#also when the demons keep stepping in the circle

[stainedglassthreads]

Saw someone mention something about 'of course Gabriel would get along with a demon, he's an awful person--' and no no no you're missing the point. Like yeah, he does suck and has been awful to Aziraphale, but he's not Uniquely Awful, nor is that the reason he gets along with Beelzebub. He gets along with Beelzebub because they are fundamentally the same, because there is no difference between angels and demons in Good Omens.

One of the things reiterated again and again in the book Good Omens is how Heaven and Hell is fundamentally the same. It's noted that demon wings are not black, but white, and during what while the showdown between Adam and Satan in the series, all the angels and demons actually appear on earth and square off against each other--and the narration specifically says that you couldn't tell the angels apart from the demons. That's why Gabriel and Beelzebub get the same complaints from both Heaven and Hell about how hard it is to get the angels and demons to back down from a war, that's why Crowley says at the end of season 1 that the real Armageddon will be the combined hosts of Heaven and Hell versus humanity. It's why it was mentioned, when talking about season 1, that Heaven and Hell were envisioned as being the upper floors and basement of the same basement--is why the methods to get to both places are always in the same location! The escalators and the elevator!

And that's why Gabriel and Beelzebub got along. Because they were in the exact same position experiencing the exact same difficulties and complaints, and because they the exact same amount of actual care for Heaven and Hell--precisely zero. They fell in love because they're similar, but at the end of the day, all the angels and demons are 'similar', because the demons used to be angels too! Which we are reminded, when Crowley correctly analyzes angels like Muriel, Heaven as a structure, and guesses that they STILL haven't changed the passwords. Crowley recognizes that Heaven and Hell are the same, and are plagued by effectively the same problems, and so he rejects both. He rejects Beelzebub's offer to become a Duke of Hell, even if it would protect Aziraphale. He rejects Aziraphale's offer to become an angel again. Crowley knows that both sides are rife with systematic problems, and so he goes all-in on our side. And on humanity's side.

[spikedfearn]

Under The Blood Moon

Part I

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 8.1k

a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance,  somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

M I N D T H E T A G S

Part I: Hunt the Hare

Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.

Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.

Behind you—

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate.

Not rushing, no.

He doesn't need to rush.

The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.

You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.

Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.

You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.

Then you hear it—

A low, rumbling chuckle.

The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.

You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.

You should have listened.

The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.

Don't go out on the blood moon.

There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.

You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...

Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.

Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.

Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.

Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.

A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.

"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"

You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.

He steps into view.

For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.

They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.

You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.

"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."

The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Grins as he pounces.

The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.

You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.

Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.

He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.

You go still.

Frozen.

A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.

Those eyes—

Red as the blood moon above.

Glowing, starving.

The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.

"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."

Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.

He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.

His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.

You try to pull away—

He growls.

Not a human sound.

Something low, rattling. Monstrous.

His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.

"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."

You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.

And then he goes still.

For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.

His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.

The change is instant.

A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.

"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."

You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.

One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.

"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."

You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.

He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.

And then—

He licks.

Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.

He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.

"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."

You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.

He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.

And then there’s nothing between you.

Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.

Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.

For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.

You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."

You feel the shift—

Feel it deep in your marrow—

When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.

A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—

And not just with any tongue.

When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.

Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.

He hums low��pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.

"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."

Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.

He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—

And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.

"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."

You sob—broken, desperate.

His smile sharpens.

"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."

The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.

Be good.

Or be dead.

You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.

"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."

You do.

You have no choice.

And he devours you.

The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.

He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.

"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."

You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.

You don't want it.

You don't want it.

You can't want it.

But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.

He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.

When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.

And for the first time—

There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.

Something softer—

Something almost awed.

"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.

"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."

His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.

Not by a long shot.

He’s only just getting started.

You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.

He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.

The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.

You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.

"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."

Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.

He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.

The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.

The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.

You can't see where he's taking you.

You can barely think.

Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.

And his voice—

Low, filthy, almost tender—

Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.

"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."

You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't waver.

Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.

Where you’ll be his.

Body and soul.

Whether you want to be or not.

The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.

Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.

The woods are different here.

Deeper.

Darker.

The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.

You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.

He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.

You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.

He chuckles—low and knowing.

"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."

His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.

"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."

The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.

The chapel.

Or what's left of it.

A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.

It should have been abandoned.

It was abandoned.

But now—

It breathes.

The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.

He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.

He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.

In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.

Your heart stutters against your ribs.

He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.

"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."

You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.

He lets you.

For a second.

Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.

He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.

You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.

"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."

His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.

"But you..."

His grin widens, sharp and wicked.

"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”

His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.

"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."

You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.

"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."

He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.

"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."

You shake your head, tears spilling over.

He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”

He shifts, reaching for the chains.

You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.

Your blood goes cold.

You realize—

This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.

This is your life now.

Your body.

Your blood.

Your soul.

All belonging to him.

And the monster smiles.

The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.

You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.

You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.

He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.

The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.

"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."

You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.

His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.

Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.

He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.

"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."

His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.

You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.

He chuckles, low and dark.

"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."

His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.

Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.

Until you're laid bare before him.

Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.

He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.

You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.

"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.

"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."

He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.

You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.

"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."

And then—

The flicker of heat—

The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.

You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.

He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.

He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.

"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"

You can't answer.

You're beyond answering.

Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.

He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.

"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."

He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.

You can already feel yourself unraveling—

Can feel it building again—

That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.

He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.

You come—

Harder than before—

Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.

He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.

He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.

When he looks at you—

It's not just hunger.

It's possession.

"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."

You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.

And then—

You see it.

Him undoing his belt.

The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.

His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry with terror.

He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.

"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."

You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.

He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.

And pushes in.

The first push of him inside you is a shock—

Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.

You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.

"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"

The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.

Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.

"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.

The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.

"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."

With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.

He doesn't move at first.

Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.

"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."

You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.

He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.

The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.

He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.

"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."

Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.

Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.

He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.

Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.

He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.

"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."

You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.

He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.

"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."

Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.

He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.

You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.

"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."

You come undone—

Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—

As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.

His rhythm falters—

Hitches—

And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.

You feel it—

The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—

Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.

He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.

He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.

"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."

You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.

And somewhere—

Buried under the terror, the humiliation—

A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.

You're his now.

There’s no going back.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.

The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.

You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.

He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.

You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.

But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—

He stays.

He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.

Something like awe flickers across his face.

"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.

One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.

You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.

He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.

He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.

You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.

"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."

You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.

There’s no fight left at all.

He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.

You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.

He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.

"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."

His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."

When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—

He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.

He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.

"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."

You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.

He hums low in his throat, pleased.

Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.

For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.

But instead—

You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.

The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.

You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.

He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.

Then he moves.

He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.

You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.

"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."

He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.

Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.

He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.

And all the while, he talks.

Low, sweet, steady.

"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."

His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.

"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."

You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.

"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."

You sob softly against his chest.

He smiles against your hair.

"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."

His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.

You twitch helplessly in his lap.

"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."

He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.

"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."

The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.

You’re weightless against him.

Soft.

Malleable.

The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.

Your body has surrendered.

Your mind—

God help you—isn't far behind.

He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.

His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.

One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.

"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."

You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.

"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."

You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.

You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.

But it’s useless.

Inevitable.

He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.

You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.

"There we go," he croons. "There she is."

He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.

"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."

You shudder helplessly against him.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.

"Remmick," he breathes.

"That's what ya call me, sugar."

Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.

"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."

You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.

"Remmick."

He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.

"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."

He kisses you then—

A brutal, clumsy thing—

Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.

You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.

Remmick smiles against your mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."

He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.

"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."

His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—

Possessive, filthy, promising.

"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."

You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.

And Remmick—

The monster, the devil, the man—

Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.

"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."

The slow grind of him inside you never stops.

Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.

He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.

"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."

You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.

His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.

"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."

He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.

Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.

Remmick hums low, satisfied.

"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."

He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.

And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.

"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."

You sob—broken, breathless.

He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.

"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."

You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.

Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.

"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.

You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.

"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."

You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.

Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.

Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.

"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."

He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.

"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."

And you know—

With a dark, shattered certainty —

That he’s telling the truth.

Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.

Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.

You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.

He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.

"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."

His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.

You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.

"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"

He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.

His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.

"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"

You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.

He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.

"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."

He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.

"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."

He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.

Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.

Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.

He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.

"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."

You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.

He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.

"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."

He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.

"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."

You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.

And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.

You belong here.

With him.

Forever.

And the monster—

The demon—

Your Remmick—

Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.

[kurooh]

LOST IN THE FIRE !

⊹₊˚. HAPPY 4/20 2025 — two baked and horny college students + a late night ritual to summon a hungry sex demon = a hot mess! but as satoru famously likes to say, what could go wrong?

warnings: 18+ content, mdni. succubus fem! reader, recreational drug use (weed), crack taken very seriously, threesomes, humor, inaccurate demonic rituals, blood offerings but sexy, oral, unprotected sex, creampies, squirting, throat fucking, extreme marathon sex, ‘this is where you’re weak right’, lots of cum, handjobs, blowjobs, spit roasting, tit sucking, reader is sexy asf! wc / 12.6k DAMN

xoxo, juno: this idea came to me sober btw! happy 420, two months later. comment & rb if you enjoyed, lmk if you caught the jjk easter eggs i threw in teehee

“god, it’s really been too long.” 

satoru exhales a cloud of smoke into the air, and he can feel the tension bleeding out of his slouching shoulders. weeks of built up stress dissipate along with the smoke, and for the first time in a while, he’s finally able to take it easy. he passes the blunt back to his best friend and squints at the laptop screen. it is dark in their apartment, and the air is thick with the heavy scent of weed, all thanks to suguru’s idea to hotbox the place. why follow the no smoking inside rule when you can shove a towel against the front door and keep the windows shut so the neighbors can’t smell it? honestly, fuck them—the people on the left always have something to say, especially to the landlord!

with a wry chuckle, suguru plucks the blunt from satoru’s fingers and raises it to his lips. “it’s been a month, satoru. you were literally the one who kept telling me to be your sobriety sponsor so you could focus on school and work.”

on the illegal (but free!) website, cocaine bear plays on the display, not yet in full screen. satoru loves to watch comedy movies, and this is the only one he’ll ever want to watch when he’s high. as for suguru, he either falls asleep or watches it too. the workload for classes has really amped up in the past few weeks, and as much as satoru hates to say or even think it, he’s genuinely been struggling. scheduling at work has also been a bitch, and utahime, his boss, has the nerve to turn her nose up at him even when he comes in early! if she wasn’t shoko’s girlfriend, satoru would mess with her endlessly.

diamond irises stand out brightly against reddening eyes as he blinks a few times, leaning in to better see the movie. soft voices and sounds pour out of the speakers, just loud enough to hear. the tip of satoru’s index finger lands on the touchpad, and he skates the mouse across the screen to dilate the movie’s picture when he notices a peculiar bookmark just under the search bar.

“what the hell, suguru?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth; legitimate curiosity and maybe a little excitement slip into the words, and before suguru can snatch away his laptop, satoru pulls it into his lap and scurries onto his own messy bed. “what’s this? it looks weird, i’ve never seen this site before.”

it’s true.

satoru has browsed nearly all corners of the internet, and not once in his twenty four years of living has he seen this website icon before. it’s a black circle with intricate white lines in a shape that he can’t quite make out, and when he dodges suguru’s attempt to drag him off the bed, he clicks onto the bookmark and kicks his feet childishly. 

“dude,” suguru tries weakly, having managed not to drop the blunt. he grabs at his best friend’s flailing ankle and his lips twist downwards, an embarrassed heat creeping into his face. “listen. i promise, it’s really not what it looks like, hear me out—”

“‘how to summon a succubus in five steps’. what the actual fuck is this? suguru, if you’re going through a dry spell, why not just go to the bar near shoko’s place?”

“that’s—it’s a lesbian bar, satoru. for the record, i’d never be desperate enough to summon a succubus. it’s because of yuki, she kept hounding me about this shit. what, you think i’d voluntarily research something like this? she threatened to whip me off her motorcycle when i was on it.”

satoru’s face scrunches in disgust. he doesn’t really like to know that he has friends desperate enough to look into something like this, but at least she’s more suguru’s than his. they met in a similar class at some point and apparently hit it off well enough for her to pass something like this off to him. 

“and you said yes? what happened to the stop, drop, and roll thing?”

“i was drunk and we were on a freeway. this was right after drinking at the lesbian bar, by the way. two women actually hit on me because i wore my hair down that night.”

“where was i? why didn’t you invite me to this little get-together, huh?” satoru sours immediately, already thinking too hard about when this may have happened to register suguru taking a seat on the bed beside him.

“at work,” suguru hums, scooping the laptop into his own lap to explore the web page, “i shouldn’t even be telling you this, but utahime organized it so you’d be stuck working late.”

of course it was her! satoru lightheartedly teases her about her hair bow or her occasional meltdowns when there’s too much work dumped onto her shoulders, and to get back at him, she decides to screw with his schedule. that’s too far, even for her. if he were soberly processing this information, he’d begin plotting revenge, but right now, he’s still thinking about the succubus thing.

“i hate her,” he whines pettily, pulling the blunt away from suguru to take a long, calming hit.

“don’t let shoko hear that.”

“are you—give that to me, i want to read it.” satoru is quick to regain control of the laptop, exhaling smoke through his nose as he navigates the dark webpage. the title, How to Summon a Succubus in Five Steps, runs along the top of the website in a bolded font. upon further inspection, satoru notices the lack of a back arrow and symbol that tells him this is a secure, private site. this website could potentially introduce a virus to the laptop, but suguru just looks on, waiting for his best friend to read the nonsense he’s been researching for the past week.

HOW TO SUMMON A SUCCUBUS IN FIVE STEPS

Before summoning any kind of spirit or demon, it is necessary to understand the

“satoru, why’d you scroll past the introduction? it’s actually informative.”

“i’m not reading all that,” he shrugs in reply, lip jutting out as he impatiently rolls down to the next set of bolded lettering. the laptop feels like it’s radiating more heat through his sweatpants; the screen flickers, flashing black for a split second before returning to normal. “dude, you need to charge this thing. cord should be on the floor, i saw it there earlier.”

after releasing an unwilling groan, suguru begins shuffling around to find the black charging cord. while he fishes around in a sea of clean though mismatched socks and papers for it, satoru clears his throat and begins reading aloud.

“‘to begin, you will need to arrange red candles in the shape of a circle and then light them.’ hey, suguru, while you’re up, can you grab some of your candles?”

suguru brushes his bangs out of his face and throws his friend a mildly annoyed look. “you just said red candles, and mine are all white or blue. also, i can’t find the goddamn charger, so once the laptop dies, that’s my sign to go to bed.”

“so you don’t wanna test out the stuff you’ve been researching? it’s better to go to all this effort so yuki knows it was a good idea to ask you for help. aren’t you the least bit curious anyway?”

“you don’t give a flying fuck about yuki,” suguru deadpans, crossing his arms. his eyes are droopy and red from the weed, but he still manages to speak in that sober monotone of his. clearly, he needs to help satoru finish that blunt all the way. “you’re just interested in the idea of fucking a spirit.”

“weed does more than soothe the mind,” satoru begins nonsensically, pinching his fingers together in a cone shape to make his point hit harder, “it activates the loins and controls every single craving a person could possibly have.”

“the loins?” suguru can’t help but parrot him, completely baffled and still standing like an elementary teacher scolding a bratty student.

“yes. smoke some more and you’ll start thinking with ‘em.”

because satoru never shies away from a challenge, he tips his chin up and smirks like he’s just spoken wise, socratic words. significantly slower than normal, the seconds creep by as they hold the eye contact. between the two of them, suguru is the first to crack, his lips curling back as he bursts into laughter, clutching at his sides as he wilts to the floor. likewise, satoru cackles along with him, unable to remember where he randomly pulled the word loins from—everything feels like it’s been slowed down, his surroundings hazy by the time he finally comes back to himself. while suguru fetches the candles from his room, satoru can’t stop giggling, even when he’s reading the next steps.

suguru arranges the candles in a sloppy, uneven circle and hits the blunt to reward himself, taking a seat on the floor to follow the upcoming instructions.

“‘before lighting any candles, obtain a piece of paper and a working pen.’ why the fuck would anybody use a dried out pen? uh, it says to ‘start this letter by addressing the goddess lilith. use her formal titles and then start writing your erotic thoughts or feelings. put everything out of your mind and focus only on requesting one of her succubi.’ you get all that, suguru?”

“yeah, i’m writing right now.”

“the instructions give a few examples but specify not to use them, so i hope you’re thinking original thoughts.”

messy words are scrawled into the paper, which crinkles against suguru’s thigh, growing wrinkly from being pressed into the material of his sweatpants. he’s trying not to press too hard and rip anything, but it’s kind of hard to focus on one specific thing when the most random thoughts are ricocheting through his head and exiting just as quickly as they came. he manages to finish his final paragraph kindly begging the goddess to consider his request, and signs his name under it. both the pen and paper are passed to satoru, along with a tight-lipped warning. “if you read that shit out loud, i’m taking you outside, satoru. in fact, don’t even look at it.”

in lieu of a verbal response, satoru dramatically rolls his eyes. “since it’s dark, i just rolled my eyes. we’re trying to summon a sex demon, so i don’t really get why you still have the nerve to be embarrassed. that should’ve passed the second you grabbed the candles, dude.”

suguru’s words on the paper were more thoughtful, more profound. satoru just writes a slew of horny things, like he’s trying to customize a video game character—please be soft, don’t be totally evil, please be open to letting me suck your tits. his final paragraph is respectful and kind of a copy of the one a few lines above it, but whatever! despite his insistence that satoru doesn’t read his writing on the paper, suguru hypocritically takes a small peek and groans aloud, pressing a thumb into his forehead.

“‘please be soft?’ what the hell does that even mean? need i remind you we are talking to a demon and could end up being cursed if we show even the smallest bit of disrespect?”

everything flies in through one ear and right out the other. careless as usual, satoru scoffs dismissively. “blah blah blah, it’s not even that serious. i get that you’re afraid, but like—”

“read the next step.”

“‘to seal this letter, prick your finger with a needle—’ hell no, that’s all you. ‘drip the blood onto the letter, light every candle in the circle, and meditate until you feel you’ve completely cleared your mind. then, without folding it, burn the letter and continue to meditate until a succubus comes forth.’”

suguru cringes, but ultimately decides that he must take the plunge. the best case scenario is that they complete the ritual accurately and nothing happens, but they are selfishly messing with the supernatural. he doesn’t know that much about demons, but the name holds a negative connotation—getting on the wrong side of one doesn’t sound appealing in the slightest.

“okay, it also says to cut your palm for more blood if you’re extra serious about this. i’m not doing any of that shit, by the way.”

“satoru,” he sighs exasperatedly through his nose, deadpanning the name, “you wrote in the letter too, so you also have to seal it, not just me.”

“ugh, can’t we just offer chocolate or something?”

suguru relents, because his high brain doesn’t entirely think that satoru’s suggestion is a bad one. no, it doesn’t align with the provided steps for this specific ritual, but during his extensive research, he came to learn that some rituals involved edible offerings and supposedly worked. “i’ll try offering blood, and you do the chocolate.”

“right!” satoru nods thoughtfully, under the impression that he just keeps getting smarter and smarter after he smokes. he proudly sticks up his index finger when he remembers the existence of his sweets drawer, which is always restocked on fridays, like clockwork. “do you want that needle or are you planning to bite your tongue?”

suguru grimaces as the scent of chocolate and sugary candy wafts through the air, thanks to satoru opening his underwear drawer. it is literally divided into two different sections—the left side is taken up by folded boxers and a jockstrap he hasn’t used since high school; the space on the right is claimed by an orange halloween bowl filled to the brim with mini chocolates, hard candies, and too many packets of konpeito.

when satoru comes back from the bathroom with a safety pin in hand, he’s giggling stupidly. it’s dark all over the apartment, and it’s well past midnight—the perfect conditions to summon a succubus. clumsily, he drops the safety pin into suguru’s extended palm and pulls the laptop off of the bed before taking a seat on the floor.

“i can’t believe we’re doing this,” satoru laughs dryly, dragging a hand down his warm face as one brief and sober thought passes through his mind, “i’ve been celibate for far too long, suguru. i think the lack of pussy is actually starting to get to me, i’m beginning to lose smell in my right ear—”

suguru wordlessly relights the blunt and hands it to his best friend. firmly gripping the unclasped safety pin, he jabs it right into his thumb and winces when it goes a little deeper than intended. he snatches the letter and swipes his bleeding finger across his signature, and practically throws it at satoru.

“you good?” smoke billows out of his mouth in thin wisps as he picks up the letter, noticing suguru sucking on his thumb. then, his eyes widen when he notices the wet streaks of red along the paper. “fuck. that’s . . a lot of blood for a dumb ritual, suguru.”

he starts to stand, planning to hunt down an ashtray and a bandaid, but suguru shakes his head, pulling at his leg. “it’s fine. in this case, more is better than less. just get the chocolate on the paper, we need to hurry up.”

he glances over at the laptop while satoru unwraps a hershey’s. it’s pretty much melting now from the heat of his hands, which makes it easier for him to swatch beneath his own signature. it looks weird, especially when compared to the streaks of blood a few inches up the paper.

satoru clears his throat, holding the blunt between his fingers while he skims over the screen again. the words feel harder to read now—it’s like they’re blurry and glitching out whenever his eyes land on the first word in a sentence. “uh, okay. ‘light every candle in the circle, and meditate until you feel you’ve completely cleared your mind. then, without folding it, burn the letter and continue to meditate until a succubus comes forth.’”

“let’s get this over with,” suguru assents, his thumb still spurting blood against the folds of his shirt. “i’ll light the candles and you burn the letter.”

“ew, this is pretty creepy.”

one by one, the peppermint candles are lit up. small orange flames flicker, dancing from side to side, and the light fills the room, giving it an eerie glow. satoru does not believe in spirits, but he shuffles a few inches closer to his best friend in case something spawns out of a candle. maybe he’s just paranoid, he realizes, but he makes no move to get away from suguru.

reluctantly, he reaches into the circle, the letter dangling precariously from between his fingers. he moves it over a candle’s flame, the only one in the circle with the smallest speck of blue, and lets the corner of it catch on fire. everything happens fairly quickly—the hungry flames engulf the thin paper, eating up the ink and offerings within a few seconds. 

shit just got real, suguru recognizes, a sudden awareness prickling in the forefront of his mind. what the hell was he thinking? what kind of person writes some lustful desires on a piece of paper, signs their name, gets blood on it, and then burns it in a sinister circle of candles? his heart kicks against his ribs, and he wonders how he could possibly meditate peacefully when he’s more cognizant than he’d like to be at this point in time.  

his tone leaves no room for questions when he demands, “hand me the fucking blunt, now.”

it’s a lifeline. trembling, he starts puffing away like an asthmatic in the throes of an attack, getting blood on the sides of it with his bad thumb. satoru starts to cough, his eyes watering from the huge clouds of smoke filling the room. heavy and hot, the mingling scents of burned paper and weed hang in the air like a weighted blanket. weakly, he reaches for an abandoned bottle of water under his bed and doesn’t hesitate to suck half of it down. now that he’s back to being comfortably wasted, suguru can meditate without thinking excessively. sure, there’s still a few thoughts that creep in, but he’s able to dismiss them and focus on a positive end goal to this whole ordeal. he swears to himself that he’ll never get involved with the occult again, whether or not this goes well—never again.

satoru crosses his legs and focuses on meditating, eyes closed as he hums long, unintelligible syllables to relax. not far behind him, the laptop is getting battery notifications; it’s about to die very soon, and yet the screen is the brightest it has ever been. suguru doesn’t notice, too engrossed in meditating alongside satoru. if they both channel positive thoughts, maybe this will end better than the way it started.

a light breeze hits satoru’s cheeks, leaving tingles in its wake. it is much cooler than it should be, considering the fact that the windows aren’t open and—the windows aren’t open. they are sitting in a dark room illuminated only by candlelight, with zero air flow. his eyes snap open, and he notices the flames frantically flicking from side to side. 

“oh fuck, suguru. i swear to god there’s something else in here with us, don’t you feel—”

“don’t say anything,” suguru hisses, closed eyelids clenching, “go back to meditating. we gotta make sure we don’t piss it off.”

satoru’s throat is dry and his heart is pounding in his ears, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. okay, this spiritual mess isn’t funny or weird anymore—he is legitimately concerned about being haunted by a fucking demon. what if it’s because he offered chocolate and then the demon didn’t like it? or what if she did, and that’s why she’s going to come after him?

suguru also feels the breeze, but then a nearly unbearable heat tears through his body. it’s so unbelievably hot, strong as a fever, but then it crests right between his thighs. he swallows dryly, his throat clicking. it makes his skin sting under his clothes—the brisk air does nothing to soothe the scorching in his cheeks, and the presence of something else is indisputable. 

beside him, satoru’s starting to twitch. he is deathly afraid and not expecting the very same heat to ignite in his gut; it’s like he’s an hourglass, except the sand is fast moving magma pooling between his thighs. he tries his hardest to concentrate on meditating, even though the sensations are really overwhelming him. just as he’s started to successfully gaslight himself into thinking that it’s just the weed, something physical brushes gently against his throat and sends a chilling wave of dread through his warming body. 

it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, but satoru is extremely on edge nonetheless. “if i die,” he hisses, jaw clenching, “i will be haunting utahime for eternity.”

suguru must be experiencing his own turmoil, because he draws in a sharp breath and straightens his back against the edge of the bed. something both soft and sharp coasts along the slope of his jaw, with just enough pressure to slightly sting. an indecipherable mutter of words as quiet as a whisper echoes through the room, only growing louder with each pass between them. something beyond the two of them is definitely present by now.

this is really embarrassing and he feels like a total pussy, but satoru wants to grab suguru and huddle against him like a last-ditch effort to prevent from freezing to death on an icy tundra. he’s high out of his mind, which probably amplifies the paranoia, and he is uncomfortably aware of the fact that he has helped summon a demon into the very place he lives—yeah, this definitely takes the cake for his top three worst experiences ever.

gradually, the ominous sound climbs in volume until it finally evolves into a shout. what had at first been a low, unsettling hiss is now a deafening chant that blasts through both satoru and suguru’s heads; accompanying the noise is a pressure that’s strong enough to crush a soda can flat. it hurts more than anything ever has before, and just as suguru thinks he’s about to have an aneurysm, everything stops and falls completely silent. the quiet is still jarring to their ringing ears, and is more unsettling than anything else.

when you materialize in the room, you first notice the thick and musty smell of the place before anything else. it has earthy notes of smoke and herbs, but it’s been hanging in the air for so long that it is no longer pleasant. it’s fine, though, because your own scent supercedes the stench of the small apartment—a seductive and sickeningly sweet aroma fills the air, making the candles burn brighter. despite the room’s dim glow and darkness, you can very clearly make out the two male figures seated in front of you. you knew that they were there to begin with, though; fear rolls off of them in heavy, bitter waves that you can taste on your tongue. 

both of them have their eyes closed, although the delicate skin of their eyelids seems to jump or twitch every now and then. perhaps they’re both caught in a nightmare and need to be awakened? you bend forward to observe one of them more closely, without stepping out of the summoning circle, and you reach out a hazy, half-formed finger to touch him. a sharp, manicured nail skims along suguru’s jaw, and he wills himself not to react, but the other man beside him jerks ever so slightly from the accidental graze of your tail against his throat. 

when you’d been summoned, you were excited and expecting much more than whatever the hell this sorry set up is. two men were calling you to an apartment located in a busy suburb in tokyo, and their generous offerings appealed to your two favorite tastes. first, an excessive amount of blood, and second, a sweet snack known to humans as chocolate. a feverish sort of sensation rushes through your body, just from looking at them—without having stepped foot out of the circle of candles, you’re already feeling hot and bothered.

out of nowhere, suguru’s rock hard and nearly choking on his tongue at the feel of it. his cock throbs painfully against his thigh, the tip of it drooling precum into his boxers, and he’s shocked. this must mean that the ritual worked—they genuinely summoned a succubus with an online ritual from 2014.

a thin sheen of sweat forms on satoru’s skin, spanning his whole face and throat, while also dampening his chest underneath his black jujutsu tech shirt. if he knew a supernatural being would be seeing him in a shirt with the name of his college stamped across the front, he would’ve dressed up more for the occasion with a compression shirt of the same color. also, maybe if he wasn’t representing his college, you’d be unable to discern his whereabouts if you maliciously wanted to haunt him. but, like, aren’t spirits and the like all-knowing? does his shirt even matter?

it really looks like they’re asleep, or maybe caught somewhere in the fragile realm between consciousness and slumber. being a succubus for thousands of years simply means that you’ve developed a propensity for kickstarting the arousal of your conjurors, and so long as their offerings are worth something, what’s the point of keeping them waiting when they’ve put so much effort into calling you to them?

you lean in for a kiss, and it is nothing short of electric when your lips meet his. shocks of pure lust reverberate through both of your bodies at the delicious contact, and you can feel his energy swelling in the air immediately. suguru’s arousal is acidic on your tongue as you swallow it down, happily feeding off of such succulence. a mouthwatering tang stands out against the flavor, which amplifies the output of your own energy; in turn, this aggravates their arousal. 

startled though buzzing with desire, suguru pulls back and kicks his feet out to protest against the invisible force. an entity has attached itself to his mouth, and it feels nice but also makes him freak the fuck out. the first thing he can think to do is scamper back and away from the circle, dragging you out of it as well. without the aegis of the sacred candles, you fully manifest in front of them, going from an inpercievable specter to what appears to be a half-clothed female human being, with a few unusual attributes. 

at a loss for words, suguru releases an astonished gasp. satoru protectively slots himself beside his best friend, too shocked to think before he speaks. “what the fuck is that thing?”

in the thousands of years you’ve been a succubus, you’ve heard it all with previous summoners—goddess, woman, angel, demon, beauty, lady—but this is the first time you’ve been called a thing. 

you rise to your full height, looking surprisingly intimidating. the unfurling of your black bat-like wings and the back and forth flick of your heart shaped tail is unusual enough for them to exchange a look of panic. you don’t usually keep them during sex since they can be a hindrance, but you’ve always assumed that they look more sexy than anything else. the fact that they’re so obviously afraid gives you some kind of wicked delight, which prompts you to spread them out further, casting a somewhat menacing shadow over the men.

raising a brow, you glare at the source of the voice; he’s looking toward the floor, unsure of where to direct his gaze. satoru’s diamond blue eyes widen a fraction when he hears your voice boom through the room, authoritative and dangerously demanding. is he starting to lose it or did the walls just shake? “repeat yourself, human.” 

the last thing he wants to do is repeat himself, now aware of the severity of his mistake. for encouragement, suguru digs his elbow into satoru’s belly, urging him to respond. well, shit. how’s he supposed to respond? this is about to get extremely ugly, and even worse, he’s gonna die before he graduates college! he’s way too young for this shit! you can smell more panic leaking out of their souls, the miasma of it poisoning the air and overshadowing the pleasant arousal.

“uh, well. hm . . i was so startled i asked what kind of goddess you were. like, just look at you! anyone’s wires would get crossed seeing you appear in front of them. i’ve never been so blessed.” 

the cracking of his voice makes his lies obvious. he’s only layering it on thick because he’s so afraid of what you might do—as he should be—but this is just pathetic. most thankful summoners would drop to their knees and bow or something, but this . . this is different. this is intriguing. you decide to toy with them a bit further, narrowing your eyes as you take a single step closer.

in vain, satoru tries to scoot back, only for his spine to press against the solid edge of his bedframe. carelessly summoning you has turned out to be a massive mistake, and to make matters worse, he just had to upset you! he wishes he could blame this on someone else, say it was yuki’s fault for putting the summoning idea into his head, but you don’t look amused.

you lean in, tail flicking dangerously behind you. the cloying air feels thicker in satoru’s lungs, like he’s drowning in a tub of honey and trying to breathe at the same time; the light scent in the air has shifted into something reminiscent of rotting fruit. he regrets having closed the window as per suguru’s instructions—it’s getting a little humid. it’s already too sweet. too nauseating.

after nodding quickly at suguru, he decides to open his mouth. you’re waiting for a real apology, aren’t you? surely it’ll help to clear up this grave misunderstanding. but then, you put your hands on your hips and your voice booms through the room once more.

“i should show you what it feels like to have your soul pulled apart thread by thread and then burned in the very circle you used to summon me.”

suguru’s stomach drops. this is actually the end. he’s gonna die and suffer in the afterlife because he decided to take on a succubus research project given to him by yuki, and didn’t hide it well enough from satoru. maybe if they weren’t thinking with the wrong heads, they wouldn’t be in this situation right now! they’d be watching cocaine bear for the thousandth time and eating a mix of snacks from satoru’s candy drawer if it hadn’t been for their stupidity. 

he attempts to say something, but his mouth is completely dry. not a single word manages to form on his tongue, and all he can do is bow his head, pitifully begging for mercy. at his side, satoru looks shell-shocked, like he’s just seen a ghost—in all fairness, he’s currently looking at a variation of one—and tears gather in his eyes. there’s nothing he can do to save himself.

suddenly, you retract the bat wings, and light returns to the room, illuminating their faces. you drop to your knees in front of them, laughing so hard you’re clutching your stomach as you double over. “oh my god!” you manage to gasp out, feet kicking wildly, “you should’ve seen your faces!”

satoru side eyes suguru. both wear the same blank expression, but neither let go of the other.

you sit up, sniffling. tipping your head to the side, you smile, all teasing and tickled. like you didn’t just scare the shit out of them by threatening to kill and curse them less than a minute ago.

“what the fuck,” satoru blurts out, pushing away from his best friend when suguru tugs at his shirt, shaking his head vehemently. “no, seriously, what the fuck?”

“satoru—i’m sorry, he didn’t mean to say that,” suguru attempts to intervene, pulling him back.

you shrug, tail flicking lazily, like that of a cat’s. “it sounds like he did. ‘what the fuck’ what?”

“why would you threaten to kill us? we literally gave you our blood and chocolate! didn’t you read the letter i burned? i specifically said ‘please don’t be totally evil’ in that thing! this seems very evil, y’know!”

“i haven’t stretched my wings out like that in a thousand years! it was really boring being stuck in purgatory, so i just felt like i had to shake things up. no hard feelings, right?”

suguru’s trying to process this information. he presses his thumb into his forehead, trying to sort it out aloud. “so—correct me if i’m wrong, but you were in purgatory for a hundred years and decided to threaten to kill us just for fun?”

“exactly! but i just said that, so why are you repeating me?”

satoru starts talking before suguru can rip into you, more focused on understanding. “what did you do to get stuck there for a thousand years? did you just float there or something? why couldn’t you stretch your wings out?”

you sit up straighter, tits bouncing with the movement. suguru’s totally pissed right now, but damn—even he can admit that you’re truly divine. the personification of beauty and lust all in one, sitting in his apartment. you’re sitting on your knees, facing satoru and focusing on him. good. you can’t see his thirsty ass drinking you in, his eyes tracing over every inch of you.

you’re scantily clad in too much clothing and not enough. black lace barely covers your tits, leaving just enough to the imagination—he can see your nipples through it—while black opera gloves extend from the tips of your fingers to the start of your biceps. suguru’s dark eyes crawl further, finding the sparkling beads lining your waist, and god, that does something to him. the gemstones on each strand in the small stack look otherworldly, impossibly unique and all you.

satoru’s listening to you answer his questions and watching you talk with your hands. “it was a punishment for fucking a demon. he summoned me once and then afterward, i kept coming to him of my own accord, which i wasn’t supposed to do,” you sigh dramatically, not even hiding the fact that you miss whatever demon you’re talking about. “he had a mouth on his stomach and like, four arms. could you even blame me for going back to him? of course not. anyway, purgatory’s kind of like the place between heaven and hell. there’s no passage of time or any entertainment. it’s kind of like sleeping, but with your eyes open and without being able to move.”

satoru’s trying to pick his jaw up and off the floor. how the fuck could demons with four arms and stomach tongues roam this very earth? he looks at you, motioning for you to continue. as much as he hates to say it, this is kind of interesting to listen to. “and the wings?”

“oh, they were taken away through a cursed technique. that’s just an ability that my higher ups have, nothing super important, but my wings were missing that whole time. i only just got them back.” suguru’s completely ignoring what you’re saying. he’s buried in his thoughts, too focused on the lower half of your body to notice anything that may or may not be happening. you’ve got these black leg garments on—he can only equate them to stockings or thigh highs, even though they look a little different than what he’d see in a clothing store. he sneaks a dirty glance at your panties, eyes lingering at the lack of coverage on your ass. 

the black strings arch over your hips, leading into an extremely thin bit of fabric and lace covering your pelvis. maybe, just maybe, this succubus summoning ritual might actually be something he could be okay with.

“i saw that,” you say suddenly, calling him out. suguru looks up, his eyes meeting yours, and you can faintly see the red of his cheeks in the dark. “i can feel you looking at me. both of you.”

satoru scoffs, dismissively waving his hand in the air. “don’t start with the threats to kill us for looking at you. it’s not like your eyes are closed either.”

impressed, you raise a brow. his audacity sparks your curiosity and also your arousal. the effects can be felt throughout the room—suguru sits up straighter, and satoru adjusts himself.

“you did call me here for a reason. generously offered me blood and chocolate so i’d come.”

the mention of blood reminds suguru that he is still bleeding. it’s too dark to see clearly, but going off touch alone tells him enough; a lot of it has soaked into the lower half of his shirt and has probably stained it for good. he sees you inhale through your nose, detecting the faint traces of it in the air, and then you’re on all fours, creeping forward like a panther waiting to pounce. he swallows dryly, hearing the click of his throat, and isn’t sure if he should feel afraid or strangely turned on by the predatory look in your eyes.

you reach out and take his hand, nails lightly raking against his skin. he doesn’t pull away, even when you experimentally squeeze at his injured thumb and watch the blood bubble up. satoru glances at his best friend, wondering if you’re pretending to inspect suguru’s hand with the intent of biting it off. he understands that succubi are different than vampires, but after that stunt you pulled earlier? satoru can’t trust you completely. 

something warm, wet, and silky soft envelops his thumb. 

suguru tilts his head down, and your burning eyes meet his own. it’s nearly impossible not to moan as you suck on his thumb, tongue swirling around the sore skin in a way that manages to be delicate and effortlessly sexy all at once. all he can do is squirm and bite his cheek while satoru just watches, slackjawed. hell, if he knew he’d be getting this kind of treatment afterward, he would’ve offered plenty of blood! the sight gets him hot and bothered, way more than it should, and he emits a choked noise from beside his best friend, suddenly aware of how his boxers feel a few sizes too small. 

“uhhh . . do you want any chocolate with that?” he’s halfway through the sentence when his voice breaks cutely, and your eyes flick toward him, glowing with amusement. “i’ve got plenty of kit-kats, if you’re into those.”

sighing softly through your nose, you let go of suguru’s finger with a pop to focus on his best friend. he looks over his finger incredulously, no longer feeling the wound’s sting; your saliva coats his skin and glistens in the low light. would it be weird if he wanted to taste it?

a sly smirk tugs at the corners of your lips. “the chocolate can wait until after i’ve had my fill of what i came down here for. i’ve been kept waiting for too long anyway.”

there’s a beat of silence. the tip of your tail drags slow and teasing along suguru’s throat, and satoru just stares at you like he can’t believe he’s gotten so lucky.

you raise a brow, feeling the lust flare in the air. the energy is plentiful and strong, fueling the cycle of desire—it arouses you, which reflects back to them more intensely. “you, let’s share a piece of chocolate.”

satoru looks confused, but reaches for the bar he used for the letter. “didn’t you just say you were done with the chocolate? did the thousand year imprisonment have any mental affects?”

you scoff, thinking through your list of comebacks. you could take the easy route and roll your eyes, saying something like i know what i said, i changed my mind but where’s the fun in that? you are the one in control here—if you willed it, they’d bow down to you—as you should be. 

“i’ll fuck him on your bed while you watch,” you tilt your head toward suguru, whose eyes widen a fraction. did you just say you’d fuck him on satoru’s bed while also forcing the latter to watch? it makes some sense—you are a mischevious demon, after all. a very sexy and seductive one, at that.

satoru places the half melted piece of chocolate between his lips. you lift yourself into his lap and push your gloved hands into his messy hair before tugging his face toward your own. part of the chocolate breaks when you bite it and take it into your mouth; it’s light and sweet on your tongue, but satoru would taste a thousand times better.

chocolate smears against his lips as his mouth meshes with yours in a scorching hot kiss. the candy tastes much better when you’re perched on his lap and licking it out of his mouth like you can’t get enough. satoru lets out a debauched moan, more than pleased with how you’re kissing him—his cock is painfully hard against your ass, and despite the layers of clothing between your bodies, you can feel each inch of him.

suguru sits back and observes, feeling the heat of desire sweltering under his skin. fuck, you’re not even kissing him, and he wants to moan just from watching! are you really attractive or is he discovering something new about himself? satoru tips his head down, trying to change the angle of the kiss, and your fingers are already on his chin, tilting his face up without any concern of being gentle or not. he groans, weakly attempting to grind you down on his cock.

“shit,” suguru mutters, reaching toward the waistband of his sweatpants.

with one final dip of your tongue into his mouth, you pull away from satoru and look just in time to catch the feverish devastation flash across his face. you might be starving for some sex, but nothing beats the slow burn of foreplay—it’s more than necessary right now.

“your turn, suguru,” he’s flushed and breathing a little heavier than usual, but he nods, stretching out his legs for you to come and sit on his lap. instead of situating yourself the same way you did on satoru, you balance your weight on your knees, positioning them on either side of his thighs. “oh,” you coo, swiftly undoing the tie of his neat bun, “look at this gorgeous hair.”

brightening at the compliment, he gives you a half smile. “thank you. i actually—”

in the background, satoru groans, sounding petulant when he interrupts his best friend. “okay, suguru. you’re gonna bore her if you start going on about the shampoo and oils you use.”

“i was going to say that i actually think the bed would be more comfortable right now.”

he’s in the middle of his stupid bickering with satoru when your soft hands slide against his neck and immediately draw his attention. you shush him with a low, quiet sound and lean in for a kiss that instantly adds a dangerous amount of fuel to the fire raging deep in your belly. you’re nearly sick with desire and drowning in the overwhelming waves of everything that accompanies it—there is so much that the excess seeps into your movements, making every single one all the more intoxicating.

satoru’s a little pissed. actually, scratch that, he’s a lot pissed. he’s being forced to sit back and watch the succbus that he helped to summon ignore him for his damn best friend. yes, suguru deserves some love, but not this much! you’re rocking your hips over his lap and swallowing all the soft sounds he makes, sometimes muffling them with your own, and it is genuinely one of the worst things he’s ever had to watch. you must feel his eyes on you, or you really like suguru’s hair, because you thread your fingers in it and tug hard enough to elicit a drawn-out groan of fuuuck that comes from deep within his chest.

“ahem. allow me to remind you that i helped to summon you too. do i look like some kind of cuck to you?” satoru practically spits the question out, narrowing his eyes at the both of you. “suguru, don’t you dare say yes.”

“if he won’t say it, i will,” you tease, throwing him this smarmy smile even though he shakes his head in warning. as expected, you just ignore it. “yes, you do.”

you stand, much to suguru’s dismay, and with a wave of your hand, both your tail and wings disappear into thin air. now, you look completely normal—if being flawlessly beautiful is a normal human trait. the bed creaks gently under you as you lay back against the pillows, looking like a medieval queen upon her throne, and with a single finger, you beckon them closer.

“show me why i should grant your requests. both of you.”

the mattress dips under satoru’s added weight when he sidles up beside you and pulls you into another sweet kiss. since he isn’t quite sure where you’re okay with being touched, he decides to play it safe by cradling the side of your face with his palm—you can feel the energy spike in the air and taste the comfortable petnames he whines into your mouth.

reverant as can be, suguru bows forward and slots himself between your thighs, tossing your legs over his shoulders. he’s radiating enough warmth to be comparable to a damn oven—even through his shirt, you can feel the shape of defined muscle. a shockwave bolts right to your pussy at the thought of stripping them both naked; but you can’t rush. not yet.

wait, this is totally insane! too many thoughts race through suguru’s mind at once, but he doesn’t allow the doubt to impede his rhythm. even the idea of fucking a succubus and ruining sex for the rest of his life doesn’t stop him! those soft lips of his drag hot and languid against the tender skin of your inner thighs, scattering kisses around the place where you need him most. he wonders if succubus pussy tastes different than that of a human’s, and feels his cock leak at the idea of it. it’s painful, being this hard—you must have some kind of divine effect on him.

with your tongue in his mouth, satoru can’t think. he’s completely blissed out, his diamond eyes unfocused and blurry as you kiss his judgment away with those pillowy lips. just when he’s pressing you closer instead of taking a moment to breathe, you grab him by the dick and squeeze. your grip is firm and authoritative, leaving no room for resistance—not that he’d want to, of course. 

sharp and delightfully startling, your teeth sink into his lower lip. the light sting reverberates through his head like an echo in an empty hall, and fuck—he gasps, eyes rolling back into his skull. how the hell is he meant to show you that he deserves to have his ridiculous requests granted when you’re playing him like a violin, tugging his heartstrings every which way?

“you’re awfully sensitive, satoru,” you giggle, twisting your wrist. “i haven’t even gotten my bare hands on you yet.”

yet, you say, like you haven’t practically broken him already. he huffs, blowing hair out of his face, and attempts to regain any semblance of control. “well, neither have i.”

you tug your gloves off; suguru’s nose bumps against your clothed clit and you let out a moan, face scrunching. he’s right there—so god damn close to where you need him and still refusing to give. you glance down, only to be met with a smirk and eyes that are twinkling with mischief. have you met your match?

“use your words,” he punctuates his demand with a slow, agonizing drag of his tongue over the thin fabric of your panties. he’s looking at you like he’s daring you to snap at him, like he’s just waiting to show you what he’ll do—what an asshole.

you hum thoughtfully, focusing on suguru while your hand dips beneath satoru’s waistband and teases his cock through his boxers. “i’ll bite. i want you to devour me like a sweet fruit—juices pouring down your chin as you lick the excess from your fingers to savor all of it.”

the piquant visual makes his mind hazy. if you want to be devoured, then devoured you shall be.

“what, you’re gonna leave me hanging?” in an attempt to level the playing field, satoru gropes at your tits, squeezing the soft flesh in his hands. there. now you’re both grabbing one another.

“poor baby wants attention, huh?” you run your thumb over the tip of his cock, pressing at the wet spot on his boxers. satoru absolutely hates to admit it, but this banter with you is annoyingly enjoyable. your little prank had seemed like a true, honest to god curse, but this is a blessing—each exchange turns up the heat more and more.

suguru’s tugging your panties down your hips, careful not to bring your thigh highs down too. hooded and flushed, his eyes are focused only on your body but do occasionally flick over to satoru, who’s putty in your hands. he goes back and forth with you like his bratty ass usually does with anyone he first meets, and you dish it out right back to him. what a sight.

with an unfortunate rip, your panties are torn off you and the mess of lace is tossed haphazardly to the floor. you arch a brow at suguru, who only shrugs, smirking as he draws closer to your messy cunt. his flutter shut as he runs his tongue through your folds for a taste, and fuck, he really does want to devour you. he’d sit you on his god damn face if he could and let you ride his tongue for hours, until it got so sore he could barely talk the next day.

saccharine and something close to ambrosian, your pussy tastes like all of the good things in this world. it’s addicting, the kind of thing he’d want to come home to on the table every day, and he lets out a deep groan that reverberates through your lower body. his hands come up to your hips and he drags you closer, burying his face against you so he can truly drink you in. the tip of his nose rubs against your clit and feels like an electric shock that zips through your stomach.

“fuck,” you breathe, head falling back onto the pillows, “you know how to use that tongue, don’t you?”

satoru doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask for your attention, doesn’t make any witty comments about you being more focused on his best friend. he just acts, tucking his face against you and pressing kisses to the slope between your neck and shoulder. most of them are wet and mouthy, while a few of them have a little teeth. large hands come up to your chest and pull away the skimpy lace; the bra is replaced by his palms, and it feels like he’s won when you let out a sigh.

“have at it, satoru. i suppose you’ve earned it.”

a mess that’s equal parts his and yours coats suguru’s flushed cheeks as he slurps up your pussy, holding your hips so tightly that you can only move forward. each pass of his tongue is oh so rough as it dips between your folds, seeking more of your sweetness; he lets out muffled groans and shakes his head from side to side, pressing his nose directly into your clit.

his long, dark hair makes its way into his face, but even so, he pushes forward. it might be a bit of a ticklish distraction, but it will not stop him—nothing could, not even you genuinely threatening to destroy his soul with your bare hands.

satoru moans happily when he gets one of your nipples in his mouth. your skin is so soft, just like he’d wished for, and your tits are like heaven’s version of a pillow. he could lay against you and suck your tits all day long, if you let him. hot and overly eager, his tongue swirls around your hardened nipple while he tweaks the other between his fingers, making sure not to leave you feeling unsatisfied.

with one hand, you push your hands through suguru’s hair, dragging your nails against his scalp. the contact makes him sigh into your pussy, but what really gets him is when you wrap it around your hand and tug like he’s some kind of misbehaving dog on a leash. he grunts noisily, his hips instinctively rutting into the bed for some friction.

“oh my god, suguru. you look so fucking good when you’re making a mess, sweetheart.”

you calling him a sweetheart is going to be the death of him, he swears. it’s already enough that you’re saying his first name, but now you’re throwing petnames around—don’t you know he’ll make you cry for that?

“and you, satoru,” you purr, arching into his touch, “you’ve got my attention now.”

with renewed vigor and sinful intent, your hand moves between his boxers and sweatpants. he sucks harder at your tit, the edges of his teeth grazing the nipple; your fingers loosely curl around the clothed head of his cock. nobody’s getting naked until you cum—if either of them thought this was a lot, they’re in for a succubus-style surprise in the next few minutes.

you stroke him lightly, focusing more on pressing the pads of your fingers into the soft underside of his tip. every touch there makes him gasp and buck into your touch, desperate for more. satoru’s starting to pinch your nipple between his fingers, and the pain that goes with it feels so good, especially when it’s combined with suguru’s mouth between your thighs.

it’s not enough. 

there’s so much of your slick coating his face, but he still needs more.

suguru lets go of your hips, changing the positions of his hands. one palm presses into your lower stomach, and he pauses, sucking your clit while he slides two thick fingers inside of you. the sensation of being almost full makes you moan, your hips rolling forward, and you unintentionally squeeze the tip of satoru’s cock, nails digging into the sides.

everything blurs into a nasty whirlwind of spit, sex, and the like from there.

saliva coats much of your sore tits by now, but satoru’s head never comes up. he’s too busy biting at your nipples and then laving his tongue over them to make up for it—whenever you like what he’s doing, you stroke him a little harder. tighter, too, if you’re really feeling it. suguru’s grinding against the bed while he eats you out, something that he’d picked up once you’d started to pull on his hair. the sounds that come from your sloppy cunt are truly obscene—loud, wet slurps and sucks fill the room along with the moans from all three of you.

suguru’s pressing down on your lower belly, because he knows that it makes you feel extra good; selfishly, though, he just wants to feel how tight you can get. he’s lost track of how long he’s been between your legs, and normally, he’d get tired, but the arousal raging through his body keeps him going. so does your hand in his hair—you’re tugging him around, taking all that he gives, and fuck, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it.

“mmmm, baby,” hot and heavy, satoru’s panting against your chest and rutting into your hand, chasing the friction you’re giving him just enough of, “s-shit, that pace—i’m so close, so close.”

your lips round around a moan of suguru’s name; your thighs are shaking on either side of his head, and his eyes flit up to meet yours. again, that same daring look—although he looks more debauched this time, with his flushed, sweaty skin and the lower half of his face buried in your cunt.

pent up with an otherworldly amount of arousal, satoru’s cock throbs in the palm of your hand and his breaths become more frantic, more gasping. he’s trembling, clinging to you with both arms, and you laugh, taking the words right out of his mouth. “you’re gonna cum, huh? you’re really gonna make a mess in your clothes?”

it’s said with a derision that would stop any normal person in their tracks, but satoru just moans, nodding shamelessly. you continue on, fingers tightening around him. “oh, talk about being dirty. you really like the idea of that, don’t you? my god, and i’m supposed to be the sex demon here.”

satoru whines, and it’s most definitely his lust speaking for him when he says, “keep talkin’ dirty to me.”

electric euphoria hisses through your veins, and you’re quick to realize how close you are. just beneath suguru’s large palm, an unstable pressure seethes like magma in a volcano—ultrahot and undeniably explosive. something’s coming, and it’s not just you and satoru.

your fingers press into the underside of his cock, and it’s so damn sensitive there that he gasps sharply, nearly choking on his own spit. you fight the wavering in your voice and lean in close, so that your warm breath fans against the shell of his ear. “this is where you’re weak, right?”

that’s it. 

satoru dies and ascends to heaven right then and there. he cums hard, spilling white and hot into your hand, cock jerking with the aftershocks. slumped against you and reeling from the ecstasy racing through his body, satoru has been pronounced dead. for now, at least.

you wipe your cum covered hand across his shirt, feeling the sharp ridges of his abdominal muscles through the fabric. with him taken care of, you can now focus on the main event—suguru can’t even breathe as you rock your hips into his mouth, your face scrunched with concentration. 

having pinpointed your sweet spot, his fingers curl deep and hard into the soft tissue. it’s a bullseye if you’ve ever known one. suguru stares up at you like it would physically hurt him to look anywhere else; you can see the hunger buried in his eyes, they way it twinkles as you hump against his open mouth.

“fuck, suguru,” you moan, voice breaking, “i-i’m gonna cum, oh my god—‘m gonna cum.”

you cum hard, pussy squirting like a waterfall and squeezing so damn tight around his fingers that they’re forced out. finally, after what’s been a beautiful eternity, you release his hair so he can pull back and breathe. he does, briefly gulping in some air before swan diving right back between your thighs for more?!

his tongue drags along your soaked inner thighs, and he laps up all of the excess cum before sitting up on his knees. a mix of cum and spit covers more than half of his face, making his skin shine—he really did eat you like a juicy fruit, didn’t he? suguru makes no move to wipe the wetness dripping down his chin, but instead smirks triumphantly.

“i want—i want a taste, suguru. you were hogging her pussy the whole damn time.”

satoru stirs, seemingly coming back to life. wait, did he actually fucking pass out for a minute? 

his best friend scoffs, rolling his eyes. “have at it, satoru. i’m sitting up here now.”

satoru’s fingers close around suguru’s wrist, and he pulls his hand toward his mouth. satoru momentarily sucks at suguru’s sticky fingers before the latter puts an end to it, tugging away. if he had a nickel for every time someone sucked on his fingers, he’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice, and in one night, nonetheless!

the delicate strands of beads on your waist jangle softly, and their heads snap in your direction. you’re on all fours, looking at them with those smoldering eyes that say more than your mouth does, and something in the sweet air shifts. their pulses quicken; their bodies move before they can even think about it.

suguru taps his sticky fingers against your lips and pushes them into your open mouth, letting you taste yourself. “i want to see what this mouth can do, sweetheart.”

satoru’s hands are settling on either side of your waist, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “god, i’ve been waiting for this. pretty pussy for an even prettier girl.”

“please, keep talking to me like i’m a human. we’ll see where it gets you, satoru.”

he smacks your ass, uncaring of the fact that you could smite him if you so wanted to. “the wings and tail are gone, babygirl. since we just proved ourselves as worthy, let’s all pretend to be normal human beings.”

“if you wanted me to keep it normal, we’d be sitting around waiting for you to get hard again. had it not been for my power, you’d—”

suguru tilts your chin up, using your cheek to wipe away the wetness from his fingers. “we’re helping you as much as you’re helping us. satiating that appetite of yours is gonna take a while, so why not go along with it?”

that is true. truthfully, you’re just pushing them around because you can, but they’ve either seen through your act or don’t give a damn about the extra respect. you won’t kill them. you answered their summons with an agenda of your own, one that requires their participation.

“i haven’t played the role of human in a thousand years,” you say contemplatively, just to look like you’re being slowly convinced rather than immediately admitting defeat, “fine. fuck me well and i’ll go along with it equally as well.”

the ritual of undressing begins. you watch as suguru divests himself of his long sleeved shirt and his baggy lounge pants, tossing both articles of clothing onto the floor without looking back. luckily for them, nothing is thrown onto a lit candle. satoru’s clothes come off too, his cum smeared shirt flying over your head and landing on top of the clothing pile.

something akin to nervous excitement swirls in your chest. it’s been a thousand years, and you’re finally back at it again—taking two cocks from the get go. being double stuffed isn’t necessarily a new experience, especially with your past flame, but this is a little bit different. instead of having two cocks in one hole or one in your pussy, the other in your ass, you’re going to be taking one down the throat while getting fucked.

you’re excited, there’s no doubt—satoru’s dragging his tip along your slit, gathering spit and cum to use as lube—and thinking of finally being used again wipes the worry from your subconscious. it’s been so long you can’t even remember what a human cock felt like; the last two demon dicks left quite the impression on both holes, superceding all else.

long, thick, and curving to the right, suguru’s cock bobs in front of your face. you have to tilt your head back just to look up at him fully—there’s so much muscle defining every inch of his body, shaping it into something strong and sturdy. his arms flex as he ties his hair back, into some kind of half up, half down style for better movement.

precum beads at the wet tip, some of it dribbling down. the sight is absolutely appetizing; saliva pools on your tongue, and your throat aches for him. he decides to tease you for a moment, before remembering that he’s actually denying himself relief as well.

suguru guides his tip along the seam of your mouth, getting your lips glossy. he looks down at you, his eyes droopy, and he chuckles. “what’s the matter? too big to fit, honey?

you roll your eyes, opening your mouth. your teeth gleam in the dark, sharp at the ends and a little predatory. “i can always cut you down to size.”

satoru presses the head of his cock forward, working only the first few inches into your pulsing cunt. “that’s not how humans talk about dicks, baby. you should say something like, ‘yeah, but i still want to give it a try’. hear the difference?”

“if i were you, i’d worry about not passing out this time,” you snicker, raising a brow in suguru’s direction. “i won’t actually bite. you have my word.”

“uh huh,” he works a hand into your hair, threading it tight around his fingers, and only then does he bring his hips forward. his cock slides into your mouth, the weight of him hot and heavy on your tongue. faintly, you can taste the subtle saltiness of his precum on your tongue, and god does it make you crave more. suguru exhales sharply once he bumps into the back of your throat, his shoulders relaxing. “not too deep, hm?”

you nod in assent. behind you, satoru pushes deeper and deeper, moving as slowly as he possibly can. for what reason, you don’t know—but the feeling is all that matters right now. it’s as frustrating as it is pleasant, which pisses you off, but there’s nothing you can say about it. 

suguru’s starting to rock his hips into your face when satoru’s nails dig into the soft skin of your waist, leaving marks between the strands of beads. “oh my fucking god. how the hell are you this tight? suguru, it’s—she’s literally sucking me in. you have to see this.”

“not right now,” suguru shakes his head and his bangs bounce with the movement. he’s focused on how god damn tight your throat is, and how every single gag of yours makes it even better. everything in his body is telling him to choke you with his cock, fuck your face until neither of you can breathe, but he doesn’t. he’ll take it easy on you, just for now.

satoru finally bottoms out, seven inches deep into heaven. your walls are pulsing around him, sucking him as far in as possible, and he almost feels offended. it’s like your body thinks he wants to pull out—but how could he, when you feel like this? why the fuck would he want to?

“i’m not as gentle,” he growls, pulling your ass snug against his hips. “i’ll fill up this pussy again and a-fucking-gain. you saw it earlier—i don’t mind making a mess.”

you can only let out a gurgled moan around suguru’s cock, spit pouring down your chin. he talks a big game—you’re more interested to see if he can back it up.

once suguru feels like you’re accustomed to his cock and tired of feeling the restraint ripple through his shallow thrusts, he pauses to let you breathe through your nose. “i taught you how to take it, huh?” you nod, clearly interested in what he has to say next. “i want to see if you can put those skills to use, sweetheart. open.”

because he’s still bitter about you having scared the shit out of him and his best friend, satoru slams into you the moment you open your mouth and suguru’s cock goes in. a wide, almost evil smile spreads across his face when he hears you choke; that was his revenge for your little joke a while ago, and this will be to fulfill his own selfish desires.

satoru’s heavy balls smack into your clit with every frenzied thrust of his hips. he’s chasing his high, that sweet feeling of ecstasy that comes along with filling someone up; he also wants to leave some kind of evidence that he was lucky enough to have you, preferably something that you’ll remember. if your exhausted pussy is oozing load after load of his cum, you’ll definitely commit him to memory.

“shit, baby,” the image of you conjured by his mind’s eye is powerful enough to make him whine like a bitch as he ruts into you, “all you’ve done since we summoned you is drive us crazy. ready for some fuckin’ p-payback?”

“she’s too busy to answer you,” suguru sounds both broken and triumphant as he fucks your mouth, savoring the sounds of your wet moans and occasional gags. “this throat’s all i could need for payback. fuck, you really are a fast fuckin’ learner.”

the claps of your ass are loud, ringing through the apartment like gunshots, but none of you could bring yourselves to care about any future noise complaints. your throat is being fucked open while your pussy is stuffed full at the same damn time—maybe this was worth waiting a thousand years for.

satoru’s hand comes to press down hard against your lower belly, making you squeeze tighter around his cock. the added pressure makes it feel like he’s all up in your lungs, punching the breath out of you with each feverish slam of his hips. spit and cum drip down your inner thighs in sticky trails, staining your lacy stockings; a lot of it has gotten all over satoru’s pelvis, strings of it connecting his skin to yours.

you let out an inhuman mewl as suguru’s cock plunges into the very back of your throat, leaving a dent that is uniquely his. you can faintly hear yourself sobbing over the sound of your pounding heart, can feel the tears rolling down your cheeks. this is good, so good—but it feels like too much and too little at the same time. they’re both giving it to you pretty well . . perhaps you’re just insatiable after a thousand years without sex.

suguru breaks first. “i want you to swallow every last drop, and you’re gonna show me that pretty fuckin’ tongue before you do, ‘kay?”

“you’re so nasty,” satoru pants, exerting himself too much to even laugh, “fuck. i’m not that far off either, baby.”

bittersweet cum spills into your mouth, hot and thick on your tongue. suguru’s groaning as he lets go of your hair, looking down to see you follow through on what he asked you to do. you open your mouth, showing off the mess on your pink tongue, and he actually moans at the sight.

“you’re fucking incredible,” he can’t even finish his sentence in peace; you make a big show of swallowing it and making your throat click. “you’re such a good girl.”

“then where’s my reward?” you rasp, sounding even better than before.

“right here,” satoru reaches a hand around your body, his fingers easily finding your swollen clit. his ministrations are executed with the same dexterity he’d exercised on your nipples; each rub or pinch sends sparks shooting through your veins. “cum all over this cock, baby. in fact, scream my name while you’re at it.”

suguru scoffs, hand on his cock as he sits back and watches. “you’re impossible.”

your arms collapse under you, and your body tilts forward, ass going up like a seesaw. “oh my god,” satoru grits his teeth, watching you writhe against the mussed blankets and listening to you moan, “y-you’re so fuckin’ deep, satoru. right there—oh!”

his eyes roll back when you fuck him back, throwing your ass back onto him to meet each and every single one of his sloppy thrusts. you’re angling your hips with each swing, forcing the tip of his dick into this soft spot inside of you, one that’s close to your cervix. 

“fuckfuckfuck—ugh, i’m gonna cum,” satoru’s fingers are staggering, shaking on your clit, and his chest is heaving, working to breathe against the impending euphoria. he comes undone with a delicious groan that dissolves into smaller, bitten whines; it’s the heat of his cum shooting deep into you that pushes you over the edge next.

“‘m cumming, satoru,” you manage, your voice breaking pitifully. wave after wave of bliss crashes over your body, nearly drowning you, and it’s a god damn mess when you cum. you’re shaking so hard your teeth are chattering, squirting cum all over satoru’s pelvis while you’re at it; he teases your clit rather roughly and laughs as more sprays onto his skin. 

something warm slides against your skin as suguru lifts your face from where it’s pressed into the bed. sticky cum covers both of his hands, and you can only surmise that he was jerking himself off while he watched you and his best friend. “you still with us, angel?”

you are everything but an angel, but you still respond to the petname, nodding. there’s this wild gleam in your eyes that tells him everything he needs to know—suguru just nods, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“whew, holy fuck,” satoru steadies himself with a hand on your back, not wanting to pull out of you just yet, “did you actually just squirt on me, baby? this is some next level pussy magic.”

.  .  . 

the bed rocks under all three of your bodies, scraping along the floor and groaning dangerously from the movement on it.

round after round, position after position, orgasm after orgasm.

it’s a neverending cycle that leaves the three of you slick with sweat, panting with exhaustion, and messy with ungodly amounts of cum. suguru slides his cock out of your fluttering cunt with a groan, both him and satoru watching as load upon load of cum oozes out. you never tell them it’s time to take a break—if one’s tired, you’ll fuck the other, or take them at the same time—in fact, you tell them that it’s not enough.

god, you’re insatiable.

satoru gathers the hot globs of cum on his fingers and pushes it back inside you, using the excess as lube for your abused clit. an acidic mix of unequal parts affection and lust hisses through his nerves upon hearing you whine out his name—it’s all your voice has been reduced to thanks to merciless throat fucking and screaming elicited by being split open on their cocks.

this is the nth round of the night—early morning, actually. they’ve been fucking you for a few hours straight, mostly because you’re so horny that it impacts them, but also because your presence opposes refractory periods. it almost hurts, because neither have much left to give, but then you’re pulling another orgasm out of them and nothing feels real again.

eventually, the bedframe snaps with a deafening crack, but nobody stops. in fact, it just reminds you to change positions—satoru fucks you on your side while you sixty-nine with suguru, who sucks your clit and playfully nibbles at it when you choke on his cock. but once that’s over and done with, they’re getting creative as they hoist you off of the bed and take turns fucking you while standing up.

by the time it’s over, you’re left with two uniquely satoru and suguru shaped dents in your stomach.

.  .  .

“suguru!” mussed with sleep and looking wild because of it, satoru pushes at his best friend, who’s asleep on the floor. how the hell did he even manage to fall asleep when there’s so much debris strewn around? papers, socks, and clean shirts that were once folded surround his body like the chalk outlines at a crime scene. “suguru, dude, c’mon. get up already!”

“what,” suguru deadpans, pushing his hair out of his face. the first thing that he notices is how dry his fingers are when they accidentally graze against his forehead. huh. he could’ve sworn that hand was bloody from a thumb injury. “why are you hassling me first thing in the morning?”

“first, it’s one o’clock in the afternoon, and second, i had the craziest dream. you’ll never fucking believe it.”

there’s a beat of silence before suguru’s brows furrow in realization.

“i did too.”

[lets-try-some-writing]

I got the image of the Jack, Miko and Rafael learning to imitate Distressed/terrified Sparkling cries and using them against the decepticons. It’s a very efficient defense mechanism. Every cybertronian who heard them is freaking out because oh primus how is the squishy thing making that noise and I gotta protect it at all costs. The sheer chaos that would ensue as the ‘protect/rescue the sparkling’ programming kicks in full force.

——

The vehicons are clustered at the other end of the room panicking. They don’t know what to do. The human sparklings are looking right at them and making distress noises. The guilt is killing them.

Knockout going “is the car form less alarming?! If I turn into a car will you stop seeing me as the threat?!”

Breakdown is having a breakdown.

Starscream pinned to the wall on the other side of the room having an internal crisis. He doesn’t like this. Make it stop.

Soundwave makes no noise but you can FEEL the sheer distress radiating off of him.

Megatron is frozen. No thoughts, head empty. He’s not moving at all. He doesn’t know how to handle this.

——

The autobots have mixed feelings about this. They’re glad the kids have a way of defending themselves but please don’t do it near them. They’re stressed out enough as it is.

(This might sound kinda dumb but I thought it was kinda funny. Very tired while writing this)

Wait no this is actually brilliant.

The Decepticons never anticipated their long buried parental nature to be used against them. No one did. But they day the human children turned up on the battlefield looking far too confident, every Bot and Con present had the all encompassing feeling that something was terribly wrong. Their suspicions were quickly confirmed when, before the Decepticons could do much of anything to get the relics they were after, Rafael began to wail.

Normally, human screams meant nothing. But there was a certain pitch that sounded so close to a cry of distress from a sparkling that, to warriors who had not heard a sparkling in millennia, it was enough to send them running to help. In this case, the issue was only compounded as the children scattered like mice and started making the same noises. The Decepticons could hardly focus on the Autobots booking it to the relics as they frantically tried to locate the fictitious sparklings calling for aid.

The Vehicons managed to get to Jack, but he just kept looking up at them defiantly. Every time one of the dozen or so Vehicons on the field tried to grab him, blast him, or otherwise hurt him, Jack would chirp like a sparkling and send all of them scurrying back. It wasn't cute to the Vehicons. Having never seen actual sparklings but still having the coding needed to adore them, they looked at Jack and saw a weird frame-walker. They weren't sure what to do about it except try to haul themselves away while also keeping a vague circle around the human male.

Miko on the other hand made it a point to chase after Megatron and Soundwave, screeching like a sparkling about to be shredded. Neither stopped for her, but Megatron completely lost his train of thought every time that screech rang out. He could have been aiming at Optimus with a perfect head shot and he would be unable to fire as Miko's distressed sounds rang out in his audials. He KNEW she wasn't a sparking. His coding wasn't even that strong. But by Primus, hearing her screech was the same as watching a civilian get run over by a bus, repeatedly. Focus was impossible.

Soundwave wasn't much better. He didn't react outwardly, but the slowing of his steps and the way he tried to sidestep Miko gave away his distress. He avoided her like the plague, trying to refocus but being unable to really get far as Miko screamed like a demon. It was a fight against the Unmaker himself to keep Soundwave from bolting over to collect the sparkling who sounded so very upset.

Rafael, for his part, followed Miko's lead and harassed the other three members of High Command most often found out on the field. Breakdown ran screaming the moment Rafael started chirping at him. This was both out of fear of the frame-walker and to escape the inevitable overreaction of his coding. He may or may not have attempted parkour once or twice to get as far away from the smallest of the humans as possible.

Knockout tried to ignore Rafael when the kid chirped up at him, he really really did. But how does one ignore the Cybertronian equivalent of a soaking wet kitten meowing up at you? Simply put: you don't. Knockout gave in and quickly dropped down to try and soothe the non-existent sparkling every. single. time. Rafael pulled his noise trickery. He never fails to panic and attempt to flash colorful things at Rafael to get him to stop. Every Decepticon has since been endlessly disappointed in him.

Starscream, being terrified of things that really shouldn't be there, took the skies the instant the trio began screeching. Nope. Not today Unicron. He'll get the mission done or get the heck out of dodge to avoid coding coming online. He doesn't need empty nest syndrome on top of a crippling case of "I Love Power." He also doesn't need to deal with the horrific mental image of a squishy somehow managing to sound like a sparkling. Nope. Nope. NOPE.

The Autobots are grateful the kids can protect themselves a bit now. But by Primus, they have known NO peace since the kids figured it all out.

[zhelin-thames]

Constantine, Chaos, and the Support Group from Hell

pev Masterpost

Location: Zatanna’s Living Room, Because the Watchtower is Now “Danny-Proofed” Zatanna: So glad everyone could make it! John Constantine: I was tricked. You told me this was an emergency exorcism. Zatanna: It is. For your sanity.

Danny and Tim (enter simultaneously) Tim: Yo. Danny: Hey, Dad. Constantine: CHOKES ON CIGARETTE Tim: He’s not your dad. Danny: Yet. Constantine: WHEEZING Danny: (to Zatanna) Did you know he dated my adopted grandpa Clockwork in the '80s? Zatanna: …Wait what. Danny: Yeah. I’m your metaphorical step-grandson. Constantine: genuinely begins performing an exorcism with holy water and sarcasm

Bernard and Tucker enter with Starbucks and dead eyes Tucker: We brought lattes and emotional damage. Bernard: Is he banishing Danny again? Tucker: He tried last week. Danny absorbed the circle and said “yum.” Danny (cheerfully): It tasted like salt and bad decisions. Constantine: I AM TOO OLD FOR THIS.

Support Circle™ Time Zatanna: Okay, let’s start the meeting. Everyone, name one thing stressing you out.

Tucker: Hi, I’m Tucker. I’m here because I love my boyfriend, but I can’t keep track of who’s who. Bernard: I’m Bernard. I’m here for moral support. Also, because Danny once pulled me through a wall thinking I was Tim. Danny: I stand by that. Bernard: My boyfriend can’t go two days without getting mistaken for his chaos twin. Tucker: Mine phased through the kitchen floor to avoid paying for lunch. Tim: Hi, I’m Tim. I cause 50% of the chaos. Danny: And I cause the better 50%. Constantine: Hi. I’m John. I’m leaving. Danny: You can’t. You live inside me now. John: I’m calling an exorcist. Zatanna: You are the exorcist. John: Then we’re all doomed.

Constantine: eye twitching He has all my soul. Everyone Else: …WHAT?! Danny: Just a little piece! Like, 78% tops. Tim: We were playing poker and he bet John’s soul as a bluff. Danny: I wasn’t bluffing. I won. Constantine: YOU CANNOT OWN A MAN’S SOUL VIA UNO. Danny: You can if it was a Draw Four. Zatanna: …Technically he’s right. Constantine: I. HATE. TIME. GHOSTS.

Later: Constantine tries to escape Constantine: If I leave now, I can still fake my death and move to another plane— Danny (floating outside window): You forgot your coat, Granddad’s Boyfriend~ Constantine: screams into the void Danny: Also, I RSVP’d you to brunch with Clockwork. It’s eternal. Constantine: I’m exorcising myself. Bernard: You’ll still owe Danny rent for the soul-space. Tucker: I’m charging him ghost tax.

Group Activity: Sharing Feelings Danny: I feel like having a soul dad has made me a better person. Constantine: You’ve used me to summon ghosts during gym class. Danny: That was ONE TIME. Tim: It was four times. Tucker: Once for dodgeball. That one was kinda awesome. Bernard: I still see Slimer when I blink. Constantine: I’ve fought demons with more emotional regulation. Danny: You’re just mad I beat your high score in haunting.

Group Chat – “The Hell Support Club” Danny: Guys. I convinced Constantine to attend therapy. Tim: Did you possess him again? Danny: No. I just reminded him Clockwork still has his mixtapes from 1983. Bernard: Emotional blackmail is self-care. Tucker: Group hug? Danny & Tim: phase through each other trying to do one Constantine (texting): I hate you all. Group Therapy Turns to Chaos (Inevitable) Danny: Hey Dad, wanna see me go full ghost mode? Constantine: If you even flicker, I swear by the River Styx— Danny: goes full glowing-eyed, floating, cape-of-shadows Ghost King mode Room temperature drops by 30 degrees Bernard: sipping cocoa, unfazed Yeah this happens. Tim: You get used to it. Tucker: I am so turned on right now. Constantine: I need bleach. For my soul. Danny: grinning with eldritch teeth Joke’s on you. I already have it.

Ten Minutes Later Constantine: So this is hell. This is my hell. Zatanna: Welcome to the Support Group from Hell™ Tucker: Next meeting’s on Wednesday. We’re doing soul-care crafts. Bernard: We make little felt ghosts. Danny eats the glitter. Danny: I regret nothing. Tim: They’re edible glitter. It’s fine. Constantine: I will never emotionally recover from this. Danny: But you will spiritually recover. Inside me. Forever. Constantine: screaming into his trench coat

Group Chat: ChaosSupportNetwork Tucker: That went well. Bernard: Better than last time. Tim: At least the carpet didn’t catch fire this time. Danny: New personal best. Constantine: I AM TRAPPED IN A TWINK WITH A GHOST COMPLEX. Danny: 💖 Love you too, Dad! 💖 Zatanna: See you all next week. Don’t forget to bring snacks. Constantine: sobbing emoji

[sai-int]

hello! i was wondering if you could either write about mainly soap (or the whole TF-141) finding out you’re pregnant and what they would be like all throughout the 9 months. It could either be head cannons or a fic, whatever you prefer 🤗

i tried to find fics about it but i can find barely any 😞

i tried to fight the poly!141 x reader demons, but i couldn't

cw: poly!141 x reader, pregnancy stuff, implied fem/afab!reader, (use of mom), no, it doesn't matter who's kid it is.

finding out....

johnny is the first to react when you tell them the news. he's stunned silent for a split second before breaking into a wide grin and laughing. “we’re havin’ a bairn?” he pulls you into his arms, twirling you around despite your protests. “this is amazin’! we're gonna be parents!”

he's immediately excited, though slightly panicked. “wait…what do we need tae do? do we start buyin’ things? are we ready for this?” he's practically already nesting.

simon doesn’t say much at first. his gaze shifts between you and the others before he lets out a quiet, “well, that’s somethin' new."

in truth, he didn't know how to handle this information. his trauma left him scarred and terrified of the idea of parenting, but after some thought, he’ll find you alone and murmur, “y'gonna be great at this, lovie. we all will.” It’s one of the rare times he lets his emotions show.

kyle reacts with a mix of shock and excitement. “wait, wait—are we serious? this is real?” when you nod, he breaks into a wide smile, pulling you into a hug and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“this is amazing. you're gonna be a great mom, doll. we'll figure it out together.”

john's reaction is steady but warm. he gives you a soft smile and kisses the top of your head. “looks like our family’s getting a little bigger.”

he's calm and reassuring, already thinking about what this means for the team and how they’ll support you in the months ahead.

first trimester...

johnny's bouncing off the walls, thrilled about the news but hilariously overprotective. he refuses to let you lift anything heavier than a water bottle and constantly asks how you’re feeling.

“ye need anythin’? a pillow? water? more snacks?” you'll have to reassure him a hundred times a day that you’re fine.

he's also immediately obsessed with baby gear, sending you links to cribs, strollers, and onesies with ridiculous captions like, “look at this wee one—it’s got ducks on it!”

simon is less overtly excited but becomes quietly attentive. he starts keeping track of your cravings and your mood swings, making sure the others don’t overwhelm you too much.

if you’re feeling nauseous, he’ll silently sit with you, rubbing small circles on your back. he's not one for grand gestures, but his steady presence is comforting.

he's also the one who subtly puts his foot down when johnny starts suggesting that the kid'll be named “soap junior.”

kyle is practical but sweet, always checking in with you and making sure you’re eating enough. “don't forget to take your vitamins. and let me know if you need me to grab anything.”

he's fascinated by the changes in your body, always asking questions. “is it weird? like, do you feel different already?” he's genuinely curious and wants to understand every part of the process. not to mention the fact this his eyes refuse to leave your stomach once you start showing.

john keeps the everyone grounded. when the others (cough—johnny—cough) start fussing too much, he steps in. “give her some space. she's not made of glass.”

second trimester...

by now, johnny's even more excited, especially when the baby starts moving. he insists on feeling every kick and might even get a little competitive with the others. “aye, th' bairn kicked fur me first, didn’t it?”

he starts talking to your belly in gaelic. no one knows that he's saying but kyle has a hunch that he's praying.

simon is more engaged now, though still subtle. he'll casually start doing the more practical things like baby-proofing or arranging for a larger living space.

he secretly reads up on pregnancy and parenthood, though he’ll never admit it. you catch him once, and he grumbles, “just making sure we’re prepared.” but you know it's for his own sake.

kyle takes the role of “baby planner” seriously, organizing everything from nursery ideas to potential schedules for when the baby arrives. he's also the one to encourage you to take care of yourself.

“you're doing amazing, love. just let us handle the rest, yeah?” he's always ready with a shoulder rub or a cup of tea when you need it.

john really begins to hone his 'dad energy'. he ensures you’re not overexerting yourself and keeps everyone focused. he starts sharing stories about his own experiences with kids, whether it’s nieces, nephews, or friends’ children, to reassure you. he holds your hand on the days when you're feeling a bit off, offering a warm embrace for you to melt in.

third trimester...

johnny is on defcon 1. he's counting down the seconds and trying to distract himself with building the crib (badly) and then taking it down, just to reassemble it. or assembling strollers. “don't worry, love, i've got this… where’s the instruction manual?”

he's constantly doting on you, rubbing your calves and back or carrying things for you. “you're a goddess, y’know that? absolutely goddess.”

simon becomes even more protective. the parenthood book he'd been reading mentioned having a mhospital bag' for when the time comes. when your third trimester comes, he's prepping, making sure a bag is packed and everything’s ready to go when the time comes. “better t'be prepared than scramblin' last minute.”

kyle is the calmest of the bunch, which makes him your go-to when you’re feeling overwhelmed. he's always ready to lend an ear or a helping hand.

"you're not doing this alone.” he'd mumble to you while drawing soft circles on your skin. his steady reassurance keeps everyone else from spiraling into chaos, as well.

d-day...

it starts with you waking up in the middle of the night, a sharp cramp making you wince. you sit up, trying to brush it off, but another contraction hits, and it’s unmistakable: the baby is coming.

johnny is the first one you wake up. he's immediately wide-eyed and panicking. “wait, this is it? this is actually it?” he's scrambling to find his boots, yelling down the hall for the others, and tripping over his own feet in his rush.

simon appears a moment later, calm but laser-focused. “time the contractions,” he says, already grabbing the hospital bag he prepared weeks ago. he gently helps you to your feet, his hand steady on your lower back to support you.

kyle's ushering you to sit down (as simon tries to shove him off) and asking practical questions. “how far apart are they? are you feeling okay? deep breaths, love.” he's already calling ahead to the hospital to let them know you’re on your way.

john takes charge of the logistics. he's already in the car and heating it up. “let's move, lads. we're trained for chaos; this is no different.” his voice is firm, but his eyes are filled with concern as he checks on you.

the ride is chaotic, to say the least. johnny insists on sitting in the backseat with you, holding your hand and offering completely and entirely unhelpful but enthusiastic encouragement.

"you’re doin’ amazing, lass. just breathe! In and out, aye? we're almost there!”

"i'm going into labor, i didn't forget how to fucking breathe, johnny!" this is starting to feel like the worst period cramps of your life.

kyle is the one actually timing your contractions and giving johnny side-eyes every time he gets too loud. “you're not the one in labor, soap. chill.”

under any other circumstance, simon would not be allowed to drive. not even around the block. tonight though? he drives like a man on a mission. he's cutting through traffic like a getaway driver with 50k in the trunk. he barely says a word nd his jaw is clenched tight, his knuckles are white on the wheel. when you let out a particularly loud groan, he mutters, “we're almost there. hang on.”

john rides shotgun, barking out directions to simon and giving you steady updates. “you're doing great, dove. just focus on breathing. we'll be there in five.”

the team storms the hospital like it's a raid. john carries you inside while johnny frantically explains to the nurses, barely coherent in his excitement. “she's havin’ th' bairn! right now!”

when they wheel you into the delivery room, johnny is by your side, holding your hand like his life depends on it. he's grinning and panicking simultaneously. “yer incredible, love. just a bit more. ye've got this!”

simon stands beside you and smooths your hair out of your face, placing a hand on your shoulder during every contraction. he can tell you're a little scared. “one at a time. you're stronger than this.” his presence feels like a rock in the storm.

kyle makes sure you’re comfortable and liaising with the medical team. “she likes ice chips, not water,” he tells a nurse, even as he offers you his hand. “you're amazing. we're so proud of you, hun."

john is the unshakable anchor, standing at the foot of the bed, his voice steady and calm. “that's it. just like that. one more push.” he doesn’t waver for a second, even when you're literally howling in pain.

when the baby’s first cries fill the room, everything changes.

johnny lets out an actual cheer, tears streaming down his face. “we did it! we've got a bairn!” he's laughing, crying, and probably squeezing your hand too hard.

simon doesn’t say a word, all shock and awe, but when the nurse places the baby in your arms, his eyes soften in a way you’ve never seen before. He murmurs, “it's perfect,” his voice breaking slightly.

kyle cuts the cord with a shaky laugh, grinning ear-to-ear. “welcome to the world, little one.” he presses a kiss to your temple, his joy radiant.

john is last to hold the baby, cradling it in his large, steady hands. “you've done so well, love... I'm so proud of you.” his voice is thick with unshed tears and pride as he hands the baby back to you.

the night ends with a baby nestled in your arms and your family surrounding you. a chaotic, loving, perfectly imperfect family.

mlist

[lostintransist]

Hell's Spawn | It Means Fuck Off

I wasn't planning on posting this yet but I need some feel good chemicals going in my brain before I give my professor the award for being the single most unhelpful teacher I have ever had in my entire life. Mans is actively making my life harder and not easier.

AO3

CW: Mommy issues, lots of negative self talk, general staring at women's bodies even though they just want to be left alone.

Trading shifts, what a simple way to alter the course of one’s life. Something akin to missing a train or a flight delay causing you to miss a connection, some exterior force course correcting you to where you need to be.

Leaning on one elbow on the stainless steel counter studying your text book you can feel your brain melting in your skull. Being a fourth-year medical student had taught you that while one could get a fever hot enough to “cook” the brain in the skull it wouldn’t occur from studying for too long. The voice of your mother itched in the back of your mind, telling you to give up and move on, you’ll never be more than a whore.

That had always been her favorite insult to hurl at you. Puberty hit you like a truck from a number of your favorite animes, transporting you into a woman-like body over the course of one summer. You still had the stretch marks.

Your mother hated it and hated you. She would never say that though. The high-powered pick-me lawyer could never let it be known that the only love she had in her soul had to be provided by the attention of a man. Psych 101 had been an enlightening class. You had nearly decided to go for a psychiatric residency before the chemistry classes debased that idea in your head.

When residency was over and you were settled somewhere you had decided to find a therapist to help you unpack all the shit that your mother had endowed you with. Her snide comments, wool-encased bricks lobbed at you from her high tower where she held both the power and the autonomy to keep you a prisoner, pelted you even now despite the years and distance between you.

The only escape you had found had been concurrent and AP classes in high school and a scholarship to finish your bachelor’s degree in one year directly out of high school and across the country. You worked your ass off for a few years to be old enough to never need her money again and passed the MCAT on the first try. The local medical school had accepted you at twenty-six, an old maid in that first class filled with nineteen and twenty-year-olds. That is how you had landed at a late-night cafe as a barista. You took as little student loans as possible and that meant working late and rising early for classes.

Coming full circle, you had traded shifts with the owner. Lucky bitch had five of the hottest boyfriends who were also boyfriends you had everseen and the bitch was ace. All that luck wasted on someone who didn’t ride their boyfriends until they whimpered night after night after night. God, you needed to get laid.

She had told you when you agreed to switch though that a group would be coming in to use the private room around midnight. She had warned you not to be alarmed but they would all be covered head to toe and would pay with cash. What she had failed to mention is that all four men who would appear at midnight, like wraiths wrapped in darkness, is that they were fucking jacked. They were ripped. To be frank you weren’t sure how any of them put shirts on or how the fabric didn’t rip like they were Bruce Banner turning green. Every one of them wore a surgical mask.

They all stepped to the counter, menacing vibes a miasma that eddied around them. Several patrons were scattered about the space, in quiet conversation or the clacking of keyboard keys, offering the illusion of safety. Aiming a well-trained smile any customer-facing worker would recognize at the men you greeted them.

“Hi welcome in, what can I get started for you?”

The tallest, broadest one, scanned the menu before glancing down. The demons in your mind began howling when instead of landing on your face his gaze landed firmly on the shadows of your cleavage peaking above the edge of your shirt. You had forgotten you had agreed to this shift until it was too late to change into the high-necked band tees you normally wore. The soundtrack of self-hate had always been easier to ignore if you could avoid drawing attention to your body.

“Four large black coffees, sugar and cream on the side.”

No please, no thank you. Fine, whatever wouldn’t be the last person tonight even that wouldn’t treat you with the same respect a wandering cat would receive.

“And you want all of those hot?” You tap away at the screen as you wait for his answer.

“Yes.” His voice should be much lower than it is, but it is still pleasant on the ear. The curl of his tongue around the words tells you English was not learned at his mother’s breast.

“Okay, your price is pulling up, this system slows down after midnight.” You roll your eyes at it, “If you give me a moment I can get that ready for you and let you into the room you have reserved.” You catch sight of the one with blue eyes that burn trailing those selfsame irises down one collarbone, to the bunching of skin, and then trailing back up to the other side.

The sniping words, whore, bitch, no good wench, nothing more than pussy, tits, and a mouth, fly through your mind, debris in the storm picking up speed. Grown and a world away her words still cut at you like glass.

Four hot coffees are settled on the counter as you count out change and return it to a leather-gloved hand. Did he have to buy specialty gloves to ensure that they fit?

The third man shifted his head toward you from behind his sunglasses before turning back to observe the room. A smudge of black hair peeked from below his hat.

Carrying the key along with several packets of sugar in your apron pocket and the carafe of creamer you can feel the fourth man’s eyes digging into your spine directly above your bra strap. No skin had been visible on him since the moment they entered the shop. That level of dedication impressed something in you.

You would have stayed impressed except the man couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Unlocking the door you stepped aside and let the men trail in, careful to keep your back to the wall by the premise of holding the door open with your foot. Once everyone found a seat you set the creamer on the table and turned to leave.

The completely covered one caught your wrist, fiddling with the ties of your bracelet. A friend had given it to you last Christmas when your mother had tried to reach out to ‘mend fences’. Turns out she was getting married again and her fiance wanted to meet the prodigal daughter.

The dainty silver beads pressed into your flesh as he dragged a thumb over them.

“What’s all this about? From a lover?”

The accent on his words tickles your senses. Then the understanding of his question settles home.

Customer service mode leaves your face and body, the bitch your mother always claimed you to be coming out.

“It reads fuck off,” you wrench your hand from his grip and slam the door shut behind you. When you settle back in the kitchen you fire off a text to your boss.

<Heads up, ended up snapping at one of your special customers.

Next, you fire off a message to Quinn, seeing if he could come in a half hour early so you didn’t have to close alone if the layered lechers stayed until closing.

Quinn confirmed he could be in early.

The parade from the conference room occurred as Quinn was arriving, leaving him to hold the door open for them as they passed. Closing duties went faster with Quinn collecting all the dishes for cleaning and you were home and in bed, books prepped for class in the morning on the table.

You woke a few hours later to a reply from your boss.

>Whatever you did they probably deserved it. You know I will back you 100%. But John says they seemed to like you better for snapping.

If you didn’t have to rush to avoid being late for your eleven am class you would have rolled your eyes. They liked being snapped at, that you were mean to them? Yeah, right.

Hell Masterlist | Masterlist

@demothers-empty-blog @beloveds-embrace (boo I hope you like your surprise.)

[swtsupernatural]

S.W || ANGEL BY MY SIDE

Sam Winchester x Fem!Angel!Reader

Content Warning blood, mentions of death, sam fighting for bodily autonomy, religious themes & talk of heaven, reader being shorter than Sam

Summary Angst, hurt-/comfort for Sam, slow burn i think - Sam was supposed to die tonight. At least, that's what his guardian angel told him after she saved him from death.

W.C. 2.4k words

Playlist: ♫ Kiss of Life - Sade, Telephone - daste., Salvatore - Lana Del Rey

A.N. first sam fic ! this came to me sunday night, been thinking alot about spn angels lately. enjoy! - claire

It had been a long fucking day for Sam Winchester. Not only was the demon he found in Manhattan trying to summon more, but they were working with a large pack of them and an even larger pack of vampires that lurked in Vermont’s lush forests. The two creatures had teamed up, and as a result Sam was surrounded in a poorly lit dirt road in the forest, moonlight shining on his knife. He couldn’t see or hear Dean, and he knew Castiel was busy with extremely pressing ‘angel matters’ as he put it. He had vamps and demons circling him, and Dean had the stupid demon knife. Or, he did when Sam had seen him a few minutes ago. Now, he had no clue who had their hands on it. His brain was twisting as he desperately tried to wring out ideas of escape from his head like a sponge. He was trapped. Fuck. A demon sprung, holding a large, saw-edged knife slicing his forearm making him tense. A measly cut never stopped him, and he twisted the demon’s neck, shoving the body to the side as another few came behind him. Twisting and trying desperately to gank two at once, Sam missed the others on his right, one stabbing Sam deep in his lower abdomen.

Significantly outnumbered, Sam tried to keep his thoughts collected. But it was difficult with five vamps and six demons on his ass, and the blood slowly staining his shirt, the agonizing pain making him want to double over. The demons suddenly pounced on him simultaneously. He managed to injure one of them, but the rest kept their grip on his arms, legs, neck, and torso tight. One of the taller vamps sauntered over to him, her lips curling into a smile. 

“You’re gonna taste so sweet, boy. I can already tell…” She pulled his hair back roughly, her painted fingers tight on his long hair. She exposed his neck, and Sam had never thrashed more than he had in that moment. It seemed like all he had done in his adult life was fight for his bodily autonomy. He felt numb — of course this would be how he died. The second he felt her lips on his skin, he felt and heard something he never had.

A loud whoosh, the hands and arms restricting him gone, and a swift change in the chipping air all in less than a second. He was in the motel. His motel he and Dean were staying at in some small town in Vermont.

But…there was still a single hand on his shoulder. However, it was gentle. Too gentle. He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours; a woman. You couldn’t have been much older than him. But you weren't really a woman. He drew his gun from his belt, effectively pushing from you, making space between you two. 

“Who the hell are you?” He was assuming you were an angel. He didn’t know of many other creatures or beings that could move him so effectively and so fast. He was also thinking how everything in this world came with a price. You weren't saving his life to do him a favor or to be nice. That wasn’t how this ever worked. Except; there you stood, your hands tentatively coming up in a gesture of surrender. 

“Sam. I’m very glad you are okay.” You stated your name, a small smile on your lips. Still, he held his gun up directly at your face.

“So much for a thanks, I guess. I’m your guardian angel, Sam. There’s no need for hostility.” Sam faulted, just a bit, but you took a single step towards him and he was back in his rock-solid stance.

“I’m sure. What do you want?” 

“Well, I’d like to heal that cut in your stomach. It’s quite deep.”

He scoffed, “Why? So I can owe you? So I can be in your debt?”

You were silent for a moment, your eyes widening a bit. “Castiel never told you? Sam, certain angels…we are assigned to humans to watch over them. We are permitted to help you, prevent you from death if it is not your time, and only if we are not spotted. We cannot be seen, or…well, in simple terms, we’ll be kicked out of Heaven.” 

“You…you’re my guardian angel? Seriously?” He mulled over you, his eyes squinting in suspicion. “How come we’re talking, then, if I’m never supposed to see you?”

Rolling your eyes suddenly that same whoosh came, only a lot quieter. You had his gun in your hand, pulling the mag out, throwing the piece in one direction and the gun elsewhere in the motel where neither of you could reach it.

“You were going to die. You were supposed to die. That was your time, Sam. I defected to save you. I’d like a ‘thank you’ at the very least.”

Sam breathed quickly through his nose deciding what to do. Your eyes were so genuine. He’d only ever seen that look from one other angel, Cas.

“I…thank you.” You nodded, and he saw realization in your eyes. It was raw and undoubtedly heavy on your being. You nodded. 

“I’m going to put my fingers on your temple and you will feel much better, understand?” You looked at him; from his shaggy hair to his dirty boots, and back up again. “It will be easier if you sit down. You’re much taller than I thought.”

Sam let out a small huff of laughter, sitting on the bed.

“Well, you don’t seem very tall for a guardian angel.” You squint your eyes at him, a look of unshaken power in them that startled Sam to his core. He knew what angels were capable of. You could have killed him and everyone in the motel in seconds. Yet, from someone else’s perspective, you were a hell of a lot shorter than him, and just looked like a regular young woman. 

“My true form is larger than the size of this building, Sam. I know that you know what I am capable of. Even if I may not look like it.”

Sam nodded in an apologetic way, your cold fingers on his temple immediately putting him at ease. Cas had healed him a couple times before but it had felt nowhere as heavily as this. He could feel his wounds closing before he could register what was happening — even the widespread blood stain on his shirt dissipating. He let out a long sigh he didn’t know he was holding, his shoulder slumping forward. He truly felt better than he had in years.

“Thank you. And I’m very aware of what angels can do…though I’ve never met a guardian one.”

You nodded, your face quite close to his. He smiled gently. Cas was never great with personal space either. Yet, Sam always found it funny when the angel would appear a mere foot from his older brother. Now, the last thing on his mind was humor. He would never admit that your presence was intoxicatingly calming. 

“We possess stronger healing powers and sturdier wings than typical angels. Not that it matters much now.” The sorrow in your eyes made guilt settle uncomfortably in Sam’s stomach.

“Why did you save me? I’m not exactly the poster boy for virtue or dignity.”

“I’m aware. But you must understand I’ve been watching you your whole life, Sam. I perfectly believe you deserve another chance on Earth.” Sam gazed into your eyes, trying to find what he could not understand. His father, Dean, Bobby…they had all known and loved him for so long. But they’d never expressed it like you were right now — and he'd never even met you. He had met defected angels before, fallen ones too. They would lose their wings. They would lose their grace. They were as old as the beginning of time, and would sacrifice it all for a single human. 

“But why? You flew me here, but I’m guessing your wings aren't doing too good right now, Angel.”

You stared deeply at his features. You’d seen Sam, watch him grow up before your eyes from the day he was born. But your visions of him were never as clear as they were now. His eyes were a solemn swirl of blues and greens, the inner ring a twirling hazel. The lines on his face told you of his laughter, his light forehead lines telling you of his worries, the short hairs littering his jaw telling you he’d been up for nights focusing on the hunt that was supposed to have ended his life.

“Because I thought…” you looked at a stained part of the unappealing carpet on the floor, your eyes glazing over a bit, “I thought that some of the angels were abusing their power over humans, over hunters. I had been on earth a few times and stupidly got your disease of emotions.” Sam chuckled softly despite the situation, hoping you would feel a tad better. But he knew you didn’t. How could you?

“I felt sympathy for humans. There were unjust things happening everyday, people's lives ending at their wrong time. I thought you were worth saving because–well, maybe it's time angel’s be kind instead of unforgiving.” Sam listened to every word spilling from your lips. You had been very short and to the point with him earlier. You really had begun feeling human emotion, if even a little. 

“And I thought that maybe you’d help me. Help me adjust, at least. I have seen the ways you and your brother act. I know it is selfish of me, but you are close with my closest friend and brother, Castiel.” You took a pause, eyes averting from Sam’s sincere face.

“I have seen you do it for humans and creatures and being alike, Sam. I thought maybe if I was kind to you, you could be kind to me, too.”

Sam stared at you in awe, his jaw slightly open. He honestly wasn’t sure what to say. Of course he would like to help you, but how? You were an angel for God’s sake. Maybe Cas was capable of giving you what you really needed to adjust, to be an angel without your wings, but he’d try. He’d fight like hell to try for you. You saved his life. It dawned on him that he was meant to be dead. He’d likely be in hell at this very moment if you hadn’t intervened. You truly were an angel sent from Heaven for him. 

“Of course I’ll help you, Y/N. You saved my life. I’m not done fighting yet and I’ll try everything I can, as a human at least, to support you.” You smiled. Your eyes were watering and you confusingly blinked at a wet drop falling from your right eye. “What is…” Sam reached a large hand to your cheek, rubbing the tear away. 

“Tears. You’re tearing up. Nearly crying, it happens when you…experience intense emotions, sometimes. Usually they are sad ones, but I’m guessing yours aren't.”

“No. I think I am happy. Maybe…anticipatory?” Your stomach was in knots, but you didn’t think you were sick. Castiel had explained it as…excitement. Sam smiled at your words. 

“Why is everything I say to you funny, Sam?”

Sam shook his head, still smiling as he brought a hand to your shoulder, “Not everything, you’re just…amusing.” You nodded after a moment as if agreeing with him. You knew you weren't accustomed to human culture or customs, you felt out of place every time you were on Earth. Nevertheless; now it was your home. 

“I find you very amusing. And you can be funny, but only when you are not being stubborn.”

“You really have seen me my whole life.”

“But I like that about you. You have such complex emotions.”

“Yea, I do…” Sam trailed off, the twisting in his stomach intensifying as he looked at your lips briefly. “Can I…” he leaned in closer, but not too close. He didn’t want to crowd your space, but you just looked so heavenly sitting next to him on his bed, your lovely hair framing your soft, glowing face. You tilted your head the way Cas did when he was confused about something human-like.

“Can you what, Sam?”

Fuck, your voice was so pretty. “Nevermind,” he leaned back slightly, getting up to call Dean to find out what happened to him before you grabbed his arm pulling him into a tight hug. 

“Thank you, Sam.”

“You realize you shouldn't be thanking me, right?”

“I know. But I also know humans can be very cruel and you’ve shown me a lot of kindness. I wasn't sure it was still possible in your world. Oh, and Dean is alright. I asked Castiel to help him as I did you.” Sam kissed your forehead, and it felt like it lit on fire. Your cheeks were warm, and you weren't sure if you were ill, or what was happening to your very human vessel.

“Sam, are you sick?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Why d’you ask?”

“You just made my skin hot, and my stomach feels weird.” Sam froze, his lips coming into a smirk, “Did I?” He tested the waters, lacing his fingers over your arm, and you stared up at him, your cheeks pink and your mouth slightly open. 

You pulled him down on the bed, holding his face with your hands. “Yes.” You stated matter-of-factly.

He smiled, sliding his hands over your cheek. “You gonna do anything about that?” Sam spoke in your ear lowly and you turned your head, his hair tickling your face and leaving goosebumps on your arms.

“I don’t know what to do.” He curled further into your face, leaning closer to your ear, his mouth on the edge.

“It’s okay, we don’t have to do anything, Angel.” 

You nodded, but opted for leaning up and placing a kiss on his forehead too.

“I think I need to teach you about other human stuff before we uh…do that.” You nodded, still leaning on Sam, when a thought came to your head. 

“Hey, Sam?” He gazed over your face, listening attentively to your sweet voice.

“I still have my grace and powers. But, since I’m not a real angel anymore…do you think I can try things like ice cream and taste the real flavor?” He threw his head back, laughing boyishly. 

“Yea, yea, I can buy you ice cream, Angel.”

[notsofrozt]

An angsty QiJiu idea I had a while ago (is it basically a shameless rip-off of a NaruSasu fic I read? Yes)

YQY goes on a mission to a remote area in the borderlands and stops near a mysterious lake. Despite being close to the demon lands, the water is crystal clear, and the plants are lush, perhaps too vividly so. When he gets closer to investigate, a strange reflection appears on the surface, and he falls inside... But instead of feeling the coldness, he wakes up in his bed, on the peak, as if nothing had happened.

Except it looks wider, less empty, with a couple of vases of blooms and green details everywhere that indicate the presence of someone else in the space. Someone whose tastes he is familiar with.

His body is also lighter, the hum of his soul-bonded sword no longer resonating in his skull.

YQY knows there's something wrong, and he needs to get out of there; he's no fool after all. But a sweet "Qi-ge, you woke up late today" greeting him as soon as he steps out the door makes his resolution crumble like wet paper.

He knows is some sort of trap and he has to leave, but maybe, just maybe, he can stay a little bit longer. He is strong. He can spare a few more seconds just once...

I was inspired (very, very inspired... It is basically just ripping the plot, what can I say) by a Naruto fic, although in this case instead of killing its victim with drowning, the lake would drain their qi until the prey dies, keeping them underwater to feed their small ecosystem amid hostile lands, and thus attracting more victims.

But, YQY overestimated the lake's strength. The fake SQQ is so real, so warm, the poison missing behind the snarky remarks just enough to not feel hollow. He still tries to leave, but days go by, and he finds no way out.

Even knowing that he doesn't deserve any of that tenderness or smiles, the domesticity of everyday life ends up making him lose touch with reality, making him dip into this ideal life with a Xiao-jiu whom he did not fail.

Outside his happy ending/fluff fanfic, people start wondering what happened, and they manage to trace him back to that lake. The search party urgently summons several peak lords, including SQQ, because there is no visible way to get YQY out of the bottom of the lake. And despite YQY's strong spiritual power, he is getting consumed.

In the fic Sasuke believes he died and this is a kind of afterlife where he can be happy with Naruto, but I think here YQY knows that he is dying, and under the lake's influence he ends up fully believing that the person that matter to most to him won't miss him at all, so he decides to embrace the fantasy completely, even if it means death.

The lake sometimes shows flashes of the events happening inside. While everyone is still running in circles, SQQ approaches just to see YQY be all sad with fake!SJ, actually confessing about the caves and the nature of his sword (the only thing left in his chest before he dies). The reflection goes back to normal as soon as fake!SJ "I love you" back.

With (fake) Qijiu's first and last kiss, all the peak lords feel YQY's qi disappear, and SJ is left mourning for another broken promise, the last one...

Except there is no way he is letting YQY just die like that, in the arms of a fake. If he is going to mumble a half-ass apology like that, it better be to his real face!! Panicking and enraged, SJ jumps into the lake to rescue him, even if he knows YQY is too deep in, just to do something. To try to go back to him, like now he knows YQY tried to do all those years ago.

He barely makes it underwater before the other peak lords drag him back to shore, fearing that the lake would claim him as well.

Except the lake did claim him.

A very confused, wet and freshly transmigrated SY is the one that comes back out in SQQ's body.

[miifu666]

Ive shown a bit of what Modern! Suklha would be like in Lego Monkie Kid AU :D. But i also wanna expand more on them!!

⋆˙⟡ — CW : Spoiler, Ooc characters, straying from the main plot :" im only on season 4

LMK! Suklha

An infamous Lawyer. Shook the internet from becoming a Symbol of protection and wisdom into your average money making lawyer.

Almost never interact with the cast even during LBD invasion, she was buried deep in paperworks of trials that she needed to do.

Only came up once or twice as a guidance and to tell the crew what to do incase a certain situation comes, might even give them a predictive situation that'll come to fruition

Barely anyone knows she's pursuing a divorce with Wukong, shes actively trying to chase him to sign the papers. He keeps stalling it.

Wukong never told anyone about her, including MK. Focusing more on spending his pension rather than the relationship he has. Which is the main reason she wanted a divorce, the relationship barely benefit her.

"This is your successor?" Suklha stared at the kid, circling around him like a predator. Her eyes nitpick every single scars and strand on his head, Suklha let out a small humm as she picks off a branch from his hair. "Atleast you picked a human.. they were always more eager to learn than us" her snakelike tail rattled near MK. "Isn't that right, little boy?"

"Aren't you a human?" Her voice echoed.

MK's smile drooped down, feeling his teeth chattering against eachother. This Blue toned woman is hardly giving him an easy time, unlike the TV shots and interviews he's seen. His once proud figure shrinks down, like a little boy fearing the wrath of his own mother. He knows this feeling before... the hopelessness he felt when fighting Lady Bone Demon. It was all too familiar.

"Okayyy! C'mon bud lets get you home" Wukong steps in. Putting a good amount of distance between MK and a confused Suklha. "Maybe youre not up to meeting a gal like her.."

Lmk! Suklha, who Wukong still has feelings for yet runs away from the guilt of neglecting her for far too long. He's older, wiser but he's still bad at confronting his own faults. Especially a recent one.

Remember the book that Suklha created to fuck around with? Yeah the book where it holds the knowledge to everything and anything in the universe, reading the first few sentences can break your sanity? Yeah wukong has it now. Its his now. Its probably the only thing Suklha wanted to keep from the divorce.

Wukong who always tries to talk her out of it ever since he had MK, hiding the paper before planning a meet with her. Despite knowing the words he needed to say, His arrogant attitude kept the apology still.

Suklha, who despite being his Talent lawyer. Tried to keep the relationship professional, for the sake of Wukong's image and her own. Despite joining the mortal realm and its trends, gossips is still the one thing she has an annoyance about.

"YOU!"

The clicking of heavy heels reverberated through the floor, just as the Blue toned Lady huffed out towards the Monkey king that appeared in the doorway.

"SETTLE THE DIVORCE PAPER RIGHT NOW!"

There's a quaint silence as her booming voice rumbled through the gaming room. Monkie kid stared in agape, the figure of his once singular mentor and predecessor being a lone wolf is shattered as the Lady infront of him continued speaking. Mei and the others watched in awe, realizing a dramatic moment is happening in front of their eyes.

"W-wait! Peaches i-!"

"I dont accept any delay, sign. It. Now"

MK looked at the panicked face of his mentor, seeing the once powerful sage looking so defeated was a new experience he'll never forget. Different from the many times he's seen, in amidst of battle Wukong still held hope in his eyes. Now.. its just despair and worry.

"Uh... whats going on?"

Monkey king who despite trying to fix his own relationship problem, is also spreading the words of how meeting with Suklha means "you're a target for the devil". He glares at MK everytime he talks about the news, seeing the familiar antennas and golden rimmed glasses.

Monkey king who turns into an old man who yells at children in his yard everytime he notices MK interest in meeting Suklha the supposed "secret love interest" who sends him mountains of "love" letters. Definitely not about the contract he ignored and divorce notices

He doesn't want anyone helping him in this problem, anyone who has an interest towards it is just showing him how incapable he is. His own pride is stopping him from asking for help.

Monkey king who rarely have time to train MK so he can focus on talking to Suklha, only to have his own student stepping in and tried his best to save the marriage. From sending flowers, free noodles, sharing Wukong's view and made a whole love declaration from Wukong to Suklha in the middle of her Trial.

"Lady Suklha!! Its a gift from the monkey kiing~!" MK knocked on the high tech door, using his legs to hold up the large bouquet he bought at the florist. He made sure the handwriting isn't similar to his, he even added a monkey king doodle at the end of the card.

"MK..." Suklha greeted him, the door opening to reveal a drained and sleep deprived lawyer. Holding the casefile on her other hand in a mess. Her eyes widened while she let out a gasp at the bouquet, the casefile finally meeting its end at the floor. The bouquet is huge! bigger than her!

"Seee, Monkey king kinda dumped this on me today. He said he was afraid of seeing you getting mad over him sooo!" MK grinned widely, moving the bouquet to his hips "here ya go!"

Suklha hesitantly accepted the Bouquet, a look of discomfort grazing her features. "Thank you... MK" "nonono it was monkey ki-!" "You think i dont know my own imbecilic husband's handwriting?" MK looked at the worn out Lady, her mouth smiled gently despite the harsh words coming out of it.

"Maybe if you want to give me something in place of Wukong, remember to use Peaches or Wifey. He uses that more than... ehhh.. caterpillar?" Suklha squinted her eyes, holding the card closer to make sure what she's reading. MK looked at her reaction, is it another failure? The hundredth time where she would still say no when he ask her to talk to wukong? He's been going back and forth between her house and flower fruit mountain just to get the two to an understanding!

Atleast the Monkey King said yes if Suklha di—

"Fine ill go talk to him tomorrow"

"HE SAID IF YOU- wait what did you say again?"

MK stared dumbfounded, his stupid reaction earned a tired chuckle from Suklha.

"Ill go talk to him, thank you for your efforts MK. You're a good kid." She tried to hold the bouquet in one hand, leaving the other to ruffle his hair "although not mine, you do act like a child whose parents are in a fight..."

"Hey!!"

After MK help again, Wukong and Suklha has a better time communicating with eachother. Heck, Wukong likes to stop by just to check up on her and ask her out to go somewhere. Spend a quality time, despite her busy schedule.

MK who feels proud of himself whenever he comes to Flower Fruit Mountain only to meet with a frantic Wukong thats trying to choose between his red flaming glasses or pink hawaiian shirt to pack on his trip with Suklha.

Even after fixing her failing marriage, Suklha kept her friendship with Macaque. Making sure to have a night out together just so they can sit in her garden and talk about whatever that comes in mind. Giving both a sense of relief for both of them, to finally relax after a hectic day. Having someone to talk to despite their own insecurities thats keeping them both alone walking through the path of hardships.

Lastlyy, she holds the world's most complete library. Almost the old-school version of the cloud, sometimes she even hold a slight resentment at how everyone overlook libraries nowadays but well. There's a secret bookshelf that has the portal to any timeline and anything you need, disguised as normal and boring books. Kept in a dusted shed that has more cobwebs. As long as you have Suklha's permission, the books will open itself to you. If not, even with the power of Sandy and Wukong. It'll keep itself shut.

Artwork ©️ Miifu666

Writing ©️ Miifu666

[wayward-dreamer]

Playing With Fate

Square/s filled: "You need to get your strength back" @anyfandomkinkbingo (quote in bold) |

Pairing: Demon!Dean x F!Reader

Word count: 3,545

Summary: Y/N offers to help with the search for Dean after he becomes a demon and leaves the bunker. Her plan doesn't go the way she intended, but that didn't mean it wasn't a desired outcome.

Warnings: Swearing, angst, smut: dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), vaginal fingering, hair pulling, choking, spanking, dacryphilia, degradation, dubcon, rough sex, mirror sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up people), squirting, I think that's it, but lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: Please blame the s10 rewatch I was in the middle of for this. I take no responsibility for the level of horny everyone's going to be after this lmao... Also, I've done things a little differently with this one, so I hope y'all enjoy! As always thanks to my loves @hintsofhoney and @makeadealwithdean for betaing this. Don't know where I'd be without either of you <3

What the fuck am I doing?

That was the first thought that entered Y/N’s mind, but it was fleeting, disappearing as she looked up at Dean from her submissive position on her knees, her mouth wrapped tight around his thick girth as her hands pressed into the muscle of his bare thighs. His gaze was intense, green orbs that occasionally gave way to solid black, something she had never anticipated would arouse her the way it had from the first moment he revealed them to her. He caressed her hollowed cheeks with his thumb, his other hand in her hair as her head bobbed back and forth, taking his length deep into her throat. It soon wasn’t enough for him, his grip tightening in her strands as he held her still, his pelvis smacking vigorously against her. Saliva dripped in long strings around her mouth as he chuckled, relishing in the way she choked and gagged around him, the glugging of her throat adding to the pleasurable cacophony that reached his ears.

Tears pricked her eyes as she moaned and spluttered around his shaft, her own thighs squeezing together to keep her arousal at bay for a moment. He noticed the way she squirmed, the way her flesh pressed tightly, the signs of her need obvious to him. He drew back from her throat, a harsh gasp leaving as her lungs burned, her chest heaving as she sucked in air and met his gaze.

“Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he ordered, grinning as he wiped her saliva around her lips. “Want that pussy of yours as wet as your mouth, got it?”

“Y-Yes,” she stuttered, nodding weakly.

“Yes what?” he growled, tugging at the roots of her hair and making her whimper.

“Yes sir,” she added, staring up at him.

The smirk never left his face as he thrusted into her waiting mouth once more. Following his instruction and opening her legs, her fingers moving between them and finding her clit already lightly covered in her wetness. She moaned wantonly as she circled the swollen nub, her eyes fluttering with the euphoria that coursed through her. Not only at the feeling of her hand between her legs, but at the way he was using her, and the shame of willingly letting him fading away with every plunge of his cock into her throat.

This hadn’t been the plan when she first found him. Far from it, in fact.

When Sam had called her with the location of the bar Dean had been frequenting, she had full intention of stepping in and setting him straight. He had warned her about Dean being a demon now, something that had happened several weeks before and which she chastised him for not telling her sooner. She could’ve helped and maybe with their “geek brains” together, as the elder Winchester liked to call them, they could’ve found him sooner. She wished she had known; her and Dean were friends, and she hated the fact that she hadn’t been there for him.

Friends were supposed to look out for each other. Especially those types of friends that were sometimes, on occasion, more than that.

Nevertheless, Sam said he would join her but she insisted on doing this alone, not listening to his protests and telling him to call her back once he had found Dean’s whereabouts.

When Y/N walked into that dive and took a seat at the bar, her eyes immediately found him. There he sat, at a table in the middle of the room, whiskey tumbler in hand. He didn’t look any different to the normal Dean she knew, not even when a blonde waitress came over to him and handed him another glass, draping her arm across his broad shoulders. She shrugged it off, now wasn’t the time to get jealous. She ordered herself a whiskey too, taking it and facing the room, crossing one leg over the other which allowed her denim skirt to ride up her thigh. That along with a tight, black tank top and black heeled ankle boots were her attire for the night; completely different to the usual hunter gear she’d be wearing but she needed something to catch his eye.

And sure enough, it did.

Dean had always had a higher level of awareness thanks to being a hunter, but after becoming a demon it had become a sixth sense. A familiar energy caught his attention as soon as it stepped into the room, his head lifting up to meet Y/N’s eyes as she stared back at him. He hadn’t seen her for a while, and if she was here that meant Sam had gotten to her. He had the initial thought of sending her on her way as he stood up, but as he made his way over to her, caught the way her thighs pressed together where they were crossed, he knew he could have some fun with her.

A grin pulled at his face as he gazed down at her, seeing her perfect mouth taking his intimidating length with each thrust, and he was glad that he had been right. It had been a long time since they had been together like this, and it was clear that he hadn’t taken advantage of their situation as often as he should have from the way she was working her tongue around him. She was unmistakably desperate to please him, to be with him in any way possible, even if he did have a new set of black eyes.

He had no problem exploiting that fact.

“Look so good choking on my cock, baby,” he groaned, holding her down against his pelvis.

His hand tightened in her hair once more and pulled her off his cock again, a dark chuckle escaping him as he heard her shuddering breath. Saliva hung off the edge of her chin, dripping onto the swell of her breasts, her eyes wide as she waited obediently for whatever he had planned for her next.

“Stand in front of the mirror,” he instructed, glancing up at the corner of the room before looking back at her. “Want you to see yourself losing control while I fuck you.”

Y/N somehow found the strength to stand from her position on the floor, the burning in her limbs only adding to the fire that was rising within her with each staggered step towards the mirror. Her appearance reflecting back to her was already a mess; her hair tangled in certain places, saliva drying and hardening at the edges of her mouth. As she spread her legs and curled her hands on either side of the frame, Dean stepped up behind her, calloused fingers sliding down the smooth skin of her back. Their eyes briefly met in the mirror before his gaze shifted down, following the movement of his hands as they admired the curve of her ass, a groan escaping him as his thumb grazed her puckered hole down to the sticky, wet warmth of her folds. She gasped as she felt the thick digit slide back and forth, no doubt wetting his skin as her arousal grew and dripped from her sex.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, but he finally left his eyes and addressed her again. “Ready to take my cock, aren’t ya?”

Her lack of response earned her a heavy hand against the flesh of her ass, causing a yelp to escape her. Her eyes widened as they made contact with his, narrowed and glaring at her through the mirror. He had barely done anything to her and she was already overwhelmed by his actions. Her mind was caught somewhere between not knowing how much more she could take, and wanting to take everything he had to give. Now that he was a demon, she had no idea how much that was, but she was more than willing to find out.

His hand came down twice more in quick succession, making her jolt forward as she shrieked. The sting was intense but delicious as the sensation spread through her whole body, and she knew this was only the beginning.

“You better be fucking ready for me, sweetheart. ‘Cause I ain’t holding back.”

The implication of his words was clear. He wasn’t the Dean she knew anymore, and she shouldn’t expect him to be.

A brief nod was all she could muster as an answer to his earlier question, and that was all he needed. He brought his thumb to his mouth, glistening with her wetness as his plump lips wrapped around it. He kept his gaze on the reflection in front of him, their eyes locked as she breathed heavily, a groan leaving him as he sucked at the digit and took hold of his shaft, rubbing it through her folds. It wasn’t the first time she had seen him do that; taste her off his fingers,  but it hit differently now.

Before she could register what was happening, he lined himself to her entrance and slammed into her, her walls sheathing his thickness completely as a ragged moan fell from her lips.

The sound was a harsh contrast to the soft whimper that she had tried to suppress when he sat down in front of her at the bar, flagging down the bartender and ordering himself another whiskey. He turned to her, his eyes taking her in as they roamed down her frame, an eyebrow lifting in approval at her low cut top and the way her skirt had ridden up slightly, exposing more of her thigh as she sat.

“Didn’t think Sammy would send someone else to do his job,” he started, sipping his whiskey once it was in front of him. “Guess he’s losing practice without me, huh?”

“He didn’t send me,” she clarified, trying to remain firm in his presence. “And there’s a quick fix for that. Just come home.”

He scoffed, chuckling as he dropped his head and shook it. “No fucking way.”

The bite and careless lilt of his laugh and words stung, but she couldn’t dwell on it.

“Dean, this isn’t you,” she reasoned.

“Oh, but it is, Y/N,” he countered, as he turned on the bar stool and leaned his forearms back on the bar, his eyes never leaving her. “It’s the new me.”

Green irises flashed to solid black, holding her gaze long enough for a fear she had never experienced before to run down her back. Along with another strange yet familiar feeling between her legs. Strange because this wasn’t the time or place for it. As his eyes quickly returned to normal, Y/N’s jaw clenched as she stared up at him.

“Dean, look, you don’t have any options here,” she stated, pushing her drink aside and reaching into the left pocket of her denim skirt. “You’re coming with me back to the bunker, and Sam’s gonna get to work on curing you. End of discussion.”

Dean sipped his drink as he watched her take out a pair of silver handcuffs, devil’s traps carved into them. He slowly placed his drink down as he smirked, his gaze shifting from them up to her. “I think those are gonna look better on you tonight, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes, but she knew they weren’t as effective as usual. He was getting under her skin and they both knew it. From her other pocket, she pulled out the top of a flask as she stared up at him, waiting for him to look back at her as he glanced down.

“Don’t make this harder-” she started but his sinister scoff stopped her.

His green eyes, that once held so much admiration for her, were now void of any kind of emotion as he finally looked at her. Slowly, the shift almost imperceptible, his face hovered an inch away from hers.  “I thought you liked it hard, Y/N. Hard… fast… so rough you wanna feel that ache between your legs for days.”

A shuddered exhale fell from her lips, one she hadn’t realized she had been holding, causing him to chuckle.

“So how ‘bout you stop wastin’ your breath on this back and forth,” he continued, gesturing between them as a smirk spread across his face. “And admit that you’re real curious to know what it’s like to get fucked by a demon.”

Their gazes remained locked as he tested the waters; tested whether temptation would coax her into letting him corrupt her for no other reason than pleasurable amusement. He saw the way fear, guilt and thirst circled in the depths of her eyes, and he hoped it was the last of those that would win.

As Dean peered into those eyes once again, through the mirror’s reflection, he saw all of those things give way to euphoria as he pounded deep into the tight heat between her thighs.

Y/N barely recognized the face staring back at her. Hooded eyes, her mouth agape as a string of erotic noises escaped her with every slap of his hips against the curve of her ass. He had been right. She did enjoy sex when it was harder, faster, so rough that she felt the constant throb at the apex of her thighs. The Dean she knew was well aware of that fact, and this Dean, this… twisted version of him was using that to his full advantage. She wasn’t sure if she was willingly letting him, or if he was coercing her into this sinful act, but it was bliss.

A heavy hand slid up her back and into the strands of her hair, pulling harshly as his sweat slicked chest pressed up against her. His breath fanned over her ear and cheek as they stared at each other. A loud, lustful cry erupted from between her lips as the head of his cock drove deeper into her at this new angle, reaching places within her that hadn’t been explored in a long time. A tear brimmed at the corner of her waterline, rolling down slowly as another followed from the other, her thoughts as overwhelmed as her body by everything she was feeling. He laughed in her ear, the sound wicked as it rumbled from his chest against her back, watching the tears make tracks on her face.

Dean leaned down, the tip of his tongue slipping out between his pouty lips and dragging over the skin, the tang against his taste buds making him groan. Her eyes widened in disbelief, but her core tightened within arousal from the act.

“So fucking hot seeing you like this,” he whispered against her ear. “Just mine to use. You can’t lie to me, Y/N. I can see it in your eyes, can feel it from the way you’re squeezing around me. You love my cock inside this tight, little pussy. You don’t care anymore that I’m a demon, do ya?”

Y/N couldn’t remember the words she had spoken in agreement to leave the bar with him. All she could remember was his hands on her hips, pushing her up against the brick wall, rough lips fused to hers as his thumbs played at the strip of skin exposed between her top and her skirt. All she could recall was the way his fingers slipped under the hem, making her breath hitch as they danced over the flesh of her inner thigh and pulled her thong aside, moving between her folds.

He smirked into the kiss, pulling away and looking deep into her eyes. “So wet already, sweetheart. My black eyes got somethin’ to do with this?”

“No,” she whimpered, trying to remain defiant but she was flailing.

The amused grin he had given her in response then matched the way he was staring back at her through the mirror at that moment.

“N-no,” she moaned, a small smile playing on her lips. “I don’t care anymore…”

Her words had somehow emboldened the pace of his thrusts, the scream silenced in her throat as his calloused fingers wrapped over it tight, his other hand groping at her breasts as he slammed into her. Her own hands struggled to hold herself steady against the mirror, the frame shaking from the brutal force of his hips smacking against her. Her walls clenched around his girth, causing sounds only akin to a feral animal to come from him right against the shell of her ear. Along with the loud squelch between her legs and her own choked moans, she knew it wouldn’t be much longer before she fell over the edge into the deepest depths of hell with him.

No matter how heavenly it felt to have him inside her, she knew she was headed for the fiery pit for what she was doing. It was debauchery at its finest, and yet she couldn’t care less.

Y/N wasn’t sure when it happened. Maybe it was the short walk from the bar across the street to the motel, maybe it was when they stepped through the door, or when they stripped each other of their clothes as their kiss became as heated as their frenzied touches. Maybe it was when she fell to her knees in front of him and wondered what the fuck she was doing, allowing a demon, something she hunted on a regular basis, to invade her every thought and sensation. Even if it was a man she knew very well, it had been wrong.

But it had also never felt so right.

The familiar pull in her core had her eyes squeeze shut, but a tug from Dean’s hand in her hair had them opening again. He made her watch their sinful actions in the mirror once more, as he felt her walls like vice around him.

“Such a good slut just for me,” he groaned, nipping her earlobe. “You’re all mine now, right?”

The lewd moan that escaped her wasn’t enough of an answer for him, as his hand cracked against the globe of her ass, causing her to shriek.

“Tell me,” he growled.

“I-I’m yours,” she finally replied, her voice sounding like a stranger’s from how hoarse it was.

“Damn right,” he grunted.

Her eyes rolled back as her air was still cut off by his heavy grip on her throat, but suddenly it dropped to grip her hips tightly with both hands, as his own began to falter with each frantic thrust. Her lungs burned as short breaths left her, moans turning into loud cries of his name as she reached that euphoric peak, her body convulsing as a stream of liquid gushed down her thigh, pushing his cock out as her wetness spurted against the mirror and dripped onto the carpeted floor. Her chest heaved as she breathed harshly, her vision blurred and unable to focus.

Dean took hold of his shaft, slicked up by her release and pumped his hand back and forth, expletives and groans falling from his parted lips as his cock pulsed in his grip. With one last tug, the veins in his neck strained as he let out a strangled grunt, his eyes flashing to solid black as ropes of his release shot over the small of her back. He grinned as he looked at her with those demon eyes she had found herself aroused by, and she smiled back slightly.

This was definitely not how tonight was supposed to go.

“Fuck, that was hot,” he muttered, grabbing her by her shoulders to steady her.

“Yeah,” was all she managed to push past her heavy breaths as she came down from her high.

“Well, I’m good to go again, but,” he smirked as his eyes flashed back to green irises. “You need to get your strength back.”

Y/N was taken aback by the concern, but she knew better than to assume it was for any other reason than needing her recharged for another round. He moved away from her, but not before smacking her ass once more as he walked away. She stumbled to the edge of the bed, still able to see herself in the mirror, her hand admiring the scratches and bruises forming along her skin. With a strangely content sigh, she fell back against the bed, unbothered by his cum sticking between her and the sheets underneath. She glanced to the side as he sat down next to her, his hand roaming over her body, fingers flicking over her nipple, making her moan softly.

“Take five, sweetheart, ‘cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

She bit her lip as she looked away from him, staring up at the ceiling. She heard a small buzz from her phone in the pocket of skirt, but made no move to search for it on the floor. It was no doubt Sam, texting for an update on how things were going. This was definitely a unique way of laying a trap, certainly not one she was planning, but at least this way Dean would never suspect that she had him right where she wanted him this whole time.

She’d let Sam know where she was eventually. She just wanted to enjoy playing with her own fate a little more.

[thewardenisonthecase]

you know, i remember seeing a post a long time ago that went deep into how sloth might be the like. opposite of justice (if we go with the idea that demons represent the opposite of spirits), because sloth brings complacency and apathy, things that Justice (character) takes an issue with. the whole issue with Elthina is precisely that - in refusing to take sides, she's become complacent and thus, innocent mages are suffering.

now all of this is the contaxt for me to say. Anders and Meredith have some very interesting parallels that kinda make me go crazy.

They're both defined by their devotion to their cause and their perceived duty to it. They are both willing to go to extremes for it - Anders blowing up the Chantry to free the mages and Meredith invoking the annulment as an attempt to end the magic threat.

In fact, putting their cause above everything else causes the deterioment of their relationships with others - there's enough banters in act 3 about how Anders has been kinda doing poorly lately and we all know what anders does to hawke to achieve his goals, and by act 3, not even Elthina is fully on Meredith's side, and many of her templars have turned against her.

They also have the "there's an 'external' factor that is affecting them" that being Justice and the Red Lyrium (obviously. justice is not that external but you know what i mean right, anders didnt use to be this passionate about the overall cause until justice and he speaks plenty of justice's thoughts intermingling with his own. like the whole point is that you cant tell what is anders and what is justice, just how the red lyrium reveal makes it hard to tell how much of what meredith is doing is bc of her own growing paranoia and how much was bc of the red lyrium turning that up to a hundred)

they also have andraste parallels

but the thing that gets to me the most, and its why i gave that context at the beggining. is that Meredith straight up says "apathy brings suffering to the innocent". in those words, im not even paraphrasing. And when I heard that, it reminded me of Anders. Because they're both like. I won't sit around while i see shit happening and innocent people getting hurt. However, the "innocent people" are different in each of their viewpoints. Both are driven by the fact that, someone has to do smthg. Anders blows up the chantry bc mages have suffering for too long and this whole "its better to step back and not take sides" thing is making innocent mages suffer - mages who passed their harrowing and are being made tranquil, mages who keep being beaten up and sexually abused, and the ones with power to stop it do nothing. And Meredith does All That because she believes mages out of control cause harm to people - her sister killed 72 people because she was not trained by the circle, and meredith won't let that happen again, and she won't sit around while kirkwall is in shambles (remember, meredith's big thing is that she truly believes that what she is doing is for the better/for a good cause)

like its just so interesting to me that two characters that are so incredibly different and so opposites to one another have kinda. wild parallels, to the point where there is at least one thing they can agree on - you can't sit around and do nothing, especially not in the face of injustice. but they have different views on what that justice is and who the people suffering are.

[kabr0ztrousers]

Here's an interesting idea. A monster and their newly turned mate going at it for the first time since the transformation. The obvious route would be Vampires or werewolves (which I won't say no to), but I'm gonna request specifically a demon having sex with his newly corrupted partner for the first time. What kind of demon and how much corruption I leave up to you.

Keep up the good work and may writers block never find you

Kabr0z Writes episode 128: Neophyte

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

This series is also on AO3!

CWs: oral sex; transformation; knotting; femdom; minor cbt; enthusiastic consent all round

A/N: There's like 3 episodes in the works now, but we'll get back on track this weekend hopefully 😁 you've got a mer-May one, a Chitinid one, and soonish an attempt at fanfic for a property I haven't properly watched in years

###########################################

He painted the last sigil onto you, over your heart. The deep red blood in sharp contrast to your pale skin. He stepped back to admire his handiwork an double check the circle.

"You're beautiful, have I told you that today?"

You grinned, of course he had. Of course, he wasn't bad looking himself. He was tall, of course, eschewing the fashion for paper thin skin stretched over metallic bones. Instead he was lightly muscled, a runners physique with sandy coloured skin and understated ivory horns. When he wore his hair long, you could only see he was a demon at all when you got him nude. Once the clothes came off however it was obvious. Glowing sigils burned into the Mediterranean skin, running from his shoulders to his groin, drawing the eye to a canid sheath.

He was an incubus. You'd met on a dating website just over two years ago, apparently he was summoned by accident at some point and decided to make the most of it while he was around. You got to talking, and one thing led to another. He hadn't even tried to barter for your soul in all the time you'd been seeing one another.

This was your wedding gift. Immortality, shapeshifting, and a whole plethora of slightly less interesting abilities. That's why you were stood here, totally nude, covered in sigils painted in sheep's blood he'd got from an abbatoir this morning. Supposedly the ritual could be done with a white mouse and a few popsicle sticks, but this had more gravitas.

You looked at your groom to be, smiling at him "Ready when you are, sweetie"

He smiled back, before starting to chant. The sigils painted onto you heated up, the skin sizzling under them. You could feel your flesh starting to cook, molten brimstone filling your veins. It didn't hurt. You felt strong, stronger than you'd ever felt in your life. You were suddenly aware of every ache and pain you'd ever put up with melting away. Every stiff joint, every missed hour of sleep, all of it shucking off you as though you were shedding your skin. You've never felt this good.

The chanting ended, and you stood. Still you, but changed. You looked at yourself, your skin was still the same pinkish-white it ever was, your reddish hair still hung to your shoulders, your belly still stuck out maybe a little further than you liked. But you knew that it was all changeable now, as easily as you would think it. At a whim, your skin rippled. The signs your lover had given you reappearing as deep tattoos. You flexed your back muscles, feeling as you willed a pair of wings into being. You looked at him, grinning as you discovered yourself, and you felt something new. Desire. You needed to own him, completely and utterly. He must be yours.

You flung yourself at him, catching him off guard and bowling him over. Your legs wrapped around his head as you landed, looking down at his belly, and the robes he wore for the ceremony. Claws formed on your fingertips as you rent the fabric to ribbons, then vanished as soon as their work was done.

His tongue was long and purposeful. He knew what you wanted, and wanted to give it to you. He delved into you, materialising more tongues as he needed them to caress your clit, your g-spot, your asshole, all at once. You still weren't satisfied. Even as he drove you swiftly to orgasm you wanted more, you needed more. You bent forwards, diving onto his cock, forked tongue slipping from your mouth and into his sheath, wrapping around the shaft. You drew it into your mouth, taking it into your throat. Every gag made your cunt twitch. You felt yourself blushing as you fucked him with your throat, bobbing hard on his cock as his hands gripped your arse.

He was getting close. You could feel the tip of his cock starting to drip viscous precum into your throat. You pulled away a moment "you cum when I tell you, hound. Not before"

The dripping didn't stop, but the nodding between your thighs told you he'd heard you. You licked his cock, tasting the umami liquid, before stuffing it back into your mouth, as far as it would go. His balls twitched as your throat fucked him, desperate to release, to give you his seed. You grabbed them, squeezing them in your hand, hearing him groan in pain as they churned in your grip and he throbbed in your mouth. Another wave of pre flowed out of him. His tongues sped up, redoubling their efforts, sending a renewed tide of pleasure washing over you in a warm flood.

You squeezed harder. He's not getting off that easily.

You sat up slowly, feeling every inch of him sliding out of you as you released his twitching cock to the air. He looked so pathetic, rock hard, spurting his pre into the air, on the verge of cumming just from eating you out. Maybe you should reward him.

You held him down as you stood. One foot planted in the middle of his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor. You watched as his tongues combined back into one relatively normal one, your wetness still shimmering on his face as he smiled gormlessly up at you.

He wheezed a little when you turned, grinding your heel into his solar plexus, then groaned with satisfaction as you lowered yourself onto him, crouching with the tip of his cock barely inside you, circling your hips to stimulate the very tip of him before letting him enter you fully. The smile came back on his face as his hand stroked your side. You might make him pay for touching you without permission later, but for now you'll allow it.

You rocked on his cock, slowly at first, just to make him whine, then getting faster, angling yourself to rub him against the sweet spot that really got your leg twitching. You chuckled, his face was all screwed up, trying his hardest not to cum before you let him. You reached behind yourself and found his balls, round and pent up, ready to give you what you both knew you wanted, but you're still enjoying denying him. You rolled his balls in one hand while the other rolled your clit. You rubbed his tip up against the upper walls of your cunt, forcing his thrusts straight into your g-spot. You were close, so close you could taste it. Your body was shaking in anticipation, ready to let it out. You gave one final push-

You screamed. You gripped him. You squirted. Thin squirt sprayed from you, covering your lover in your sweet-smelling juices. You pushed down on him, feeling his knot enter you. You tightened around him, willing your cunt to close up, to keep him locked inside

"Please, love" he whined "please let me"

You grinned "Have you been a good pet?"

He nodded

"Then you can cum"

He didn't wait to be told twice. He screamed out in relief as the force of his spurts made you gasp. You could feel it spraying into you, a hose of hot cum filling you in moments, and still coming. You felt your belly distend as he kept filling you, spurt after spurt ballooning your womb. By the time he was done you looked pregnant, and he was a gasping, twitching puddle on the floor under you, still held in by his throbbing knot.

"Who do you belong to?"

"You, my love, I belong to you" he gasped, even after being fucked silly he was still the charmer

"And don't you forget it"

#########################################

I was gonna go into some whole diatribe about desire, domination, and the nature of demons, but it's more fun to imagine this demon guy just being a subby mess, despite being an incubus

[fuctacles]

Witch Hunt

extra 1 | extra 2 | #witch hunt au

for @steddie-spooktober "witch" & @stevieweek "i don't know about this one..." prompt which i've altered quite a bit but used it twice so it kind of evens out, right???

E | 2568 | transfem!Steve (goes by Eve), witch!Steve, demon!Eddie, medieval fantasy, some arson and murder boyfriend vibes, magical srs, possible continuation, im sorry for all the lore | Ao3 more spooktober: "would you please stop trying to scare them?"

Eddie hated his job. Not only the human realm was much colder than Hell, but also, the Deal didn't always work. The success rate has been increasing each time, but it still pissed him off when nothing happened after he's been freezing his balls off for hours. He was starting to think all his fur was just decorative. 

When he had arrived at Heimdall's, the guy threw him a skimpy tunic that barely covered his privates. 

"Is this the only one you have? You can see my whole dick and balls in it," Eddie had complained, but beggars can't be choosers and all that. 

He wraps the fabric tighter around himself when the next gust of air moves clouds away from the moon, making the pile of debris in the clearing visible. Time passes and Eddie waits impatiently, tapping his hooves against the ground, and idly picking stray grass blades from his tail. It seems like the pile moves a couple of times, but it's just the wind disturbing it. 

A distant clock tower strikes midnight, and finally, the ash pile moves and keeps on moving, until a hand emerges. Eddie straightens up, his tail twitching in interest. 

The ashes start breathing, the charred remains get knocked down and a coughing fit raises a dark cloud into the air. She'll be spitting soot for hours, but at least she's up now, another success for the statistics. 

He decides to take pity on the poor girl and steps away from the fence he's been perched on, making room for his wings. With two good swats, the dirt is gone, leaving a slightly dirty, very naked woman in the middle of a charred circle. 

He raises his eyebrows. 

"These fucking perverts burnt you naked?"

She finally notices his presence, her red-rimmed eyes blinking rapidly to clear her vision, and stands up on shaky legs, still low on energy after her resurrection, barely maintaining her balance. Suddenly, Eddie doesn't seem to matter anymore, as her hands fly to her chest. 

"What...?" she murmurs to herself.

Eddie tilts his head, watching the human with curiosity. Usually, the arrival of a demon gets a bigger fanfare, he's almost insulted, but he waits patiently. He already did for so long, and now he has something pretty to lay his eyes on for once. Witches usually came with ugly meat sacks, even after their resurrection. 

"Where the fuck is my dick?!"

Ah, yes, that would explain it. The naked thing, too.

"Do you want it back?" Eddie asks because he's a demon with manners. 

"No!" she protests immediately, eyes snapping up to him from observing her crotch. "No," she adds softer. "I like it like that." Her hand reaches down to inspect her new parts, so Eddie takes it upon himself to swat it away with his tail.

"Hey!" 

He tsks, his long tongue slipping out to flick in a warning. 

"Let's not put any more dirt in your holes, okay?" he berates her. Regretfully, he shrugs off the tunic he's been wearing and throws it at the girl. "For your modesty, m'lady." 

She glowers at him but slips it over her head anyway. What was small for the demon, doesn't do much more for a human, especially not one with the curves that she has. She wrinkles her nose. 

"Is there even a point? You can see my whole—"

Eddie slaps her hand preemptively. 

"Hey! I wasn't even touching it!" 

"Your hand was too close."

"No, it wasn't!" 

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

"Let's clean you up and then you can touch it all you want. You have a river in this ditch?" he asks, nose twitching in the air. He turns at the same time the witch points her hand. 

"To the left of the village." 

Eddie's eyes stray to the cluster of houses she seems determined not to look at.

"Do you have anyone left there?" he asks curiously.

"Not anymore," she scoffs, taking off towards the river. 

Eddie has to follow her, he can't risk losing a witch, but an urge flares inside of him that he has to let loose. He claps his hands together and starts rubbing, sparks flying until a fire forms in his palm. He bounces it from one hand to another and nuzzles it with his finger, always happy to work with the little guys. When he feels the witch is watching him, he refocuses and whispers to it:

"Go, little one. Do your worst."

The flame flies off his palm, aided by a push from Eddie's phantom wings. 

She doesn't ask, only eyes him curiously, but he pushes gently on her back to prompt her into walking along his side. 

"It's gonna take a while," he says without any other explanation. 

The walk isn't long, and soon she's handing over the tunic and dipping into the lazily flowing water, dark like ink but glittering with the reflection of stars above. The night sky is probably the only thing Eddie misses in the Underworld. 

He sits on the plush grass, observing as the witch dunks under the surface and rubs her skin until it turns pink. It still contrasts with the water like it's made of the finest porcelain. 

"I guess you're clean enough to explore now," he says as her movements slow down like she's already contemplating it. She must be, he can taste her curiosity from his spot on the river bank.

"You're gonna sit there and watch?" she glowers at him.

"Of course," he answers matter-of-factly. "I'm a demon."

She huffs, but this time it sounds more amused. Her hand travels down her body.

"What's your name, witch?" Eddie asks, resting his chin on his hand. 

"Stev—" she hesitates. 

"Eve?" he picks up curiously. That would be hilarious. 

She kind of nods, kind of shakes her head. 

"I was Steven, then I went by Stevonne, but..."

"That's okay, take your time," Eddie reassures her. "This is your Rebirth, you can pick any name you like."

She hums, and he can see her hand making slow, circling movements under the water. 

"I like Eve," she admits.

"Yeah?" Eddie perks up with a smile. "You can call me Eddie. It's nice to make your acquaintance, Eve."

She smiles and opens her mouth to say something, but her attention is pulled somewhere above Eddie's shoulder. The water starts glowing orange. 

"Looks like the little guy is having fun," he hums, not looking around. The glow of fire looks better on Eve's skin anyway. 

The river carries distant cries for help, a reminder that it's not just a big, pretty bonfire. 

"Don't worry, he'll get them all," he says.

"I'm not worried," she assures quickly. 

Eve's fixated on the fire consuming her village, her eyes full of awe and the reflection of flames. She's glowing in the now orange water and she looks gorgeous reflecting Eddie's carnage like that. She'll look breathtaking among hellfire. 

"Maybe we could spare some," he wonders out loud with a lazy smile. She looks back at him. "So we can hunt them down later. The way they hunt my new favorite witch."

She smiles, mean and thrilled. He'll have to fight fang and claw to keep her.

"Maybe we could." 

They look at each other for a long while, until his eyes dip. 

"You done?" Eddie looks pointedly at her stilled hand. She sighs with frustration. 

"It's way different from this angle," she complains. 

Eddie laughs out loud, the sound echoed by the collapsing church that used to tower over the townsfolk. 

"Need a hand?" he offers, rolling his eyes when she eyes his claws with distrust. He flicks out his tongue instead. "Need a tongue?" 

Eve's totally on board for that, clambering out of the water, her hazelnut hair dripping over her curves. The wet shine on her skin reflects the dancing flames and Eddie would be in love if he knew how to.

"Weren't you appalled that I was watching you just seconds ago?" he laughs at her, a little bit mean, but he already knows she can take it. 

"Turns out I like that," she shrugs without shame, making Eddie's smile grow. The sight of his sharp teeth doesn't deter her either. In an instant, he has a lap full of a human, or at least as much of one there was left in Eve. He has her tits right in his face and he wouldn't be a demon if he didn't give them a taste, licking the river water off her skin. She sighs, fingers tangling in his unruly mane of hair, seeking purchase in his horns. He groans when she grabs them, and wraps his arms around her, pressing into her skin so he can flip them around, and lay her down in the bed of grass. 

Her yelp turns into a delighted laugh and Eddie trembles with the sound. They don't make witches like that anymore. Free and open to the joys of life, ready to frolic and mingle with the things Unknown. Christianity made it so hard for demons and fae to get laid. 

He presses hot kisses down her torso, spends extra time sucking around her navel, then nibbling around her mound, hiking her thighs higher and higher, nosing at the crease there, inhaling her scent, until he gets to his destination. It takes two, three expert licks for Eve to lock her legs around him and scream into the night. 

Eddie gently laps up around her hole, her juices too precious to let fall on the grass below. Her breath hitches and she trembles but doesn't move away. 

"Do you want more?" he asks, black eyes searching for an answer. 

Her eyes are still full of fire.

"Yes."

So he gives her one more, then three, until he loses count and his tongue is numb and Eve's but a puddle of human-shaped limbs underneath him. When he laps at her entrance, drunk himself on her smell and taste, she spreads her legs invitingly, eyes blown and impossibly wide, sparkling with flames. 

They stare into each other's dark eyes as he slithers his tongue inside. He rubs against her walls, searching for her face for a reaction, but she's too out of it for anything more than an involuntary twitch of muscles. However, when he moves away, she seems disappointed. He crawls up her body to properly look at her face, but before he can say anything, she lurches forward.

Kissing is not something he's used to in such circumstances, but he indulges anyway, letting her tongue inspect the sharp points of his teeth, and maneuver his hand on her breast. He squeezes, laps, and sucks, letting himself get lost in this new dance. 

"You know," he says when she breaks away to restore oxygen. "I don't do that outside of sealing a deal," he admits.

Eve blinks at him owlishly. 

"You don't kiss just for fun? Aren't you a demon?"

Eddie barks out a laugh. 

"I guess kissing is too tame for our tastes." 

"What's your taste?" she asks, curiosity radiating off of her in hot waves. 

He hums, caressing her side.

"Insane witches, apparently."

"What do you do with them?" she presses on, her leg moving dangerously high up his body, the coarse hair of his thighs not enough to deter her.

"Well, personally..." Eddie likes to play with his food, a habit he couldn't shake since his childhood, so he rolls away from Eve to lie on his side instead. To placate her, he starts playing with the hair that grow low on her belly. "I collect the resurrected witches and show them around. You'll get a tour of Hell and any other realms you wish to see, and then I'll help you settle wherever you feel like."

With every word, the pout on her face only grows. 

"You're not keeping me?" she asks, playing up the whine in her voice, but he knows there are genuine feelings behind it. 

"Witches aren't meant to be tied down," he explains apologetically. "They're free spirits abusing the laws of reality." He reaches for her hand to press a kiss against her fingers. "It's a power best wielded in solitude."

She pries her hand away and sits up.

"Why would I want the power if I can't share it? Don't witches have like... familiars? Or something?"

Eddie frowns.

"A witch of your power doesn't need one. They're meant to amplify and aid spells, and you're pretty much on the same level as a common demon."

"Are you a common demon?"

"Yes," he nods. 

"So we can't make a deal?" she presses on. 

His frown deepens. 

"Why would you want a deal with someone equal in power? Deals are made between a master and a servant."

"But is it not possible? Can't I have an equal by my side? A partner in crime?"

Maybe he should backtrack on her being his favorite. She's asking too many questions, ones he's not used to from a freshly reborn witch. He sighs. 

"Technically you can, but it's an exclusive deal. You're tied for eternity, you belong to each other. It's not a common practice," he says, playing off what he's been told and overheard. "Master-servant contracts have an expiration date and are easier to break. I'm not sure a deal like that could even be broken."

Eve wraps her hands around her knees, processing the information. 

"So I could tie a demon, or an equally powerful being, to myself for all eternity?" 

Somehow, Eddie doesn't like the idea of Eve making a deal like that with a random demon. He nods, though.

"Yes."

"Let's say I'd want to do that with you, right now. How would that look?" she asks curiously. 

He thinks about it, imagines it, and it pains him deep into his core. 

"A simple deal is sealed with a kiss or a blood pact. A deal between equals requires an intercourse."

"Huh."

The idea doesn't seem appalling to her, which doesn't surprise him at this point. He can feel her eyes sliding down his body.

"You're not going to find my dick like that," he says with amusement. 

She huffs but doesn't budge, searching his gaze instead. 

"Wouldn't you want to make me yours? And you mine?"

Eddie considers it. 

"I never thought about it before," he admits. "Is that something you'd want?"

She lays back on the grass with a sigh. 

"I'm just tired of being alone. Of nobody staying. You're the nicest person I've met in years, and you're not even human." He laughs at that, and she turns towards him with a smile. "You burnt a village for me." She frowns. "Unless you do that for all the witches."

Eddie quickly shakes his head. Too quickly.

"Only the most mistreated ones," he admits. 

"Is it a pity thing, then?"

"No," he protests again. "I wanted to do something nice for you."

Eve smiles. 

"Thank you."

He smiles back, and when he leans down, she meets him for a lazy kiss. 

"Would you make me yours?" she asks when they part and the offer sounds alarmingly tempting. 

"You should meet other demons before making a commitment like that," he says, and she rolls her eyes. Then, his ears twitch as he finds the perfect distraction for them both. 

"You ready to hunt?" he smiles down at her, wide and dangerous. "Someone escaped the fire."

ko-fi

[joi-ryde]

it's officially solstice month for us Northern Hemisphere folks! ☀️

we're talking languid, hot days burning into steamier nights—monsters tied to the seasons hitting their mid-year ruts with the zenith of the solar calendar in June.

what better way to celebrate the midpoint of the year than with a scribble about a horned forest god and a reader who can only hope to outrun her fate (or perhaps not?)

(this was inspired by that cunty demon deer man, you know the one)

Horned God x Reader, Part One

male!god(demon?) x fem!reader, monster romance, blood, references to cannibalism, no smut (for now...later parts smut, we're building to it)

You've been trying to escape him for hours, and all you've managed to do is run out of daylight.

Soon, you're going to be bolting through the dark, and falling into a ravine is going to kill you quicker than whatever is chasing you.

His forest domain has become a maze that confounds your sense of direction and leaves you feeling completely lost—a familiar rock there, a thicket that has already been tagged with a torn piece of your shirt.

You double over and feel a stabbing, sharp pain between your ribs as you try to catch your breath.

The god, or demon, is fucking with you. You're certain of it as you stand there sweating through a pair of jogging shorts and your ragged, grass-stained tee shirt, collecting your thoughts on what the hell you could do next to escape a grim outcome.

And what is it that makes you think you're in for a bad ending like the final girl in a slasher flick?

Well, you're a soft eighty percent certain that the cultists who snatched you off the walking trail did so with a mind to giftwrap their chosen deity (possibly a demon, but then again one person's demon is another guy's deity) a whole ass snack.

Their setup had indicated as much. You were positioned, kicking and screaming, in a summoning circle, your palm cut, and erupting out of the very fabric of reality when your blood hit the chalk marks on the ground was a seven-foot, horned entity.

But what seemed off-script from what you anticipated next (being immediately devoured) was that everyone, even the monster the cultists called a god, seemed oddly perplexed you had slipped your bindings and bolted into the undergrowth.

What's also off-script about this situation?

The god has taken a flirty shine to you little ole you during this long pursuit. His purring interest has been constant over the last hour especially.

He asks after your name, which you refuse to give him.

He wheedles you to stop running, for he so wishes to speak candidly with you. You ignore him.

He praises your courage, your steadfast resistance, and you tell him to fuck off straight to Hell where he came from. That only makes him laugh.

"Darling, are you going to keep making such a fuss about this?"

Again with the pet names.

The voice is like sticking a tuning fork between your teeth. It reverberates in your bones and strokes over your nerves at the same time as if to say 'There, there.'

It projects from no one place in the forest clearing surrounding you. It's everywhere. It's nowhere.

"I am not," you spit, "your fucking darling, asshole!"

Is he trying to scare you afresh? Does prey that is especially keyed up with fear taste better? Does terror from the chase sweeten the meat?

You've stopped being afraid and now are only working yourself into a lather of curiosity and peevish annoyance.

And then the god steps out of your goddamn shadow and looms over you. You're frozen to the spot. Your legs, burning with the strain of having run for so long, crumple under you like wet paper. You grip the long grass underneath for something to hold onto.

It's your first good look at him.

Your panicked brain registers clawed hands that are blackened velveteen fading into pale skin once they reach his corded biceps. A sharp-featured face peers down at you with lazy, amused curiosity dancing in his red eyes.

The rack of antlers sweeping high from the crown of his dark-haired head almost brushes the lowest branch of the tree you're under.

"What a temper on you," he purrs, adding with dripping emphasis, "darling."

Oh, for fuck's sake, you despair. Of course he's hot.

Outwardly, you put on the tough, unflappable act that has gotten you out of tight squeezes. "Look, I get you've got to put on the whole big and bad act, but I need you to please cut the shit and speed this up."

The horned god rests an elbow on the trunk of the nearby alder. He leers down at you with that same faint amusement, drumming his claws against the bark of the tree. You try not to look at the gouge marks even this minor contact causes. It sizzles the wood, burning it.

"I've never had a mortal ask me to speed things along. It's quite refreshing from the usual drivel."

This devastatingly attractive god has a voice like oil: smooth, slippery, and a fucking peril to let it saturate your hearing.

He's wearing a skirt-kilt thing knotted around his angular waist that reminds you of all the artfully draped cloth over statues of Lucifer post-fall from grace.

The rest of his towering body filling your vision is a leanly muscled, naked chest covered in whorls of inked markings. His appearance is as hypnotic as his voice. You're dizzy with pinning your eyes on one spot. Pale, dark, pale, dark.

You resolve that you're going to die how you have lived: running off at the mouth and meeting his unflinching eye contact with a steely glare.

"Are you usually this much of a snotty asshole when it comes to appeasing those sycophants who ring your lunch bell? Give them a little dinner theater for their trouble?"

The god lets out an airy, amused chuckle, more of a giggle, really. Look at you! You've got the seven-foot killing machine tittering like a schoolgirl.

"I've no desire to consume you," he patiently reassures, and then he crouches down to your seated level. He reaches for you with his dark claws. "Now give me your hand, please."

He asks politely, genteelly, like it's the most normal thing in the world to request you stick out your arm, and by the by, he's not here to fucking eat you. In fact, he's here to be the very spirit of politeness.

Maybe you should humor him. You're in no position to refuse. Your legs are going numb from how they're folded under you.

"Which one?"

"The one they cut, of course," he says.

An impatient waggle of his big hand reminds you you're taking too long to go along with this. You do as he says and try not to flinch when his hand, dwarfing yours, is so big that his fingers close over your wrist when he cradles it.

His tongue lolls out, he leans in, and it's then you get a look at the serrated teeth he's sporting. They gleam like a knife in the fading light of dusk, and you let out a soft, shocked sound when the dark, leonine roll of the god's tongue swipes the wound.

It's clotted since you began fleeing through the woods, but the rake of his textured tongue, rough and firm, abrades the flesh and opens it anew.

It stings, and you want to jerk your hand back, but his hold is iron. There's a contented rumble that comes from the air around you. It reverberates the ground you're sprawled across, tickling your skin and raising hairs in its wake. And then it emanates from him; alright, he's into it.

A little too into it.

A fleeting thought of him wrenching your arm from its socket so he can chew on it like a choice bone makes you want to pass out, so you hold firm and let him lave over the wound like suffering the attentions of an overly large dog.

And then the cut starts to tingle. It feels...nice. When he relinquishes your hand after a minute of therapeutic licking and ground-vibrating purring, all that's left of the wound is a fresh, pink scar.

"I might have to revise my statement," he informs you gravely, still crouched. His elbows are set into his powerful thighs and his deadly hands hang idle between them.

"Which one?" you ask, dreading his answer. You clutch your newly healed hand to your throat, instinctually guarding a weak spot that those terrible teeth could rip and tear.

"The bit about not consuming you. Frankly, you're fucking delicious, darling."

And then you see a subtle twitch at the corner of one of his red eyes—a tell.

He's joking.

You call him out on his bullshit immediately.

"Oh, fuck off, man."

He laughs uproariously, slapping his knee, and you have to restrain yourself from reaching out to shove him onto his back. He topples over in his mirth, sprawling out on his side like a lion lazing in the last rays of sunlight.

Any residual terror fades to amused annoyance. Of all the gods to summon, you get the teaser. You are, for now, safe. He can call you darling all day long if it means you keep a pulse.

"No, but in all seriousness," he sobers, digging an elbow in the springy grass so he can rest his great, antlered head on his fist. "We're in a bit of a bind, darling."

How he puts that statement to you is like you're on the same team, folding in for a huddle to discuss the next big move, and plotting out the winning strategy.

The sun dips behind the horizon and the cascade of light illuminating the forest snuffs out like a candle.

"How so?" you lean in cautiously, mindful of your proximity to his antlers. It'd be the worst to poke your eye out on one of his prongs, and you don't want to find out if him licking your eyeball will restore your sight.

"The folk back in the glade aren't winning any prizes at summoning, I'm afraid to say. The nature of their ritual they used to call me to this plane is more...carnal, to tell you true, and meant to benefit you more than them."

Oh. Oh.

"Like a sex thing?" you venture, picking at the grass beneath your hands.

"Not entirely. That particular summoning binds a bride to me, not my dinner."

(AN: Holler if you want to be tagged when I post PT. 2!)

[the-travelling-witch]

summary: a pouty demon has become part of your nighttime routine

pairing: mammon x gn!reader

warnings: fluff with mentions of insecurities (skin/appearance related)

obey me! masterlist

“Babe, how much longer are ya goin’ to take?” Mammon whined from behind you, his pout reflecting in the large bathroom mirror.

“I’ve only just finished with cleansing.” Turning off the faucet, you gently dabbed a towel over your face, watching the demon with affectionate eyes. “But everything else shouldn’t take too long.”

“Why d’ya have to do all of this anyway?” Apparently not content with your answer, he stepped closer to you and cut himself off with a yawn. “Just come to bed.”

You’d think that, as a model, Mammon would understand the importance of skincare but, to your annoyance, he was one of those guys who seemingly splashed their face with water and still had the perfect complexion.

Could demons also be god’s favourites? One glance over his shirtless form definitely swayed your answer towards ‘yes’.

“No, this is important. Especially if you keep sitting me down for a bowl of spicy late-night ramen,” you sighed. By now, Mammon had closed the gap between the two of you, his arms comfortably circled around your waist and his cheek squished against the top of your head. “Besides, I finally want to be free of these blemishes and look good too.”

Immediately, Mammon stood straight and held you a little tighter. The angelic eyes looking at you through the mirror were earnest and genuine as he spoke with a bewildered tone, almost as if what you had said never occurred to him.

“But yer already so pretty! How could ya get any more stunnin’ than this?”

That was what you loved about him. Despite his usually tsundere behaviour, he never failed to compliment you with his entire heart behind it. Having someone so sincerely tell you you were beautiful, while you wore an old shirt of his as pyjama, had no makeup on and had your insecurities out in the open like this, it made you start believing it too.

A thought that was kinda terrifying.

But you had no time to go teary-eyed or worry about whether you were starting to become too conceited or delusional. Not with this demon around. Before you could say something, Mammon had already swooped down, snowy hair obscuring part of your vision, and planted a sweet kiss onto your cheek. Both the surprise of his action and the visual of his face scrunched up in disgust as he tasted the toner on his lips made you laugh, shushing the voices in your head.

“That one’s on you, I already told you not to do that when I’m doing my routine,” you giggled. Then, you twisted in his hold and returned an equally affectionate kiss to his cheek. “Thank you so much though. Hearing that means a lot.”

“Don’t look at me like that! Just hurry up, so we can go to bed!” Though he averted his eyes, you could still feel the heat radiating off his face and you suppressed another laugh. He really was too cute for his own good.

Even though he’d complained a lot about the lengthiness of your little ritual, he still attentively watched you work, offering his concerns about the colour of a hot pink serum (“Should ya really be puttin’ that on yer face?”) and having his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when you casually mentioned one of your creams could bleach clothes or hair.

“Well, good thing your hair is already white and you’re already shirtless,” you joked as you finished putting on your moisturiser before turning and looping your arms around his neck. “Because I plan to cuddle you all-night long.”

“Ya’d better! Yer the only human who’d ever make me, the Avatar of Greed, wait, ya know,” Mammon huffed. Contradictory to his words, he had already swooped you up princess-style and set off towards the bedroom.

“Mhm and I am so glad you were generous enough to give me so much of your time. Maybe this,” you put a hand over his heart as he gently lowered you onto the mattress, “is made out of gold after all.”

“Now yer just bein’ cheesy,” Mammon snorted as he crawled under the black sheets with you and pulled you close, the same way a tide would always reach for the shore again and again. “Ya should get some rest before ya say somethin’ even more stupid.”

“But I was just about to confess to the best thing that ever happened to me,” you hummed. When he sceptically raised an eyebrow, you looked him deep in the eyes and smiled. “I love you, Mammon.”

For a fraction of a second his eyes widened in shock before he shut them tightly as he inhaled. When he opened them again, he mirrored your fond smile as a slender finger traced the side of your face.

“I love ya too, treasure.”

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