pictures — you know, those panty pictures and swimsuit ones that you wanted his verdict on. Well his verdict was groaning and throwing his head back and having a full-body orgasm.

If you were still awake, you'd whimper through the wall for him. He'd press himself against the cold wall and stroke his cock hard and fast until his balls bounced.

It became a thing.

Come the morning, the two of you would pretend nothing happened. But that knowing glint was always in his eyes.

****

In time, Suguru started drooling and obsessing over the idea of having sex with you. The tension between you and him had been reaching a peak.

Risky touches. Hot glances. Flirty tones. Sneaky sexting. Lingering hugs.

He took you out to the adult store under the pretense that he was just taking you shopping. Your brother let it slide, since you threw a fake temper tantrum about it until you got your way.

"You're such a spoiled princess." Suguru flirted when he pulled out of the driveway.

You giggled behind him, holding on tight as he rode off down the street, motorcycle rumbling loud.

He slung an arm around you in public and gave you kisses, thriving on the jealous looks that the two of you received from passers-by.

In the adult store, he agreed to buy you anything your heart wanted as long as you gave him proof that it was being put to good use.

Of course, he was buying you a toy that was as similar to his own cock as possible.

"And angel, don't get too attached to silicone. Nothing beats the real thing." he said.

"Oh yeah?" you batted your lashes at him.

When you batted your lashes like that, he snapped right there — the invisible restraints that kept him from breaking his promise to your brother broke.

He took you home, saw that your brother texted him will be home at 5-ish and then wasted no time before fucking your brains out right there up against the wall.

Once wasn't enough for either of you, so Suguru slipped his cock out and carried you to the bedroom.

****

"Su-su—Suguru! Not so hard! Y-you'll break the bed!" you said.

You were caged under Suguru's muscular body as he relentlessly pounded his cock into you, hitting deep spots that your newly bought toy surely wouldn't ever read — good. You'd crawl back to him for more.

"I don't care, let it break." he grunted into your ear.

He tried new angles until his cock pressured against your G-spot. You gasped and your moans quickly developed into stuttering incoherence.

"Fuck fuck fuck Suguru! Suuuguru! I'm so close, I'm gonna cum!" you screamed.

"Yeah? I'm close too, baby." he groaned. "Rub your clit faster, cum with me."

"W-we really shouldn't be doing this, mmm!" you moaned.

He smirked, "Yeah yeah, I know that turns you on more. Fucking slut. Cum with me and keep your pretty mouth shut about this."

Suguru brought you to a long orgasm. He groaned and his jaw went slack as he creampied his best friend's sister's pussy.

When he rolled off and caught his breath, he felt a small guilt but it was quickly smothered when you rolled back on top to kiss him hard.

"I think we broke the bed..." he chuckled.

"... oh. Shit." you giggled.

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

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paradlselost · 5 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐅 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒

Black Noir II x female!reader

⎨ 𝐀𝐍 ⎬ spent way too long on this; but I kept picturing him in the piledriver position and omfgggg. also I drank so sorry if the ending sounds strange, this isn’t beta-read at all lol

⎨ 𝐂𝐖⎬ 2.9k words , second person point of view , noir II , s4 spoilers , smut : fantasies of sex , oral ( m receiving ) , p in v , piledriver position , mentioned size difference , stomach bulge , cream pie , aftercare .

A few heavy breaths came from behind the mask, his lips outlined by the black balaclava he wore. A few punches here, dodging and rolling there; just like a real hero would. Did he mind the sweat that rolled down his top lip? Tasting the salt from his overexertion?

His gloved hands reached out, one grabbing the wrists that fought against him to pin them, the other grabbing at the exposed neck as he pinned the black clad body against the glass jewelry container.

“Get off me-! Motherfucker!”

Kicking and shouting wasn’t the best tactic now was it? Not when you were attempting to rob the jewelry store. It was so cliche, a cat burglar going after overpriced diamonds and gems. You’d think the stars themselves had been crafted into the finest necklaces by the way you had been shoving them into your bag.

How were you to know he was on patrol when you happened into the closed jewelers? Maybe it was fate, past misdeeds finally catching up to you in the form of this armored reaper. It certainly felt like a dance with death, the knowledge of his super strength in the back of your mind as you managed to wiggle out of the hold he had on you.

Slipping down against the cracked glass case and through the room left to crawl out from under his legs in a last ditch effort to escape. You were graceful, smooth like a cat slinking away with the pickings it had gotten from a dead bird. But his hands caught your legs like a mouse in a trap and your heart dropped in your chest.

A gloved hand grabbed at your hair, pulling you up enough to get you on your knees in front of him, craning your neck to look at his soulless mask as a peasant would look at a god; and maybe in a way you were, was this being that could kill you in a second really a man anymore? What power did a worldly being have in snuffing out a life so fast?

So you sat at his mercy, begging for forgiveness and looking like a sinner at an altar. How small you looked below him, what penance did a lowly criminal like you get? So you waited for the hand that would tear your heart out or the sirens that would wail… but nothing. He simply looked blankly down at you.

“Fucking-… Cut!!” The bell sounded somewhere in the studio, sighs falling from the directing team under the knowledge that this was the best shot they were going to get, and the ‘mute supe’ had forgotten his next line. One job, really.

“Damn it, I’m sorry. You did great, though.” His hand his outstretched for you to take, helping you get to your feet. He’s kind, behind the mask he wore, would you ever get to see his face? Probably not, being just an actor; but it was cool being able to work with a Supe, especially one in the seven.

“It’s no problem, honestly. They’ll probably just go from the shot of me on my knees, anyways.” You watched as he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, gloved hands creating an odd sound against his balaclava. His job was on the line; Homelander had told him they could always find a replacement for Noir just as they had with him - but he couldn’t help it.

Had his cup always been so strained against? He shifted ever so slightly, trying not to make his discomfort obvious as an assistant stepped over and handed you both a water bottle. Silently, he was happy his face was obscured as his eyes didn’t leave your lips, watching them part to welcome a swig of much needed cold water.

Was it his fault he had stuttered and broken the immersion? In his heart, he knew it was; but how could he not have? He could feel your warmth radiating through his armor and seep into his skin, how those pretty eyes looked back and then up at him, how your lips had parted ever so slightly. He was being an idiot.

This was your job; you’re an actress so why did he think those looks you gave him were exclusive? He was probably an idiot in thinking your on screen chemistry could mingle behind the scenes. He jumped every so slightly when the bell rang out again.

“That’s a wrap for now. We’ll pick up again tomorrow. Noir, make sure you fucking practice.”

A pointed look from the director was quickly overshadowed by your soft touch to one of his shoulder pads as you walked past him. A shiver running down his spine as his eyes followed you, watching you. Your delicate fingers had not done him any favors as his heart pounded in his chest. Secretly, he was glad shooting was done for the day.

The door to his trailer shut quickly, the lock turning as he leaned back against it. The curtains had already been drawn shut from this morning; is it in Noirs character to like his privacy? It certainly isn’t to sprawl out on the couch and fist his cock to thoughts of his co-star. And yet.

His head tilted back against the couch, helmet taken off but the balaclava had stayed on; he enjoyed the way it made everything a little harder to breathe, how he could feel the fabric against his lips. Besides; he wouldn’t take off his mask to fuck you the first couple of times, anyways, that’s a kind of trust that’s earned.

His hand traveled up and down his cock, slow at first as he traced the veins that pump blood to his darkening head; imagining that this is what it would be like with you the first time. Certainly, you’d take your time in getting to know every intimate part of him. His thumb swiped over his tip like your tongue would.

A groan fell from his lips, wetting them after a moment. He could imagine how warm your mouth would be around him, how you would look up at him as he pushed the head of his cock to the back of your mouth, how your hot breath would feel coming out of your nose against his groin.

He felt himself throb against his hand, desperately needing a release when there was a knock on the door, shaking him out of his private moment. How unlucky he was, thinking he had more time than he actually did. Noir grumbled as he fixed his cup back over himself, his dick uncomfortably straining against the cool metal.

He fixed his helmet over himself and stepped over to the door, ready to snap at whoever was interrupting him like a supe should do. He should be allowed to have a power trip every once in a while; should he? A god against a mortal.

“Hey! Sorry I hope I’m not bothering you, I was just wondering if you wanted to practice? I got a bit of free time.” How could he yell at you when you looked so pretty standing on the steps to his trailer? Head tilted to the side, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Oh uh.” Part of him wanted to say no, to shut the door and hide himself away against his silk sheets and pump his hand over his aching cock, but he couldn’t shut you out. Not when you were the object of his fantasies. “Yeah, sure. We don’t need a lot of space, we can practice in here.”

Noir nodded, moving out of the way to allow you to enter his abode, to get a glimpse of what little the man below the mask could add to a trailer belonging to a dead man. Not that you knew, of course; finding it strange that he could talk but not prying further. It wasn’t your place to ask silly questions like that.

Still, you took in what you could. A picture frame with people you couldn’t quite make out from a distance, a few books and magazines he hadn’t bothered to clean up. The kitchen was tidy, though everything had a black color scheme and it felt a little… draining. Was that really all there was to him?

You snapped out of your thoughts at the sound of him moving the table out of the way to allow more space to practice your scenes together. He bunched up the carpet, just kind of tossing it against the couch before he looked over at you. A soulless mask, but the way he tapped his fingers against his armor was endearing.

“So- do you want to go from the fight?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

God against man, a mortal who had incurred the wrath of a far more powerful deity; you find yourself on your knees once again. No cameras stuck close to your face this time, no lights to make you sweat, just you and the being who could crush your windpipe below his gloved fingers.

The fabric against his hands is audible as it squeezes a bit, your own moving up to grasp onto his wrist; silent pleas for your pathetic life falling from your lips. This is where he messed up before, the sight of you below him being too much to handle. His cock throbbed uncomfortably against his cup.

“You have to handcuff me now.” You look up at him, a different kind of gaze from being terrified for your life. You’re a good actor, he’ll give you that, but he prefers this moment - how you look vaguely confused as to how he could mess up a second time. His dick hurts now, he can feel pre-cum leaking against his armor and god does he need a release.

“Can I fuck you?”

“Huh?”

“I’ve been… thinking about you. I like you like this.”

“Oh.”

You’re quiet for a moment and he fears he’s blown his shot with you. His hand still rests against your neck albeit loosely, and your eyes travel from his crotch up to his mask, obscuring any kind of expression you might be able to make out. Is he messing with you? Why would someone as strong as him decide you’re the one he wants?

“Okay, yeah. Yeah I’d like that.”

A nod is just what he needs, his hand leaving your neck and moving to tangle into your hair, firmly placed on the back of your head while the other moves to quickly undo his crotch armor and throw it somewhere on the couch.

He leaks pre-cum from his weeping slit, far too dark of a color to be comfortable for him. The groan that falls from his lips as you move to place yours against his head is almost heavenly. Like you’re a godsend, the only one who can make him feel like this. His gloved fingers tighten in your hair, an encouragement.

Noir is proved right in his theory of you; that your tongue dances over his head and flattens against his slit, your pretty eyes flutter shut and your hand rubbing the base of his cock. You must think he’s a poor baby the way you hum as you squeeze him slightly, hard and dripping against your tastebuds.

He reaches a hand against the back of the couch you two were beside, gripping it till his knuckles ached below his gloves. He’s swift in his movements, calculated and for the first time he feels closer to the old Noir. Would this be how he would act? Grabbing ahold of a woman like this - like you’re something to be manhandled? He’s usually shy, anxious when with women but you don’t seem to mind so he doesn’t lighten his grip.

Pushing you back against the ground, head resting on the discarded carpet like some sort of pillow below you. You’re an actress; doing your own stunts against him so he’s seen the way your body curves and flexes. He knows you can handle him, even if it takes a few tears.

He grabs your hips harder, shimming sweatpants you had changed into earlier, running his fingers over the growing wet spot in your underwear before he too removed them like they were a barrier to something most precious. His lips press against your thighs through his balaclava, breath hot and fast in anticipation for what is to come.

The angle is awkward and strenuous, but he seems to take great joy in seeing you like this. Not quite missionary, your body is arched below him and your silently grateful for the makeshift pillow because you’re sure your neck would be even more sore tomorrow had it not been for the carpet bunched up. Your legs are pushed back as he moves around you, hand gripping his cock to line up.

Noir inches himself in, letting you take deep, shallow breaths in your position as he tries his best to stay patient and not bottom out. The stretch hurts a bit; you can’t remember the last time you’ve been with a supe in such an intimate display and he’s thicker than most you’ve been with.

His breath his hard and hot against his balaclava; hands resting to keep both your legs out as he finally bottoms out inside of you. You can hear the groan that leaves his lips at the feeling of your walls constricting against him - in such a position they pulse and push around his still aching cock. Your warmth is welcome to him, driving him crazy.

His thrusts are as rough as he is with you on the set; barely giving you time to catch your breath between pumps as the air leaving and entering your lungs is sharp and almost painful. Wanton moans fall from your lips, hands reaching to grasp the underside of the couch in order to keep from moving below him.

“Fuck- Noir…”

“Is that good? You’re such a good girl, staying in this position f’me.”

You barely have the strength to respond, neurons firing in your brain in an attempt to string together words but all that comes out is a few unintelligible babbles. He pushes impossibly deep inside of you; he had reached a certain bundle of nerves quite a few thrusts ago, now he was abusing that spot. It seemed he was trying to get these reactions out of you.

Tilting his head back slightly, he groaned as you tightened around him; one hand falling from your legs to press against your stomach. He took pride in feeling himself inside of you - a large ego boost that his cock was thick enough to create a faint outline inside you. He would certainly have to fuck you more after this, see what other angles could excentuate that bulge in your pretty flesh.

“Gonna-“ Your gasp is harsh, though you don’t need to speak; he can feel it. The way your walls spasm around him as he pulls out and pushes back inside of you. He draws it out, slowing down a bit and cocking his head to the side - blacked out mask taunting you in your state.

“What? Are you gonna cum?”

A nod, breathless ‘yes’s falling from your lips as your hand not grasping the couch for dear life reaches up to grab onto his armor. Tears prick at your eyes, proof of how good he was making you feel. Your head lulls back against the carpet; white toying at the corners of your eyes.

Bliss washed over you quite quickly after that, gushing around him. He can’t help but chuckle at the sight, though it’s marred with a soft moan at how you squeeze. His hips continue to move, stuttering and the trailer fills with the unmistakable sound of sex. Wet, sloppy now as he nears his own climax.

Another thrust, then another before he buries himself to the hilt inside of you and spills his seed against your walls. He could die at the feeling of you milking him, drawing spurt after spurt of hot cum from his throbbing cock. He feels lucky, in his euphoria, that he could have this experience. A god with a mortal, how funny it was.

He pants as he withdraws himself, letting your legs lay back down as he colapses beside you. Head spinning, body aching from the position and the ceiling of his trailer suddenly looks as beautiful as the starry night outside. You two share the air, share your breathing and as you lay there for a moment longer; you can feel him get up.

He’s as silent as a ninja, but you know his presence is no longer beside you and honestly? After the position you had just kept? You were far too tired to move to see where he happened to go. Besides, the sound of the faucet running is enough of an indicator that he’s just moved the kitchen.

He returns after a moment, crouching in front of you as you finally move your head to look at him. He hasn’t taken his top helmet off; not allowing you a peek at the face he was hiding behind the balaclava, but the gentle kisses he places to your trembling legs are more than enough to take your mind off whatever he might look like.

“ ‘m surprised you don’t wanna watch your cum drip out of me.” You earn a chuckle from him as he moves the now wet and soapy washcloth he had gotten in the kitchen over your thighs and, gently, over your sensitive core. Cleaning you up as gentlemanly as possible.

“I’d rather see you tangled in my bed sheets, if we're being honest.”

“Sounds nice - even though I should be heading home after this. Guess you’ll have to fuck me again to be able to see that.”

“I was planning on fucking you again regardless.”

#black noir #black noir x you #black noir x reader #the boys season 4 #the boys #smut #x reader #black noir x female reader #female reader

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honeyynymphh · 5 months ago

Text

| The Wager |

Cardinal Copia x FemReader rating: E words: 4k tags: dom copia, oral sex (m receiving), confessional sex, choking, rough sex, copia is a sneaky shit AO3

Summary: A new Sister of Sin, you feel you are not living up to the expectations of your new church and seek out confession to unburden yourself. Little do you know, that the Cardinal has something he needs to confess to you.

I started writing this ages ago and its been so close to finished for ages. Seeing the new movie made me feel motivated to complete it.

Not my best work but hey, I did some writing :)

It's a bit silly but c'est la vie!

Your hands grip the edge of the pew as you take a steadying breath. You’d been sitting here for nearly an hour, watching sibling after sibling as they entered and left the confessional box. It seemed so large and imposing in the low light of the abbey’s candelabras. You knew you needed to speak, to confess. Yet you were anxious. A new Sister of Sin, and not just any new Sister—but one that had converted from the local church.

A few months have passed since you left your old life behind you to join the strange, yet welcoming, abbey upon the hill. Everyone had accepted you without question—you were not the first to leave behind an old god and you would not be the last—yet old habits and the lingering guilt were hard to forget. Your hands tighten their grip on the pew and you watch as another sibling leaves the confessional. They give you a brief smile before they pass and you realise you are the only one left, the only sound is their fading footsteps before the chapel is silent.

It was now that you had to go before the confessional closed for the evening, it was so late already. You could wait until next week, yet you felt you couldn’t keep this bubbling away inside. You needed to speak to someone—and you had spoken with Papa Terzo before. He had been charming and kind, and very flirty, something that made you flush quite a bit. But he never made you feel silly or stupid for not knowing the customs of your new home. You were sure this would be no different, yet the anxiety still lingered.

You made yourself stand, sliding out of the pew and walking over to the confessional. Your hand hesitates before you gently knock on the side of the detailed wood.

“Enter.”

The low word is muffled but you hear it and step inside. The door shuts quietly behind you and you take your seat, glancing at the shadowy outline of Papa on the other side. It smells like chapel incense and some other scent that has you taking a deep breath as the scent comforts you in the warmth of the confessional.

With your hands clasped in your lap, you speak, “Forgive me, Papa, for I have sinned.”

“This must be your first time, Sister.”

You pause. The voice is not Papa Terzo as you had expected but Cardinal Copia. You grip the fabric of your habit in embarrassment. While you were too busy worrying, you had not noticed that Cardinal Copia was the one taking confession and not Papa.

“Forgive me, Cardinal,” you say.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he says. “And we do things a little differently here. Sinning is very much encouraged.”

“Sorry, Your Eminence, I am still stuck in my old ways,” you reply hesitantly, the knot in your stomach growing tighter.

“Does this bother you, Sister?”

You nod and then realise he can’t see you. “I’m finding it hard to adjust, it is so similar yet so different to my old life.”

“That is to be expected, change affects us all,” he says. “It will improve over time, you haven’t been with us long.”

You know that’s true. You also realise this is the first conversation you’ve ever had with the Cardinal. He always seemed to keep to himself or haunt the library. You’d only ever exchanged greetings with him before. He made you nervous, Papa Terzo was so much more approachable than Cardinal Copia. Anyone was…well, perhaps not Papa Secondo. But Cardinal Copia was so silent and quiet, he only ever really seemed to come alive during sermons or when he taught classes. His intensity was intimidating and the way he would sometimes cut down a fellow sibling during a lesson could be nerve wracking. But how his impassioned words held your attention, it was impossible not to be drawn to the Cardinal. You wanted to be noticed by him yet never have his gaze upon you. So you’re surprised at how kind his words are, though you know it is his job. It’s much easier to talk to him when you aren’t forced to look at his imposing expression.

“I know, Cardinal,” you say. “I just worry I’m not…meeting expectations.”

“How so?”

You shift in your seat. This had been much easier when you’d been imagining it in your head. And while the Cardinal words were polite, there was still an edge to his voice that made you shift on the wooden seat.

“In my worship,” you say, feeling your face flush. “I know many siblings prefer to do so, er, together.”

“Ah.”

“All forms of sin are encouraged, mia cara, not just the ones of the flesh.” His voice is low and you scoot a little closer towards it, unable to help but smile at the endearment. “You do not need to be writhing upon an altar while someone feasts upon your divine sex to please the Olde One.”

Maybe not but it’s suddenly all you can think about. It was one thing to leave your old life behind because you did not wish to live a life without pleasure, yet to have it fully thrust upon was hard to contend with. The abbey lived life to the fullest and held no shame, but you were not ready to participate in certain rituals. Though, you had certainly thought of them with the Cardinal in mind. But you knew he never attended such things.

How you wished that he did.

“Thank you, Your Eminence,” you reply, sensing it was time to leave. “Siamo con il nostro Dio Scuro,” he says and you can dimly see his gloved hand move in the darkness to make the sign of the grucfix. “Nema.”

You stand and make to leave but he speaks, making you pause.

“Sister.”

The sharp word hangs in the small space and you glance at his shadowy figure on the other side of the confessional.

“Yes, Cardinal?”

He clears his throat and his words are short, awkward. This has your brow furrowing in confusion.

“Do you have time to stay a moment? I know it is late.”

“Yes, I can.” You sit back down, apprehension knotting in your stomach.

“I feel I must confess something to you.”

Confess? To you? Cardinal Copia? The apprehension knots even further. What could he possibly confess?

“Oh?” is all that manages to escape your mouth. Your head twists so that you are facing the latticed partition. Your hands grip the edge and you lean closer without even realising your face is nearly touching it.

“I heard that Papa Terzo and Papa Secondo have a wager, in regards to you,” says the Cardinal.

“A wager?” you ask, confused.

“Si,” he says, his words still sounding oddly stilted. “There is no polite way to say it, Sister, but they’re betting on who can fuck you first.” He sighs. “They do it after every initiation of a new group of siblings.”

“What?” it comes out as a squeak.

“They pick someone and whoever fucks them first wins.”

You’re shocked but also strangely thrilled at the thought. You haven't really spoken to either Papa. Secondo was so…Secondo, you don’t think you can recall ever having spoken to him. And Terzo was always surrounded by admirers that you had only really spoken to when you first joined or after Dark Mass, since he was the reigning Papa. While he has always been so friendly to you, you did not think he even knew your name.

“Why me?” you can’t help but ask.

“You come from the village church,” says Copia with a sneer. “They think it would be quite the challenge—” he pauses and then quickly asks, “are you a virgin? Is this why you are reluctant to worship in such a fashion?”

“No!” you say quickly. You hadn’t had much as much experience as your new siblings but you had some. It had been one of the reasons for leaving your old faith behind. You feel your face colour in embarrassment.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of if you are. We are not heathens… not completely. You are not forced to do anything you do not wish to. You are not required to join the rituals if you do not wish to.”

“You don’t participate,” you say hesitantly. It’s not a question but you desperately want to know why he doesn’t join them.

“How could I compete with Papas?” he gives a short derisive laugh. “Pretty Sisters do not want a cardinal when they can have a Papa, eh?”

You say nothing but can’t help but smile. He called you pretty! How could someone not want him? Perhaps he was a little quiet and somewhat intimidating. But you can’t deny the way you have had to press your thighs together when he would sometimes speak. Your thoughts return to his earlier words of worship upon an altar. You shiver at the thoughts, feeling the warmth of arousal begin to burn low.

“Sister?”

“Sorry, Cardinal.” You take a deep breath. “Thank you for telling me this. You are wrong though, many would want you.”

“That is kind of you, mia cara. But I am well aware of my reputation.” You hear a low chuckle, you’d never really heard him laugh before. “Which you best not ruin just because I have chosen to share this with you. I’ve merely had enough. And you didn’t seem like you would be one for their stupid games.”

You sat there. You were surprised that the Papas would even have such a wager, it didn’t seem like something these people would do. But Terzo did seem to always be surrounded by fawning siblings and had such a charming air about him. And Secondo…he always seemed to have someone—or several someone’s—with him. And his gravelly voice was quite enthralling. A silly brotherly game, you supposed.

But, why you? It was true you’d come from the local church, having had your doubts for quite a while until you’d spied the strange abbey upon the hill and felt drawn to it.

The partition suddenly slid across revealing the Cardinal in his splendid red robes. He looked like the Devil himself standing there while you remain seated. He quirks an eyebrow at you in question.

“Sister?”

You stand quickly and the small booth means you are so very close to him. The spicy yet woody scent you had smelt earlier was not the chapel's incense but him. The warmth of his body seems to amplify it, along with the fresh scent of clean linen and the tang of sweat that clings to his cassock. It feels far too warm here in the confessional. Why did he open the partition?

“Are you alright, Sister?” His low voice is overwhelming when you are so close, a hand gently grabs hold of your shoulder and squeezes lightly. “I hope I have not misspoken nor upset you by telling you this.”

You shake your head, trying to clear the fog. His hand is gloved—as always—yet the heat radiates from it. It feels so large on your shoulder and you can’t help the thought of that hand touching you elsewhere. You hastily look down as you feel the blush spread across your cheeks.

“No, Your Eminence,” you say. You steal yourself when the thought hits you. quickly leaning forward to kiss his cheek before you can talk yourself out of it. “Thank you, again.”

You risk a glance at his face and his expression hasn’t changed. But he doesn’t look disgusted so before you lose your courage, you move again and press your lips briefly against his, feeling his moustache tickle your skin before you’ve already pulled back.

He speaks, voice a low growl that makes your stomach flip. “Don’t do that, Sister.”

Oh. Instantly any hope you had is crushed. It was a stupid thing to do! You look down again and mumble an apology under your breath. You move to leave but his hand is still on your shoulder and it holds you in place, the other hand coming to your chin so his fingers can tilt your face up to meet his gaze.

“You can’t tease an old man like that,” he says, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Go kiss a Papa, mia dolce.”

“I don’t want to kiss a Papa,” you say. “I want to kiss you, Cardinal.”

Suddenly he seems different, more how he appears during sermons with that raw intensity you find so alluring. His touch is firm and sure as he pulls you into his side of the booth. Effortlessly he sits, pulling you into his lap so that you’re straddling him. His hands glide up your legs to then grip your hips so he can pull you flush against him.

“Give me a kiss then, dolce.”

Heart racing, you eagerly lean forward and press your mouth against his again. This time he responds, lips moving under yours. You can taste the bitterness of the paint on his top lip but it’s barely noticeable when his tongue is trying to slide into your mouth. You’re swept up in the taste of him and the insistent way he devours you, teeth occasionally biting and pulling at your bottom lip. It makes a thrill run down your spine and you press yourself closer to him.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless. His eyes are nearly the same, both so blown wide by lust that you can barely determine the colour of them in the dimness of the booth.

“Grazie, Sorella,” he says.

You feel like you are on fire. Your entire body is singing from one kiss. Lucifer, you want more. Without even thinking you move your hips forward, so you are sliding even closer to him, nearly falling off him in your desire to get closer. His thigh is right under your aching sex and you can’t help but grind down on it.

His moustache twitches as a small smile appears on his face. “You want more than a kiss, si?”

“Yes, Cardinal,” you say breathlessly as he pushes his thigh back against you making you pant out a moan.

“I thought you did not wish to worship this way?” he asks though he doesn’t sound concerned like he did before, his voice is edging on teasing. As if he already knows why.

“I—” your words fumble as you feel another flush suffuse your face. You are already in his lap and he just had his tongue half way down your throat—now was not the time to be the ignorant village girl. You swallow your nerves and say, “I want to worship with you, Cardinal.”

A sly grin unfurls on his face and that makes your heart race.

He brings up over his laps properly so your hips are slotted against his. The position makes you moan as you can feel the hardness of his cock through the layers of his cassock

“I worship a little differently to what you may be used to, dolce,” he purrs against your ear while a hand wraps around your neck. He squeezes, not too tightly but enough to get the point across. “You can leave now if you wish.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to leave, Cardinal.”

“Good girl.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his praise, which he clearly notices. He thrusts his hips up against yours and your hands grip at the fabric of his pelegrina. The friction feels far too good but you want more and press down against him clumsily, making him let out a low laugh.

He brings his face close to yours, his nose pressing against your temple and his breath ghosts against your ear.

“Will you get on your knees for me, dolce?”

It’s so warm in the confessional that any sane thoughts have left you. It’s like he managed to bewitch you—you’d do anything he asked. And so you nod and slowly slide off of him to the floor. There isn’t much space in the confessional and it’s all stuffy but you feel even hotter as you watch him lift the fabric of his cassock. Underneath are his usual tight pants and you can see the large bulge straining against the fabric. Dazed and body singing with lust, you can’t help but lick your lips when he unzips them, letting his cock free.

You stare at it and you feel his hand reach for your wimple and yank it off so your hair can spill free. The leather of his gloved hands is soft as a finger traces your face before a hand winds tightly in your hair to bring your head closer towards his flushed cock. Your hands grip his thighs as you lick the head, the groan that leaves Copia’s throat emboldening you so that you lick it again before gripping the base to take it into your mouth.

The hand in your hair tightens further and you lick the underside of his cock as you suck, teasing him as best you can. Every sigh and moan that comes from him feels like a prayer and you increase your movements even though your own sex demands attention. You can feel the wetness seeping through your knickers and you desperately squeeze your thighs together, the hand not pumping his cock digging into his thighs as you moan around him.

“Do you need help, dolce?” he growls from above you.

You feel him shift, forcing your mouth to leave him, as the toe of one his boots finds its way between your knees to press up against your cunt. Immediately you grind down against him, desperately trying to ride against the leather while your hand still fists his cock.

It’s not enough though and you feel he can sense your desperation in the way he laughs.

“You need more from your Cardinal, si?”

“Yes, please, Your Eminence” you breathe, grinding down against him again.

His hands move to pull you up on your feet and when he commands that you remove your panties, you do. Stepping out of them hurriedly and leaving them on the floor before he is tugging you back into lap and pushing the skirt of your habit up to bunch around your waist. He makes no effort to be gentle, gripping your hips tightly and positioning you over his slick cock before he is bringing you down. You are more than ready for him but it has been so long since the last time you had fucked anyone.

“Cazzo,” he hisses, one of his hands coming between you to circle your clit.

The jolt of pleasure has you sinking onto him further, opening you up to him so that he is fully seated within you. You moan as he continues to rub at your bundle of nerves, your hips grinding down on him as you try to take your pleasure. Your blood is boiling with a neediness you have never felt so acutely before and when you begin to ride him in earnest, he is matching your thrusts with his own.

“Good girl,” he says, the low voice making your cunt throb in response.

A gloved hand is back at your throat, holding you tightly and making your head spin. You feel lightheaded and your own movements become disjointed in the delirium surging through your veins. But it doesn’t matter, as Copia’s grip on your hips and throat have you held in place with ease as he fucks up into you.

You know you are going to come soon, you can feel the delicious tension low in your stomach and your spine tingles with anticipation. The easy slide of his cock in your cunt is addictive, and you can feel him swelling further, bringing you even closer to the edge.

When his hand leaves your throat to hold both sides of your hip and bring down against him so he can fuck you hard and fast, you come fast. Your hands grips at him, hands fistings in the fabric of his pelegrina as you lean forward to bury yourself against his neck. He keeps fucking you as your ride the wave of your release until you feel him spilling within you. You cling to him as he takes his own pleasure, muttering unintelligible Italian. Sweat is damp on your neck as his movements start to slow and the only sound left is both of your heavy breathing.

“Grazie, mia dolce,” he whispers, his moustache tickling your cheek.

You lean back to see the smirk on his face before awkwardly standing, suddenly embarrassed at what had come over you. You just fucked Cardinal Copia in the confessional!

“I—” your words falter and you look down on the floor, grabbing your wimple and trying to find your knickers. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

You pin the wimple back on your head while the Copia is waiting, not a hair out of place, as he smooths down the front of his cassock. You notice something in his hand—your underwear. You go take it but he tuts at you and pockets them with a smirk.

“Penance, Sister,” is all he says before opening the door for you.

It is much cooler in the empty church, a welcome relief on your heated skin and you can’t wait to return to your bed, unable to look at the Cardinal while his seed drips down your thighs.

You nearly jump when you hear a voice echoing in the silence. “Buonasera, I was locking up.” It is Papa Secondo, a set of large keys in one hand as he stands at the other end of the church by the large doors. You walk with Copia towards him, holding your hands in front of you.

“I was just holding confession with our new Sister, Papa,” says Copia smoothly. “But we are finished now.”

You don’t trust yourself to look at either of them and so you hurriedly offer a goodnight to both men before scurrying down the hallway and towards your room.

The next day feels like any other, though you are sore and bruised, you can’t help the anticipation of seeing the Cardinal again in your next lesson.

“Sorella!”

The voice startles you and you turn to see Papa Terzo heading your way, a bouquet of flowers in his hand as he comes down the hallway. He stops in front of you, gives an overdramatic bow that you cannot help but smile at. He proffers the flowers with a flourish.

“For you, bella!” he says. “I saw them out in the garden and had to pick them for you.” They’re dozens of red roses all neatly wrapped. “Did you wrap and add the card yourself too, Papa?”

“Si, si,” he says seriously but then he winks, earning a small laugh from you. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl!”

You spy Secondo heading your way as well and try not to let any embarrassment mar your features. There is no way he could possibly know what happened last night. He's scowling but he always looks like that so it’s hard to tell if he is actually upset or not. He gives you a polite nod.

“Sorella,” he greets with a small nod at you before glaring at his brother. “Idiota.”

“Secondo,” replies Papa Terzo, “as you can see I am busy talking to the lovely Sorella, andare via.” The older Papa sighs. “Non si disturbi.”

“Eh?” “Il ratto ti ha battuto.”

Terzo’s face immediately goes from charming to enraged. “Il ratto?”

It feels like both men have suddenly forgotten you are standing there. You do not wish to simply leave and so you stand there awkwardly, wondering if you should tell them you know of their ridiculous bet.

“Si,” says Secondo as Terzo starts to go red around the ears, “quel bastardo l'ha fottuta nel confessionale ieri sera.”

“Pah! Sta mentendo. Non può farmi questo... di nuovo!”

Secondo ignores his brother’s outburst and looks at you. His voice is much softer than how he addressed Terzo when he asks, “Sorella, I trust your confession last night with the Cardinal was rewarding?”

Your face colours immediately and you stammer out a reply. “Yes, Papa, it was.”

“Vedi,” he says to Terzo with a half hearted shrug. “La ragazza sembrava completamente fottuta e lui ne era completamente compiaciuto, il bastardo. Inoltre, entrambi puzzavano di sesso, Terzo. Non userò il confessionale finché non sarà pulito.”

Terzo glares at the ground. “Cazzo.”

“Mmm. È sempre molto più bravo con quelli silenziosi di te, quella piccola merda.”

They both look at you and you stand there awkwardly. Maybe you should say something and tell them you are flattered but they should not be betting on such things. But before you can even muster the words, Terzo gives you a tight smile.

“Forgive me, bella, but it seems there is a rat problem I must deal with.”

You watch them walk away, bickering in fast Italian to each other, as you stand there utterly confused.

andare via - go away Non si disturbi - Do not bother Il ratto ti ha battuto - The rat beat you Si, quel bastardo l'ha fottuta nel confessionale ieri sera. - Yes, that bastard fucked her in the confessional last night. Sta mentendo. Non può farmi questo... di nuovo! - He’s lying. He can’t do this to me…again! Vedi - You see? La ragazza sembrava completamente fottuta e lui ne era completamente compiaciuto, il bastardo. Inoltre, entrambi puzzavano di sesso, Terzo. Non userò il confessionale finché non sarà pulito. - The girl looked thoroughly fucked and he was utterly smug about it, the bastard. Also, they both reeked of sex, Terzo. I am not using the confessional until it’s cleaned. È sempre molto più bravo con quelli silenziosi di te, quella piccola merda - He’s always much better with the quiet ones than you are, that little shit.

#my-writing #the band ghost fic #fanfic #cardinal copia x reader #cardinal copia x female reader #fic: the wager #not my best but i did something!

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spdrwdw · 1 year ago

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Pairing: Dom!Miguel x Virgin!Sub!f!reader

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral-m/f receiving, hair pulling, choking, unprotected intercourse, no use of y/n

Summary: You and Miguel have been together for over a year, however, you have never been sexually intimate with him, nor with anyone, actually. You were a virgin. Miguel never seemed to mind, in fact, he's been rather patient with you. However, you believe now is the time to experience your first time with him.

A/N: this is my first Miguel fic! I do hope everyone enjoys it. I do have some ideas for more future fics. And I am currently taking requests. Also, thank you to @thel0velykey190 for the request. Note: this fic has not been proofread so apologies for any grammatical errors. *Translation for Spanish words/phrases and sentences will be at the end

Word Count: 2.7k

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“Wait, wait, wait! Are you sure about this? Like, one hundred percent sure?” Miguel asked you, eyes wide and brows raised.

You looked at him with determination and nodded your head. “Yes. Yes, I am sure. I’m ready for this, Miguel.” You have been pondering about this for days. Weeks, even. It was time. You were tired of your toys. They didn’t satisfy you anymore. But, you were certain that Miguel would. You knew he would. And he knew it as well.

Miguel stared at you for a moment, trying to find a hint of doubt in your expression, but he found none. And honestly, he was glad. He had been waiting months for this day. He was surprised he had such patience. Yet, with you, he would wait forever.

He reached for your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before he stood up from your living room couch, still holding onto your hand as he waited for you to follow him. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You got up and led him to your bedroom, feeling butterflies in your stomach. This was really happening. This is it. You were finally going to do it.

You were going to lose your virginity. To Miguel.

You’ve been dating each other for about a year and a half, and you had yet to be intimate with him. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. It was simply because well, you were a virgin. You have given each other oral countless of times, but, whenever things got too steamy and there was a chance of intercourse, you always stopped him. Miguel was experienced. Of course he was. And you trusted him. But, you were afraid that you wouldn’t be enough for him.

“Nena, look at me,” Miguel spoke softly, pulling you from your thoughts as he cupped your face with his hands.

“Don’t be afraid. Okay? Let me do all the work. I’ll be gentle,” he assured you before you shook your head.

“Don’t be gentle,” you told him. Miguel had confessed to you how he liked being rough. You wanted to experience it. Even on your first try.

“But-,” he started before you cut him off.

“I trust you, Miguel.”

He looked at you for a moment before nodding his head and led you to your bed before you suddenly sunk down to your knees in front of him, looking up at him through your lashes. You could’ve sworn you heard a low rumble coming from his throat. Miguel was easy to get riled up. And it made you feel a sense of pride.

He watched you as you removed his jeans, slipping them down to his ankles before he stepped out of them. The outline of his bulging cock was seen through his boxers. You continued to look up at him before you began to palm his bulge, earning a groan from him in response.

“Don’t be such a tease, nena,” he breathed.

And while you did love to tease him and make him whither under your touch, today wasn’t the day for that. So, you pulled his boxers down, letting his cock spring free and present itself in all its glory. The sight made your mouth water.

Taking him in your hand, you began to pump him, earning a couple of moans from him.

“Come on, pretty girl, I need that skilled mouth of yours,” Miguel rasped, a smirk lifting his lips as you made eye contact.

You did as you were told, opening your mouth wide, with your tongue sticking out and ready for him. Guiding his cock into your mouth, you gave the tip a couple of licks, feeling the saltiness of his precum on your tongue. It made your panties wet instantly.

It wasn’t long until you had him groaning and growling. You were bobbing your head, taking in as much of him as you could.Your hand pumping along what you couldn’t take in your mouth.

You felt a hand on the back of your head, lightly tugging at your hair, forcing you to look up and keep eye contact with him.

“That’s it. Just like that. Lo haces tan bien, nena. You take my cock in your mouth so well. I can’t wait to see how you take it in that virgin pussy,” he growled.

“Así. Chúpelo.”

His comment made you whimper onto his cock.

You could feel a bit of wetness pooling onto your panties from his words, imagining how he was going to feel inside you. How he would stretch you out so deliciously.

Swirling your tongue around his cock, you continued bobbing your head, Miguel’s cock twitching slightly in your mouth. When you grazed the shaft with your teeth, Miguel let out a raspy moan, tilting his head back.

“Keep going, nena. Just like that. Just like that for me,” he growled.

You continued with your work, taking in as much of him as you could til you felt the tip hitting the back of your throat, causing your eyes to water. You knew he was getting close as he felt him twitching again.

“Hold that pretty head still for me,” Miguel ordered, and of course, you did as you were told. He gripped onto your hair a little tighter, keeping you still as he fucked into your mouth. You kept your jaw slacked for as long as you could before he pulled out of your mouth and came on your face with a grunt. Keeping your mouth open and tongue out, you caught the streams of cum, licking up and swallowing every bit of it.

Miguel then picked you up like you weighed nothing and laid you down on the bed. He removed the remainder of his clothing before doing the same with you.

You let out a soft gasp as his lips began trailing down your body, giving you goosebumps.

Miguel always worshiped your body any way he could.

As he made his way further down, he pushed your legs apart, hoisting them over his shoulders as he made his way to your aching, wet core. Licking his lips, he spread your pussy with his long fingers, groaning at the sight of your wetness. Your smell was intoxicating to him and it made his mouth water.

“Miguel,” you whimpered out his name just before feeling his tongue lapping over your folds, licking and sucking and slurping your juices. He was a man starved.

You quickly became a whimpering, moaning mess underneath him, hearing the sounds of him just slurping up your pussy like it was some sweet. You could feel his teeth grazing at your bundle of nerves, tongue swirling around and slipping into your pussy.

Grabbing onto his hair, you gave it a tug, bucking your hips against his face, needing more.

“Miguel, please!” You cried out. “I need you, please.”

“Need you to cum on my face first,nena,”Miguel muttered against your pussy, keeping his brutal pace with his mouth and tongue.

You let out a whine, tugging onto his hair as you continued to grind his face, feeling that familiar heat pooling in your lower abdomen. Your thighs began to quiver a bit, back arching.

He then quickly slipped a finger inside of you, then another, then he had three of his fingers inside you, pumping into your pussy.

“Miguel!” You gasped, feeling him curling his fingers, hitting that sweet spot that made you see stars.

“Need to stretch you out. Gotta get you nice and ready for my cock.”

You bit your lip, feeling his tongue and fingers overstimulating you. It wasn't much longer until you came.

Crying out his name, you did as he had desired, spilling yourself all over his face, feeling his warm tongue licking you all up without wasting a single drop of you. You needed more. You were aching for him. You were ready.

Miguel crawled over your body, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your skin before kissing you feverishly on your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue.

He kneaded your breasts with his hands, pinching and tugging at the nipples, making you cry out into his mouth.

"M-Miguel..please..” you started to beg, trying to grind your drenched pussy against his swollen cock. You didn’t want to wait any longer.

A low rumble was heard coming from the back of Miguel’s throat from your movements. You were soaking his cock with your never-ending flow of juices. He wasn’t going to be able to stall much longer.

Lifting his head up to look at you, he licked his lips. Normally, he would’ve gotten on with it already. But, this was you. You were his girlfriend. His most treasured person. He wanted this to be the best experience possible for you.

Despite the lust-filled look in his eyes, he still looked at you with a bit of concern. He wanted to make sure you were really positive about this. He could wait. He would wait a lifetime for you.

You could see the hint of concern on his face and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down.

“I’m ready, Miguel,” you assured him, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips. “Go ahead.”

Nodding his head, he did as instructed. He pushed your legs apart and aligned himself to your entrance, teasing you with his swollen tip, causing you to moan.

Ever so slowly, he began to push himself into you, causing you to let out a gasp as you felt his cock stretching you out.

“You okay?” He asked, stalling his movements. Last thing he was gonna do was force himself into you.

You nodded your head. You didn’t want him to stop.

“Relax for me, mi alma. I need you to relax. I’ll be able to slide in more smoothly,” he told you, caressing your cheek before he slowly began to push himself in.

You did your best to relax. But holy shit he was huge! You thought he was gonna rip you in half.

But, after a blink of an eye, he was seated comfortably inside of you. “There you go,” he breathed.

“I’m gonna start moving, okay?”

You just nodded your head.

Miguel started to move, slowly at first, checking in on you before he gradually increased speed.

Until he was fucking you into the mattress.

“Oh, Miguel!” You cried out, clawing at his back as he thrusted hard and deep inside of you, his hand wrapped around your throat.

Your eyes were rolled back, your back arched. This was your first time and it felt so so glorious.

“Like that, nena? Like it when I fuck you like a little slut?” Miguel growled, very pleased that you were taking him so well.

“Y-yes!” You sobbed as he lightly tightened his grip around your throat.

“Fuck! This pussy is so tight and delicious. Sucking me in,” he growled.

He glanced down to where your bodies met, seeing how his cock disappeared into your pussy. He was going balls deep, smacking them against your ass. The sound of skin to skin filled the room.

“Miguel!” You cried out his name, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to your release.

“I’m gonna cum!”

“Cum for me, nena. Let it out,” he rasped against your ear.

“Want this cock drenched with you. Gonna fill this pussy up so good with my seed.”

You whimpered, closing your eyes before you felt a hand gripping your face. “Look at me. I want those pretty eyes open while I fill you up,” he ordered.

You opened them and stared up at him, not daring to break eye contact. His gaze made your pussy clench, causing you to let out a mewl. His thrusts quickened, knowing that you were teetering on the edge. Just a little more and..you came with a cry, singing his name.

Miguel moaned out your name, feeling your walls fluttering around him as you climaxed.

He gave you a couple more thrusts, his movements growing sloppy before he came inside you.The feeling was like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It felt warm as he filled you up with his cum, causing you to let out a soft gasp, eyes wide.

Miguel slowly began to pull out of you once he was done, before you grabbed onto his wrist and shook your head.

“Again.”

“A-Again?” Miguel repeated in question, eyes growing wide.

“Yes. I..I really liked it,” you admitted, blushing a bit as you averted your gaze.

Miguel stared at you for a moment before he finally let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “You are going to be the death of me, nena.”

And so, a second time became a third, which then became a fourth.

Miguel had you face down and ass up as he rammed into your swollen, sore pussy. Filled to the brim already with his seed. You let out muffled cries, your face planted into a pillow as Miguel hit that sweet spot again and again.

“¡Mierda! Had I known you were gonna love this so much..” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Who knew you’d be such a little slut for me, nena. It’s so sexy.”

Now that you were comfortable with sex and Miguel’s size, he wasn’t going to hold back. You had broken the dam.

“Now I’m gonna get to have my way with you whenever I want, right?”

You only let out a muffled moan in response right before Miguel grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head up, leaning down over your back as he continued his harsh thrusts.

“What was that?” He smirked, giving your ass a smack.

You let out a cry at the sting of his hand before nodding your head, feeling tears pricking from your eyes. “Y-yes!” You sobbed out before letting out a moan.

“That’s my girl,” Miguel growled, pressing you down onto the mattress to muffle your loud moans.

“You gonna cum for me, nena? Cum for me, pretty girl. Sé que puedes hacerlo. You did it three times already. Just give me one more and I’ll let you rest.”

You muffled a whine in response before Miguel grabbed you by the neck, wrapping a hand around your throat and lifted your head up. “Shh, not so loud. You’ll wake up the neighbors.”

“Miguel, please,” you whimpered. You could feel yourself getting closer to your climax.

“Miguel!”

Miguel grunted out your name, his free hand wrapping around your lower body, finding your clit and began to it feverishly.

“Cum for me. I want those sweet juices all around my cock, babygirl.”

Gripping onto the bed sheets, you came with a lewd moan, doing as you were told and covered Miguel with your climax as he continued to pivot his hips against you. The sweet sounds of skin hitting against skin, the sounds of his full balls hitting against your pussy, made you immediately orgasm again.

“Such a good little slut you are. Fuck, you’re so perfect,” Miguel growled before he emptied his seed inside of you yet again, filling you up til your overflowed.

Panting, you lifted your head up a bit and glanced behind you as Miguel slowly pulled himself out of you with a soft sigh. He caught your gaze and his look of lust faded away, giving you a gentle smile.

“I do think that’s enough for tonight, hmm?”

He laid down beside you, wrapping her arms around you and pulled you to his chest.

“Feeling okay?”

You nodded your head, letting out a shaky breath before smiling. “Yeah. I feel fine. Gonna be hella sore in the morning, but..” you shrugged.

Miguel laughed and nodded his head in agreement. “I suppose we did get a little carried away.”

“I liked it, though,” you admitted, feeling your face growing warm.

“Better than your toys?” Miguel questioned with a smirk.

“Oh, so much better,” you giggled, nodding your head.

“Thank you for being so patient with me, Miguel. And..I’m sorry I had you wait so long.”

He shook his head.”No, mi alma, don’t say that. I would’ve waited a lifetime for you. You know that. Yeah, I may have had my urges now and then but, you were definitely worth waiting for.”

He gave you a kiss on the forehead before pecking your lips a couple of times. “Get some sleep now. You’re gonna need the rest,” he stated with a chuckle.

Nodding your head, you nuzzled up against him and closed your eyes, letting sleep consume you.

Who knew you’d end up becoming addicted to sex.

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*nena -babe

*Lo haces tan bien, nena. - You do it so well, babe.

*Así. Chúpelo. - Like that. Suck it.

*¡Mierda! -Shit!

* Sé que puedes hacerlo. -I know you can do it.

*mi alma- mi soul

#miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel ohara fanfiction #atsv miguel #miguel o’hara smut #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara smut #miguel ohara x y/n

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bellawrites-kinda · 1 year ago

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a change in rules ; l.h.

summary: we all know the FIA allowed lewis to wear his earrings and nose ring during his races, but what if him saying that he has another piercing somewhere else wasn’t a joke?

pairing: lewis hamilton x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ smut/nsfw, oral sex ( f receiving ), unprotected sex, size kink kinda, breeding kink ( ? ), a lil bit of possessiveness if you squint

word count: 1132

a/n: i saw a tiktok ab this & went to google a bit about it and like

he did say it was a joke but yknow... what if !? also it does say that he wanted them to think that he had his balls pierced but i'm thinking more of a dick piercing like at his tip so... also this is pretty bad, i'm kinda new to writing but i tried !! so yeah i hope y'all like it, constructive criticism is appreciated 🫶🏼

you traced the outline of his tattoos, the dim lighting of your shared room making them ever so prominent. i love your tattoos so much, and your piercings too hands trailing down to rest on his toned abs, you focused your attention back on him

he smiled at you, and you felt the swarm of butterflies appear in your stomach. despite having been together for a year now, you always found yourself getting flustered over everything he did, from complimenting you, to merely going about his daily activities. he was your everything, and you were his.

i’m glad you like them he broke the silence, moving to press his lips against the skin of your neck i want to get more piercings, but i don’t think the FIA would be particularly fond of that, so his voice trailed off, now sucking on your neck lew... i thought you said you were tired- your voice cut off as you inhaled sharply, back arching off the bed slightly at his unrelenting mouth harshly sucking on your skin. he seemed desperate, desperate to mark you as his.

i missed you so much, baby. he murmured, voice low. missed your smile, missed your pretty face, missed this gorgeous body of yours, i missed all of you. the admission made your head spin, and you felt arousal flood your senses.

baby... we can do this tomorrow, it's late, you just got back, you need rest. you tried to stop him as his hands smoothed over the skin of your hips, the skimpy nightgown riding up. i've gone months without you, love, i can't take it anymore, please the desperation in his raspy voice was your downfall, stripping yourself of the nightgown and pulling him into a heated kiss. fuck.. you're so pretty he almost groaned as he positioned himself above you. your eyes rolled back as he kissed his way down your body, pressing wet, hot kisses on the inside of your thighs.

enough teasing lew, please you whined, getting impatient. please what baby, what do you want me to do he asked cockily, want you to eat me out, please you were practically begging. god, the effect this man had on you, the control he had over your body.

so polite he chuckled, before he shoved his head between your thighs, a few stray braids falling to frame his face. a high pitched moan left your throat as he sucked on your clit the same way he did your neck. fuck, yes, right there your eyes screwed shut as he slipped two fingers into you.

the combination of his mouth and fingers was heavenly, and considering you'd gone 2 whole months without feeling his touch, you were close already. baby, 'm close you managed to pant out in between moans.

your eyes flew open as he pulled away. want you to come on my cock he murmured, licking his fingers clean. you sat up, hands moving to pull his boxer-briefs off, his cock slapping his abs gently. you practically drooled as you wrapped your hand around the base. but what you saw was something you definitely didn't expect. your mouth fell open as you reached to gently smooth your finger over his pierced tip. you like it? he asked tentatively. i fucking love it, lew. oh my god you were breathless, awestuck by the way the piercing made his pretty cock even prettier.

you're so fucking hot my god... you praised before wrapping your lips around his tip, the cool metal of the piercing coming into contact with your tongue. but before you could take him deeper into your mouth, he'd pulled you off. need to be inside you he explained hastily as he practically manhandled you so that you were once again laying under him.

oh fuck the groan that left his lips as he pushed into you was nothing short of filthy. so fucking tight he breathed. fuck lew, please, i need more. you couldn't recognise your own voice, your brain was foggy from the pleasure coursing through your veins. he obliged, cock easily slipping all the way in you. he paused momentarily, giving you time to adjust to the sheer size of him.

you wrapped yourself around his body, hands resting on his back, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer. a silent request for him to start moving. his thrusts were fast and hard, slamming his cock deep into you, and pulling out, leaving only his tip in you before slamming back in again.

the sounds the two of you were making was nothing short of filthy. your moans and his groans, the sound of skin against skin. you clenched around him when his fingers circled your clit harshly. lew i'm close, you gasped out. come for me baby, come all over my cock. his voice was strained. your walls spasmed as you came, back arching off the bed.

even then, he didn't stop, his thrusts only getting faster. his free hand moved to grab your hip, his grip so tight you were sure there would be a bruise there tomorrow. a sharp gasp left you as he lifted your hips slightly, the change in angle only making him slip even deeper into you.

you close again already princess? i can feel you clenching around me. he chuckled, a hint of mock lacing his voice. you couldn't form words anymore, anything you tried to say came out as a moan or a whine. i've got you baby, just let go he soothed. you could feel his movements faltering as they became sloppier.

want.. want you to cum in me you managed to stutter out. yeah? you want me to breed you? fuck a baby into you? you only managed a nod in response before you felt ropes of his warm cum fill you up, the sensation triggering your own orgasm. your walls clenched tightly around his cock, milking his cock dry.

your body was limp as he pulled out of you, lying beside you. so, when did you get it the question slipped out as soon as you'd caught your breath. i've been thinking about it for a while, got it a month and a half ago he chuckled. what happened to the FIA not being happy, hm? you teased i don't care if they like it or not, i mean, if they stop me from racing because of it, then so be it. you smiled at his response, wrapping your arms around him and shutting your eyes.

you do like it, right? he questioned nervously after some time. i love it. you reassured, pressing a kiss to the piercing on his nose. he only hummed, cuddling closer to you as the both of you slipped into a deep sleep.

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton smut

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slowd1ving · 29 days ago

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INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW

“Think of what it could have been, Think of all the suffering, Nights of crying, wondering, Tell me what awe you’re in?” Deception comes second-nature to incubi; twisting serpents lay dormant in their flesh. This is truth. It is also true that for a wayward incubus, it is particularly hard to disguise one's demonic nature in the presence of an angel and an irritatingly sharp human. You don't recommend it at all, actually. I MADE IT BEFORE MIDNIGHT!! halloween babyyy!!! anyways I promised to deliver a halloween fic and I did :3 this idea lowkey came to me in a dream and I think it's singlehandedly the freakiest shit i've ever written edit: see I knew I was rushing to post when I forgot art creds Moze drawing by @ma_mori74 and sunday is by @nai_pizx pairings: angel sunday, human moze + incubus m reader (+ some foxian jiaoqiu) warnings: nsfw, male reader, voyeurism, lowkey stalkerish moze, mentions of death/hell etc, religious imagery wc: 16.1k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

. *࿐

Tinny music crackles in your earphones that knot haphazardly at your chest, almost in sync with the subdued spark from your lighter. The song isn’t particularly good (neither is the weather: a drizzle that always seems to drip from a perpetually ultramarine sky), but any shitty song would do to liven up the ambience of the smoking area in this particularly bleak corner of the campus.

It’s blue, you note boredly. The smoke, that is, mingling with the vapour wisps of condensed breathing. There’s a certain meaning to be found in standing outside in subzero temperatures, finding peak entertainment in the clouds produced from your mouth as if you were some child. You just haven’t quite found it. Meaning, that is.

You’re sure there’s one or two bad songs about it, if you scroll through the playlist enough.

Inhale. Bitter menthol washes over your tongue–you’ve long gotten used to the flavour. Of course, the glaringly red car that slows down on the road in front of you also helps in forgetting to appreciate any new notes of the stick between your lips, but you digress.

A window rolls down. The street-lamp glowing a frigid lazuline flickers precariously. You exhale, watching the smoke trace shapes over the bloody car—some boxy shape that could totally be used as a muscle car. These things happen simultaneously. These things also wash the murky taints of calculus from your mind and instil some form of amusement into your week.

If you don’t count maintaining your cover at a human university as being thrilling enough to regale anyone with.

Brusquely, a hand sticks out into the drizzle to wave at you—self-consciously, you wave back with a question clouding your mind. Though, it is almost immediately answered when street-lamp strains a bit more and you finally see the outline of an acquaintance you met while hauling boxes into your new dorm room at the beginning of the semester.

A tentative alliance, more like, with the both of you sniffing something off about the other.

“Yo, Jiaoqiu,” you greet back after he beckons you closer. His glasses are slipping off his face, and your hand itches to push them back up.

Of course, it perhaps doesn’t hurt in establishing closeness by being guts deep in him just a week ago.

“You’ll be there for the Film Fair, right?” he murmurs. You can’t possibly miss how his eyes flick to your lips briefly: how his pretty throat is wrapped tight with a scarf tonight to protect from both the boreal chill and prying eyes, how his glasses can’t seem to hide his incandescent gaze on the marks on your body, barely hidden by the loose shirt draped over you today.

He was on the culinary course, he’d told you a week ago, but you could’ve figured out that much from the exquisite breakfast he’d cooked for you in the morning: one you didn’t need to eat. Instead, the sanguine flesh of berries had ended up being smeared on his skin alongside the mellow cream—you could’ve surmised his degree from the divine taste of his body, easily. That, in your opinion, had been your best meal for a good while yet.

“You want me there?” You take another drag of your cigarette, watching him watch you. In his eagerness, your keen eyes pick up on the glamour disguising his fluffy ears starting to wane; and unbidden, a memory rises to mind of a night much like this. Those same ears, pressed flat to his head, with that lilt of his voice sounding far less confident.

A friendship is forged with a good fuck, you wisely conclude.

“Yeah, duh,” he breathes, and the vapour coming out of his mouth mingles with the smoke pouring from your own.

Or two.

“Send me the details,” you smile, a slanted one that mirrors your lax attitude. “You still have my number, right?”

Of course he does.

“Yeah, I do,” he clears his throat, almost shaking himself out of a stupor that he never noticed he was in. There’s a tense dance occurring between both of you constantly, and unfortunately for him, he can never quite outpace you. It’s present in the regretful line of his mouth as he glances at the time on his phone, the lingering gaze that traces your being, and the downturned mirage of his ears—as if he forgets that you can see through his glamour. “I’ll see you.”

“See you,” you return, savouring the rich scent of energy that exudes from him—one he can never mask, for he cannot himself tell that it even exists.

As the cherry-red Mustang—or whatever car it is—rolls away, you stroll back to the smoking area to appreciate the remnants of your cigarette: something you hadn’t been able to due to all the distractions, as you’d like to put it.

But all is not well.

Instead, you resume your road-and-cigarette-smoke watching only to discover another pair of eyes meeting your own from the shadows cast by the lamplight across the street. With the prussic overcast to the sky, you once more don’t recognise the figure afore you initially; until a car drives past and its glaring headlights reveal him for all but three seconds.

Moze.

You think you’ve seen him around Jiaoqiu several times—perhaps enough to rationalise that they are indeed friends, forged with something a bit more innocuous than a one-night stand.

But regardless of how you stand tangentially with your mutual buddy (or fuck-buddy in your case), the common threads that bind you also included that as of this year, he is your roommate. And classmate, too, in perhaps one of the most obscure classes to ever be known to man. If you had less of a spine, you might’ve waved—but as it stands, the wintry chill between the two of you suits you just fine. If anything, the fact that he hasn’t beaten you up for sleeping with his friend leaves a positively amicable aftertaste in your mouth.

Absent-mindedly, you stub the cigarette into the already-bleak wall, leaving a rather abstract trail of ash behind. His nose wrinkles in distaste, but you ignore it.

Is it a sin for an incubus to be any more addicted to human creation? Wow. You really should’ve been a philosopher.

Well, any more than it is being an abomination, you muse one final time, almost ruefully.

Almost.

. *࿐

This ill-fated relationship begins as it does ordinarily—by the two of you both taking an elective nobody else takes.

Well, more accurately, it begins the morning you see a poster for the strangest night class you’d ever seen.

Humans and their machinations.

This is truly a special version of hell.

Fragile wisps of breath condense in the autumn chill as you carefully read the poster pasted on the bulletin—formal black and white typeset, so painfully tasteless amongst the vibrant leaflets nestled around it. Though, the size eight lettering and bland format soon becomes the least of your irritations as your eyes wander down.

“What a joke,” you scoff incredulously, a bit too invested in your human persona to truly grasp that you’re losing the plot. Just a bit.

Really? ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ was granted approval to be introduced as a new class, whereas the Cryptology course had been defunded and subsequently discontinued? The thought burns your mind, your soul, your very being.

“How stupid,” you mutter, swiping open your phone.

The irritation surges, until it gnaws and bites at the cartilage of your sternum in a desperate attempt to free itself from the confines of your chest.

“Really, are they crazy?” you shake your head, typing your name right onto the form that finally materialises.

You may be loyal to your Cryptology elective, but it’s not like it ultimately makes a difference.

A class is a class, and your tenure in the human world relies on your ability to assimilate into this stupid place.

. *࿐

You lied earlier, by the way. The piddling number of students in ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ is not two, but three. Your moody roommate (whom you barely saw yesterday), you (who, as an incubus, really shouldn’t be here) and the distinguished Sunday (who is also weirdly out of place but in the opposite way). Honestly, he probably knows this too—glancing at the way your clothes are never weather-appropriate and always tousled as though you were wrestling in bed for a nap (given your nature, you probably were doing some form of wrestling), whereas his own shirts and slacks are always immaculately pressed and ironed. He’s even got a damn overcoat for every day of the week, for fuck’s sake. Honestly, you’re half convinced the guy’s running some cult.

Regardless of how mismatched the Professor’s three students are, the bigger problem is how awkward the lecture hall is when the damn chairs outnumber the students. You can barely concentrate on Professor Hopkins’ droning on selkie characteristics when you, Sunday and Moze are arranged artfully in an equidistant triangle from one another. Any more civil person would perhaps sit next to one of them to make the air a tad bit warmer, but you’re not even a person.

You’re a demon.

You think you can afford to be uncivil.

Or at least, it’s the very bare minimum of rudeness you should maintain. You’ve suffered enough askance looks from both of them (which they never seem to level at each other) to comfortably assume that they have some sort of problem with you that they’ve formed a business partnership over. Shaking hands, all for the pursuit of disliking you more efficiently.

During the next lecture on kelpies, it’s the same story. Even the damned coordinates of the triangle are the same, thus when you stride in a minute before the Professor, you make the creative decision to shift one chair to the left to ruin whatever coordination they’ve got going on. It doesn’t deign a glare, but you can feel the air grow even frostier. Amused, you stop paying attention to the information you could probably recite in your sleep, and instead decide to just people-watch the three sad individuals before you.

There’s Professor Hopkins—perhaps one of the most insane people you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. He’s human through and through: reeking of such a scent that would put most madmen to shame. Alas, this madman is perhaps one of the most unrecognised in the realm of mortality—considering only three people are taking his class, and a solid third is the very thing he is lecturing the dangers of. You’ve met your fair share of people who believe in monsters, but you’re amazed every time you walk into the elective: both by his zealousness and by the fact this class even got approved.

What a strange world the human world is.

There’s Moze. Over to your far left, and one row up—the perfect place to observe the whole hall, but also the perfect place to look like a weirdo considering there are only three students and one stout little teacher yelling his wee lungs out at the front. You don’t actually know why he’s taking this class, considering his other class is something on forensics. Or something. You’re not exactly on amicable enough terms to interact with him, but you’d hoped that you had a somewhat sane roommate.

It’s somewhat hard to hold onto that hope when he shoots you that look whenever Hopkins starts speaking. Actually, you can’t exactly see the look considering he’s behind you, but you can feel the white-hot stare pierce your back: rolling energy tainted with suspicion.

Perhaps it was stupid to disguise yourself in an institute of higher learning where one would hope its students had an ounce of critical thinking.

But you’re choosing to ignore his glare to protect your own peace. The only person who’d ever believe his deductions would be the madman lecturing now. Or not even him, since you’ve been such a model student—already knowing so much about these creatures of the night.

Then there’s Sunday. You’ve perhaps had half an interaction with the man, earning a polite, utterly distant ‘thank you’ as you arrived before him for once and held the door open behind you. Impeccable manners, straight-A student, and perhaps the most confounding. Your suspicions of him running a cult are only confirmed when you overhear he also studies Theology.

He’s polite. Very polite. A bit too polite, so much that it honestly creeps you out more than any eldritch stuck in hell does. Because, why be that courteous to someone if you’re not planning on sacrificing them? However, you’re half convinced that behind those eyes, he’s planning some elaborate exorcism that nobody apart from himself knows about. And maybe you now.

It’s unnerving.

Up close, the flow of his energy is human—too perfectly so. There’s never any malice, or anger, or even boredom that taints the low thrum running through his vessels. Yes, the base is undoubtedly mortal, but with none of the complexities that make up the average human experience.

He regards you with a similar look to Moze’s—fixing you with a stare that appears to be figuring you out and picking you apart. A scrutiny that should fall under its very own brand of suspicion, one that makes the heat under flesh and sinew only increase—for you don’t think you’ll be able to predict his next move, not if you can’t ever read how he truly feels.

Or maybe that is how he feels—and you don’t know if that’s more terrifying.

Unfortunately, these three profiles suggest your lunastic of a professor is the safest to be around, since the ebb and flow of zealousness pretty much remains consistent for each lecture (seriously, they approved this guy?). He poses a far lesser danger to you (the one who took this elective for fun) than the two other students (who took this elective for nefarious purposes, you’re sure). And he actually likes you; despite him conservatively eyeing the attire you wear in subzero temperatures, you’re a pro at his essays!

Alas, your propensity for avoiding your classmates has not worked out for you, you miserably conclude.

. *࿐

You should’ve stuck with your regular dinner of passively absorbing peoples’ horny thoughts like some weird fucking sponge.

You really should’ve, and now you’re cursing yourself as you morosely shovel what appears to be some inscrutable form of soggy college food past your stony lips. The food isn’t the problem, though any self-respecting college student would probably be wincing and picking at it rather than dispassionately taking bite after bite like you are. It’s a bit disheartening to know your cover could be blown from how you seem to truly appreciate the cooking, but in another life you’d argue your soullessness befits the statistics analysis you’re half-reading, half-doom scrolling past.

But the differential equations aren’t the fucking problem either.

The problem is the man sitting across from you. Or more accurately, across and one seat to the left, because apparently he’s gracious like that.

You thought nothing of the flash of soft, dove-grey that you saw from your peripherals at first—nor the fluttering scarf that brushed ever so slightly by your bare shoulder. You were, after all, too preoccupied with clicking and unclicking your pen in irritation at the thick stack of paper by your tray. A bit too preoccupied, but you look up and suddenly you’ve got a cult member all up in your face with way too many slices of raspberry cheesecake on his plate.

That’s what you notice at first, then you look up and it’s fucking Sunday of all people, resembling a word problem a bit too much with how many pieces are on his plate.

You disguise your shock. You hope it’s successful, but judging by his soft cough of surprise, you don’t think you are. Mind racing, you turn back to your own plate and equations, connecting some dots far better than others (judging by the mindless scribbles on the sheet). Just to check, you observe his energy fluctuations a little longer—they’re still as incomprehensible as ever.

Inordinate amount of food. Emotions you can’t read. A penchant for ignoring the finer points of human assimilation, such as staring at others a bit too fucking much.

“Do you need something?”

Quit staring.

Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet.

You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all.

Well, opposite and a seat away.

When you finally look back up, his usually cold gaze is even colder—you wish you never said anything, even if it’s making your concentration in statistics flounder. With bated breath, you pray it’s simply because he doesn’t like you, not because he’s about to possibly exsanguinate you—then you laugh at yourself because you’re a demon, therefore no god will listen to your prayers. No matter how earnestly you try, nobody will hear your plea.

No demon would knowingly provoke an angel like this, or at least you hope they wouldn’t. But you’re not most demons—you don’t actually want to be sent back down to hell.

You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has.

“No,” he finally replies. His voice is strangely soothing, but you know that angels are never depicted as the temptation your kind are painted as. And as your eyes flick to your surroundings, you notice that some of the people sitting nearby are glaring daggers at you for even breathing in his presence. You half wonder if he’s recruited them into his cult already. “Professor Hopkins told me to notify you that we’ll have a group project briefing for the next lecture.”

“Right.” And he couldn’t send an email? And this was important enough to break your silence for? And this merits your staring? The words, though poignant, die down on your tongue, but you’re sure he can feel the vexation contributing to global warming, just a little. Angels are unable to discern the rich nuance of lust and love, but even a plant would wilt from the shockwaves bursting from your tension headache. “Message duly noted.”

He does not leave like you’d hoped. His fork instead cuts deep into the raspberry cheesecake, and you watch it bleed out on his plate.

He’s no longer staring at you, but you know he is just as keenly aware of you as you are of him.

. *࿐

It’s not like you can avoid your damn roommate either, because that would probably raise more questions than you’re comfortable answering.

You’re thankful Moze’s quiet, though that gratitude is somewhat abated by him in general. He’s too quiet, and in contrast anything you say will be far more incriminating. And while he stays in his room most of the time, you can’t help but notice he seems to hang around on the living room couch a little too often whenever you stumble home late at night: reeking of a perfume not your own with kiss-bitten lips and a satisfied smile on your face. Like some fat cat licking its chops after a particularly gratifying meal.

Except you’re avaricious, and you come to the dorm often enough to recognise the pattern.

Not tonight though. Devil forbid you whore yourself out on a respectable Sunday evening (it’s totally not because the angel named thusly will know somehow, spotting the faint shimmer of tattoos, horns and a tail materialising in a brief mirage). Somehow.

On Sunday you rest. Or more accurately, you study from home—glasses carefully perched on your nose, pen substituting a cigarette as you teeth at it with canines a little too sharp to be comfortable. You can’t be expected to be biblical about it—for good measure, you crack open a bottle of red wine with it, drinking straight from the bottle as you stare down the thick pack of proofs that are due tomorrow morning.

It’s not hard to imagine why so many humans in hell become overseers, rather than good, hard-working demons.

Humans can simply be more evil and still convince themselves that this is for the better.

It may be foolish to display your vices sprawled in the living room armchair, but you blame both the wine, the record player you brought, and the sensuous ambience you’ve carefully curated in the space. Is it a sin to do work in an environment that makes your heart pump just a beat faster?

Well, the seriousness of your crime is weighed against the salient fact of the matter: that you’re trying to avoid your roommate, not maximise your chances of encountering him.

What a pickle.

You, like the hard-working demon you are, would prefer to not fail your degree and thus decide prudently to remain where you can wallow in both languor and academia. With cherry wine staining your lips, and the flicker of a warm cedarwood candle perched on the coffee table, it’s no wonder you’ve settled into a strange rhythm. Or maybe it’s something in the air, like the doleful sounds of old records you’ve collected throughout the years—ones you’ll always regretfully dismiss as replicas, but who knows?

What a pickle indeed.

Tonight, the roles have switched. At around ten, you hear the almost-silent glide of keys in your lock, and you brace yourself for the maelstrom that Moze’s presence will inevitably bring. Like clockwork, you scrutinise the flow of energy that you can dimly feel—only to be completely blindsided when you feel a distinctly familiar one beside it. Two presences that are much too observant, but one that’s withdrawn and almost curling in on itself, whereas the other flows with ease.

Brusquely, the door is shouldered open. You lock eyes with the Moze who prowls in, the Moze who is uncharacteristically gazing right back at you, the Moze who still for the life of him can’t soften that guarded expression that casts deep shadows onto his eyes. Then, despite yourself, your focus shifts to the one behind him—Jiaoqiu.

The waves radiating from the Foxian seem to expand on seeing you, and almost immediately the taste feels warmer as you absorb it—a perfect consistency you know he’s feeling as an embarrassed prickle beneath his skin. Even if you weren’t an incubus, you could put two and two together from his slightly parted lips, the peony gently brushing over his features like watercolour, and his tentative steps into the dorm.

He murmurs your name in surprise, and perhaps that’s the most conversation these walls have ever heard since you and Moze became roommates.

“I didn’t know you and Moze were rooming together,” he begins with that soft cadence of his. Subconsciously, you sit a little straighter—keenly aware of him, after learning the signs of his body so well.

But before you can reply, Moze answers for you—the most you’ve ever heard him speak.

“Didn’t get round to telling you.” Each word is heavier than you can comprehend, tainted with a bluntness that suits him. It makes your gaze snap back to his face, and you swear the corner of his lip twitches upwards before he turns to you to talk. “Hope you don’t mind me having him over for a bit.”

“It’s fine. I like him,” you shrug, and the corner resumes its neutrality once more. Not like you see it—you’ve turned back to your work as if there isn’t a gnawing hunger slowly uncoiling under fragile dermis, as if you can’t smell every speck of desire and bashfulness slowly undulating within Jiaoqiu. You do like him, and not just as a meal. His tongue cuts sharp, beneath his fumbling, clumsy touches that seem so graceful when not encumbered by sheets.

You just hope you won’t die of starvation before you wrap up the calculus. That would be an embarrassment for the ages.

Alas, you don’t actually end up finishing your work. The sanguine liquid pooling into your mouth may not be enough to intoxicate you, but you can feel a pleasant warmth buzz through your veins. Of course, there’s warmth from that and warmth coming from sitting close to two heated bodies in a tipsy screening of some horror movie you’ve never seen.

Calculus can wait another day. When Jiaoqiu stumbled from Moze’s room with a sweetness on his breath and a tight grip around your wrist, you gladly let yourself be rescued by the surprisingly strong Foxian. He led you right back in, and you were practically floored at how easily you just… stepped into the space, with Moze simply eyeing you rather than that cautious glare he so often wore.

The Foxian pushed you into soft carpet, and you could feel Moze’s body tense up as your side collided with his own—the floor space was just about large enough for three guys to sit, but he made no move to move, thus you attributed it to the buzz he felt.

It’s dark.

It’s dark, and you’ve got your reticent classmate on one side of you, and the acquaintance-or-not on your other, practically curled up into your body with how he’s draped himself.

Naturally, you don’t end up paying attention to any of the movie—some flick you think you saw a century ago. Sure, the screams are totally realistic, but who can blame you for being distracted? You’ve got the object of your avoidance on one side, and then someone you think is deliberately pushing himself into your ‘hungry’ radar.

You would be quite partial to imploding, but unfortunately that is not a power you possess.

But despite all your gripes, this is nice in its own, painfully ironic sort of way.

. *࿐.

Of course you don’t end up stealing a kiss outside the building—Moze taking the opportunity to clean the bathroom obsessively while buzzing from the liquor, while you walk Jiaoqiu out.

Of course you don’t mean to, but you’re drunkenly complaining of the professor for your statistics module, and he’s merely gazing. When the sun’s long gone to its slumber—and the only light available is the halo around your head from the flickering streetlamp—who can blame him for the way his eyes drink your pout in, the way he’s getting lost in the way you smell? Menthol cigarettes and something sweeter, something his nose picks up that could be caramel but could also thrum deep in your veins to intoxicate others.

He cuts you off when it gets too much for him, right when you push your glasses up to continue to ramble comfortably.

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—”

You swear up-and-down you weren’t planning this; you’re taken completely aback as he surges, pressing you up against the rough brick of the building. He’s warm, you think deliriously—with his hand cradling your cheek and his other nestled in the back of the loose pullover you’re wearing, you’re warmer than you’ve been in weeks.

It’s not desperate, but you can feel the build-up of emotion behind it: taste the cherry on your breath, the tequila on his. Alcohol may have prompted this, but even a fool could savour the heavy yearning on his tongue.

“Jiaoqiu,” you mumble, but he merely tilts your head, nipping at your slicked lips with an eagerness he only seems to display when it’s the witching hours. He’s shorter than you, yet tonight he’s the one caging you in an inescapable lock—so hungry, so avaricious and naturally, you oblige, raking your hands in his pink hair.

You taste blood. You taste life as you feel his steady pulse against your body, lust as he groans and melts into your touch, desperation as he entwines his arms around you with the sole goal of pressing himself into you even further.

You are equally insatiable, gradually feeling the vivid colours flow from his tongue onto your own.

You are equally gluttonous, but your work isn’t going to finish itself and you’re quite a good demon, if you do say so yourself.

You are equally voracious, and perhaps completely degenerate, yet still you wistfully and regretfully ease your lips from his—though your hands remain white-hot on his body.

It’s enough energy to get through the rest of this day and then some. It’ll do. It has to do.

“I’ll see you at the Film Festival,” he murmurs, but the two of you know the encounter between you both will be sooner—a clandestine encounter between sheets, in fact.

He’s walking home, so you watch him disappear into the night—and when his small figure is swallowed up in the void space between street lamps, you watch a little while longer.

Unbeknownst to you, someone else has been watching this entire time too.

*࿐.

Film - demons, seduction, succubi and incubi, you scrawl in your notebook, already feeling a healthy dose of apprehension, amusement and mild horror at Professor Hopkins’ chosen group project.

“...due a week from now. Since there are only three of you, why don’t you boys work together?” Clearly, he is impervious to the chill that still lingers between you and your fellow classmates—the triangle is still at its maximum area, and you don’t envision it changing any time soon. Horror upon horrors, he then adds something that makes you shiver in your seat. “I’ll play it as our department’s submission for the Film Festival.”

Once more, you wonder how the department was approved in the first place.

Then, the thought slips your mind as you first lock eyes with Sunday, then Moze only a minute later. I’m screwed. You don’t think you’ve ever been on such a tightrope before: wildly cartwheeling your arms back-and-forth while dangling over a fatal precipice. You will not survive this—not the research on incubi, nor the actual group project.

You can only pray your two intelligent classmates do not put two and two together for once. After all, you’re the mathematician out of this mismatched trio. Any semblance of hope you had at making it through the year is slowly dissipating.

*࿐.

“…edit it documentary style. It’s professional, organised, and will suit the Professor’s tastes.” Sunday’s mellifluous voice washes over you as you sit in the campus library with your classmates, desperately trying to look engaged.

It does not work.

Sunday’s fountain pen wavers in the air and turns on you, and your heart jolts and skips past a few beats—it looks far too close to a weapon for your liking, and you would not trust an angel with a dagger for the life of you. Or without the dagger. He does not inch it closer, but it’s rather an unconscious mirroring of his thinking that betrays that he’s about to scold you for falling asleep. You’re thankful for the table that separates the two of you, but you fear wood can only do so much to counter flames of divine punishment.

But before he can lecture you, Moze beats him to it. And for the record, you don’t know how he ended up sitting right next to you, and you’d like to complain.

Leaning across his chair, he gets unnecessarily close to talk to you, and it’s not like whatever he’s saying is important.

“Do you have anything to add—” and here his leg ghosts up against yours, but you don’t flinch. At least, you don’t think you do. “—or did you not get enough sleep last night?”

His voice is low—enough that there’s an undercurrent of tension without him even trying. You choose not to reply directly to him; instead, you look at Sunday once more, and you swear you feel a spike of irritation from the angel. But, surely not, right?

Mulling your words over, you carefully select a sequence that won’t land you a one-way ticket back to hell. There’s a certain trick to this, you see—and that’s crossing your fingers and thinking of an escape plan in the event you fail, or the shameless cowardly demon approach. It may not land you a spot among the Lieutenants, but it sure is better than being skewered by some angel.

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace.

“Uhh,” you wrack your brains, before settling on the first thing your mind falls upon—yesterday night, all cozied up with Jiaoqiu. Fuck. “A horror movie.”

You can feel Moze’s stare burn into dermis, sizzle a bit, then singe your very bones.

“That’s an— unconventional idea,” Sunday coughs, and you remind yourself that angels are way meaner than you’d expect.

“If you think it’s ill-founded, then I would like to remind you our professor’s maturity doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll enjoy an orthodox style,” you argue, suddenly remembering that angels are also ill-suited for debates and ‘gotchas’, and also that incubi can honey their tongue to saccharine degree.

Fuck. You’ve really spent too much time in the human realm.

Before Sunday can get a word in, you keep talking, desperate to look enthusiastic to discuss incubi and possibly give yourself away. “If it’s being entered into the Film Festival, a mockumentary or a horror film could be both informative and entertaining. Or even a silent film.”

“It’s succubi and incubi,” Moze mutters. “If there were more people I’d bet there’d be one group submitting porn.”

You stifle a cough, but you don’t think you did it well.

“What, with Hopkins as the intended audience?” you glance at him, and see the traces of laughter on his mouth, and suddenly your own feels somewhat dry. Just a little.

“Yeah, imagine,” he matches your airy tone—and the proximity forces your heart to lapse. Just a little.

Sunday’s glare bores into both of you. “Can the two of you take this seriously? We are absolutely not doing that.”

If you ever forgot he was an angel, this is a poignant reminder. Should you squint, you think you can see a faint halo around his head, but that could also honestly just be the library light causing the incandescence.

“Yes, which is why we should do horror or a mockumentary,” you interrupt. This is the only fight you’d ever attempt with an angel, and boy do you deserve a medal for it like the humans do. “The topic isn’t particularly… uh… safe for work, so horror would convey the right message that we investigate in each class, while still having space for detail. Think something like found footage horror films or something.”

“You raise a good point,” Sunday deliberates—if there was anything good to say about angels, it would be that they are gracious with their concessions. Some concessions. “Fine.”

Fine.

With glee, you save the moment to brag about when you next visit downstairs. I got an angel to agree with me.

But simultaneously, you compose your face, knowing the next item on the agenda will inevitably be the very topic of the proposal.

Suddenly, you no longer feel the glee of just a minute ago.

Oh shit.

*࿐.

The most abject misfortune in your long life, it should be duly noted, does not in fact occur that particular night.

It occurs the next night. Perhaps it was too much to ask for when you pleaded for just this year: uninterrupted, normal, uninterrupted. It might’ve stemmed from you spamming omg on social media too much, but it’s not like you could realistically use any other alternative without getting flagged as suspicious. Call it a habit caused by humans, or whatever.

Disregarding the blasphemy, the day starts normally, and gives you hope (ill-founded, you know). Like all mornings, you begin with breakfast, a coffee and a cigarette outside—and a quick dose of Moze’s early-morning glare. As with all days, you ignore it—but there seems to be something underlying beneath its surface. Something deeper, as if he’s trying to figure you out; as though his eyes are meticulously stripping away your dermis with forensic precision, paring away sinew from your bones and finding the interweaved remnants of your blackened soul.

It’s a Friday, with exactly one morning lecture on probability—then a project research session with Hostile and Hostiler in the comically empty lecture hall.

Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile.

Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork.

The bowl of cereal from this morning does nothing to suppress the ravenous feeling that’s slowly taking over your mind. It would be fine if you didn’t have a morning class, but alas nobody ever seems to hear your prayers as you sit through two hours of quite possibly the most onerous yammering you’ve ever heard—and you’ve heard the Avatar of Pride yap.

Every day your hypothesis seems to be proved right—humans would do a fine job running hell.

But no one will ever listen to the humble incubus, you muse as you sling your books onto your bed and pick up the folder you’ve compiled on incubi, succubi and demons of seduction. It’s detailed, but everything is neatly cited and completely untraceable to your brains specifically. If you rang up your friends and falsified a few sources along the way, who could possibly be able to tell?

Strewn within the sheets is some inaccurate information. If they correct you on it, it’s all well and good, but perhaps even better if they gain some misconceptions along the way.

You don’t mind cheating a little in academia, if the subject is idiotic enough.

And if your perfectly perfect human life stays intact because of it, you don’t mind being a little unethical with your information practices.

Just a little.

Irregardless of your questionable academic ethics, you’re beginning to feel light-headed by the early afternoon. Some would say it’s karma for defiling the sanctity of this fine learning establishment, but you know full well it was the measly kiss you’ve had as a proper meal—something insubstantial and far too light to count as a true dinner. Jiaoqiu was more of a snack, and already you’re reminiscing over the flavour of his lips.

Really, you should be a gourmet.

…It’s also becoming increasingly clear that your thoughts are veering substantially off-track, though who can blame you when your head is beginning to throb and your mouth is becoming more parched by the minute.

You don’t think it’s ever been this bad before, but then again you’re one of the oldest of your species—your full maturation is only moons away. Or more. Or less. It’s hard to conceptualise the time of the underworld when you’re on the surface.

Tonight, your skin will likely burn like molten rock, reshaping and rekindling you into a form better than yesterday’s. Hunger will only intensify the process, making it far more painful. And you are hungry, with a body practically screaming at you to absorb some emotion. Anger. Hatred. Misery. All of these are copious in this highly pressurised environment, but these are fleeting on your tongue—bitter and grainy and not worth the effort of satiating yourself with.

The clock is only ticking forward. You can’t not make it to your project meeting—that would for sure rouse the angel’s suspicion, and you cannot afford that. Not tonight. Not any night, actually, if you can help it.

You don’t want your time here to end.

With each step towards the door, your ribcage feels like it’s about to swallow you whole—so insatiable it might’ve been easier for you to be labelled as an Avatar of Gluttony instead. Not a lot of sand remains in your hourglass, though you’re not stupid.

There are contingencies for times like these.

Jiaoqiu has class, you wrack your brains. If there’s anyone…

It would probably be the Avatar of Lust who’d be able to help you—you think you’ve seen her several times around before, feeling the familiar ‘fingerprint’ of demons amidst a crowd of human energy.

The walls are far too grey as you roam the halls. At some point, you think you start seeing the people you pass morph into a singular identity, filled with the same struggles, crises and misery as everyone else.

It’s barely enough to sate the throbbing that beats in tandem with the seconds—a dull ache that only grows more poignant with time. If you tried, you could probably manually take your mind and crack it like a pomegranate to quell the pain, but alas you haven’t quite figured that one out yet.

There.

“Wow, you look a mess.” Bleary-eyed, you watch as the colours coalesce into a faint figure, but it may just be delirium. Her cold hands brush across your face and tilt it from side to side, and you hear her whistle lowly at the heat from your skin.

You think you’re delirious.

“Most definitely are,” the woman shrouded in purple replies. Can she read minds? “Poor little incubus, babbling his little heart out. So, what will it be? I can bring you the finest strains of human joy and wreckage, or I can send you straight back from whence you came for your metamorphosis. Pretty boy, I could even get you set up for the night with a few humans.”

Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.

“Got a meeting for a group project right now,” you slur. Your sluggish register of your surroundings makes it impossible to sense the faint, familiar energy so far off in the distance. It’s a soft dove-grey, and utterly neutral—so removed from the filth of the human realm that you’d stop and admire it any other day. “Could you make this go away for a bit? I’m screwed if I don’t.”

“Oh?” Lust bursts out in a too-loud peal of laughter, slamming her hand on the wall behind her to stabilise herself. You wish someone would do the same to your head. “I see. I’ve heard the rumours, but I didn’t think you’d be this deprived.”

She doesn’t make any sense, you note wonderingly, but strangely her giggles make you slightly more reassured.

“I make all the sense,” Lust informs you. “What a rude little demon you are. But don’t worry—”

Her nails dig into your skin, and you feel the air grow slightly colder, as if some equilibrium has finally been disrupted. Or maybe you’re stupid, and you’re finally succumbing to whatever this process will require.

But she glances behind you, and brings your face closer to hers a brief second later. “—I just found somebody very interesting to help you out, and I barely need to do anything to help you.”

“What?” you mumble. The strange feeling you’re getting from the distance is growing stronger. Just a bit, but you don’t really think it matters.

What truly matters is that your group project meeting is only twenty minutes away, and you’re barely holding on to the wisps of your sanity that still linger.

“You haven’t been very helpful,” you add, but then her eyes roll exasperatedly and Lust kisses you with all the weight of a butterfly. You don’t think you’ve ever kissed anyone this casually, as though it’s the absent-minded brush of powder across one’s nose, or the faint tap of blotting lipstick. She tastes like the rich last bite of cake, and she pulls away with the speed it typically gets eaten with.

“Uh, thanks?” you mutter perplexedly, for the emotion of other demons simply doesn’t satiate incubi the same way other species’ do, but it is appreciated nonetheless. At least, it temporarily soothes the faint pounding of hands against your cranium like an Ibuprofen does a head-splitting migraine. She’s still close to your face, and you can see a self-satisfied smirk slowly unfolding under that maraschino gloss—all pink and conniving.

Lust. What a strange woman she is.

“I think you’ll be fine,” she whispers one last time, before traces of bergamot and vanilla seep into the candy-tinged air. She really doesn’t make any sense, you drowsily reaffirm, but before you can ask her to elaborate on her cryptic message, something vice-like tightens around your wrist and wrenches you from Lust’s clutches.

You’re being dragged, practically, by something attached to a soft pearl-hued glove. A hand. No, a person. No, an angel whom you were so careful to not touch—who is now gripping onto your arm as if you could possibly run away.

It takes you precious few sand grains to realise the true gravity of the situation.

Shit. Shit shit shit. To make matters worse, your lucid thoughts are limited to only one section of your brain—the rest are all struggling to keep up with his fast pace.

“What’s wrong?” you ask the wall of grey before you, and for a brief moment you think you see the flash of a halo in the dim hallway. You think you can feel the impenetrably icy wall of his composure crack, just a little.

But that’s impossible.

Angels aren’t subjected to the sorrows of human experience.

“Sunday.” You say his name for the first time, tainting the angel’s identity with a tongue that has been coated by filth and sweetened with the most saccharic honey. “Sunday.”

He casts a long look over his shoulder, one that reflects his usual disapproving stare. Without looking, he easily fits the key into the ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ lecture theatre, and you must remind yourself once more that this is the most simple of child’s play to a being like him.

“It is time to work on our project, is it not?”

Can he feel your fever? Can he feel the tense energy that you’re struggling to control?

Your eyes slip past him onto the clock, which still indicates a good ten minutes remain until the pencilled slot. “Almost. Moze’s not here, either.”

His grip tightens, minutely. “He’ll join us later. I’ve asked him to purchase some film and get a better camera from the Media department.”

Then, he lets you go abruptly as though burnt—you’re left clutching your folder and with a profoundly confused expression on your face.

“Right,” you mention awkwardly, rubbing at your wrist and wincing at the painful feverish heat you’ve been emitting. There’s still that awful dry feeling in your mouth, but you’d rather keel over and die rather than give yourself away in front of an angel. “No time like the present, am I right?”

“That truly is the principle we should strive to embody.” Sunday’s voice grows muffled as he carefully rummages around in the cupboard at the front of the auditorium—you take the opportunity to both pat your back for diffusing the tension, and place your folder neatly on the large table that also loiters at the front. You’d normally take your seat at the back of the lecture hall, but tonight the eve grows dark and the only light is the harsh fluorescent one that shines from above and casts only the table in a clinical ambience.

“We can start slightly earlier,” he murmurs, closer than you anticipated, standing right behind you as you sink into the swivel chair by your research. You fight back a scream at his sudden appearance—the unexpected pop-up of an angel never bodes well, after all.

“That’s… not a problem,” you smile, ignoring the pounding headache that seems to have decided to make itself known once more. “Do you want to compare research first to make sure we’re on the same page?”

“Naturally.” His voice is slightly lower than it normally is, and you attribute it to the lull of the lecture hall and its secluded location within the building. Even on the most busy of days, you never actually see anyone walk past the glass windows that panel a strip in the door—you swallow nervously at the thought of being sequestered here with an angel. “Is it alright if I record the behind-the-scenes process of our progress?”

“Like to bolster the found footage feeling, or using it to bolster the mockumentary?” you probe, trying to conceptualise his earlier ramblings of sending Moze off for a better camera. He appears to notice the puzzling expression you sport.

“There was a rather grainy camera in the cupboard here. We should record with both to compare the texture,” he explains, and you accept it with relative ease.

After all, angels can’t lie. “Alright.”

He murmurs something under his breath, a low ‘perfect’ before he’s setting the camera up to capture both of you.

Perfect.

The word lingers in your mind. You don’t quite know why.

*࿐.

“....incubi are thought to feed on the life force and emotions of their victims, and may also cause sleep paralysis. They are male demons who seduce their victims, particularly women, and have sexual intercourse with them,” Sunday pauses. You’re acutely aware of his knee brushed up against yours, how he monitors your face and notes between reading out whatever he’s written in neat, looping handwriting.

He’s warm. He’s warm, but you’re scalding to the touch: feverish and more than somewhat delirious. Sunday’s words fade in and out like the two of you are underwater; you can only curse at Lust for misleading you, as help is nowhere in fucking sight. Instead, she’s doomed you to be stuck with an angel scrutinising every move you make.

“That’s what I got too,” you mumble, shuffling your sheets to find the relevant information. Your glasses slip down your nose, but before you can push them up, a pale glove gently slides them up your face—and you startle. “Ah, thanks.”

“No problem,” he smiles, yet it doesn’t reach his pale eyes. “Did you get any more information?”

“Not that I can think of…” you trail off, mind going blank at the most critical time. “Sorry, I’m a bit under the weather tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles, but there’s something that’s sharper than usual in the cloud of energy surrounding him. Something off in the angel masquerading as human, in the computer designed by the creator. “I’ve already got some ideas on how to portray these ideas in the film.”

There’s a slight sheen on your face—half nerves, half the fever that’s consuming mind and body at a ferocious pace. With glazed eyes, you can only nod.

“Poor thing,” he hums, sympathetically distant in the way only angels can be.

Something’s wrong.

The cold back of a gloved hand touches your forehead tenderly, like if he were cradling the divine metal of his weapon.

“Didn’t get enough emotions lately?” he asks condescendingly, and you freeze.

“What?” you squint up at him through the lenses, still trying to play it off—but really, you’re attempting to process what he said.

“I’m joking,” he smiles once more, but there’s something awfully false in the curl of his lips—something wrong and twisted in how his hand shifts to cradling your face in his palm. Still so gentle, but now with a terrifying sort of control that was not there a mere second ago.

“Right,” you mumble, peering up at him with wide, hazy eyes. It’s no longer the fluorescent lighting that’s hurting your eyes—but rather the emergence of a halo behind his head that you force yourself not to react to. That would be a dead giveaway.

You can barely breathe. No longer does oxygen circulate through your vessels—there is only the thick undercurrent of tension you swallow, only the suffocating grasp he has on you, both physically and mentally.

Too close. He’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong, as though you aren’t a filthy demon and can still be forgiven if you merely clasp your hands like the humans do and confess your sins.

Hell is filled with humans like these.

“It must be so hard…” he breathes. A soft, gloved thumb strokes your cheek, feather light, but you barely feel it over the hummingbird thrum of your heart and mind beating in sync. Like trapped prey, you’re honed in to each and every move; and like trapped prey, you’re wondering why the executioner chooses to trace the path of the arrow over your body.

Your tongue is leaden.

There is nothing you can say to save yourself.

“It must be so hard being a demon,” he purrs with that quiet, lenient tone of his.

A feather brushes past your cheek; the angel’s wings have now unfurled.

An Archangel.

You pray your end is quick.

His hand moves up, and with demulcent grace, he thumbs the ridged edge of the horns that spiral from your head, ones that you didn’t even notice had appeared.

Your mouth opens and closes, but embarrassingly the honeyed tongue you so valued has failed you with your neck on the line.

“Now, now, you didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you?” he soothes, and you feel each and every ministration the Archangel delivers to the manifestations of your otherness on your head.

This only feels more cruel—a disturbing mercy to grant a prisoner about to be executed.

“I…” the sinner closes his mouth, already knowing it’s futile.

“You,” Sunday repeats, tilting his head. The halo tilts with him—large, unblinking eyes interspersed with smaller ones, all honed in on you. They’ve all got the same psychedelic quality, and in any other life you may have been fascinated with how they gaze so earnestly at somebody’s soul. But not tonight.

Tonight, they’re the eyes that will see through you and judge the very mettle intertwined with sinew and flesh and blood.

“Please kill me quickly,” you murmur. Perhaps the Archangel will grant you a final mercy that’s never afforded to even the most pious of humans. The uncertainty of death is infinitely long—grain upon grain upon grain of sand. If your soul burns up in those divine flames angels so like to use on your kind, you’re not sure you’ll even regenerate back in hell.

His hand pauses—it’s settled on top of your head now, brushing past the hair and merely resting upon it. He’s not looked away from you all this time: watching how your eyes grew wide with denial, with fear, and now how your eyelids lower with the weight of resignation. What a heavy burden, he may be thinking, but you wouldn’t know for it’s impossible to guess what an angel thinks, and an Archangel specifically.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Slowly, experimentally, his gloved hand bows your head far enough that you’re forced off the chair and onto the ground with your knees scraping the frigid linoleum. Like this, you’re a sculpture of repentance: hands desperately clutching each other, lips open in what appears to be grief, and perhaps the anguish of the unknown that resides deeply in each pupil. Of course, if you were human that would be one thing, but on your head lie two jagged horns, sweeping the ground is a long tail, and inked across your arms and lower back are constant reminders of your sin.

You are an abomination masquerading as human, gazing up at the being who holds your lengthy life in his hands.

There’s a painful sort of irony in this situation.

You can’t even beg for your life.

“Poor little lamb,” he repeats, with an empty sort of pity in his eyes. Empty, for what you’re finally feeling rolling off him in waves isn’t pity, nor sympathy, but something that makes you believe you’re truly hallucinating. Maybe the shock made you go mad.

He leans down to examine you, and the wings that flutter—nestled in dove-grey hair—brush carefully over your face, with softness you still remain puzzled by,

Bitterly, you smile at him—a wretched thing, tasting acerbic and of your birth on caustic brimstone.

“There’s no point in dragging this out,” you mutter, too tired from the pain of your growth and the exhaustion of fear to prolong this any longer.

There’s a sudden jolt of irritation in the tranquil waves emanating from the angel, and you’re starting to think that maybe that first emotion you felt from him wasn’t a hallucination.

You glance up finally, and the expression on Sunday’s face is mired by shadow with a faint flush beneath it: like he’s the one besieged by a fever and not you.

“I could help you, you know,” he breathes, and it’s then you’re able to finally put a name to the feeling clouding whatever the hell was going on with his energy waves.

Lust.

There’s also something so painfully ironic about this—the emotions you’re absorbing from an Archangel are enough to snap you out of your trance. In fact, their purity and abundance are hastening your transformation—he’s aiding you, and the very fact makes you quiet.

“You won’t survive even if I don’t kill you, demon.” His gaze is cold, but he’s entrancing.

You focus your attention on his legs spread in the chair—the pressed and meticulously ironed grey slacks he wears in particular. They’re soft, wool-blend, worth several thousand easily. Imbued within each strand is the intrinsic scent of him: the bergamot, the vanilla, the faint vestiges of cake. But beneath that is a clean scent—not quite the fragrance of fresh laundry, but one that seems to perfume the air with sunlight.

He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.

“Go on,” he goads, voice all breathy. An Archangel far too used to authority, who’s currently cradling your life in glove-covered hands.

“Sunday,” you murmur, trailing a finger along the neat crease in his slacks. While he stares down at you stonily, there are monumental cracks in his composure that you detect—the tensing of his thighs, and the sudden spike in vitality from your readings. “You really wanna make a mess of these?”

His face flushes a more delicate pink, yet to his credit the angel doesn’t waver at the implication.

“They can be cleaned, can they not?” He’s pristine. Without a doubt, you ruining the almost sacrosanct cleanliness of Archangel Sunday signals a shift far too corrupted.

You swallow, resting your hands right where each thigh is plush with muscle. He’s watching: every move carefully documented, every sin filed away, every blasphemy to be recited at the confessional. The first wrinkle in his clothes by your fingers marks the irreversible transgression you’re about to commit. The camera, too, silently records this clandestine affair.

(“Will your creator see this?” you want to ask.)

(More importantly: will he forgive you, Archangel Sunday?)

You wet your lips, tasting the residual cherry gloss that lingers on the flesh. He keeps vigil: taking in how your tongue darts out, how you lower your head until your cheek is a mere breath away from his thigh.

He feels it, the hot air slowly being blown onto the muscle—as evidenced by the further hues decorating his energy. A twinge of impatience now taints the otherwise unsoiled intensity; it causes far more marvel in you than you would’ve thought.

Every minute shift of hands against fabric is distinctly felt. You know this—you see it in his slacks growing a little tighter, in how his chest briefly stops its rise and fall.

Sunday is no better at playing an angel than he is at playing man.

Pointedly, you peer upwards as you let your mouth finally osculate the fabric. Once soft, grey and perfect, they are now stained and mired—an ever-tangible reminder of the decision of two non-humans in this lecture theatre. You hope the camera captures the small, strangled noise Sunday lets out—something halfway betwixt cough and splutter, approximating to a gasp.

Kiss after kiss you press to his thighs, inching closer and closer to his half-hard dick: so agonisingly slowly you can hear his teeth grind in frustration.

“Incubus,” he breathes in a horrified sort of fascination. “You’re doing this on purpose—ah—”

You easily cut him off, letting the heat from your mouth linger on his hardon as you gradually unzip his slacks: tooth by tooth, until the poor man practically shivers in his seat. No, you forget. Archangel. There’s an Archangel whom you’re scraping your knees for—whose undiluted energy is allowing for you to safely undergo your maturation. This situation is ludicrous—only spotted in the most sordid of underworld printings, and even then you’d be hard-pressed to find something as blasphemous as this.

His fingers wrap tightly around your horn, and you suppress a groan at the frigid sensation. Maybe if you were a better man, you’d keep your composure and remain sluggish for him to get used to every new sensation.

But you are neither better nor man, so you ignore the thought. Instead, you increase your pace, just as he so desperately wanted. Hooking his briefs down, you take a moment to appreciate his hiss as the cold air hits him, followed only by how pretty his dick looks in the fluorescent light: flushed the same delicate pink cast across his features, trimmed neatly and already a drop of pre is pressed against the very tip like pearls.

“You’re evil,” he gasps as you experimentally twist your hand, and the length of flesh twitches. You smile.

“You think?” You finally speak, gently circling the flushed head with your thumb.

His amber eyes glare down at you like two suns, and that is perhaps the warmest you’ve ever seen him. Those boreal fingers practically fracture your horn as he squeezes, and you glare back.

“Taking advantage of a defenceless demon,” you chide; every syllable is accompanied by the motion of your hand as it begins moving up, then back down again. Sunday bites down on his lip, clearly attempting to stifle the sounds that would no doubt emerge when you speed up. “How shameful, Archangel.”

“Mmh–” Sunday shuts his mouth, and the camera takes it all in: how you lower your mouth to the head, licking the salt from his skin and the pre, and how he squeezes those slacks around your shoulders—fuck. There’s heat crawling all under your skin like millions of fire ants.

You move deeper, rocking yourself against the floor to quell the ache in your lower stomach: sucking and using your hands at the base to elicit more of those sounds from him. He tastes like rays of light on a cold winter morning: a clean energy you can’t help but swallow eagerly, ravenous for this stupid, misguided angel. Your hands roam his thighs, the smooth curve of his waist, and finally settle right where it begins curving into his plush ass: gripping the fat tightly as you continue taking him down your throat.

“You were born for this, weren’t you,” he mutters, and you can hear his wings flutter and rustle at your ministrations. His low voice forces your eyes shut, but it’s not just that. Gazing at the long strings of precum that are leaking down is beginning to stir unbearable warmth in your chest, while your breathing is slowly becoming more laboured as you choke on his girth. If anything, you’re the one getting off on this: tightening the muscles in your thighs to keep feeling that dull ache in your gut.

He notices.

Of course he does; those hawkish eyes that shine from his face and from his halo are attuned to every little move you make, every little sigh that leaves your nose.

“How shameful,” he mocks, echoing your previous words. Adjusting his leg, he presses a polished shoe against your bulge, and you moan around his dick.

Fuck.

He rocks the sole onto you, hard; you can’t help but grind up into the impeccable leather, already feeling a damp patch growing on the front of your pants. Each sensation is only exacerbated by the lack of airflow caused by his fat cock in your mouth—amplifying your senses to a dizzying, heady state.

You’re gazing with teary eyes right up at him, and you swear he throbs in your mouth; but the thought leaves just as quickly when his hand comes to cradle the side of your face, wiping the salty liquid away with a gentle thumb and bringing it to his own lips to taste.

“You want to get off too, huh?” he coos sympathetically: a pink tongue darting out to lick his thumb clean. In tandem, his foot presses even further down, and you can feel the frigid linoleum press up against you.

“Ah,” you choke around his dick. No words dribble from your lips, but Sunday feels the plea regardless. Those gloved hands of his pull you off his length with a pop and retract just as quickly. He grabs your arms as if he were handling a ragdoll—sitting you up on the desk in front of him as though you only weighed that much—and you need to remind yourself that he is not human, he is something far superior in strength and agility.

It’s also aptly demonstrated in how he handles the buckles of your pants: deftly and expertly opening each clasp with monstrous speed, before tugging on them until they pool on the auditorium floor.

You shiver.

“Go on,” he encourages. “Since you so clearly can’t focus, why not entertain me?”

Why not entertain me?

“What?” you mumble, but he levels you with a stare that feels far more sadistic than anything you’ve faced before. You’re not faced with a human, nor the warmth of your fellow demons—but rather a damn Archangel that’s making you feel more exposed than ever.

“What?” He’s the picture of innocence, though he’s got his dick in his own hand now—keeping his hand slowly moving as he speaks, and your eyes hone in on the motion. You can’t help but focus on it, how it looks against the pearl-white glove, how it tasted in your mouth. “You’re desperate, aren’t you?”

His words and the crude tone behind them stir a coiling tension in your stomach; you can only stare at the sudden change.

Angels, too, can be deceptive.

“Go on,” he repeats, tilting his head. “Here’s your opportunity.”

Damn it.

Hesitantly, you pull down your boxers: exposing your cock that’s slowly been dribbling precum in your pants, exposing everything to the angel. Heat rises to your face, but his eyes on you also make the heat pool at your gut; you can’t help but slip a hand down your body to wrap around your dick, so desperate to be attended to.

The effect is immediate. With a hand already slicked wet, the tight grip you have on yourself, and the voyeur who’s watching each and every one of your moves with his pairs of eyes, it’s apparent you won’t last long. You gaze at him, embarrassed, with a face sheened with sweat and eyes clouded with lust on your own.

“Sunday,” you bite out—the fist he’s making clenches ever so slightly, and you think his breath hitches.

He reaches over for the camera, tilting it towards you and capturing each and every expression, every single moan you let out as you succumb to the soothing rhythm of getting yourself off.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and you feel your abdomen tighten. “But you can hold on a little longer, right?”

Your eyes snap wide open as a slick, gloved finger trails the curve of your ass and around your hole; Sunday’s expression is of utmost concentration as he records each minute detail.

“What—ngh,” you whine as he probes just the fingertip in; the glove has been dampened by his precum already, but still feels so powdery and dry as it slowly enters deeper. He’s cold, and his fingers are downright glacial; the sudden change in temperature has you tightening around the digit as your hand flies to steady yourself on his shirt.

So close.

You can feel his breathing fan across your face; it’s shallow and reeks of lust, the kind that’s always the most dangerous.

“Keep going,” he hums, gradually pumping the finger in and out until it’s almost completely covered with the wet precum leaking from your tip and down your cock. The burn in your abdomen is indescribable—you can barely focus on the simple, mindless motion of up and down, when he’s so close like this, when he’s pressing another finger right in and stretching you out with ease that belies his inexperience.

In. Out. In. Out. You can barely breathe with the pace that he’s setting, seeming to deliberately miss that particular spot inside you that would end this oh-so-quickly.

The camera captures it all: the oozing, non-human precum that trails and coats his gloves, the careful scissoring motions he’s doing to ease you open, and the desperate heaves of your stomach as you fight off the tightening of your abdomen.

“Sunday, please,” you moan, and you jolt as his fingers pull out and the same damp hand wraps around your tail to bring it to where he was just mere moments ago. Sluggishly, you barely register what’s going on until he opens his mouth—and his proximity makes his words reverberate and coalesce in your sternum, tightening your very chest.

“I won’t do it all for you,” he croons, but he’s setting the camera on the desk next to you and adjusting his gloves once more. Your scaly tail is further pushed in, and the strange sensation forces your eyes back into your skull. What the fuck? The Archangel uses your own tail to get you off, and the conflicting sensation between your legs and inside you is hurtling you towards an orgasm you don’t think you’ll ever forget.

But he’s not done.

His wet hands trace up your sides, bundling the shirt you’re wearing until it’s at your neck. “Open wide.”

Blearily, you do as you’re told; fabric is shoved into your mouth as he uses you to hold your own shirt up, while he appreciatively hums at the metal pierced through your nipples. Cold, slick hands massage your tits, and even with the thick wad of material in your mouth you can’t help but moan loudly.

“So sensitive,” he mutters condescendingly. His thumbs brush rough circles against the pierced nipples, and involuntarily you feel your legs tighten around his waist. He’s callous with his motions; it’s slowly growing overwhelming for you, what with the tail stuck inside you, your hand still moving, and now his hands stimulating the tender skin around your chest.

It’s not until you look down that you see his dick rubbing up against your own, and the sight almost makes you let go right there and then.

“Mmph–” you groan as he lowers his head to your chest, rubbing one areola affectionately while his tongue swirls around the other.

With the hand now freed up in place of his mouth, he presses both your dicks together tightly, just barely moving his hand for the minimal amount of friction.

You think that makes it worse.

Tears leak from your eyes uncontrollably, and the tautness in your stomach feels as though it’ll claw out by itself if you don’t let go.

You move your tail just a whisper—it’s growing unbearable, just how overwhelming the rush of stimuli is. Sunday’s teeth graze your tit in such a way you desperately grit down on your shirt to not cum right there and then, but it’s growing impossibly hard when the motions of both his hands speed up: stroking you both in such a way that rubs precum everywhere and feels like fucking heaven.

You mewl as he bites down on the flesh, hard, leaving a throbbing mark as he laves his tongue right over it.

“Please,” you babble incomprehensibly through the fabric. “Sunday.”

His gaze meets your despairing one.

“Poor little thing,” he whispers, which only blows air over the saliva-slicked area and forces even more tears from your eyes. “Go on.”

He wrenches his hand particularly tightly, and you wail—a choked, garbled thing that comes right from the chest. Your back arches as your orgasm washes over you and blinds you for a brief moment: mind completely blank with only the purest form of pleasure hazing it, scalding robes of white staining your shirt, his shirt, and ending up on your face.

“What a mess,” he murmurs, rocking his hand as the waves hit you with full force.

“Ah—” you sob out as he continues through the waning ebb and flow: your legs twitch around him, and you’re sure he can feel the shallow, heaving breaths you’re taking to desperately cope with his continued movements. Your tail slips out from between your legs, and the sudden exit is followed by even more white dripping down your legs and onto the desk.

“There, there,” he coos. “That wasn’t so hard, was it now?”

He peels off the ruined gloves and tosses them to the side, tenderly wiping away the tears that streak your face—you’re still reeling, still feeling the aftershocks of intense, mind-ruining pleasure.

What the fuck?

He handles you like a proper lover—an absurd scene between lowly incubus and overmighty Archangel—settling his hands on your waist in something that could almost resemble an embrace. Some bastardised, corrupted version of one, anyway.

He’s not your lover.

He’s not even his own person.

You meet those deceptive eyes: as old as you, yet far more lonely.

“Is it my turn now?” he asks, a smile curving on his face like it truly was nothing that you witnessed in his amber gaze.

The Archangel, true to his inquiry, lulls in his movements: body freezing in both motion and temperature, while he tilts his head in a silent question. Do you want to continue?

The nature of an incubus is simple. Every act of consuming energy inevitably makes the incubus far more alluring, while it naturally replenishes whatever fatigue the demon has.

In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…

Well.

Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido.

In response to his question, you wrap a scorching hand around his dick; now a furiously flushed red, with a desperately leaking tip that’s practically begging for attention.

“Not like that,” he says lowly, and it’s not until he’s lifting you with strong arms and sitting you on his spread thighs that you vaguely realise what he’s doing. “You’re nice and stretched out now, right?”

Those long fingers of his trace the slope and dip of your waist, rubbing small circles in wait of your response.

This can’t be Sunday’s first time, you instead wonder; those piercing amber eyes of his make you feel the blushing violet instead. His heavy gaze burns where it lands: taunting and prickling your skin with a nervous fire that further kindles the one that revived in your stomach mere moments ago.

“Need something?” He tilts his head, and the taunting smile stretching on his face brings up the words you spoke all those days ago.

You scowl. “Shut up.”

“I think—” he trails off, lifting you partially out of your straddle with ease. Even as your mind goes blank, you feel each and every sensation that fires within your neurons. “—you have a problem with being honest with yourself.”

“Stick to your theology degree, angel,” you bite out, looping your arms around his neck to stabilise yourself and your racing heart. You quit breathing, momentarily. There’s something hard pressed onto the bottom of your thigh, imprinting stiffly and hotly into the flesh like some brand; naturally, you squeeze your eyes shut. Waiting. Anticipating Sunday’s movements, just as he anticipates yours.

“Which psychology is studied in,” he returns, goading you. He’s got his hand underneath you now, adjusting himself but still not pushing the engorged head in. Your frown deepens. “What, no please?”

“You can’t seriously be lecturing me about manners right—ah—”

Your sharp nails dig into the muscle of his trapezius as he cuts you off by stuffing the tip right in; he groans low in his throat at how damn tight you are, but also the feeling of poignant pain that’s beginning to sting across his shoulders.

You think you can smell the faint coppery scent of blood, but you only half-feel bad.

“You have a damn problem in not listening—hng–to others,” you pant. He’s tightened his grip on your ass, kneading and squeezing so tightly as he struggles to control his own breathing. The two of you linger in the lull for precious few moments; it seems time has capriciously stopped for the pair washed in fluorescent light, so desperately entwined yet ever at odds with each other.

“And you think you’re any better?” he counters. If you were more lucid, you’d be able to properly understand the tension in his arms and how he leans fully back on the chair, letting those wings brush past your body and practically engulf the two of you.

You shiver.

“Yes,” you hiss indignantly. “I actually—fuck—

You paw uselessly at his chest as he slams you down, and your sore throat lets out a choked out wail at the sudden sensation of being filled to the hilt—stuffed so full you almost feel him in your throat.

Each vein, each stupid ridge is vividly felt with every motion—his chest urgently rising and falling, your own spiralling into a sweat-slicked display of ecstasy, and his face. It contorts into the basest expression you’ve seen yet: flushed, mouth half-open, with a burning gaze honed right onto your own.

He looks like sin itself.

Sunday’s losing his composure, fast (you are too).

“Fuck—oh, shit, Sunday.” Imprecations cascade from your lips like waterfalls as the angel begins his movements, building up from a slow roll of his hips to accustom both of you to the sensation.

Like this, with his face mere inches away, you can’t help but stare a little at his face—honed in on his soft lips that wobble despite his struggle to keep his composure.

You wonder what they taste like.

Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?

His lust-stricken gaze darkens somewhat as he appears to look over your shoulder briefly, but you’re too lost in the way he’s rocking himself into you to notice. But you do notice when his soft hand slides up your spine and cradles your nape. You do notice when he pulls you down so his breath mingles with yours–as he searches your eyes for any signs of discomfort and finds none.

“The fuck are you planning?” you murmur, and this time he actually lets you finish speaking before he cuts you off. Except, this time, it differs from his usual modus operandi. One moment, you’re staring intently at the angel beneath you; the next, he’s capturing your open mouth with his, and the effect is instantaneous. You moan into his mouth upon tasting him: not quite placing the saccharic flavour, but he’s fucking divine.

He’s languorous with his motions—to any outsider, it would look like he’s done this a thousand times and still wishes to savour the rest, pulling you so you’re finally flush with his chest.

You’ve never kissed an angel before.

You may not even be alive right now.

It’s only natural, then, that your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts to kiss him more deeply to relish in this final mercy. He’s biting at your lips, and the iron tang of blood combined with your dick rubbing against the soft material of his shirt begins the slow spiral into maddening pleasure.

You cannot see. Your eyes are shut, thus the only semblance you have of the visual situation is the light shining through the blood vessels in your lids; not the way Sunday isn’t looking at you, but glaring at the door far behind you.

Practically on cue, it opens, and you hear the clatter of wood against wood—someone stumbles in, then abruptly freezes in place.

Eyes blown wide open, you attempt to pull away from Sunday, only to have his hand keep pressing firmly against your neck to keep you in place while his mouth begins exploring lower down your neck.

The person behind you doesn’t leave like you expected.

“Ignore him,” Sunday breathes against your neck, and it’s then you look to your left and see your roommate shrouded in the shadow not reached by the clinical lighting. He’s holding a camera and film, and clearly fell into the room—judging by his hand steadying himself on the desk, and from what you can see, the dishevelled look on his face.

What you miss, concealed by the darkness, is the deep red flush that mires his face, and the straining hard-on against his pants.

“What the fuck?” you attempt to sit up, but Sunday’s next words make you freeze in place just like Moze. “Moze?”

“Did you enjoy the show?”

The question is quiet, but Sunday’s soft voice makes it carry across the auditorium regardless—and despite its polite form, the cadence beneath it hides a frightening sort of irritation. No surprise like you might’ve thought, but exasperation.

“What are you talking about?” you mutter, but it’s hard to concentrate on your roommate when Sunday’s busy thumbing your slit.

“He’s been watching for the past few minutes. I was wondering when he’d reveal himself,” he sighs, less bothered than you would’ve thought—what with the horns coming from your head, and the wings and halo sprouting from his own body.

Moze is human.

He’s human, so you finally turn your eye to him and watch him make his way closer, until you can easily identify the most prominent emotion that radiates from his body.

Lust.

You swallow. Despite the new information, you’re not a mind reader. You can’t tell exactly what Moze is thinking as he sits just a few seats away, irritably tapping a finger against the camera he’s holding.

“You’re early,” Sunday comments, making sure to sit up so Moze has a full view of how well you’re taking him—and the angel doesn’t miss how you tighten around him.

“Did you plan this?” Moze’s voice enters the hall for the first time this evening, and Sunday definitely doesn’t miss how the low reverberations make you practically flutter against him.

“So what if I did?” the angel replies boredly. “It’s not like you haven’t figured out who I am. And it’s not like you weren’t eagerly lapping up what was going here when you were watching us through the door.”

Moze stays silent, but you swear you can hear your roommate’s teeth grind as he shifts in place—and this time, his bulge is prominent in the blinding lights. The sight, though Moze doesn’t hear, makes you whimper quietly in Sunday’s ear; the angel’s eyes turn to you, each and every pair.

“What a slut,” he murmurs, and you shiver at his tone: so crude, so mocking. “You just can’t stop, can you?”

You moan as he tightens his grip around your weeping cock and slowly begins circling a stiff nipple with his other hand. On your back, you can feel a burning stare, and the knowledge that Moze is getting off on this only makes you feel it deeper in your gut.

“You’re lucky he’s all hard at the thought of someone watching,” Sunday coos, and through your hazy thoughts you barely work out if he’s talking to you or Moze. His thumbnail presses right onto the side of the head—which makes you almost fucking writhe—before you flop onto his shoulder in a daze.

Sunday goes quiet as he focuses on moving; it seems he’s said all he’s needed to say to the man, and you really don’t mind having an extra energy source to draw such salient waves of lust from. With that being said, you take the opportunity to sit back up and gaze at Moze while Sunday’s moving his pelvis beneath you—only to find that he’s already staring at you.

He’s pretty like this, you realise, dazed. His pupils are almost completely blown out as he takes in every inch of you; there’s hardly any hints of opalescence left in those eyes. Deep cerise coats his cheeks, and he’s almost trembling as he keeps vigil of the scene afore him—with hands that desperately crack the arm rests, intensely avoiding his lower body.

His breathing is in tandem with your own. Shallow. Fucked-out.

Those pretty eyes of his flick up to meet your stare directly, and you tighten around Sunday; he’s hissing and digging his nails into your waist once more as he manoeuvres you. As if to distract you, he slams himself deeply in—and you fucking buckle as you sob out a moan, blearily watching while the man at your side picks up the camera he came late because of and looks through the viewfinder.

“Perfect,” he breathes.

The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.

“Fuck,” you sob; the harsh tug of Sunday is gradually overwhelming you, and the quiet snap of each photo numbs your mind. You know Moze’s getting each shot in detail; his meticulous nature comes through in the way he murmurs ‘just like that’ and ‘beautiful’—syllables that only contribute to the heat you feel in your body, spreading effortlessly throughout your face.

Any train of thought is cut off when the angel’s lips brush against the junction of your shoulder, and he bites. Sharp pain will undoubtedly be followed by a deeper bruise, but in that moment the ache makes the wave of pleasure increase twofold.

“Sunday—ah,” you groan, knotting your hands in his grey locks. “Please.”

You don’t quite know, in the end, why you’re begging.

You don’t, but when Sunday pulls back with his soft mouth stained red and a hazed look in his eyes, you think you’ve got it figured out.

Snap.

Blinding white goes off behind your eyelids as you slam your lips desperately into the Archangel’s. He tastes of iron, of an intrinsic saccharine flavour that nobody else could possibly replicate.

Snap.

With each roll of his hips against yours, you feel him lazily pressing up against that spot inside you—inch by inch, building up on slow pleasure that trickles viscously through you like honey.

Snap.

You lock eyes with Moze, and the intense look he wears while he gazes at you feels like he’s parsing through the layers of dermis, sifting through the nerves and sinew, and finally exhuming your bones and tendons. It’s quickly driving you past the brink, everything about him is. His laboured breathing, the way his eyes remain honed on you despite the faint agony tainting his deep lust.

Snap.

“Right— there,” you choke out. Moze’s still staring, absorbing each minute detail: the sheen of sweat on your body, the way your torso and legs tremble as you attempt to keep it together, and perhaps most poignantly the expression on your face as you stare at him.

Snap.

“Perfect,” he repeats, and it’s this particular version that finally pushes you over that precipice.

You sob out as your vision blurs, pawing uselessly at Sunday’s chest. His hands are firmly back on your hips, letting you rock the waves out—uncaring of the white ropes that ruin his shirt, or perhaps savouring them instead. Or perhaps he’s not paying attention. After all, you hear him swear for the first time since meeting him, and a mere moment later you feel spurts of heat leaking into you.

He shudders. By the god you don’t pray to, this angel groans so sweetly as he comes—that fact alone has you twitching around him.

More.

He still hasn’t softened, but that isn’t enough.

By chance, or maybe the best timing of your life, your eyes land on your roommate again—his eyes, too, meet yours through the screen on the camera.

Snap.

“Moze,” you whine, and the camera ceases in its photo-taking and filming. Well, except for an image of you looking so sweetly at him as you call his name out.

“What?” your laconic roommate murmurs, standing and casting his shadow over the two of you.

What a joke this is: a human watching an entangled demon and angel, and being completely captivated by it. There’s a buzz in his veins tonight—some from an awe-ful sort of fear at having his conjectures confirmed—but most of it is from the object of his desire finally within his grasp. An insufferable idiot, he may add, but one he cannot help but be captivated by.

Maybe he’s the fool, reaching for the moon, but tonight he no longer feels so foolish.

Your clawed hand fists his shirt, and he swallows: stone-still, watching with bated breath for your next move.

What will you do?

He gets his answer when you drag him down: tasting of blood and that inexplicable caramel sensation you always seem to carry. Your tongue is hot against his—impatient enough to keep your mouth open, but he is too. His hands, cold from the biting wind and the frigid irritation he’s been building within, fly to cradle your face.

Moze has enough sense to memorise this feeling of your lips on his, moaning and twining a lazy hand around his neck.

He thinks he feels a particular angel glaring at him, but it's none of his business, really.

“He’s not enough?” he mocks when you pull back, poignantly aware of the front of his pants ever-so-slightly brushing against you—how he fucking bites down on any sound attempting to escape his mouth.

“Don’t you want me to help you out?” you slur your words, clearly dazed from getting fucked by his stupid classmate. Yes, he wants to say, but he feels like some damned second place prize. Your hand brushes his crotch, and he bites his lip—hard—until the skin breaks and warm blood runs down his lips.

“Shit,” he hisses. Moze’s self-control is normally iron-hard, but it’s been so incessantly worn down today by two certain idiots that he can’t help but let the damned thing snap. Within moments, his hand is deep in your hair, tugging as he nips at the flush of your lips—letting copper entangle you two together in something he hopes can twist your fates together forever, even if he ends up in hell for it.

“Ah—Moze,” you groan, and it really doesn’t help his situation: dick pressed against your side, painfully hard due to a combination of factors that all have you (in bold, capital letters) written all over them.

He can’t help it. He really can’t.

He can’t help it when you pump him from base to shaft with hands far warmer than his—he can’t help stealing your lips away from the angel you’re still fucking riding. He can’t help it, either, when you gaze at him like that—he just has to press his tip against your ass. You’ve been complaining about it not being enough, haven’t you? What’s the problem?

There’s a mutual agreement between human and heavens for just this night. That being, to make you spiral into a mess.

Thus, Moze doesn’t baulk at the thought of sharing this night—not when you’re sinking down on both of them, not when the added tightness makes his head black out for a moment. Fuck.

That’s all his brain is clinging to.

How fucking good you feel—how warm your back feels pressed to his chest. He’s desperately trying not to bust, doing so by biting over the mark in the juncture that damned angel left. If you ever think of the man in front of you, you need to think of him too.

This is far better than any stupid porno—astronomically so than fisting his cock and imagining you in his hand’s place.

Moze buries his face in your shoulder, letting his hands roam around your body—supple skin that yields beneath his greedy fingers. His hands find your nipples, rolling and twisting the peaks to hear you let out sounds far louder than what he’s heard so far. That little fact makes him smile despite himself.

On the other side, Sunday’s grown accustomed to how your breath hitches when his finger scrapes past a particular vein on your weeping cock, how your pupils dilate just a little more when he squeezes particularly tightly. No, he’s grown accustomed to you—all the small tells of your body. It’s why he endures the arrogant human across from him, for all humans deserve grace.

They do not know better.

It’s just for tonight, he rationalises. If he wants to successfully remain undercover to achieve the goal of his operative, he must not do anything to draw attention. That’s why he’s helped you out, nothing else.

Angels cannot lie to others.

It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves.

Despite Sunday’s heart that skips a beat whenever you look his way and all you see is him, he doesn’t acknowledge the racing thrum of the organ. In fact, as he’s sucking and licking marks into your skin as a reminder of this—of your sin—he reminds himself that he’s doing you a favour.

He’s doing the rest of the pitiful humans a favour as well. The more he takes up your attention, the less time you have to seduce them.

Actually, this is probably the most rational solution for getting one of the oldest incubi under control.

Good job, Sunday.

A plethora of broken imprecations are forced out of your mouth as they slam into you—when one slips out half-way, the other nails your prostate, over and over and over. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full—not by any other demon, and certainly not by any human.

This counts for your mind too—stretched tight by what seems to be an eternity of satiation, and perhaps on the verge of breaking. You’ve forgotten the name of your project, the class you’re in, and why you’re here in the first place; and these broken trains of thought are interspersed with the quiet flash of the camera as it captures your fucked-out state.

“Please.”

It seems to be a permanent fixture on your lips, though you still don’t know what you’re asking for. No, you do know—more.

More, as streaks of white stain your thighs and drip onto the cold linoleum floor. More, as your lips bleed from the number of times you’ve been kissed, and kissed them yourself. More, as you wind up on the outskirts between consciousness and unconsciousness.

You’re barely lucid—having gone through a metamorphosis safely—but they seem to be more insatiable than you are. The energy store that pulses behind your heart has never experienced such satiation; in your drowsy state all you can focus on is the drunk high you’re getting off this.

It’s well into the night now, and perhaps the only thing that fully snaps you back into consciousness is the feeling of something wet laving away the mess between your legs—Moze. His tongue is warm as he clears the salt and white globs from your thighs, and when he sees those eyes of yours finally focus on him, he leaves a chaste kiss pressed against the side of your leg: continuing while you drowsily stroke the strands from his sweat-slicked forehead.

Only then are you aware of the warmth at your back: the angel behind you holds you fast to his chest with wings that envelope the two of you in a damn cocoon.

And finally, beside you and displayed on the laptop on the desk, is a video file paused with the name across the title bar:

The Catching of the Incubus.

*********

There has long existed a pact between a certain human boy and a pink-haired Foxian. Well, it’s not truly a pact, but more like a casual agreement that’s never been broken: the exchange of emergency keys, for the two trust the other will have his back.

It’s used today, when Jiaoqiu’s looking for the culinary textbook he left the last time he came around, a mere week ago. He may have been frustrated with himself for it, but there’s something about coming to Moze’s dorm that he looks forward to each time—and if he said the incubus that lives in the room opposite the reticent man’s, he wouldn’t be lying.

In any case, nobody’s home.

Jiaoqiu quietly slips his shoes off, checking first the living room. Nothing. Your room? Also nothing, though he lingers a little longer and takes in the burnt caramel scent that pervades the space—one that’s only gotten stronger, it seems.

Moze’s room it is.

The first thing he sees is the thick book, neatly aligned on Moze’s dresser with a meticulous pile of forensic texts. The next is two cameras, tucked away on the shelf behind it. They’re just sitting there innocuously, but Jiaoqiu’s curiosity is piqued. The man seemingly never takes interest in things other than crime scenes and keeping everything tidy, so the Foxian carefully picks up one and turns it on.

These Succubi Suck, the file reads, and he’s immediately hit in the face with unedited footage of what appears to be the most slapdash mockumentary he’s ever seen—clips and retakes and bloopers in a long reel that he skips through amusedly, gazing at your face a little too long when you’re speaking.

This is their film submission? He whistles lowly, impressed by the quality despite only having three people in your class.

He’s about to turn it off, when he spots the only other file that remains in the camera, something something incubus.

Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—

The Foxian’s face suddenly heats up, and he presses a hand to the lower half of his face.

Oh.

*࿐.

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dduane · 2 months ago

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The first part of that last message got me curious -- given how long-running of a series YW is, how do you keep track of All That when writing a new entry? Copious amounts of notes? Re-reading the entire series backlog? Keeping a fully-functioning simulation of the entire YW universe running in your head with perfect accuracy? (only mostly joking with that last one)

And somewhat-relatedly, did you have any plan or idea when you started for how long YW would run? Or was it more of a "I'll keep writing about this universe until it stops churning out ideas," type of thing and that point just (very thankfully!) hasn't happened yet? I know for per-book purposes you're a proponent of outlining (I swear I'll try writing to one one day Q_Q) but do you also apply that to a series as a whole?

Let me take this backwards, as it may make more sense that way.

Particularly when doing series work, outlining is more vital than usual for me. (Which is saying a lot.) Some of the most basic reasons for this are laid out over here.

The simplest one, though, for series outlining, is logistical. Without having achieved a sense well in advance of what events (or effects of events) are going to be most formative or important (or both) for the characters in a series, you won't have allowed yourself time to think about them enough. And to fail to spend enough time on this is to cheat both yourself and the books in the series. (And your readership.)

If you're smart, you learn very early on that attempting to save time by shortchanging or omitting the planning stages is potentially profoundly destructive. You need to have a plan... and you need not to let anyone make you ashamed of needing one. Putting off your detailed character-interaction and event planning in the name of some magically occurring fit of inspiration, or theoretical bid toward creative spontaneity, will serve neither you nor your creation. You can throw "Hail Mary" passes all you like... but you'd better be damn sure there'll be someone in the end zone to receive. ...If not Herself.

...And just in case you're worried, your initial plans can be really loose! They don't have to jump out of your head full-formed like some local war goddess after somebody hits her dad in the head with an axe. The plan for the Middle Kingdoms books—after The Door Into Fire dumped me gasping by the side of the road and left me a few minutes to breathe—was nothing more than "Now that his boyfriend's finally upped the ante beyond all expectations, Freelorn finally gets off his feckless Would-Be Robin Hood shit and gets to work becoming king." I then spent the next decade thinking purposefully about how that was going to happen, and writing the second book in the series—while sufficiently working out the fine details of the climax (and beyond) to then be able to get busy executing the third book. Even though there was a change of publishers between the beginning of that series and the end of it, the basic dead-simple MK plan from a very early stage quickly became detailed and robust enough (because the series was short enough) to withstand the change. Not least because I'd been thinking about it in a general way since the early 1970s... and continue to do so, pretty much daily. The Door Into Starlight is still hanging fire...

YW has been a different story—quite literally—because the only plan extant at the start of things was, "Everybody slowly gets older (and slowly closer)." I always knew there were going to be more than the original three: there was way too much interesting ground to cover to just stop with those. (I've never yet succeeded in finding out who started the rumor that there were only going to be three books. Over time it's become one of those things you just shrug at and move on.)

(Adding a break here, because this does go on a bit. Caution: contains publishing skullduggery, plans ganging aft agley, approximate word counts, software recommendations, and value judgments.)

("Now wait just one minute. 'Feckless would-be Robin Hood shit'? Can she just say that??")

The circumstances surrounding the writing of Deep Wizardry and High Wizardry, though, made it plain to me that I was not going to be at the then-publisher (Dell) all that much longer. By the time HW came out, they were already starting to pull away from midlist books and authors in order to spend that part of the budget on best-sellers... so it became plain to me that attempting to construct a long arc with/at that publisher would have been folly. Because who could be sure what was going to happen next, and blow everything I'd built to smithereens?

Sure enough, when I finished A Wizard Abroad, Dell declined to pick it up (even though the books had been selling steadily and increasingly strongly in paperback). This annoying validation of my concerns—and my shiny new agent's—made it plain to me that further books in the series were going to need to be thematically driven, rather than mostly character-event-driven, and almost entirely capable of being taken as standalones. Any long arc was going to have to be one that could be suspended, or reworked, with little warning. Because what happens to you once, in publishing, doesn't at all mean you're immune to it after that.

It wasn't until the YW books were picked up by Harcourt in the mid-90s, with a strong editorial team behind them, that I felt confident enough to start building longer-arc material into the books, beginning with the arc that kicks off in The Wizard's Dilemma and more or less completes in Wizard's Holiday and Wizards At War. There is a secondary (and I assume, generally less obvious) arc that picks up material still unhandled in the "War Arc," and deals with it in A Wizard of Mars and Games Wizards Play. But plans for those stories' management were already nailed down in electrons as soon as 2001, because I had made some early choices about where I was going with the characters and their situations; and as new books came out, my editors agreed with me that the choices had been sound, and should remain.

I'll say this only because I've said it before: there is one piece of business planted in So You Want To Be A Wizard that has never been explicitly dealt with/followed up on in any of the books, and is at the core of YW #11. For the moment, it's safest merely to say that I do not willingly leave loose ends hanging. Beyond that, I'll leave you all to your own deductions.

...Now. How do I keep track of all this stuff? (The urge to mutter "With great difficulty" and run off into the wings is strong. But never mind.) :)

The question's fair, as there's a million-plus words' worth of it in the series at the moment. ...Mostly my guide remains the books themselves, in ebook form (in their NME versions. If I need to, I refer back to the traditionally published versions as necessary). I normally have a general memory of where a given event happens or where a given issue comes up for handling. I then pull that copy of the ebook(s) in question, and do a search on various useful target phrases until I find what I'm after, and where it leads.

For new work, or stuff not yet committed to what passes for canon, I do have lots of notes. Some of them are actually out in public, at the currently-being-revised Errantry Concordance (though they're not in any form that anyone but me will recognize). Others are tucked away in the notes sections of pertinent Scrivener files—this being one of the most valuable things about Scrivener, as far as I'm concerned: the ability to store project notes in the project itself as opposed to "all over the damn place." Others yet are in my iPad, as either typing or dictation, and get transferred to other files/formats as necessary.

But the very first thing that happens, when a new work comes into train, is an outline. Sometimes a hilariously simple one, sometimes one with more detail in the middle than at the beginning or the end. Doesn't matter what shape it starts in. All notes, scraps, prose chunks, random thoughts, and midnight cogitations, get slotted into place in this until it's ready to be organized and sent off to an editor. And this outline—no matter how fragmentary or how polished—remains ready to hand at all times until I've finished with correcting the book's ARC and am looking at the release date.

And then I zip it up and put it away where I can find it later if I need to... because some other plan, still in the building stages, may need something in that one that never happened, but now has its chance. Because in YW, as everywhere else in my work, it's so often about the things that have always almost happened... until they do.

...Anyway: HTH!

#writing #process #you've got to have a plan #Young Wizards meta

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honey-crypt · 5 months ago

Note

elliott that sings his heart out while drunk asf x gn/m farmer? You know the drill :3

also saying that again, ur writing makes me giggle n kick my feet have a great day dude

a/n: i went all out if you couldn’t tell, only the best for the queen of elliott art herself!!! also attaching the drunk singing elliott art she posted for visualization reasons lol. this was a literal blast to write, i had to rewind somethin’ stupid like a hundred times to get the flow right. also follow @fuerrziah cuz her art is the best and she is da best <3

word count: 2.1k

warnings: alcohol, drunk antics, suggestive ending

summary: you knew elliott got a bit silly and unfiltered when drunk, but you didn’t realize that the man could belt it like the best of them until you witness him sing frank sinatra's somethin’ stupid.

★ sinatra - elliott x farmer ★

The Stardrop Saloon was the heart of Pelican Town, a bar and restaurant full of laughter and chatter every night, as Gus brewed pretty cocktails and Emily bounced from room to room taking and delivering orders. To some, it was a place to unwind after a hard day or to spend time with friends while to others, it was a second home.

Often, you frequented the saloon to treat yourself to a meal and a drink, and tonight was no different. You were too exhausted from harvesting melons, chasing after chickens, and so on to bother microwaving something, much less cooking an actual meal. With a heavy sigh, you plopped down at your usual spot and waved Emily over with a tired smile, “Hey Em.”

“(Y/N)!” the waitress greeted you with her usual sunshine demeanor, “Good to see you tonight!” she clicked her glitter pen and hovered it over her notebook, “The usual tonight?”

“You know me well,” you chuckled softly. Emily scribbled down a few lines and stated, “Should be ready in fifteen. Can I get you a drink beforehand?”

“Water with lemon,” you answered, your mouth drier than the Calico Desert from the summer heat. Emily nodded and went behind the bar, pouring you a tall glass of ice water with a lemon garnish. She returned to your table and set the drink down on the wooden coaster, “Drink up and have a good night.”

“You as well, Em,” you hummed, watching the blue haired woman disappear into the crowd of bar patrons. The walls of the saloon vibrated from the amount of noise produced in such a small space. You weren’t surprised at the amount of people present at the Stardrop Saloon; after all, it was Friday, the busiest night. At least, Emily and Gus will get some good tips. You down your water without care, as some of the liquid spilled from your lips and down your chin onto your overalls.

“Parched?” a deep but honey-like voice hummed. You looked up and locked eyes with your closest friend, Elliott, hovering next to you. Ink stained his strong calloused hands, presumably a remnant of a hours-long writing session.

“Absolutely,” you exhaled, “It’s hotter than Hades’ taint.”

Elliott snorted, emerald eyes crinkling up while he smiled down upon you, “I can agree with you on that, my friend. I fear that if it gets any degree warmer, I must forgo my long sleeves.”

You side-eyed Eliott’s sleeved arms, as he borrowed the seat across from you, seeing the outline of toned muscle. You could take your suspenders off, too. you thought to yourself, waving a passing Emily over and requesting another water with lemon, For a beachfront Hemingway, you sure have the physique of a Greek God.

“How did your day on the farm go?” the writer asked, resting his elbows on the table. You plucked your glass off the table and pressed it against your forehead, “I shoulda taken today off, but the mayor just had to request two dozen melons for his outing with the governor,” you grumbled, annoyed at Mayor Lewis but more so at the sweltering heat that suddenly enveloped the room.

“Rest days are always good,” the redhead let out a low hum of agreement, “Perhaps, you can do so tomorrow?”

“I doubt it. Shane ordered three dozen hot peppers,” you sent daggers to the man in question from across the room, as Shane drank his beer by Gus’s prized wooden bear statue. Elliott’s lips formed a frown, “The life of a farmer, one of never ending labor,” he laughed.

Emily approached your table and set down another glass of water with lemon for you, “Here’s your usual,” she added before placing a plate of spaghetti by your water, “Want some parmesan?”

“What is this, the Gotoro Empire? Of course, I want some,” you jested. Emily giggled and handed you the shaker of parmesan, “Just let me know if you need more,” she then directed her attention to Elliott, “Hi Elliott! You looking for your usual tonight, too?”

“Yes, please, my dear,” he answered, adjusting his suspenders, “And a pale ale for my friend, as well.”

“Coming right!” the waitress skipped off to the back of the bar. You raised an eyebrow at Elliott while you drowned your spaghetti in heaps and heaps of parmesan, “What’s the occasion?”

“Can I not treat one of my closest friends to a nice drink after a hard day’s work?” the writer clutched his heart, “You wound me, (Y/N).”

“You’re so fucking cheesy,” you rolled your eyes with a playful twinkle in your eyes, “You know I don’t object to anything free, especially a free drink.”

Emily returned with Elliott’s usual, a pint of beer and a crab cake, as well as a pale ale for you, “Enjoy your meals!” she gave the two of you a thumbs up, “Wave me down if you need anything.”

You touched your lips to the cool glass and drank, the hot and ice sensation of alcohol coating your throat, “Shit,” you exhaled, “I needed that, thanks.”

“Of course,” your friend offered you a smile, that stupid smile you often saw on the cover of a romance novel, “How about a toast?” he held his beer up, “To friendship and a hard day’s work?”

“I’ll cheers to that,” you chuckled and clinked glasses together. As the night went on, one glass turned into two, then three, and so on. You tapped out after two glasses, as for Elliott, the Scot in him already finished four glasses of beer. His cheeks were flushed like the color of his hair, his eyes fluttering while he held back a hiccup, “Oh Yoba…” your friend tucked some loose hair behind his pierced ear, “I think… I think I went overboard.”

“You think?” you questioned. Emily returned with Elliott’s fifth glass of the night and you mouthed to her, “Cut him off for tonight,” to which she nodded in agreement.

“You usually max out at three, is something on your mind?” your ears rang and your head throbbed from the noise of overlapping conversations around the saloon. Elliott finished his fourth glass of beer, a bit of foam smeared on the right corner of his lips, “Oh, (Y/N), I won’t bore you-” he hiccuped, “-with my woes. I’m simply a tortured artist destined to be consumed by my work.”

You grabbed a napkin and leaned down towards Elliott, “Hold still,” you whispered, as you dabbed away the foam from his lips. His face turned to a darker shade of red, “You’re so close,” he whispered back, eyes hazy. You pulled away and set the used napkin aside, “Sorry, you had foam on your face,” you mumbled, averting your gaze.

Behind you, Pam dragged herself towards the jukebox and slammed a quarter in its slot, grumbling to herself about hating the cheerful swing of the current song, “Shit,” you heard her curse, “Wrong button,” the atmosphere of the saloon abruptly switched from chaotic to sombre, as a light guitar riff filled the air.

“Oh!” Elliott leapt to his feet, “I know,” he covered his mouth to hiccup, “I know this song!” he then approached the jukebox and leaned on it for support, swaying his index finger from side to side to the rhythm of the music. You smiled to yourself and sipped your water, only to choke on it like a Yoba damn fool the moment Elliott began to sing.

“I know I stand in line… Until you think you have the time… To spend an evening with me,” his voice was a neat match to the original singer, a light baritone, “And if we go someplace to dance… I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me…”

Elliott unbuttoned a few notches on his sea blue dress shirt, exposing his defined collarbone and a bit of wispy chest hair, “Then afterwards we drop into a quiet place and have a drink or two…” he glazed over your face and body with a drunken smile, “And then I go and spoil it by saying somethin' stupid like I love you…” Elliott untied his ponytail, luscious locks free from their confinement and resting against his shoulders.

Your pupils dilated; no longer was the saloon filled with static chatter and the slamming of glasses, but instead everyone ogled silently at Elliott, his vocals amplified. He pushed himself off the jukebox and stumbled a bit, taking your hands in his, “I see it in your eyes, that you still despise the same old lies you heard the night before…” he touched one of his hands to your cheek and cupped it, “And though it’s just a line to you; for me, it’s true and never so right before…”

“Elliott?” your voice croaked, your blood rushing to your extremities and your heartbeat overwhelmingly rapid. He gave you a lopsided smile and continued to sing, “I practice every day to find some clever lines, to make the meaning come true…”

No, no. He’s just singing the song. This doesn’t mean anything, you tried to reason with yourself, but it fell short, as Elliott serenaded the next few lyrics, “But then I think I’ll wait until evening gets late and I’m alone with you… The time is right, your perfume fills my head-” he leaned closer to you and inhaled your musk, “-The stars get red and, oh, the night’s so blue… And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like-” you could feel Elliott’s breath against the side of your neck, as he sang in your ear, “I love you…”

You couldn’t move, you couldn’t breathe. The alcohol in your system, the summer heat, Elliott’s closeness, made your mind go foggy; you were hanging onto every single word that spilled from the redhead’s pretty little lips. Elliott passionately belted out the instrumental pause, trying his best not to laugh, earning a laugh from you, nonetheless.

He stood back up and pulled you off your feet with him, repeating the chorus, “The time is right, your perfume fills my head,” he twirled you around, “The stars get red, and, oh, the night's so blue… And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like I love you…” even when intoxicated, Elliott was a true Casanova, holding onto you and swaying you side to side to the music.

“I love you…”

You met his eyes, oh how they shined like gemstones.

“I love you…”

Your knees turned to jelly, you clung to your friend for dear life.

“I love you…”

Your surroundings vanished; no more saloon, no more patrons, just you and Elliott.

“I love you…”

You leaned closer, your chest against his.

“I love you…”

You pressed your lips against Elliott’s, savoring the aftertaste of beer and crab cakes, as the jukebox switched to the next song and the world around you returned to its original state. Elliott kissed you back, you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol in control but Yoba, did he taste divine. Oh, to have the confidence of a drunken fool at all hours of the day, you grabbed at his hair and tugged on the strands, Elliott moaning against your wet lips.

“Hey, you two!” Pam’s voice snapped you back into reality and broke the kiss, “Get a room!” Her words garnered a few similar statements from other bar patrons.

Through glossy eyes and clouded minds, you leaned your body against Elliott’s and asked, “Well… should we?” to which he pecked you on the lips, “That’s a splendid idea,” you tossed your own wallet on the table to pay for the two of you’s meals and interlocked arms with one another, supporting one another’s uncoordinated bodies. To the door and out you went, as you and Elliott roamed the streets of Pelican Town towards his cabin, exchanging laughs and kisses.

…

bonus:

Back in the Stardrop Saloon, Pam plopped her ass back in her seat, relieved that the farmer and Elliott were finally gone. She gestured to Gus for another beer and commented aloud, “About time those two lovebirds figured it out.”

“Indeed,” answered Gus, as he dropped Pam a foamy beer, “They make a cute couple.”

“Oh, dear!” Emily walked up to Gus with the farmer’s wallet in hand, “They left their wallet here, should I run after them?”

Gus chuckled to himself and shook his head, “Put it in lost and found, I don’t think we should disturb those two tonight.

#honey crypt fics #stardew valley #sdv #stardew #sdv elliott #stardew valley elliott #stardew elliott #sdv elliott x farmer #sdv elliott x reader #stardew valley elliott x farmer #stardew valley elliott x reader #stardew elliott x farmer #stardew elliott x reader

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willowser · 1 year ago

Text

you had only to look at me—

part one.

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 7.4k+

tags: nsfw (18+), childhood best friend bakugou, oral (f!receiving), m!masturbation, lots of "first time" talk, more angst, more virgin bakugou.

even before i was touched, i belonged to you; you had only to look at me. — the burning heart, louise glück.

this is a repost.

you and bakugou avoid each other just like you did in middle school, only it's a little too easy this time around.

he's terrible at texting back in general, and because you're not initiating any conversations on your own — or sending funny memes or bringing up all might in some capacity — the radio silence draws ever on and on.

the closest you come to interacting with him is getting a snapchat from his mom, his figure in the background at their kitchen table. all you can see is the floof of his hair and the outline of his shoulders, but you're so bothered by the fact that he's home and didn't tell you that you don't even respond.

it officiates things in a bad way; he's really, actually not speaking to you.

and it's — fucking annoying.

at least in the past the distance was mutually and wordlessly agreed upon; you didn't talk because you were busy or didn't have time or anything new to say, but whenever he's come home — because he so rarely does — bakugou has always made his usual, god-honest attempt to irritate you.

and he still is, but this time he's doing it all wrong.

you go through the five stages of grief rather quickly, jumping from denial to anger overnight. several times, you type out something to text him, each message different than the last:

i know you were at your mom's jackass ☠️

it's really not a big deal and i think we should just forget about it, if that's what you wanna do ?

if i crossed some kind of boundary with you then i'm sorry and i won't say that again so you better call me before i put your baby pictures on the internet. i'm serious.

you're my best friend and i don't think it's weird that it happened. if you're being dumb because you're embarrassed, then don't be because i thought it was really hot

unsurprisingly, you don't send any of these and instead just stew in your own aggravation. lunch with him after the whole thing had been just as empty and awkward, and you think he chose the place near your apartment just so you could walk home and he didn't have to spend another second with you.

three months go by, which isn't long compared to other stints you've spent not talking to one another, but this one drags. like a lot. the only good that comes from it is that you graduate from anger to acceptance, finalizing a future without him in it.

except for the few times he invades your brain like a little parasite, red-faced and shuddering, gripping you like a lifeline, and then your stomach flips so hard that you feel sick and it takes genuine effort to check out of that daydream and back into a bakugou-less reality.

and then he shows up at your apartment, uninvited.

his mom hosts a sunday dinner that you don't go to, for several potential reasons. one would be that you'll have to see bakugou and pretend like nothing's happened even though you're still a little peeved; two is that you'll both ignore each other, and that'll reverse all your progress because he's been ignoring you already.

three is that he might not show up, and then you'll have to pretend that it doesn't bother you all night long.

none of that sounds better than watching trash television and falling asleep on your couch, so you tell mitsuki that you're very sick and very sorry, and that you'll make it up to her later.

because of this, the first thing bakugou says to you after you swing the front door open is, "you're supposed to be fuckin' dead."

suffice to say, you're surprised to see him; still outfitted in his hero costume, mask shoved up his forehead so that his hair is wilder than usual. there's kohl smudged around his eyes, messy, and they look brighter and harsher because of it.

there's also a family-mart plastic bag in his right hand.

"what?"

he just grunts, eyes snapping over your figure, dressed down in a too-large sweater and athletic shorts meant for running even though you've never done so in them.

in his hands — still gloved — the plastic crinkles obnoxiously as he holds it out. "old hag told me to bring this to you."

a can of low sodium soup, two apples, gatorade, and something over-the-counter for nausea. there's something else at the very bottom that you don't get the chance to inspect before he interrupts with his big, fat mouth.

"y'look fine to me, so why the hell didn't you go?"

you frown at him and — don't know what to say. clearly, it seems he's going the pretend-it-never-happened route, which is infuriating because he could just as well have done that months ago. even still, he won't hardly meet your gaze, staring for only a moment before rolling his eyes and huffing, sticking them anywhere else. if you peek close, real close, you'd say his ears are a little red, but maybe you're just looking for — something.

you shrug. "didn't feel like it."

he shakes his head like that's the stupidest thing he's ever heard, eyebrow arched. "why the hell not?"

"because, bakugou, i just didn't feel like going, i don't know what else to tell you." you huff, shrugging again when he doesn't say anything. "thanks for the stuff. is that it?"

his lips twist as he thinks, giving you another once-over before sighing. under his tank-top, you watch how his chest expands, the grimace that ripples over his face as he reaches a hand to lightly feel at his right side. "need your help with somethin'."

now you're just being petulant; you snort, raising your eyebrows as his eyes narrow at the sound. "me? are you joking? you need my help with—"

he groans loud enough to drown you out. "y'gonna let me in or y'just gonna run your mouth?" and so you step aside to wave him in wordlessly.

the backpack on his shoulder dumps to the ground by the door and he strolls into the kitchen like he owns the place, despite the fact that he's never been here before. you've lived in the unit for a year, but meetups are so infrequent and showing it off to him was never considered — until now; watching him shuffle through the bag on the counter, your nerves spike at the reality check.

alone together, again. in your apartment. well after dark.

that image of him is so — invasive, sweeping in at the worst times: between your legs, face as red as his eyes, the little moan he kept trying to swallow. how embarrassed he seemed when you asked if he felt good, if you felt good, and the fact that he still admitted it despite everything.

your entire body blazes like a flame to gasoline, and you try to focus on what else he's taking out of the bag, oblivious.

does he think about it at all? the way you have? at the root of the situation, that's what has been most bothersome: is he grossed out? simply embarrassed? does he feel taken advantage of? did he enjoy it and just doesn't know how to say it? the not knowing is driving you insane.

"i got—" bakugou awkwardly angles his body, gently touching at his side again. in his hands is a simple pack of first-aid supplies, like a wound wash and bandages and medical tape. "need you to change this shit for me."

"oh?" is all you can manage to say, still distracted, and whatever is obvious in your voice has his eyes snapping to you from across the kitchen, adam's apple bobbing. you clear your throat, struggling for normalcy. "the hell did you do?"

he's — going to take his shirt off. clearly, by the way he stretches out his shoulders and then slowly reaches behind himself to grab the material by the back, carefully pulling it up over his head with a low, stinging hiss.

bakugou's always been a lean kid — guy — but pulled so taut like that, after years of working out muscles you didn't even know he had, he looks — stupidly shredded, and the slow reveal of his tight stomach is not helping you to focus.

you just never realized how hot it was, because you never looked at him like that. until recently.

his mask comes off with his shirt and he tosses both onto the kitchen counter — again, as if he pays the bills here — and his hair is a mess and he usually doesn't care, but he runs a hand through it several times before finally looking back at you, eyes outlined in black.

"y'gonna help me or...?" he shrugs, trying to appear impassive — but it's too obvious; something's shifted, for the both of you.

you don't trust your voice anymore, so you just shuffle over to him, frowning at the dirty, worn bandage that's already unsticking from his skin. with his teeth, he pulls off his gloves and it's a wonder why he even wears them, really, because his hands are filthy underneath, covered in soot and black-stained grease.

standing like he is, arm slightly raised, you can see all his sweat, muscles shifting under his skin as he breathes, and his hairy armpit is staring you in the face and you don't know when he stopped being 12 and started being 20 and when he became such a man. it's not fair, that he should suddenly be so — attractive.

"you're disgusting," you tell him — and mean it — and it's met with such hot and irritated surprise that you have to keep talking before he explodes. "you should probably take a shower before putting on a new bandage."

it's road-rash up his right side, still shiny and wet and blood red. still raw. just looking at it is enough to make you cringe.

bakugou huffs, exasperated. "okay, gimme a towel then."

"i didn't mean take a shower here!" you squawk, taking a step back as if to further yourself from the suggestion.

detonation imminent; bakugou curls his hands into fists and the same muffled warning you've been getting your whole life crackles. "okay," he says, voice thin and razor sharp. "you're coming back to mine then?"

your whole life flashes before your eyes — or at least the few minutes it took for him to lose his shit between your legs. "what? no, why would i?"

"i need your help with this, dip-shit!"

"you're saying there's no one else that can—"

"if you want me to fuck off, just say so!"

things go silent, startlingly so. totally still, except for the rising flush across his face, one that you used to read as annoyance but are now translating into something else you never could have expected from him: embarrassment. it's starting to give you whiplash, how much you're discovering despite knowing him all your life.

"closet is at the end of hall," you say in surrender. "bathroom will be on your left."

bakugou mutters a quiet, angry little "jesus" before stalking back to the front door to get his bag, and then he's disappearing into the dark of your apartment.

you slump down on your couch and — struggle. watching the tv and absorbing nothing; it's a rerun anyway. the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry washes over you as the shower spray sounds in the background, followed by a low-timbered swear and the clatter of several bottles against the tub.

it's easy to butt heads with bakugou. you don't think there is any other way to interact with him, really, because he's so argumentative and that used to be okay, but now things are — off. you don't know what he's doing, what he wants, why he's here and in your shower when he could be at home or getting patched up at his agency. all the conclusions you can come to are frightening, a little, and they're hard to fathom; is he — does he want more?

is this just because he's a guy that got some action and is looking for a second round, or is this because it's you?

this stupid situation has only added an unnecessary amount of drama to your life, and you think maybe the pretend-it-never-happened route is the smartest path, even if you can't stop thinking about him and the strength coiled in his biceps, in his shoulders, and how tall he's become and — when did he lose most of the baby fat in his face, and when did he get such a sharp jawline?

how much is he working out, to get his body like that? he used to be a skinny, scrappy little thing and now — he can probably lift a truck over his head. must run all the time, though he's always been active, and you've never looked before, but you wonder how nice his ass is.

what he looks like under the shower, soapy and wet.

furiously, you blink out of your daydream, feeling like a foreign body in your own skin; if someone would have told you only a handful of months ago that you'd be having weird, sensual thoughts about your best friend, you would have laughed so hard you'd cried. or puked.

but if anyone else stands in that picture with him, your heart squeezes painfully. traitorously. already, you've shared so many memories with him; the start of elementary school, learning how to swim, giving each other equally bruised faces, staying up all night to study for important exams, tackling middle school graduation side-by-side, him making himself at home in your first apartment, just as you had done in his.

the devil on your shoulder asks: what's a few more firsts?

it seems like the shower stops in record time, but when you hone back in on the tv, the episode has changed and new drama is settling in. distantly, the rattle of the doorknob is more aggressive than it needs to be and when the echo of a swung-open door trails down the hallway, your heart suspends in your throat. never have you had to think this much just to be around him, and it's bothersome.

clean and relaxed, he's — softer; you spare a quick glance at him when he comes to stand beside the couch, distracted by the show on screen, and his hair is damp, starting to stick out again the more it dries. his muscles aren't made of marble anymore; still there and rippling, but he breathes calmly and his skin is baby smooth, tender. you eye his tummy and the line of fine hair running down into the waistband of his sweats, and do your best to ignore the sudden desire to kiss right above his belly-button.

"since when are they talking again?"

just as he looks at you, your gaze shoots back to the screen, eyes narrowing as you try to rapidly remember what's happening in the day-to-day for stay-at-home, pro-hero wives.

"uh," you blink, distracted — and he notices, "what do you mean? they've been hanging out, like, all season."

bakugou watches the tv in silence, occasionally glancing down to the bandage in his hands as he carefully spreads it out, as he dampens the towel with the antiseptic and dabs at his wounds.

"even after she hit on whatshername's husband?"

"yeah, that was a misunderstanding," you frown at him but he doesn't see it. "remember when they went to that dinner party and all hell broke loose because—"

his flat look serves for a rude interruption. "they go to a lot of fuckin' dinner parties."

"i know, but," you scoff, annoyed, "have you even watched this season?"

bakugou scoffs, mocking and over-dramatic, "yeah, as if i've got all day to sit on my ass and watch your stupid girly—"

"you're watching it right now."

"because you've got it on!" he huffs when you sink into the couch, resolutely trying to ignore him. “start it over then, if you’re gonna cry about it.”

you gape up at him, going as far as to pause the show so that maybe he’ll acknowledge you and all your annoyance; he doesn’t. “start it over? this is, like, episode 26!”

“so? got a hot date or what?”

he’s not at all interested in the answer and that’s obvious when he spins around and holds out the bandage expectantly, staring down at the scrape — glowing red and angry, a mirrored wound you can feel scabbing across your own skin; itchy and irritating.

finally he looks at you properly, frowning softly and — you see him then, can feel the tension lining his body as you carefully tape on his bandage. trying to hide how uncomfortable he is, though you he’s never had to do so with you in all of — forever. it’s nauseating, and again you're struck by the image of him, only now it's of the horror that had been on his face afterwards, at what you’d done.

it pushes everything over the edge; quietly, so that your voice doesn’t expose anything, you say, “you haven’t spoken to me in three months.”

silence weighs in the air immediately, heavy, and you watch him try to appear unbothered, shrugging as he stares back at the unmoving tv, jaw tight. “phone works both ways.”

“yeah, but,” your hands drop as he steps away to pull on a loose shirt, and you curl your fists into your own. just as he has. “i’m always the one having to reach out—”

“so why didn’t you?”

“what?” frustrated, you massage your temples, trying to soothe the nuclear headache threatening to incinerate you. “are you seriously trying to—”

“what’s the big deal?” he huffs, slumping down into the far corner of the couch before cringing, swearing as he gently touches at his bandage. “you’ve gone longer than that without talkin’ to me, so…”

the tone of his voice is infuriating, as if this is somehow all your fault — and maybe it is, because you shouldn’t have crossed such a boundary with him, but — he can be such a dick.

“it’s not just me bakugou, you could have just as easily picked up the phone, too!” your teeth grind when he shrugs again, leaning his head against his fist as he looks anywhere else. it almost looks like guilt that's dragging his expression down, but you know better than to assume he could feel such a thing. “you always—”

“jesus, if i always do this—”

“shut up for a second, damn!” and then because you can’t stand the stupid look on his face, you kick him in the thigh for good measure; it garners a warning glare, his teeth bared.

he easily catches you by the ankle when you try to kick him again. "tell me what the big fuckin' deal is."

"the big deal? oh, you mean besides the fact that you totally came in your pants?"

it stuns him for a second, eyes wide and face pale, before he's yanking you across the couch, narrowly avoiding the knee aimed for his gut. "you—fucking—!" a smack lands across the back of his head when he ducks and he plants a heavy hand over your face, forcing you to close your eyes and turn away.

"you're gonna blow my head off!"

"if i wanted you dead, you—" he intercepts the hand you blindly reach up with, crossing it awkwardly over your chest so that you're pinned down like a wild animal. "you would be!"

"kiss my ass, katsuki." you snark, and it does something to him, your use of his first name, because he's still for a moment before sitting back and collecting your wrists correctly, to hold against the couch arm above your head.

"you're such a fucking—" he swoops in so low that his nose almost brushes yours and he grabs the front of your sweater with his free hand, like he's gonna shake you down for some lunch money. "fuck, i could just—" and then he groans long and loud, so annoyed he can't find the words.

"yeah, well—"

"shut up," he lightly knocks his forehead into your cheekbone with another dissatisfied sound, letting out a heavy sigh as he sinks his face down into your neck.

all your muscles tighten on instinct, waiting for the sharp bite that's due any second — but his fingers only uncurl from the material of your sweater, slowly slipping around to tangle into the hair at the nape of your neck. his pull there is a little tight, enough for you to know he's got you, but not so much that you're head is aching; you can't imagine you have a sensitive scalp, anyway, after growing up around him.

you want to say something — which is an annoying realization because now you feel like too much of a talker — but you just focus on the heave of his chest over yours, the breath that moves through him. the minute jostle of his hips as he settles further into the space between your legs, almost comfortable. the slight swell of something unfamiliar against your inner thigh.

bakugou presses his face a little further into you, warm, and the tip of his nose drags along the column of your throat. successfully sedating you, distracted by the feel of his parted lips against your skin.

your body is hot all over, very suddenly; the sweater now feels like a death trap and hopefully you don't smell weird, though it's never been a worry before, not around him, and your adrenaline is rushing and you're kinda tired of acting like you don't know why that is.

fuck pretend-it-never-happened. it's been a long three months.

he's almost entirely pressed against you, but there is a small gap of space that closes when you open your legs a little wider, hitching them around his waist as his breath stutters against your neck.

it's happened so quick, so effortlessly yet again; you give a purposeful roll of your hips upward and are lost in him all over.

only — it's different than it was before because straddling his lap hadn't done much for you, but now the weighted outline of him is right against your center and the pressure that drags across you sends tingles up your spine and has your toes curling in your socks. when you let out a tiny gasp at the stomach-flipping sensation, tension coils in every curve of his body and the grip around your wrists and in your hair only tightens.

you can't help it; you let out a "katsuki" in the same heady tone as you did in his apartment and it has him falling easily into the slow grind you've been unable to stop thinking about. what shifts across his face is obvious, against your throat, like the scrunch of his brow and the slow drop of his mouth. he tries to muffle his breathy "oh" into your skin, but it echoes throughout your entire body, has an ache beginning between your thighs that he's already soothing.

the nip comes then, teeth sinking gently into your neck as you weakly cry out in surprise, but it's only for a moment before his tongue — wet and heavy and wide — is tasting over your jugular, lips closing around your skin as he sucks experimentally. you let out a proper moan then, squirming against his hands and up into him so that the pressure doubles for the both of you.

katsuki finally relinquishes your wrists, carding his hand down your body before coming to squeeze your hip, your thigh, locking your leg tight around his waist. "yeah," he rasps, voice deeper than you've ever heard it as he presses his forehead into yours. "how do you fuckin' like it?"

being bitten, he means, vengefully, but you're spread open beneath him and he's rutting the hard length of himself against you roughly, eagerly, and panting open-mouthed and you tighten up at the aggression in his tone and in his hands and his very being and —

"fuck," you gasp, loud and wanton, "fuck, katsuki—"

and then you are kissing your best friend.

the boy from down the street that always ruined your hair and taught you where to place your thumb if you were gonna throw a punch. that used his empty pen cartridge to blow spitballs at you and mocked you for losing crane games, even though he ended up giving you the stupid stuffed animal anyway. that had to be king of the castle, with his stick-sword and cardboard shield. that demanded you be his queen, weeds he picked for you woven carefully into your hair by his hands.

katsuki kisses like he's shy — another term you've never thought of in relation to him and all his fire and brimstone; it's slow and a little delayed in comparison to what his hips are doing, as if he's in his head too much and is trying to figure how to move his lips and when. tentative and chaste, until you run your tongue along the seam of his mouth and pry him open a little more.

it's making you hungry; that possessiveness from before is creeping back in, eager to have him in ways nobody else has. you arch into him, biting at his lips and sighing into his mouth as goosebumps break out across his skin.

with a slant of his head, he deepens the kiss and you can feel his nostrils flaring, the fingernails scratching against your scalp, the bruises he's probably leaving on your thigh. he lets up only to breathe, panting into your ear when he begins to bite and suck on your skin again; your earlobe and neck and even the cut of your jaw. like maybe he's hungry, too.

you fist a hand into his shirt just to tug it up his body, feeling the strong contract of his stomach when your fingers ghost against him. katsuki gets the hint quickly, rising up to his knees to tear the material off — much more harshly than he did before, which has you eying his crinkled bandage — and you move fast to take advantage of the new space.

it gives him pause when you yank down your shorts, pulling your legs back to slip them off and fling them somewhere across the room. his face goes red again, and his heaving chest, too, and his eyelids flutter as he takes in the sight of your flimsy, damp cotton underwear. you start to pull the sweater up your stomach, but he's watching so intently — so ravenous — that you get shy, without a bra underneath the too-hot fabric.

in any other situation, katsuki would have grabbed onto this moment, your hesitation, and held it over your head to come back and poke at. cataloged this little weak spot for future arguments, but now —

not once has he ever been gentle with you in anything; it's enough of a surprise that that's even a possibility for him, for the two of you, but he presses his body back into yours and kisses you deep, calloused fingers tracing over the new skin exposed to him. he doesn't try to push the sweater up any further, but one hand slips up your back, to splay between your shoulder-blades like it had before, and he's so close and you've never known him to be this — careful. with anything.

"y'r so—" katsuki rolls his hips again and groans, whispering against your lips. "fuckin' soft."

his sweatpants are still on and you don't know why, but when you reach down to help tug them off, he grabs your wrist before they can go too far.

he presses the heat from his cheeks into your own, like he wants to share it. "you done this before?"

"have you?"

he frowns at your non-answer. "i asked first."

you have. three times, technically, though a phantom pain echoes in your stomach at the memories, and you feel an odd emptiness in your chest that makes you really glad to have the sweater still on. your answer leaves you a little ashamed, under his gaze, and you purposely turn from it. "would...that bother you?"

before, you wouldn't have cared, didn't care, nor were you even thinking of him when it happened. wherever he must have been; u.a, probably, getting ready to make his lifelong dreams a reality while you trusted a boy that didn't look at you the way katsuki is now. that didn't hold you and touch you and kiss you the way your best friend has.

he scoffs, though it doesn't sound as careless as it usually does and he squeezes his eyes shut so you can't read them. the truth that's hidden there. "no," he lies, "why would—" but he doesn't finish, just sighs.

"it was awful anyway," you tell him, offering a small smile when he peeks down at you. he doesn't say anything, so you kiss him once, twice, until his tension is melting away. "should have been you."

the grip on your thigh turns almost painful and he grinds into you so roughly that you both gasp, loud in the tight, barely-there space between you. "yeah," he rasps, sucking another bruise into the hollow of your throat. "fuckin' should have."

you try to imagine it; eighteen and nervous, naked in front of him for the first time since you were seven and got into paint from his mom's workshop, when she made you both strip down in the same room, furious. how different he might have been with you then, how much more unsure. kinder than your ex, without a doubt, even for katsuki, and he probably wouldn't have even gone through with the whole thing, considering how uncomfortable the first time is.

or maybe it wouldn't have been, with him; maybe he would have looked into it, taken the time to wind you up the same way he is now so that you were eager and wet and ready. looking down at you with his wide, almost-black eyes in the dim light of a table lamp. another first to share.

"if i'd have just," he huffs, allowing his sweats to slip down past his hips. shoulders trembling when he makes you moan out his name again. "fuckin'—grown a pair 'n told you—"

the weight of him becomes more obvious, the straining bulge he's rocking into your core, and seeing it is — really getting to you; wearing such tight boxers, you can tell just how close the pink tip of him is to his waistband, nearly peeking out from just how hard he is.

it takes a shrug to get him out of your shoulder, so you can press your lips back to his. "can still be you, katsuki," you breathe, biting on his bottom lip until his tiny frown is gone. "if you want, it can still be you."

for a minute, he indulges himself in the greedy kiss you're giving him, testing strokes of his tongue against your own as his hips stutter out of rhythm — but it's when your fingers brush through the hair at the base of his stomach, trying to slip a hand into his boxers, that he's gasping into your mouth and pushing his body up and away.

determination settles over his face then — along with his vibrant flush — and he doesn't say anything as he grabs you like it's nothing and scoots you up the couch so that your back is pressed to the arm, propped up. once he settles between your thighs, he just rests his face into the plush of your stomach — which is humiliating and has you squirming, but the firmness returns to his hands; holding your hips so that you'll still, so that he can kiss right above your belly button, just as you wanted to do to him.

heat flares in your own cheeks — and down your chest and in your ears and searing on the back of your neck — when you feel the first puff of his warm breath against your underwear, where you're sensitive and slick and aching.

this is completely new to you; your ex-boyfriend probably never considered tasting you here, certainly not with the same desire that's painted across katsuki's face. you have to slap your hands over your eyes and bite your lip, embarrassed, suddenly, at how desperate the simple press of his mouth to your underwear makes you.

"hey, hey," katsuki grunts, pinching at your hips until you peek at him through your fingers. the highlights of his cheeks are crimson and his eyes are black, glaring with an intensity that makes you shiver. "it's my fuckin' turn."

to make you fall apart, he means, just as he had.

at the first hot drag of his tongue against the material, you squirm, leaning your head back so that your expression is hidden. another grunt comes from him, you think in dissatisfaction, but he continues, laving until your mouth is falling open and the fabric between you is drenched.

he's gone just long enough to be replaced by the ghost of his thumb, touching you much too-gently. hunger has you stealing another look at him, watching behind your hands as he stares, blatantly, at the mess he's already made of you, stroking the pad of his finger against the sodden material in interest.

discovering; a curious swipe over where you're aching has you sighing and trembling and his eyes jump back up to your covered face, open mouth curling into the faintest smirk as he does it again and again and again. it's bullshit — how quickly he's figured you out, almost as if your body was meant to be unraveled by his hands — but then again, it didn't take you long either, did it?

"katsuki," you hiss, digging a hand into the hair at the crown of his head, tugging on it until his smile is dropping and his eyes are lidding. your body is on fire and your legs are trying to close around his head, hips squirming as he toys with you, like the little brat he is.

deadly serious, he grabs your underwear and holds it tightly in his fist so that you can wiggle one leg free, and then he's tugging it out of his way and devouring you whole.

it's sloppy, the mixture of spit and slick as runs his tongue through you, wet and wide, and you're so sensitive that you squeak out in surprise, fingers tightening. a groan punches from deep in his chest and your hips buck at the vibration of it, drawn so tight already.

"oh my—" you gasp, dropping your other hand from your face to grip the couch; eyes closed, you're somewhere else entirely, lost in the clumsy swirl of pleasure between your thighs.

katsuki raises his head to breathe, reaffirming your grip in his hair by wrapping his fingers tight over your own. at the shiny sight of his mouth, you can't help but to whimper with a needy roll of your hips, until he's simply sticking out his tongue and allowing you to ride it, to use it as you need to. it's embarrassing, how desperate you are, but his eyes are knife-sharp and trained on you and you've never experienced anything like this.

he moves then, slipping one hand further up under your sweater, cupping your breast carefully as his lids flutter — and the other is shoved between his hips and where they're pressed into the couch. you tighten up at just the idea of him rutting into his hand while kissing your messy slit, moaning openly, head falling back as your eyes start to roll.

this is — fuck — you've never been so turned on in all your life and it's driving you crazy; at one point in time, the thought of bakugou like this would have grossed you out, but now you think it's only like this because of him. anyone else wasn't right, not the way he is, and he's maybe a little impatient and unwieldy, but it's katsuki. between your legs with his mouth on you — something he wanted — and his fingers are brushing over your nipple and the other is down his pants, wrist flexing and —

"fuck, oh fuck, i—" you try to sit up, chasing blindly after the high, but he forces you back down. a long groan is muffled by your skin and when he lifts his chin just a little, a glob of spit falls off his lips and the sight makes your toes curl before he presses back into you and sucks.

everything goes blank as you free-fall into him and you cum quietly, muscles so taut in your body that your voice can't even squeeze out of your throat. the minute you're able to breathe, he's biting a mark into your thigh and yanking you back down under him, lips slick against yours.

tasting yourself on his tongue has you coming out of the heady haze, ravenous; katsuki helps you to shove his boxers down, though he can only gasp tightly when he grinds against you, coating himself.

"'m not—" his soft hair tickles your face when he shakes his head, arms trembling beside your head. "i won't be able to—"

"keep going," you breathe, smearing your mess over the tip of him and down his length as he groans. "i don't care, keep going."

he smashes his lips to yours, though he's only able to meet the pump of your hand a few times before dropping his forehead to your shoulder, spine curling, fingers digging into your hair. katsuki swears long and low, eventually letting out a soft sound you wouldn't have expected from him as his entire body tenses and he spills onto your stomach.

"goddamn it," he moans into the fabric of your sweater, weary, after a long moment. "now 'm fuckin' tired."

and for some reason that makes you laugh, though the lust is dissipating and your nerves are trembling at the memory of how this ended last time. katsuki pulls away suddenly, making your stomach drop, and he doesn't look at you as he detangles himself, awkwardly shuffling away from the couch and out of sight.

you frown down at the mess on your stomach, the way it's pooling in your belly-button — and you'll be damned to let him leave you like this, but just as you finishing reciting over and over what you want to say, he appears, towel in hand.

it's still damp from his shower and you tense on instinct, waiting for him to start twirling it with that stupid grin on his face, but katsuki only arranges your legs so that he can sit between them, carefully wiping you off as his cheeks burn. and you just watch him, the way he runs a hand over your skin to make sure he got it all before helping to finagle your underwear back on properly.

then he just looks at the tv, unmoving. if he's trying to appear casual at all, it's a piss-poor job — but he's never been able to keep his fat mouth shut for long.

the look he gives you lacks its usual heat, though you can't tell if that's just because he's drained or if he's withdrawn for another reason. "what now? six months, a year before you talk to me again?"

and you're annoyed all over again.

"what?" you return his weak glare, sitting up properly so that you're right in his face. "are you kidding me? you didn't talk to me either."

"the hell did you want me to say?" he scoffs and — you could slap him, for ruining everything so quickly. wipe that stupid look off his face with your fist. "'sorry i busted a nut, you free for dinner?'"

"yeah!" the shrill tone of your voice makes his eyes widen, and you throw your hands up in the air, incensed. "that sounds wonderful in comparison to coming home and avoiding me."

"i didn't avoid you," he mutters, though his eyes drift back to the tv. "just didn't have shit to say."

"bakugou," you slap your hands over your face for the second time, though this one is much worse than the last. "how is that fucking fair? what did you want me to say?"

and now — his eyes are full and furious, mouth curling down into an ugly frown that you've so rarely had the pleasure of seeing on his face; every time his mother made you go home and when you told him you weren't gonna try to test into u.a. when he overheard your girl friends teasing you for liking an older boy in your school.

when he was losing you, you realize.

"'m not doin' this shit with you," he mutters, definitive, before swiping his shirt up off the floor and standing. "not doin' this bakugou shit."

"oh my god," you groan, rising, too, because your stomach is twisting at the thought of him leaving again, no matter how angry he's making you. "what does that even mean?"

you trail him as he stomps into your kitchen to grab his work shirt and mask from the counter, trying to interrupt him at every turn, and the scowl on his face only grows when you shoot to stand in front of the door, just as he reaches for his bag.

"you can't—"

"this," he seethes, gesturing to you and then himself before gritting his teeth so hard that they should shatter. "this is why i didn't wanna fuckin' talk to you."

you knew he didn't. the minute lunch ended and when you made out his shape in mitsuki's snapchat: you knew. but hearing it from his mouth is as much of a confirmation as it is a kick in the gut.

there's more he's struggling to say, mouth shifting as he chews on the words and the skin of his lips. his gaze jumps from you to the door to something on the counter before he's swallowing again, staring down at you with brand new eyes.

the light in the kitchen makes them shine, angry and sad. "i can't—" he sighs, nostrils flaring like he's mad at himself for struggling. "go back to bakugou, not after—" a vague hand waves toward the couch. "maybe this is just, i don't know, whatever to you, but i — fuckin' can't."

tell me what the big fuckin' deal is; earlier, he'd demanded it of you, why the silence mattered so much this time when it didn't seem to matter before. in the midst of your anger, you didn't think twice about his wording but now —

he wanted you to say it. katsuki wanted to hear you say that it hurt to be without him for so long, and he kept his distance because he was afraid that you wouldn't.

"you're so stupid," you mutter it quietly, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, enraged, but before he can get another dumb word out, you loop your arms around his neck and just — kiss him.

not crazy or wild or lust-driven, just your lips to his, slowly working him out of the shell he's tried to hide behind.

the bag in his hand hits the ground with a soft thud and then his arm is wrapping around your back, tugging you to him as he finally breathes and opens his mouth — and lets you in.

when you cup the sides of his neck, katsuki inhales sharply through his nose, pulse jumping under your fingers, and his lashes flutter against your cheeks as he opens his eyes. he pulls back enough so that you can stare at each other and you realize that eyeliner is still clinging to his lids, making him seem sharper than usual.

you're a little stunned, then, at how beautiful he is.

"i can't go back to bakugou either, dumbass." gently, you knock your forehead into his, smiling at the pout on his face. "you've totally screwed that up for me."

"yeah, well," he huffs, "about time. only took you all my goddamn life."

"sorry i'm late."

"what else is new?" he rolls his eyes and you squeak, indignant, before sticking your tongue out at him, patience worn thin already.

you expect a bite or a pinch to the cheek or another rough violence that falls along the lines that have made up your relationship thus far — but instead there is only something soft that reflects in his eyes and the shy kiss he presses to your lips, something that he's kept safe just for you, guarded, with his stick-sword and cardboard shield.

#narrator voice: willow did not have the spoons to extend the ending #whoopsie #okie okie part 2 #✿ willow writes #✿ one shot: bakugou

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libraryofolive · 5 months ago

Text

impatience

featuring: neighbour!Choso Kamo x fem!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 6.1k

synopsis: You meet your new neighbour, Choso, and his younger brother as they move in across the hall from you. He's your neighbour, and that's all he can be, right? No matter how attractive he might be.

[next chapter]

Like this? You can find my smaus here and my drabbles and other fiics here!

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Being neighbours with Choso Kamo, and his younger brother, Yuji, had always been… interesting, to say the least. You had first met the two when they were moving in across the hall from you - you had almost walked into a box that appeared to have two little legs sticking out from under it.

“Woah, there, little dude. Can you see over that box?” You had asked, worrying about the endless trip hazards that littered the hallway that could be detrimental to the kid’s wellbeing - and the wellbeing of whatever was inside the box.

“Er, not really!” A small voice replied. You looked over the box, seeing a patch of pink hair atop a grinning face that was looking up at you.

“Would you like some help? I’ll carry it for you if you show me where your taking it.”

“Yuji!” A low voice shouted, one you didn’t recognise as belonging to any of your other neighbours. A handsome stranger walked around the corner of the hallway, coming into your view. He was tall, and you could see the outline of his muscles as he gripped a similar box to the one the young boy - presumably Yuji - was carrying, albeit a lot smaller. “I told you not to wander off, and to take the small box, here, switch with me.” The man came closer towards you, and you got a better view of him, his pale skin, some smudged make up around his eyes, with a small face tattoo over the bridge of his nose. He crouched next to Yuji., putting his own smaller box down and taking the bigger box off him.

“’m sorry, Cho, I just wanted to help!” The pink-haired boy sounded deflated.

“I know you did, but I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself, or walk into someone and hurt both of you. Stick to the smaller boxes, okay bud?”

“Okay.” Yuji conceded, the interaction making your heart melt slightly. The man with the face tattoo, who you had continued to admire, with his long dark hair in two pigtails atop his head, turned to you. “I’m sorry, he didn’t crash into you, did he?”

“No, don’t worry, I managed to dodge the little box troll.” The nickname made Yuji giggle slightly, and you looked down at him with a small smile. “Are you guys moving into the building?” You asked the other man.

“Yeah, into 4c.”

“No way, that’s across from me! I guess you guys are my new neighbours.”

“Neighbours, hey? I guess we should introduce ourselves. I’m Choso.” Choso stook his hand out for you to shake, which you accepted, telling him your name. He blushed slightly when your hands made contact. His hand was warm, slightly calloused, and during the whole interaction you got to look deep into his eyes, studying their deep purple hues.

“I’m Yuji!” Yuji added, pulling you out of your moment with Choso. Yuji also stuck his hand out for you to shake, forcing you to pull away from the older man. You took his hand, shaking it hard enough to shake his entire arm with it, exaggerating the shake as if you were a businessman enclosing a million dollar deal.

“Well its nice to meet you, Yuji. And you too, Choso. Would you like some help with all your boxes? I can help you with the bigger ones, if you want. Save your little assistant here the struggle with them.”

“Are you sure? You really don’t have to, we can manage it ourselves.” Choso scratched the back of his neck.

“I have nothing better to do, so why not get to know my new neighbours?” You smiled brightly, and Choso could have sworn he melted into a puddle right there in the middle of the hall.

“Er, yeah, okay then. We could use a hand. But don’t feel like you have to. Or that you have to help until we’ve moved all of them-”

“Great!” You interrupted, “Yuuji, why don’t you show me where the rest of your boxes are? I’m sure Choso here can handle these two.”

“Okay! Follow me!”

The rest of your afternoon was spent shifting boxes of all sizes into the apartment that had sat empty across from your own. Choso told you that Yuji was his half-brother, and was moving in with him because his Grandad couldn’t look after an energetic five year old anymore, so he finally had an excuse to get a better apartment than his old one.

“Hey, erm, would you like to stay for dinner? As a thank you for helping us. We were going to order some pizza?” Choso asked you quietly as you carried the last of the boxes into his new home. He silently cursed himself at how nervous he sounded - he was just trying to thank you for a kind gesture, for God’s sake. It didn’t matter that seeing the way you interacted with his younger brother, his whole world, had him internally screaming. Or that the glitter in your eye when you laughed had his heart going funny. Or that every time your shirt rode up he couldn’t help but imagining kissing your stomach, his mouth working itself further and further down-

“I’d love to! But er, why don’t we eat it at my place? Save you looking through all these boxes for plates and cups and stuff.”

“We don’t want to intrude-”

“Nonsense! I’d love to have you and my favourite little box troll over, and I’m offering, so you really aren’t intruding. Besides, it’s the neighbourly thing to do, no?” Really, you were just glad to have an excuse to spend more time with the two brothers.

“Pleeeeeease, Cho? I’m too tired to unpack.” Yuji flopped onto the floor, emphasising his point. “I don’t think I can move from this spot.”

”If you can’t move from there, how will you get to her apartment?” Choso responded, appearing to be annoyed at his little brother’s antics, but already you could read him well enough to know that he was only pretending.

“You’ll carry me!” Yuji lifted his head off the floor, giving his brother a toothy grin.

“Oh I will, will I? Maybe I’m too tired to lift anything.”

“Well, if you’re too tired to lift him,” you walked over until you were stood behind Yuji’s head, grabbing his arms and lifting them towards you, “I’ll just have to drag him over!” You started dragging Yuji, who was still lying on the floor, around the apartment, dodging the boxes scattered around as if you were doing an obstacle course. Yuji began laughing wildly, shouting at you to go faster. The whole scene had Choso laughing along with Yuji, and the sound had your face heating up. It was a low, but it sounded like someone had poured liquid joy into it. Yeah, I could get used to hearing that, you thought.

“Okay, okay, we’re not dragging Yuji across the dirty hallway floor. But we will come over for pizza - it’s on me though. It’s supposed to be us thanking you for your help.” You let go of Yuji, who was jumping up off the floor and bouncing excitedly.

“That sounds like a good compromise to me. Look at us, working well together. To my apartment we go!” You dramatically pulled your key out of your pocket dramatically, holding it up to show it off as it was a tool to help you on a mystic adventure.

You led the two boys into your apartment, telling them to make themselves at home. Yuji quickly found his seat on your couch, which he decided would be ‘his spot’ forever. Choso seemed more hesitant to make himself comfortable, but you urged him to sit next to his brother as you went to find some menus for local take-out pizza places.

“What type of pizza do you fancy, box troll?” You asked Yuji as you walked over to the sofa where the brothers sat, handing a menu you found to Choso.

“A big one.”

“A big one? Hungry, are we?”

“I’m starving!” The young boy put his hand to his forehead and dramatically gripped his stomach. You chuckled at this, wondering how the hell this kid could still have such energy levels.

“Well, we can’t have you dying of hunger on us, can we? What would we do with all of your teddies?” Choso tickled Yuji’s side with one hand , making him thrash about.

“Don’t - touch - my - teddies!” Yuji gasped between giggles.

“Okay, okay, I won’t.” Choso stopped his attack on Yuji’s side, “Do you want the same as always, Yuj?”

“Yes please!”

“What do you fancy?” Choso turned to you, bringing his phone out to dial the number of the pizza place.

“Oh, just whatever. I’m not fussy.” The dark-haired man ordered your food, and it arrived pretty quickly. He answered the door when it did arrive, not giving you the chance to hand some cash over to the delivery guy.

“Pizza, pizza, pizza!” Yuji chanted as his older brother carried the pizzas over to your coffee table, placing them down. Yuji dove into his immediately, munching on it happily - it was the quietest you’d seen him all day.

“Thank you, for all your help today.” Choso said sincerely as he ate his own food, sat next to you.

“Don’t worry about it! Just don’t be a stranger, okay? You two are both sweet, I think we could be good friends. And if you try to ignore me, I know where you live.” You truly meant the first part of your words. You had enjoyed spending time with the two brothers today - you didn’t want your relationship with them ending here, just being neighbours who would smile at each other when you occasionally crossed paths coming in and out of the building.

“We won’t. And I think you’re sweet, too.” Your face heated at his comment, “and Yuji just adores you already. I don’t think he’ll ever shut up about you.”

“So friends, not just neighbours?”

“Yeah, friends, not just neighbours.”

It was dark when you were woken up a few weeks later by a blaring noise. You rubbed your eyes, trying to get them to adjust to the black your room was coated in. You looked around until you started to comprehend what the noise was - the fire alarm. You groaned, looking at the clock on your bedside table: it read 3:04 AM.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” You mumbled, hopping out of bed and stumbling around in the dark, looking for some sweatpants and slippers to throw on. The fire alarm going off often happened in your building. Over the years you had spent living there, it had become a boy who cried wolf situation. It happened often enough you knew that it was probably a false alarm, which is why you made sure you were covered up and warm before leaving your apartment, shrugging on a jacket on the way out. It didn’t matter if there wasn’t actually a fire, you’d be stood outside for a decent amount of time whilst they investigated what could have caused the alarm to go off, and you did not want to be caught out in just the large tee you had been sleeping in.

You sluggishly made your way down the stairs of the building, a lot of your neighbours in the same half-awake, completely irritated state as you. It was a mutual belief that nothing was really happening, which just made you more confident this was a waste of time. Time that you could have been spent sleeping. You really weren’t in the mood to spend the witching hour out on the street rather than your own cosy bed.

You and the rest of your building made your way outside, and you stood on your phone, praying your WiFi was strong enough to reach the street the building sits on. It was unusually cold for the time of year, making you glad you had thought to grab a jacket. As you looked around, though, you realised not everyone had had the same thought. You heard a wail of your name, which had you turning around as you tried to find the source. You felt something heavy attach itself to your leg, realising what - or rather, who - had called for you.

You picked the pink haired boy up, taking him off your leg and into your arms. Yuji clung to you, wrapping his small arms around your neck and hiding his face into your shoulder. He was sniffling, and you could feel a wet patch forming on your shoulder.

“Oh Yuji,” You said softly, “it’s okay, I promise. This just happens sometimes. I bet it was just a practice.” With your free hand, you rubbed circles onto his back in what you hoped was a soothing motion.

“Yuji? Yuji!” You heard a deep, distressed, yell, the voice quavering slightly.

“It’s okay, Choso! I have him!” You called back, noticing Yuji’s older brother. He had his hair down, and was he shirtless? You couldn’t help but admire his form. His hair fell in a way that framed his face perfectly, and the soft glow of the street lights made it hart to ignore the gentle slope of his abs. You were pulled out of your thoughts when you realised what must have happened - he thought that there really was a fire, grabbed Yuji and got out as quickly as they could. It would explain why you hadn’t seen them on the fire escape, you must have missed them whilst you threw on some extra layers. He must sleep like that, you thought, and Yuji was only in his pyjamas and slippers too. They’d freeze by the time you were let back in the building.

“Yuji, you can’t just run off like that, okay? You need to stay with me when stuff like this happens.” Choso addressed his sibling as he approached the two of you, stroking his pink hair.

“I’m sorry, Cho. Just wanted to make sure Y/N was okay.” Yuji’s teeth chattered slightly as he spoke, and you could feel him shivering in your arms.

“Hey, you don’t have to worry about me, box troll.” You put him down, glad he had at least put some Spiderman slippers on before they left the apartment. You stayed at his eye level, shrugging off your jacket and wrapping it around him. “Keep this on, okay? We don’t want you freezing.”

“Do you know what’s happened? Why did the alarm go off?” Choso asked as he picked Yuji back up, keeping him close. You couldn’t tell if it was to make sure he knew were Yuji was, help calm Yuji down, or try and get some body heat off of the child that was usually a human radiator. You guessed it was probably all three.

“Not for sure, but this happens sometimes. Personally, I think it’s the stoners on the sixth floor that accidentally set it off, but I don’t think there’s a real fire or anything. Which is why I got dressed before getting out.” You gave him a half-assed look, which had him scratching his neck sheepishly with his free hand. The action only brought more attention to his muscles, which you tried hard not to stare at. “But it’s my bad for not warning you guys. It hasn’t happened for a couple months, so I hoped it was over.”

“Thank you for giving Yuji your jacket.” You glanced over at the young boy again, who had now calmed down and was even starting to doze off on his brother’s shoulder.

“Oh, it’s no worries. The little guy needs it more than I do. But are you okay? You must be freezing.”

“I didn’t really stop to think that we might be stood out here for a while. I just grabbed Yuji and got out.”

“Yeah, I figured as much. I wish I could give you something to keep you warm too. Maybe we should huddle like penguins for body heat.” Why the fuck did you just say that? Your face heated as you considering running away and starting a new life where you would never have to see Choso again. But then Choso laughed, and you realised that maybe a life that meant never seeing Choso again might not be preferable, even with how mortified you were currently feeling.

“God, I used to be obsessed with penguins when I was Yuji’s age.” Your embarrassment was soon forgotten after your neighbour’s little confession.

“What?” Your face scrunched in confusion.

“I’m serious. I used to be so obsessed with penguins. I had a giant penguin toy called Waddles, and Happy Feet was my favourite movie.”

“Happy Feet?” You asked him, a disbelieving smile written on your face.

“Yeah, Happy Feet. There was something about that tap dancing penguin. It made me want to learn to tap dance.”

“Hold on, you can’t just drop some Choso lore as wild as this and expect me to comprehend the information immediately. When you were a child, you were obsessed with penguins and tap danced?”

“Wanted to tap dance. I never actually did. Although I did try to copy it from the movie. Keep in mind I was five years old.”

“This is making me see you in a whole new light. I can’t believe this. You, cool emo boy Choso Kamo, wanted to tap dance?”

“Where the hell did you get the idea that I’m cool?”

“Look at you! With your face tattoo, long hair and brooding vibe.”

“I am not cool. My only friend is my little brother. And he’s five, so he has to like me.”

“Wow, I see how it is. I’m stood right here and you just deny our friendship. Wow, I thought you were different. But I guess every emo has to be a loner. I’ll just leave you to enjoy your My Chemical Romance CDs.” Your voice was practically dripping sarcasm, your mouth shaping into a smirk as you spoke.

“How do you know I listen to My Chemical Romance?” Choso looked at you quizzically, making your smirk transform into a beaming grin as you laughed. “Okay okay, I have two friends, and one of them is my younger brother.”

“Much better.” You nodded approvingly, and a comforting silence settled over the two of you. You glanced back at Choso, who was busying himself with fussing over his sleeping brother. His presence seemed to warm you from the inside, so much so you could hardly feel the cold night air, even without your jacket. There was just something about him that had you so… enthralled. Since your first meeting, the two of you had kept running into each other when leaving and entering your shared building, and you had both kept your promise of being friends, not just neighbours. Passing each other in the corridor often turned into full length conversations, and you had even joined him and Yuji for dinner multiple times.

However, a small part of you longed to be more than friends. He was insanely attractive (no one could deny that) but it was also the way his love for his younger brother shone in everything that he did. The way he seemed to notice you were having a bad day from the way you walked down the hallway. The way that you just felt so at ease around him, and you hoped you made him feel the same way. The random comment about his younger self wasn’t that out of place - you often found yourself spilling facts about yourself you had never told anyone before, and he evidently did the same. There was just something so trustworthy about him. He was a comfort, you had realised. Around Choso, you could just be. You didn’t have to think about trying to sound clever, or even bother about your appearance. Even when seeing you sleep deprived, in your pyjama top and sweatpants, you couldn’t bring yourself to fret over your looks, knowing that he really didn’t care. You could just exist and be happy. You could get used to that.

Eventually, you were let back into the building. Yuji was still out cold on Choso’s shoulders, whose arms had gone numb, but he couldn’t bring himself to wake him up so that he could stand and give his arms a break. Choso tucked Yuji straight back into his bed, taking his Spiderman’s slippers and your jacket off. Yuji stirred, but didn’t wake, and clutched onto a worn penguin stuffed animal. As Choso stopped to admire the sight of his younger brother resting comfortably, glad he wasn’t too distressed from the night’s events, three gentle knocks sounded on his front door.

You stood on the other side of it, clutching a kettle and some tea bags in your hands. “It’s decaf tea.” You explained sheepishly, “I thought it might help you warm up. We were stood out there for like an hour, I don’t want you to get sick or anything.”

“Thank you.” Choso said earnestly, stepping to the side to allow you to enter his apartment. You plugged your electric kettle in and filled it with water, leaving it to boil. “Lego Batman or Lego Ninjago?” He asked, showing off the designs on two mugs he pulled out of a cupboard.

“Hm.. I’ll have to go with Batman, I think. I’m guessing they’re Yuji’s?”

“Yeah. I told him he could pick out some stuff for the new apartment when we moved in together, but I’m starting to regret it.”

“You didn’t get any more?”

“Honestly, I didn’t care because I didn’t think we’d have any guests.”

“You really care about Yuji, don’t you?” You asked, wanting to divert the conversation into a more positive topic.

“He’s my little brother, of course I care about him. He’s my entire world, I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“He’s such a little ray of sunshine. You’re great with him.”

“Thank you, seriously. It means a lot.” You let Choso carry on as you poured your now boiled water from your kettle into the mugs, the teabags waiting inside them. “It’s hard. I’d do anything for him, but suddenly caring for him full time has been a shock. I’m still adjusting, I think.”

“I bet. Having a kid is difficult, never mind taking one in almost overnight.”

“Yeah.” There was a pregnant pause, “but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I mean, if I hadn’t taken him in, I never would have met you, would I?” Your hand faltered at that slightly, causing you to spill the hot water.

“Shit!” You exclaimed as some splashed back onto your arm. At least now you could blame your fluster on your injury rather than your neighbour’s words.

“Oh my God, are you okay? Here, run it under the cold tap, I think we have some plasters around.” Choso led you to the sink, turning on the cold water before turning to root through one of his kitchen drawers.

“I’m fine, Cho, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing serious, let me get back to the teas.”

“Don’t be silly, I can’t accept you making me a drink whilst you’re hurt. Besides, I think you’re gonna really want one of these plasters.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They’re Hello Kitty.”

“Hello Kitty? Is this another childhood obsession of yours, along with tap dancing and penguins?”

“It wasn’t tap dancing and penguins, it was just tap dancing penguins, thank you very much. And no, this was another Yuji pick. He says they remind him of his uncle.” You chuckled at that, turning the cold water off and patting your arm dry with a tissue. “Here, let me.” Choso took a hold of your arm, inspecting it in the low light of his kitchen. Him being this close had your breath hitching and muscles tensing.

“Relax, I don’t bite. Promise.” Choso let go of your arm with one hand, only to use it to grab one of the pink plasters from the box and gently apply it to your burn. He itched to press a chaste kiss onto it, as if his kiss would help it heal faster. Kiss it better, like Yuji always demanded. You stood there, in front of his kitchen sink, one of his hands gently gripping your arm, looking into his eyes for a beat too long, as if the two of you were in a daze. You were the first one to break from it, though, clearing your throat and pulling your arm from his hold. It burnt where his fingers had grazed your skin, but not in the painful stinging sensation you felt from your actual burn. This was more like a pleasant tingle, one you wanted to experience more of.

“The teas.” The curt sentence was your attempt at explaining your quick movements, trying to ignore the flash of hurt you saw in your neighbour’s eyes.

“Yeah, the teas. I’ll finish pouring the water, if you grab the milk out of the fridge?” Choso turned away from you, heading back to the counter where the one and a half mugs of tea sat. You did as instructed, and couldn’t help appreciating the domesticity of it all. It didn’t matter that it was almost half four in the morning and that you should really get some sleep before you had to head to work in a few hours. Even the slight pain in your arm didn’t really register, not when you could almost picture doing this every morning, making each other your morning coffees as one of you helped Yuji get ready for the day.

Oh get it together, you mentally scolded yourself, bringing you out of your fantasy, he’s your neighbour, for crying out loud. You’ve only known him a few weeks!

“Er, the milk?” Choso’s voice brought you out of your impending spiral.

“Sorry, just… away with the fairies.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Oh nothing, just how bloody tired I’m going to be tomorrow.”

“Am I keeping you up? Don’t feel like you have to stay or anything.”

“Don’t be stupid - I’m the one that brought the supplies over. If anything, I’m the one keeping you up. You’re the one that will have to deal with a hyperactive child tomorrow.” You handed Choso the milk, and he started pouring it into the mugs.

“At least he got to sleep - oh! Your jacket is in his room, I’ll grab it for you once we’re done with these.” He slid you the Lego Batman cup, as requested. As the two of you drank your drinks, the conversation flowed easily. Choso had put a hoodie on since returning to his apartment, but you couldn’t help but reminisce about his shirtless state. Why did he have to be attractive and a good person and funny? It was unfair, really. Yeah, you thought as you eventually made your way back to your own apartment, you were screwed.

Another couple of weeks passed, yet you found yourself being woken in the middle of the night again. It wasn’t the fire alarm that had woken you this time, though, and it was way too early to have been your actual alarm. You rubbed your eyes, yawning, when you felt two small hands on your arm, shaking it slightly. You shot bolt up right, hitting something on the way up.

“OW!” A child’s voice yelled, and you heard them sniffle, as if they were about to cry. Your head whipped around to where the sound was coming from, and you could see a pink tinge in the darkness of your room.

“Yuji?” You whisper-shouted, dumbfounded. Your bedroom door was wide open, and you could see from your position that your apartment door was also hanging open. Not only that, but you could see directly into Choso and Yuji’s apartment. What the fuck was going on?

“You hurt my head.” Yuji’s voice was small, and you could hear little cries coming from him.

“Oh I’m sorry sweetie, you scared me, that’s all. It was just an accident.” You pulled him off the floor and onto your lap, his back to your chest.

“I forgive you.” The young boy wiped his eyes, and you stroked his hair as you had seen Choso do to calm him down.

“What are you doing here, sweetie? Has something happened?”

“I had something to tell you!” He perked up as he remembered the venture that had brought him into your apartment.

“How did you get in, Yuji?”

“I used the keys!” He fished in his pocket, pulling out a loop of keys. Your spare key, the one you had given Choso two days ago for emergencies and safe keeping. He must have used it to unlock your door, and you guessed the other one was a spare key to his own apartment.

“Why don’t you give me those, and we’ll get you back to bed, yeah?”

“But I had something to tell you!”

“You can tell me whilst we get you to bed again, okay?”

“Okay!” At that, Yuji hopped off your bed and waited expectantly for you to do the same. You did so begrudgingly, really not wanting to leave the comfort of your warm bed. You threw on your slippers as Yuji handed you the keys, and you grabbed his hand with your spare one to walk him across the hall. You made sure to shut your bedroom door behind you, and to close and lock your front one. During this, Yuji told you about a cool fact he had learnt at school that day, something about the Titanic, of all things.

“That’s really interesting, Yuji!” You smiled along as he led you to his bedroom, hopping happily back into his own bed now that his quest had been fulfilled.

“I know! So when I remembered it, I just had to tell you straight away!”

“As cute as that is, Yuji, you can’t just come and wake me up in the middle of the night, okay? We don’t want Choso wondering where you are do we?”

“Are you talking about me?” You turned around, and sure enough, there stood Choso, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Or I guess a better question is what are you doing here?” He aimed that second question at you.

“I, er, urm…” You were stumbling over your words at the sight of him - he was shirtless again, and this time he was just in a pair of boxers.

“I had to tell her my interesting fact, so I went to her apartment!” Yuji answered for you, beaming at his older brother.

“Yeah,” you regained your composure, “so I brought him back here to tuck him safely back into bed. I was just explaining that he can’t just come over in the middle of the night, lest he worry you.”

“But what if I remember something I have to tell you? I might forget it again if I go back to sleep!” Yuji protested.

“Well, why don’t we get you a little notebook where you can write down the things you want to tell me. Then, whenever you see me next, you can read me everything you had to say.” You suggested.

“Can it be a superhero notebook?”

“Yuji-” Choso’s voice was stern, but you interrupted him.

“Of course it can. Now let’s get some sleep, yeah?”

“Okay!” Yuji thought for a minute, “but can you kiss my head better? It still hurts.”

“What happened to his head?” Choso’s voice was full of worry.

“I bumped it with mine when he woke me up - he scared me and I jolted right up.”

“So can you kiss it better? I don’t think I will be able to sleep if you don’t.” You looked at Choso, seeking his approval before you did anything. When he nodded, you pecked Yuji’s forehead.

“Thank you! It doesn’t hurt anymore.” The small boy beamed.

“You’re welcome. Good night, Yuji.”

“Good night!” You and Choso left Yuji’s room, closing the door on your way out.

“I think these are yours. Maybe you should start keeping them somewhere the little guy can’t reach.” You whispered, not wanting to be heard through the door of Yuji’s room.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe he did that, and that I didn’t notice until I heard you guys talking.”

“Hey, it’s okay. No harm done, although we might have matching bruises in the morning.” You rubbed your own forehead, which had started throbbing slightly now that the adrenaline of being woken by an intruder in the middle of the night had worn off. You looked away from Choso, suddenly finding the plain wall opposite you the most interesting thing in the world, in an attempt to not stare at his almost bare body. Choso’s whole body blushed when he too realised just what he was wearing, which really wasn’t much.

“Er, it’s warm in my room. I don’t normally spend my time walking around in just my underwear.” He explained.

“Oh yeah, sure.” You nodded at his words, taking in a deep breath. As you let it out though, you started laughing at the awkwardness that lined this conversation.

“What?” Choso looked at you questioningly.

“Oh, nothing. Just never thought that I’d get a hot new neighbour and end up in his apartment during the early hours of the morning, putting his younger brother to bed whilst he’s in his boxers.”

“You think I’m hot?” He asked, and your face heated at your slip-up.

“I didn’t say that.” You tried to laugh it off.

“Yeah you did. If it’s any consolation, I never thought I’d find my beautiful new neighbour putting my little brother to bed in the early hours of the morning.”

“You had to one-up me, didn’t you?” You tried not to show just how badly his compliment affected you, your face near-boiling.

“Why don’t I take you to dinner?” Choso asked.

“As an apology for Yuji sneaking into my apartment to tell me about the Titanic?”

“As a date. But that too.”

“Er, yeah. I mean, um, I’d really like that. Yeah.”

“I’ll text you the details?”

“Yeah. That er, that sounds good.”

“Good.” A bashful silence settled between the two, both of you grinning like idiots at the prospect of a date together, and the idea that your feelings for each other are reciprocated.

“I’m er, gonna head back. Get some sleep.” Your whisper broke the quiet.

“Yeah, obviously.” Choso’s eyes widened slightly as he snapped back into reality. He knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep, his mind racing with the possibilities of where to take you for a first date. He had imagined it to himself so many times over the past two months or so you had known each other, yet none of his fantasies seemed good enough for the real thing. You both nodded at each other, saying quiet goodbyes and wishing each other a good night and sweet dreams before you departed. When back in the safety of your own apartment, closing and locking your front door, you let out a high pitched squeal, waving your arms around and jumping up and down. You were going on a date with Choso. You were actually going on a fucking date with Choso Kamo. Suddenly, you were very thankful for Yuji’s impatience.

[Chapter 2]

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