#breakfast babyyy

[carnivorousyandeere]

I think Brucie would love hot porridge-y stuff for breakfast like grits or oatmeal. It would take a while for him to warm up to cold oats, like the overnight oats with yogurt, but he’d eat if if it would make you happy and it’d grow on him eventually.

[crownedinmarigolds]

Happy September everyone - fall approaches! 🥰

[jji-lee]

blurb req! talking ab domestic dreamies?!? taking care of a sick dreamie makes my damn heart race 🫠 from the most independent to clingy, just being taken care of with utmost care 💔💔

i love thisss!!!! taking care of a grown ass man really does things to me 😔 thank you for the request! hope you enjoy!

❀༉‧₊˚. mark likes to laugh off his sickness, make it seem like it’s not a big deal.

but once he snuggles into bed next to you, you can feel him shiver as his body temperature rises, “you okay baby?” he’d just slowly nod as he pushes his head deeper into your neck, “i’m okay, just cold, warm me up.” you’d immediately know he’s sick and rush to get him some medicine, he’d whine once you leave but he’ll whisper out a small “thank you” as he takes his medicine. sick mark means a lot of soups and cuddles, he’s the type to stay in bed all day and force you to stay with him.

❀༉‧₊˚. renjun acts as if nothings wrong.

he’d get up to work like normal and even go out of his way to make you breakfast. but once you hear him let out a little cough you’d drag him to bed and force him to stay there. once you know renjun’s sick he’ll savor this time to make you baby him. he’d ask you to give him water and wrap him in blankets. he thinks he’s being discreet but you know his little trick. so you’d jump into bed and hold him in your arms kissing his cheeks and rubbing his back. he’d smile to himself as he falls asleep in your arms.

❀༉‧₊˚. jeno turns into a man baby when he’s sick nobody can convince me otherwise.

he’d act like he can’t get out of bed and have you do everything for him. soup? you’ve made him some, blankets? already have him wrapped up, medicine? on the bedside table ready to be taken. but he takes it one step farther. he’d ask you to spoon feed him and snuggle him up in blankets, he’ll even ask you to bring the water up to his mouth when he’s taking his medicine. he wants your full love and attention when he’s sick, he just considers it payback for all the times he’s babied you while you’re sick

❀༉‧₊˚. haechan is an absolute menace when he’s sick.

all you’d hear is him whining all day. “y/n, babyyy pleaseeee don’t go i want you to stay here and sleep with me, i can’t sleep without you” pouty lips and tears in his eyes, “hyuck baby im just getting you some water to take your medicine i’ll be back okay?” as you walk away you’d here him moan and groan, “babyyyy come back i’m dyingggg pleaseeeee come backkkk” when you come back he forces you to kiss him as an apology grabbing you tightly so you can’t leave his side, “now you stay with me let’s go to sleep okay?”

❀༉‧₊˚. jaemin keeps to himself when he’s sick.

he’s scared of worrying you too much and doesn’t want to see you panic and run around looking for things to make him feel better. he’d warn you before telling you, “it’s not that bad just a little cold i promise” and you’d try your best not to freak out knowing it’ll just make jaemin feel worse. so you’d open your arms so he could lay down on top of you, his head resting on your chest. you’d kiss his forehead and massage his head softly, “okay jaem i get it, just let me know if you need something, that’s why i’m here you know” he’d let you and little “mhm” before snuggling closer to you and lifting his head to kiss your jaw, “thank you baby right now i just want you here”

❀༉‧₊˚. chenle rarely gets sick, and when he does he usually has already passed the illness onto you.

so you’re both sick in bed taking care of each other. you’d take turns bringing medicine and food, sleeping all day and binge watching shows all night. you’d lay in bed facing each other, covers over your heads, breaths making the tiny space hot. you’d giggle and laugh at the snot running down your noses, and cough when you started to laugh too hard. “ew y/n don’t cough near me your gonna get me sick” as he blows his nose loudly.

❀༉‧₊˚. jisung is embarrassed by the fact that he’s absolutely helpless when he’s sick.

his muscles hurt, his head hurts, his throat hurts, everything is sore and he can barely get out of bed. you’re more than happy to help bringing him whatever he needs, even going as far as bathing him to relieve some of the soreness. he’d spend his whole illness blushing and covering his face, too embarrassed to look at you as you brought the soup filled spoon to his lips or when you rubbed lotion on his freshly washed tummy. “ok that’s enough lotion, please just help me put on my shirt”

[slowd1ving]

INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW

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

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or two. 

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

Of course he does. 

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

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

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

But all is not well. 

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

Moze. 

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

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

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

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

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

Almost. 

. *࿐

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

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

Humans and their machinations. 

This is truly a special version of hell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

You’re a demon. 

You think you can afford to be uncivil. 

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

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

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

What a strange world the human world is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s unnerving. 

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something?” 

Quit staring.

Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet. 

You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all. 

Well, opposite and a seat away. 

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

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

You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has. 

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a pickle.

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

What a pickle indeed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s dark. 

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

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

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

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

. *࿐.

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

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

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

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

It does not work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine. 

Fine.

Fine. 

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

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

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

Oh shit. 

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile. 

Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little. 

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

Really, you should be a gourmet. 

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

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

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

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

You don’t want your time here to end.  

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

There are contingencies for times like these.

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

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

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

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

There. 

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

You think you’re delirious. 

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

Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust. What a strange woman she is.

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s impossible. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

Perfect.

Perfect. 

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles, but there’s something that’s sharper than usual in the cloud of energy surrounding him. Something off in the angel masquerading as human, in the computer designed by the creator. “I’ve already got some ideas on how to portray these ideas in the film.”

There’s a slight sheen on your face—half nerves, half the fever that’s consuming mind and body at a ferocious pace. With glazed eyes, you can only nod. 

“Poor thing,” he hums, sympathetically distant in the way only angels can be. 

Something’s wrong. 

The cold back of a gloved hand touches your forehead tenderly, like if he were cradling the divine metal of his weapon. 

“Didn’t get enough emotions lately?” he asks condescendingly, and you freeze. 

“What?” you squint up at him through the lenses, still trying to play it off—but really, you’re attempting to process what he said. 

“I’m joking,” he smiles once more, but there’s something awfully false in the curl of his lips—something wrong and twisted in how his hand shifts to cradling your face in his palm. Still so gentle, but now with a terrifying sort of control that was not there a mere second ago. 

“Right,” you mumble, peering up at him with wide, hazy eyes. It’s no longer the fluorescent lighting that’s hurting your eyes—but rather the emergence of a halo behind his head that you force yourself not to react to. That would be a dead giveaway. 

You can barely breathe. No longer does oxygen circulate through your vessels—there is only the thick undercurrent of tension you swallow, only the suffocating grasp he has on you, both physically and mentally. 

Too close. He’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong, as though you aren’t a filthy demon and can still be forgiven if you merely clasp your hands like the humans do and confess your sins. 

Hell is filled with humans like these. 

“It must be so hard…” he breathes. A soft, gloved thumb strokes your cheek, feather light, but you barely feel it over the hummingbird thrum of your heart and mind beating in sync. Like trapped prey, you’re honed in to each and every move; and like trapped prey, you’re wondering why the executioner chooses to trace the path of the arrow over your body. 

Your tongue is leaden. 

There is nothing you can say to save yourself. 

“It must be so hard being a demon,” he purrs with that quiet, lenient tone of his. 

A feather brushes past your cheek; the angel’s wings have now unfurled.

An Archangel. 

You pray your end is quick. 

His hand moves up, and with demulcent grace, he thumbs the ridged edge of the horns that spiral from your head, ones that you didn’t even notice had appeared. 

Your mouth opens and closes, but embarrassingly the honeyed tongue you so valued has failed you with your neck on the line. 

“Now, now, you didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you?” he soothes, and you feel each and every ministration the Archangel delivers to the manifestations of your otherness on your head. 

This only feels more cruel—a disturbing mercy to grant a prisoner about to be executed. 

“I…” the sinner closes his mouth, already knowing it’s futile. 

“You,” Sunday repeats, tilting his head. The halo tilts with him—large, unblinking eyes interspersed with smaller ones, all honed in on you. They’ve all got the same psychedelic quality, and in any other life you may have been fascinated with how they gaze so earnestly at somebody’s soul. But not tonight. 

Tonight, they’re the eyes that will see through you and judge the very mettle intertwined with sinew and flesh and blood. 

“Please kill me quickly,” you murmur. Perhaps the Archangel will grant you a final mercy that’s never afforded to even the most pious of humans. The uncertainty of death is infinitely long—grain upon grain upon grain of sand. If your soul burns up in those divine flames angels so like to use on your kind, you’re not sure you’ll even regenerate back in hell. 

His hand pauses—it’s settled on top of your head now, brushing past the hair and merely resting upon it. He’s not looked away from you all this time: watching how your eyes grew wide with denial, with fear, and now how your eyelids lower with the weight of resignation. What a heavy burden, he may be thinking, but you wouldn’t know for it’s impossible to guess what an angel thinks, and an Archangel specifically. 

Your breath catches in your throat.

Slowly, experimentally, his gloved hand bows your head far enough that you’re forced off the chair and onto the ground with your knees scraping the frigid linoleum. Like this, you’re a sculpture of repentance: hands desperately clutching each other, lips open in what appears to be grief, and perhaps the anguish of the unknown that resides deeply in each pupil. Of course, if you were human that would be one thing, but on your head lie two jagged horns, sweeping the ground is a long tail, and inked across your arms and lower back are constant reminders of your sin.

You are an abomination masquerading as human, gazing up at the being who holds your lengthy life in his hands. 

There’s a painful sort of irony in this situation. 

You can’t even beg for your life. 

“Poor little lamb,” he repeats, with an empty sort of pity in his eyes. Empty, for what you’re finally feeling rolling off him in waves isn’t pity, nor sympathy, but something that makes you believe you’re truly hallucinating. Maybe the shock made you go mad. 

He leans down to examine you, and the wings that flutter—nestled in dove-grey hair—brush carefully over your face, with softness you still remain puzzled by, 

Bitterly, you smile at him—a wretched thing, tasting acerbic and of your birth on caustic brimstone. 

“There’s no point in dragging this out,” you mutter, too tired from the pain of your growth and the exhaustion of fear to prolong this any longer. 

There’s a sudden jolt of irritation in the tranquil waves emanating from the angel, and you’re starting to think that maybe that first emotion you felt from him wasn’t a hallucination. 

You glance up finally, and the expression on Sunday’s face is mired by shadow with a faint flush beneath it: like he’s the one besieged by a fever and not you. 

“I could help you, you know,” he breathes, and it’s then you’re able to finally put a name to the feeling clouding whatever the hell was going on with his energy waves. 

Lust. 

There’s also something so painfully ironic about this—the emotions you’re absorbing from an Archangel are enough to snap you out of your trance. In fact, their purity and abundance are hastening your transformation—he’s aiding you, and the very fact makes you quiet. 

“You won’t survive even if I don’t kill you, demon.” His gaze is cold, but he’s entrancing.

You focus your attention on his legs spread in the chair—the pressed and meticulously ironed grey slacks he wears in particular. They’re soft, wool-blend, worth several thousand easily. Imbued within each strand is the intrinsic scent of him: the bergamot, the vanilla, the faint vestiges of cake. But beneath that is a clean scent—not quite the fragrance of fresh laundry, but one that seems to perfume the air with sunlight. 

He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.

“Go on,” he goads, voice all breathy. An Archangel far too used to authority, who’s currently cradling your life in glove-covered hands. 

“Sunday,” you murmur, trailing a finger along the neat crease in his slacks. While he stares down at you stonily, there are monumental cracks in his composure that you detect—the tensing of his thighs, and the sudden spike in vitality from your readings. “You really wanna make a mess of these?”

His face flushes a more delicate pink, yet to his credit the angel doesn’t waver at the implication.

“They can be cleaned, can they not?” He’s pristine. Without a doubt, you ruining the almost sacrosanct cleanliness of Archangel Sunday signals a shift far too corrupted. 

You swallow, resting your hands right where each thigh is plush with muscle. He’s watching: every move carefully documented, every sin filed away, every blasphemy to be recited at the confessional. The first wrinkle in his clothes by your fingers marks the irreversible transgression you’re about to commit. The camera, too, silently records this clandestine affair.

(“Will your creator see this?” you want to ask.)

(More importantly: will he forgive you, Archangel Sunday?) 

You wet your lips, tasting the residual cherry gloss that lingers on the flesh. He keeps vigil: taking in how your tongue darts out, how you lower your head until your cheek is a mere breath away from his thigh.

He feels it, the hot air slowly being blown onto the muscle—as evidenced by the further hues decorating his energy. A twinge of impatience now taints the otherwise unsoiled intensity; it causes far more marvel in you than you would’ve thought. 

Every minute shift of hands against fabric is distinctly felt. You know this—you see it in his slacks growing a little tighter, in how his chest briefly stops its rise and fall. 

Sunday is no better at playing an angel than he is at playing man. 

Pointedly, you peer upwards as you let your mouth finally osculate the fabric. Once soft, grey and perfect, they are now stained and mired—an ever-tangible reminder of the decision of two non-humans in this lecture theatre. You hope the camera captures the small, strangled noise Sunday lets out—something halfway betwixt cough and splutter, approximating to a gasp. 

Kiss after kiss you press to his thighs, inching closer and closer to his half-hard dick: so agonisingly slowly you can hear his teeth grind in frustration. 

“Incubus,” he breathes in a horrified sort of fascination. “You’re doing this on purpose—ah—”

You easily cut him off, letting the heat from your mouth linger on his hardon as you gradually unzip his slacks: tooth by tooth, until the poor man practically shivers in his seat. No, you forget. Archangel. There’s an Archangel whom you’re scraping your knees for—whose undiluted energy is allowing for you to safely undergo your maturation. This situation is ludicrous—only spotted in the most sordid of underworld printings, and even then you’d be hard-pressed to find something as blasphemous as this. 

His fingers wrap tightly around your horn, and you suppress a groan at the frigid sensation. Maybe if you were a better man, you’d keep your composure and remain sluggish for him to get used to every new sensation. 

But you are neither better nor man, so you ignore the thought. Instead, you increase your pace, just as he so desperately wanted. Hooking his briefs down, you take a moment to appreciate his hiss as the cold air hits him, followed only by how pretty his dick looks in the fluorescent light: flushed the same delicate pink cast across his features, trimmed neatly and already a drop of pre is pressed against the very tip like pearls. 

“You’re evil,” he gasps as you experimentally twist your hand, and the length of flesh twitches. You smile. 

“You think?” You finally speak, gently circling the flushed head with your thumb. 

His amber eyes glare down at you like two suns, and that is perhaps the warmest you’ve ever seen him. Those boreal fingers practically fracture your horn as he squeezes, and you glare back. 

“Taking advantage of a defenceless demon,” you chide; every syllable is accompanied by the motion of your hand as it begins moving up, then back down again. Sunday bites down on his lip, clearly attempting to stifle the sounds that would no doubt emerge when you speed up. “How shameful, Archangel.”

“Mmh–” Sunday shuts his mouth, and the camera takes it all in: how you lower your mouth to the head, licking the salt from his skin and the pre, and how he squeezes those slacks around your shoulders—fuck. There’s heat crawling all under your skin like millions of fire ants. 

You move deeper, rocking yourself against the floor to quell the ache in your lower stomach: sucking and using your hands at the base to elicit more of those sounds from him. He tastes like rays of light on a cold winter morning: a clean energy you can’t help but swallow eagerly, ravenous for this stupid, misguided angel. Your hands roam his thighs, the smooth curve of his waist, and finally settle right where it begins curving into his plush ass: gripping the fat tightly as you continue taking him down your throat. 

“You were born for this, weren’t you,” he mutters, and you can hear his wings flutter and rustle at your ministrations. His low voice forces your eyes shut, but it’s not just that. Gazing at the long strings of precum that are leaking down is beginning to stir unbearable warmth in your chest, while your breathing is slowly becoming more laboured as you choke on his girth. If anything, you’re the one getting off on this: tightening the muscles in your thighs to keep feeling that dull ache in your gut. 

He notices. 

Of course he does; those hawkish eyes that shine from his face and from his halo are attuned to every little move you make, every little sigh that leaves your nose. 

“How shameful,” he mocks, echoing your previous words. Adjusting his leg, he presses a polished shoe against your bulge, and you moan around his dick. 

Fuck. 

He rocks the sole onto you, hard; you can’t help but grind up into the impeccable leather, already feeling a damp patch growing on the front of your pants. Each sensation is only exacerbated by the lack of airflow caused by his fat cock in your mouth—amplifying your senses to a dizzying, heady state. 

You’re gazing with teary eyes right up at him, and you swear he throbs in your mouth; but the thought leaves just as quickly when his hand comes to cradle the side of your face, wiping the salty liquid away with a gentle thumb and bringing it to his own lips to taste. 

“You want to get off too, huh?” he coos sympathetically: a pink tongue darting out to lick his thumb clean. In tandem, his foot presses even further down, and you can feel the frigid linoleum press up against you. 

“Ah,” you choke around his dick. No words dribble from your lips, but Sunday feels the plea regardless. Those gloved hands of his pull you off his length with a pop and retract just as quickly. He grabs your arms as if he were handling a ragdoll—sitting you up on the desk in front of him as though you only weighed that much—and you need to remind yourself that he is not human, he is something far superior in strength and agility. 

It’s also aptly demonstrated in how he handles the buckles of your pants: deftly and expertly opening each clasp with monstrous speed, before tugging on them until they pool on the auditorium floor. 

You shiver. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “Since you so clearly can’t focus, why not entertain me?”

Why not entertain me?

“What?” you mumble, but he levels you with a stare that feels far more sadistic than anything you’ve faced before. You’re not faced with a human, nor the warmth of your fellow demons—but rather a damn Archangel that’s making you feel more exposed than ever. 

“What?” He’s the picture of innocence, though he’s got his dick in his own hand now—keeping his hand slowly moving as he speaks, and your eyes hone in on the motion. You can’t help but focus on it, how it looks against the pearl-white glove, how it tasted in your mouth. “You’re desperate, aren’t you?”

His words and the crude tone behind them stir a coiling tension in your stomach; you can only stare at the sudden change. 

Angels, too, can be deceptive. 

“Go on,” he repeats, tilting his head. “Here’s your opportunity.”

Damn it.

Hesitantly, you pull down your boxers: exposing your cock that’s slowly been dribbling precum in your pants, exposing everything to the angel. Heat rises to your face, but his eyes on you also make the heat pool at your gut; you can’t help but slip a hand down your body to wrap around your dick, so desperate to be attended to. 

The effect is immediate. With a hand already slicked wet, the tight grip you have on yourself, and the voyeur who’s watching each and every one of your moves with his pairs of eyes, it’s apparent you won’t last long. You gaze at him, embarrassed, with a face sheened with sweat and eyes clouded with lust on your own.

“Sunday,” you bite out—the fist he’s making clenches ever so slightly, and you think his breath hitches. 

He reaches over for the camera, tilting it towards you and capturing each and every expression, every single moan you let out as you succumb to the soothing rhythm of getting yourself off. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and you feel your abdomen tighten. “But you can hold on a little longer, right?”

Your eyes snap wide open as a slick, gloved finger trails the curve of your ass and around your hole; Sunday’s expression is of utmost concentration as he records each minute detail. 

“What—ngh,” you whine as he probes just the fingertip in; the glove has been dampened by his precum already, but still feels so powdery and dry as it slowly enters deeper. He’s cold, and his fingers are downright glacial; the sudden change in temperature has you tightening around the digit as your hand flies to steady yourself on his shirt. 

So close. 

You can feel his breathing fan across your face; it’s shallow and reeks of lust, the kind that’s always the most dangerous. 

“Keep going,” he hums, gradually pumping the finger in and out until it’s almost completely covered with the wet precum leaking from your tip and down your cock. The burn in your abdomen is indescribable—you can barely focus on the simple, mindless motion of up and down, when he’s so close like this, when he’s pressing another finger right in and stretching you out with ease that belies his inexperience. 

In. Out. In. Out. You can barely breathe with the pace that he’s setting, seeming to deliberately miss that particular spot inside you that would end this oh-so-quickly. 

The camera captures it all: the oozing, non-human precum that trails and coats his gloves, the careful scissoring motions he’s doing to ease you open, and the desperate heaves of your stomach as you fight off the tightening of your abdomen.

 “Sunday, please,” you moan, and you jolt as his fingers pull out and the same damp hand wraps around your tail to bring it to where he was just mere moments ago. Sluggishly, you barely register what’s going on until he opens his mouth—and his proximity makes his words reverberate and coalesce in your sternum, tightening your very chest. 

“I won’t do it all for you,” he croons, but he’s setting the camera on the desk next to you and adjusting his gloves once more. Your scaly tail is further pushed in, and the strange sensation forces your eyes back into your skull. What the fuck? The Archangel uses your own tail to get you off, and the conflicting sensation between your legs and inside you is hurtling you towards an orgasm you don’t think you’ll ever forget. 

But he’s not done.

His wet hands trace up your sides, bundling the shirt you’re wearing until it’s at your neck. “Open wide.”

Blearily, you do as you’re told; fabric is shoved into your mouth as he uses you to hold your own shirt up, while he appreciatively hums at the metal pierced through your nipples. Cold, slick hands massage your tits, and even with the thick wad of material in your mouth you can’t help but moan loudly. 

“So sensitive,” he mutters condescendingly. His thumbs brush rough circles against the pierced nipples, and involuntarily you feel your legs tighten around his waist. He’s callous with his motions; it’s slowly growing overwhelming for you, what with the tail stuck inside you, your hand still moving, and now his hands stimulating the tender skin around your chest. 

It’s not until you look down that you see his dick rubbing up against your own, and the sight almost makes you let go right there and then. 

“Mmph–” you groan as he lowers his head to your chest, rubbing one areola affectionately while his tongue swirls around the other. 

With the hand now freed up in place of his mouth, he presses both your dicks together tightly, just barely moving his hand for the minimal amount of friction.

You think that makes it worse. 

Tears leak from your eyes uncontrollably, and the tautness in your stomach feels as though it’ll claw out by itself if you don’t let go.

You move your tail just a whisper—it’s growing unbearable, just how overwhelming the rush of stimuli is. Sunday’s teeth graze your tit in such a way you desperately grit down on your shirt to not cum right there and then, but it’s growing impossibly hard when the motions of both his hands speed up: stroking you both in such a way that rubs precum everywhere and feels like fucking heaven.

You mewl as he bites down on the flesh, hard, leaving a throbbing mark as he laves his tongue right over it.  

“Please,” you babble incomprehensibly through the fabric. “Sunday.”

His gaze meets your despairing one. 

“Poor little thing,” he whispers, which only blows air over the saliva-slicked area and forces even more tears from your eyes. “Go on.”

He wrenches his hand particularly tightly, and you wail—a choked, garbled thing that comes right from the chest. Your back arches as your orgasm washes over you and blinds you for a brief moment: mind completely blank with only the purest form of pleasure hazing it, scalding robes of white staining your shirt, his shirt, and ending up on your face. 

“What a mess,” he murmurs, rocking his hand as the waves hit you with full force. 

“Ah—” you sob out as he continues through the waning ebb and flow: your legs twitch around him, and you’re sure he can feel the shallow, heaving breaths you’re taking to desperately cope with his continued movements. Your tail slips out from between your legs, and the sudden exit is followed by even more white dripping down your legs and onto the desk. 

“There, there,” he coos. “That wasn’t so hard, was it now?”

He peels off the ruined gloves and tosses them to the side, tenderly wiping away the tears that streak your face—you’re still reeling, still feeling the aftershocks of intense, mind-ruining pleasure. 

What the fuck?

He handles you like a proper lover—an absurd scene between lowly incubus and overmighty Archangel—settling his hands on your waist in something that could almost resemble an embrace. Some bastardised, corrupted version of one, anyway. 

He’s not your lover. 

He’s not even his own person.

You meet those deceptive eyes: as old as you, yet far more lonely. 

“Is it my turn now?” he asks, a smile curving on his face like it truly was nothing that you witnessed in his amber gaze. 

The Archangel, true to his inquiry, lulls in his movements: body freezing in both motion and temperature, while he tilts his head in a silent question. Do you want to continue?

The nature of an incubus is simple. Every act of consuming energy inevitably makes the incubus far more alluring, while it naturally replenishes whatever fatigue the demon has. 

In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…

Well. 

Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido. 

In response to his question, you wrap a scorching hand around his dick; now a furiously flushed red, with a desperately leaking tip that’s practically begging for attention.

“Not like that,” he says lowly, and it’s not until he’s lifting you with strong arms and sitting you on his spread thighs that you vaguely realise what he’s doing. “You’re nice and stretched out now, right?”

Those long fingers of his trace the slope and dip of your waist, rubbing small circles in wait of your response. 

This can’t be Sunday’s first time, you instead wonder; those piercing amber eyes of his make you feel the blushing violet instead. His heavy gaze burns where it lands: taunting and prickling your skin with a nervous fire that further kindles the one that revived in your stomach mere moments ago. 

“Need something?” He tilts his head, and the taunting smile stretching on his face brings up the words you spoke all those days ago. 

You scowl. “Shut up.”

“I think—” he trails off, lifting you partially out of your straddle with ease. Even as your mind goes blank, you feel each and every sensation that fires within your neurons. “—you have a problem with being honest with yourself.”

“Stick to your theology degree, angel,” you bite out, looping your arms around his neck to stabilise yourself and your racing heart. You quit breathing, momentarily. There’s something hard pressed onto the bottom of your thigh, imprinting stiffly and hotly into the flesh like some brand; naturally, you squeeze your eyes shut. Waiting. Anticipating Sunday’s movements, just as he anticipates yours.

“Which psychology is studied in,” he returns, goading you. He’s got his hand underneath you now, adjusting himself but still not pushing the engorged head in. Your frown deepens. “What, no please?”

“You can’t seriously be lecturing me about manners right—ah—”

Your sharp nails dig into the muscle of his trapezius as he cuts you off by stuffing the tip right in; he groans low in his throat at how damn tight you are, but also the feeling of poignant pain that’s beginning to sting across his shoulders. 

You think you can smell the faint coppery scent of blood, but you only half-feel bad. 

“You have a damn problem in not listening—hng–to others,” you pant. He’s tightened his grip on your ass, kneading and squeezing so tightly as he struggles to control his own breathing. The two of you linger in the lull for precious few moments; it seems time has capriciously stopped for the pair washed in fluorescent light, so desperately entwined yet ever at odds with each other. 

“And you think you’re any better?” he counters. If you were more lucid, you’d be able to properly understand the tension in his arms and how he leans fully back on the chair, letting those wings brush past your body and practically engulf the two of you. 

You shiver. 

“Yes,” you hiss indignantly. “I actually—fuck—

You paw uselessly at his chest as he slams you down, and your sore throat lets out a choked out wail at the sudden sensation of being filled to the hilt—stuffed so full you almost feel him in your throat. 

Each vein, each stupid ridge is vividly felt with every motion—his chest urgently rising and falling, your own spiralling into a sweat-slicked display of ecstasy, and his face. It contorts into the basest expression you’ve seen yet: flushed, mouth half-open, with a burning gaze honed right onto your own. 

He looks like sin itself.

Sunday’s losing his composure, fast (you are too).  

“Fuck—oh, shit, Sunday.” Imprecations cascade from your lips like waterfalls as the angel begins his movements, building up from a slow roll of his hips to accustom both of you to the sensation.

Like this, with his face mere inches away, you can’t help but stare a little at his face—honed in on his soft lips that wobble despite his struggle to keep his composure. 

You wonder what they taste like. 

Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?

His lust-stricken gaze darkens somewhat as he appears to look over your shoulder briefly, but you’re too lost in the way he’s rocking himself into you to notice. But you do notice when his soft hand slides up your spine and cradles your nape. You do notice when he pulls you down so his breath mingles with yours–as he searches your eyes for any signs of discomfort and finds none. 

“The fuck are you planning?” you murmur, and this time he actually lets you finish speaking before he cuts you off. Except, this time, it differs from his usual modus operandi. One moment, you’re staring intently at the angel beneath you; the next, he’s capturing your open mouth with his, and the effect is instantaneous. You moan into his mouth upon tasting him: not quite placing the saccharic flavour, but he’s fucking divine.

He’s languorous with his motions—to any outsider, it would look like he’s done this a thousand times and still wishes to savour the rest, pulling you so you’re finally flush with his chest. 

You’ve never kissed an angel before. 

You may not even be alive right now. 

It’s only natural, then, that your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts to kiss him more deeply to relish in this final mercy. He’s biting at your lips, and the iron tang of blood combined with your dick rubbing against the soft material of his shirt begins the slow spiral into maddening pleasure. 

You cannot see. Your eyes are shut, thus the only semblance you have of the visual situation is the light shining through the blood vessels in your lids; not the way Sunday isn’t looking at you, but glaring at the door far behind you. 

Practically on cue, it opens, and you hear the clatter of wood against wood—someone stumbles in, then abruptly freezes in place. 

Eyes blown wide open, you attempt to pull away from Sunday, only to have his hand keep pressing firmly against your neck to keep you in place while his mouth begins exploring lower down your neck. 

The person behind you doesn’t leave like you expected. 

“Ignore him,” Sunday breathes against your neck, and it’s then you look to your left and see your roommate shrouded in the shadow not reached by the clinical lighting. He’s holding a camera and film, and clearly fell into the room—judging by his hand steadying himself on the desk, and from what you can see, the dishevelled look on his face. 

What you miss, concealed by the darkness, is the deep red flush that mires his face, and the straining hard-on against his pants. 

“What the fuck?” you attempt to sit up, but Sunday’s next words make you freeze in place just like Moze. “Moze?”

“Did you enjoy the show?”

The question is quiet, but Sunday’s soft voice makes it carry across the auditorium regardless—and despite its polite form, the cadence beneath it hides a frightening sort of irritation. No surprise like you might’ve thought, but exasperation. 

“What are you talking about?” you mutter, but it’s hard to concentrate on your roommate when Sunday’s busy thumbing your slit. 

“He’s been watching for the past few minutes. I was wondering when he’d reveal himself,” he sighs, less bothered than you would’ve thought—what with the horns coming from your head, and the wings and halo sprouting from his own body. 

Moze is human. 

He’s human, so you finally turn your eye to him and watch him make his way closer, until you can easily identify the most prominent emotion that radiates from his body. 

Lust. 

You swallow. Despite the new information, you’re not a mind reader. You can’t tell exactly what Moze is thinking as he sits just a few seats away, irritably tapping a finger against the camera he’s holding. 

“You’re early,” Sunday comments, making sure to sit up so Moze has a full view of how well you’re taking him—and the angel doesn’t miss how you tighten around him. 

“Did you plan this?” Moze’s voice enters the hall for the first time this evening, and Sunday definitely doesn’t miss how the low reverberations make you practically flutter against him. 

“So what if I did?” the angel replies boredly. “It’s not like you haven’t figured out who I am. And it’s not like you weren’t eagerly lapping up what was going here when you were watching us through the door.”

Moze stays silent, but you swear you can hear your roommate’s teeth grind as he shifts in place—and this time, his bulge is prominent in the blinding lights. The sight, though Moze doesn’t hear, makes you whimper quietly in Sunday’s ear; the angel’s eyes turn to you, each and every pair. 

“What a slut,” he murmurs, and you shiver at his tone: so crude, so mocking. “You just can’t stop, can you?”

You moan as he tightens his grip around your weeping cock and slowly begins circling a stiff nipple with his other hand. On your back, you can feel a burning stare, and the knowledge that Moze is getting off on this only makes you feel it deeper in your gut. 

“You’re lucky he’s all hard at the thought of someone watching,” Sunday coos, and through your hazy thoughts you barely work out if he’s talking to you or Moze. His thumbnail presses right onto the side of the head—which makes you almost fucking writhe—before you flop onto his shoulder in a daze. 

Sunday goes quiet as he focuses on moving; it seems he’s said all he’s needed to say to the man, and you really don’t mind having an extra energy source to draw such salient waves of lust from. With that being said, you take the opportunity to sit back up and gaze at Moze while Sunday’s moving his pelvis beneath you—only to find that he’s already staring at you.

He’s pretty like this, you realise, dazed. His pupils are almost completely blown out as he takes in every inch of you; there’s hardly any hints of opalescence left in those eyes. Deep cerise coats his cheeks, and he’s almost trembling as he keeps vigil of the scene afore him—with hands that desperately crack the arm rests, intensely avoiding his lower body. 

His breathing is in tandem with your own. Shallow. Fucked-out. 

Those pretty eyes of his flick up to meet your stare directly, and you tighten around Sunday; he’s hissing and digging his nails into your waist once more as he manoeuvres you. As if to distract you, he slams himself deeply in—and you fucking buckle as you sob out a moan, blearily watching while the man at your side picks up the camera he came late because of and looks through the viewfinder. 

“Perfect,” he breathes. 

The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.

“Fuck,” you sob; the harsh tug of Sunday is gradually overwhelming you, and the quiet snap of each photo numbs your mind. You know Moze’s getting each shot in detail; his meticulous nature comes through in the way he murmurs ‘just like that’ and ‘beautiful’—syllables that only contribute to the heat you feel in your body, spreading effortlessly throughout your face. 

Any train of thought is cut off when the angel’s lips brush against the junction of your shoulder, and he bites. Sharp pain will undoubtedly be followed by a deeper bruise, but in that moment the ache makes the wave of pleasure increase twofold. 

“Sunday—ah,” you groan, knotting your hands in his grey locks. “Please.”

You don’t quite know, in the end, why you’re begging. 

You don’t, but when Sunday pulls back with his soft mouth stained red and a hazed look in his eyes, you think you’ve got it figured out.

Snap.

Blinding white goes off behind your eyelids as you slam your lips desperately into the Archangel’s. He tastes of iron, of an intrinsic saccharine flavour that nobody else could possibly replicate. 

Snap.

With each roll of his hips against yours, you feel him lazily pressing up against that spot inside you—inch by inch, building up on slow pleasure that trickles viscously through you like honey. 

Snap. 

You lock eyes with Moze, and the intense look he wears while he gazes at you feels like he’s parsing through the layers of dermis, sifting through the nerves and sinew, and finally exhuming your bones and tendons. It’s quickly driving you past the brink, everything about him is. His laboured breathing, the way his eyes remain honed on you despite the faint agony tainting his deep lust. 

Snap. 

“Right— there,” you choke out. Moze’s still staring, absorbing each minute detail: the sheen of sweat on your body, the way your torso and legs tremble as you attempt to keep it together, and perhaps most poignantly the expression on your face as you stare at him. 

Snap. 

“Perfect,” he repeats, and it’s this particular version that finally pushes you over that precipice. 

You sob out as your vision blurs, pawing uselessly at Sunday’s chest. His hands are firmly back on your hips, letting you rock the waves out—uncaring of the white ropes that ruin his shirt, or perhaps savouring them instead. Or perhaps he’s not paying attention. After all, you hear him swear for the first time since meeting him, and a mere moment later you feel spurts of heat leaking into you. 

He shudders. By the god you don’t pray to, this angel groans so sweetly as he comes—that fact alone has you twitching around him. 

More. 

He still hasn’t softened, but that isn’t enough. 

By chance, or maybe the best timing of your life, your eyes land on your roommate again—his eyes, too, meet yours through the screen on the camera. 

Snap. 

“Moze,” you whine, and the camera ceases in its photo-taking and filming. Well, except for an image of you looking so sweetly at him as you call his name out. 

“What?” your laconic roommate murmurs, standing and casting his shadow over the two of you. 

What a joke this is: a human watching an entangled demon and angel, and being completely captivated by it. There’s a buzz in his veins tonight—some from an awe-ful sort of fear at having his conjectures confirmed—but most of it is from the object of his desire finally within his grasp. An insufferable idiot, he may add, but one he cannot help but be captivated by. 

Maybe he’s the fool, reaching for the moon, but tonight he no longer feels so foolish. 

Your clawed hand fists his shirt, and he swallows: stone-still, watching with bated breath for your next move. 

What will you do?

He gets his answer when you drag him down: tasting of blood and that inexplicable caramel sensation you always seem to carry. Your tongue is hot against his—impatient enough to keep your mouth open, but he is too. His hands, cold from the biting wind and the frigid irritation he’s been building within, fly to cradle your face. 

Moze has enough sense to memorise this feeling of your lips on his, moaning and twining a lazy hand around his neck.

He thinks he feels a particular angel glaring at him, but it's none of his business, really. 

“He’s not enough?” he mocks when you pull back, poignantly aware of the front of his pants ever-so-slightly brushing against you—how he fucking bites down on any sound attempting to escape his mouth. 

“Don’t you want me to help you out?” you slur your words, clearly dazed from getting fucked by his stupid classmate. Yes, he wants to say, but he feels like some damned second place prize. Your hand brushes his crotch, and he bites his lip—hard—until the skin breaks and warm blood runs down his lips. 

“Shit,” he hisses. Moze’s self-control is normally iron-hard, but it’s been so incessantly worn down today by two certain idiots that he can’t help but let the damned thing snap. Within moments, his hand is deep in your hair, tugging as he nips at the flush of your lips—letting copper entangle you two together in something he hopes can twist your fates together forever, even if he ends up in hell for it. 

“Ah—Moze,” you groan, and it really doesn’t help his situation: dick pressed against your side, painfully hard due to a combination of factors that all have you (in bold, capital letters) written all over them.

He can’t help it. He really can’t. 

He can’t help it when you pump him from base to shaft with hands far warmer than his—he can’t help stealing your lips away from the angel you’re still fucking riding. He can’t help it, either, when you gaze at him like that—he just has to press his tip against your ass. You’ve been complaining about it not being enough, haven’t you? What’s the problem?

There’s a mutual agreement between human and heavens for just this night. That being, to make you spiral into a mess.

Thus, Moze doesn’t baulk at the thought of sharing this night—not when you’re sinking down on both of them, not when the added tightness makes his head black out for a moment. Fuck. 

That’s all his brain is clinging to. 

How fucking good you feel—how warm your back feels pressed to his chest. He’s desperately trying not to bust, doing so by biting over the mark in the juncture that damned angel left. If you ever think of the man in front of you, you need to think of him too. 

This is far better than any stupid porno—astronomically so than fisting his cock and imagining you in his hand’s place.

Moze buries his face in your shoulder, letting his hands roam around your body—supple skin that yields beneath his greedy fingers. His hands find your nipples, rolling and twisting the peaks to hear you let out sounds far louder than what he’s heard so far. That little fact makes him smile despite himself. 

On the other side, Sunday’s grown accustomed to how your breath hitches when his finger scrapes past a particular vein on your weeping cock, how your pupils dilate just a little more when he squeezes particularly tightly. No, he’s grown accustomed to you—all the small tells of your body. It’s why he endures the arrogant human across from him, for all humans deserve grace. 

They do not know better. 

It’s just for tonight, he rationalises. If he wants to successfully remain undercover to achieve the goal of his operative, he must not do anything to draw attention. That’s why he’s helped you out, nothing else. 

Angels cannot lie to others. 

It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves. 

Despite Sunday’s heart that skips a beat whenever you look his way and all you see is him, he doesn’t acknowledge the racing thrum of the organ. In fact, as he’s sucking and licking marks into your skin as a reminder of this—of your sin—he reminds himself that he’s doing you a favour. 

He’s doing the rest of the pitiful humans a favour as well. The more he takes up your attention, the less time you have to seduce them. 

Actually, this is probably the most rational solution for getting one of the oldest incubi under control. 

Good job, Sunday.

A plethora of broken imprecations are forced out of your mouth as they slam into you—when one slips out half-way, the other nails your prostate, over and over and over. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full—not by any other demon, and certainly not by any human.

This counts for your mind too—stretched tight by what seems to be an eternity of satiation, and perhaps on the verge of breaking. You’ve forgotten the name of your project, the class you’re in, and why you’re here in the first place; and these broken trains of thought are interspersed with the quiet flash of the camera as it captures your fucked-out state. 

“Please.”

It seems to be a permanent fixture on your lips, though you still don’t know what you’re asking for. No, you do know—more.

More, as streaks of white stain your thighs and drip onto the cold linoleum floor. More, as your lips bleed from the number of times you’ve been kissed, and kissed them yourself. More, as you wind up on the outskirts between consciousness and unconsciousness. 

You’re barely lucid—having gone through a metamorphosis safely—but they seem to be more insatiable than you are. The energy store that pulses behind your heart has never experienced such satiation; in your drowsy state all you can focus on is the drunk high you’re getting off this. 

It’s well into the night now, and perhaps the only thing that fully snaps you back into consciousness is the feeling of something wet laving away the mess between your legs—Moze. His tongue is warm as he clears the salt and white globs from your thighs, and when he sees those eyes of yours finally focus on him, he leaves a chaste kiss pressed against the side of your leg: continuing while you drowsily stroke the strands from his sweat-slicked forehead. 

Only then are you aware of the warmth at your back: the angel behind you holds you fast to his chest with wings that envelope the two of you in a damn cocoon. 

And finally, beside you and displayed on the laptop on the desk, is a video file paused with the name across the title bar: 

The Catching of the Incubus. 

*********

There has long existed a pact between a certain human boy and a pink-haired Foxian. Well, it’s not truly a pact, but more like a casual agreement that’s never been broken: the exchange of emergency keys, for the two trust the other will have his back. 

It’s used today, when Jiaoqiu’s looking for the culinary textbook he left the last time he came around, a mere week ago. He may have been frustrated with himself for it, but there’s something about coming to Moze’s dorm that he looks forward to each time—and if he said the incubus that lives in the room opposite the reticent man’s, he wouldn’t be lying. 

In any case, nobody’s home. 

Jiaoqiu quietly slips his shoes off, checking first the living room. Nothing. Your room? Also nothing, though he lingers a little longer and takes in the burnt caramel scent that pervades the space—one that’s only gotten stronger, it seems. 

Moze’s room it is. 

The first thing he sees is the thick book, neatly aligned on Moze’s dresser with a meticulous pile of forensic texts. The next is two cameras, tucked away on the shelf behind it. They’re just sitting there innocuously, but Jiaoqiu’s curiosity is piqued. The man seemingly never takes interest in things other than crime scenes and keeping everything tidy, so the Foxian carefully picks up one and turns it on. 

These Succubi Suck, the file reads, and he’s immediately hit in the face with unedited footage of what appears to be the most slapdash mockumentary he’s ever seen—clips and retakes and bloopers in a long reel that he skips through amusedly, gazing at your face a little too long when you’re speaking. 

This is their film submission? He whistles lowly, impressed by the quality despite only having three people in your class. 

He’s about to turn it off, when he spots the only other file that remains in the camera, something something incubus. 

Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—

The Foxian’s face suddenly heats up, and he presses a hand to the lower half of his face. 

Oh.

Oh.

*࿐.

[theodorenmyth]

Reader doing a small prank where they don’t say their usual “good morning/evening/night” for a week towards Enzo and mattheo

Tiny Prank

Pairings ; Lorenzo Berkshire x GN!Reader x Mattheo Riddle

Summary ; You prank Lorenzo and Mattheo by stopping your usual morning and night greetings for a week. As they grow suspicious, they cling to you constantly, holding your hand and sticking close during cuddles. Frustrated, they demand an explanation, but when you refuse, they start smothering you with kisses. Eventually, overwhelmed by their affection, you give in, saying your usual greetings and promising not to prank them again. Even after you surrender, they continue pampering you, enjoying their victory.

A/N ; enjoy babyyy ❤️❤️

warnings ; None

word count ; 1.2k

It started innocently enough — just a small prank to see how Lorenzo Berkshire and Mattheo Riddle would react. For weeks now, you’d made a habit of greeting them at every turn with your usual warmth: a soft “good morning” over breakfast, a casual “good evening” when you crossed paths in the corridors after classes, and a quiet “good night” before bed when the three of you ended up cuddling in the common room or sneaking off to the Room of Requirement.

But one day, you decided to stop. No morning greetings. No “good night” kisses. No acknowledgment of their presence when it came to those endearing moments that usually made your bond so close-knit. You wanted to see if they would notice… and oh, they definitely noticed.

By day three, it was clear they were growing restless.

"Are you mad at us?" Lorenzo asked as he slid into the seat beside you in the Great Hall for breakfast, his eyes squinting in mild confusion.

You didn’t even glance up from your plate, merely taking a sip of pumpkin juice as if he hadn’t spoken at all. He stared at you, visibly unsettled by your indifference.

"Baby, what's going on?" Mattheo’s voice came from across the table. His dark curls were messy from sleep, his sharp eyes fixed on you, clearly waiting for an explanation.

You looked at him briefly, offering a slight shrug, then resumed eating without so much as a word.

Mattheo groaned audibly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "What’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting weird."

"I’m not acting weird," you responded simply, the first words you’d spoken directly to them in a while, but still lacking the usual affectionate tone they were used to.

Lorenzo leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "You’re definitely acting weird. You haven’t said ‘good morning’ in days, and I swear if you don’t tell me why, I’ll hex you right here."

Your lips twitched upward into a sly smile, but you quickly covered it with your hand, pretending to yawn. "Maybe I’m just tired."

That, of course, was not the reason, but you enjoyed watching them squirm. You got up from your seat after finishing your meal, leaving both of them to stare after you, clearly more confused than ever.

⋆.˚꩜ — ⋆.˚꩜ — ⋆.˚꩜ — ⋆.˚꩜ — ⋆.˚꩜ —

By the end of the week, things had escalated.

Mattheo and Lorenzo had taken to clinging to you at every possible moment. At first, it was subtle — Lorenzo holding your hand more often, Mattheo sitting a little too close during meals, their touches lingering longer than usual. But now? They were practically glued to you.

"Are you really going to ignore us all day?" Mattheo asked one afternoon, his voice carrying a hint of frustration. He was lounging beside you on the couch in the Slytherin common room, his arm firmly wrapped around your waist.

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing.

Lorenzo, who was on your other side, let out a dramatic sigh. "This is torture, you know that?" His hand slipped down to your thigh, fingers drumming impatiently. "You haven’t said ‘good morning,’ ‘good night,’ or anything. We know something’s wrong."

"Yeah," Mattheo agreed, pulling you closer until you were practically sitting in his lap. "You’re not yourself, and we don’t like it."

You rolled your eyes, trying to stifle a grin. "I’m fine."

"Clearly, you’re not," Lorenzo countered, pressing his forehead against yours. "You’re holding out on us, and we’re not letting you get away with it."

Before you could respond, Mattheo's hand slid up your back, his lips pressing against your temple. “You’re really going to make us work for it, huh?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, and you could feel his breath warm against your skin.

You shivered slightly, but you kept up the act, determined to see this prank through. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Lorenzo scoffed, shifting so he could better face you. "You’re such a liar," he teased, though his tone was laced with affection. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft and deliberate.

You flinched, startled by the sudden affection. "What—?"

But you didn’t get to finish your sentence. Mattheo followed suit, pressing his lips against your other cheek, then your jawline. "We’re not letting you get away with this," he murmured between kisses.

Before you knew it, they had you pinned between them, Lorenzo's hands gently cradling your face as he planted kiss after kiss across your forehead and temples, while Mattheo trailed kisses down your neck and shoulders.

"Alright, alright!" you gasped, wriggling in their hold, but neither of them relented.

"Not until you say it," Mattheo demanded, his lips hovering just above yours, a smug grin playing on his face.

"Say what?" you asked, feigning ignorance, even though you knew exactly what he wanted.

Lorenzo smirked, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. "You know what we want, love. You’re not getting out of this that easily."

You tried to suppress a laugh, but it bubbled up anyway. "Okay, okay! You win!"

Mattheo pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Say it."

Rolling your eyes, you let out a long sigh before finally giving in. "Good morning. Good night. Good evening. All of it. Happy now?"

Lorenzo grinned, his thumb brushing your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you properly, slow and sweet. "That’s more like it."

Mattheo, not wanting to be outdone, tilted your chin up and captured your lips in a kiss of his own, his hands slipping down to your waist as he pulled you even closer. "Took you long enough," he murmured against your lips.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, thoroughly trapped between the two of them, both of them showering you with kisses until you were breathless.

"You guys are insufferable," you muttered, though there was no bite to your words.

"You love it," Mattheo shot back, a teasing glint in his eye as he kissed the tip of your nose.

Lorenzo chuckled, resting his head on your shoulder. "Maybe we’re just making up for lost time. After all, you did ignore us for a whole week."

"I didn’t ignore you," you corrected. "I just… withheld some things."

Mattheo snorted. "Same difference. But don’t think we’re done with you yet."

Lorenzo hummed in agreement. "We’ve still got a lot of kisses to make up for."

They were relentless, taking turns pampering you with affection, holding you tightly as if making up for the lost week in one single afternoon. And honestly? You didn’t mind one bit.

"Alright, alright!" you groaned, finally giving in to the onslaught of affection. "I get it. I won’t prank you again."

"Good," Mattheo said, leaning back just enough to look at you, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Because if you do, we’ll just do this all over again."

"And next time," Lorenzo added with a wicked grin, "we won’t let you off so easily."

You couldn’t help but laugh, thoroughly overwhelmed by their affection. "Alright, you win."

They both grinned, satisfied with your surrender, but neither of them moved away, still keeping you firmly tucked between them. You had a feeling they wouldn’t be letting you go any time soon — and honestly, you were perfectly fine with that.

[ssentimentals]

mingyu + first morning together

mingyu wakes up due to prickling sensation and it takes him full ten seconds to place where it's coming from; when he does though, he can't help but smile contentedly. the weight of your warm body half-draped on his chest turned his arm numb and there's also a tad bit of moisture on his shirt, which most definitely is your drool. he looks at your sleeping head and only huffs affectionately. all in all, it should be concerning how he doesn't mind it, not at all.

'babe,' he whispers, testing how deep in sleep you are. when you don't move an inch and continue to sleep peacefully, he tries again: 'baby.'

he gently caresses your face, smiling at the cute way you scrunch up your nose. this action makes him want to plant thousand of kisses all over your face, but he holds back with a great restraint because you were tired and deserved a good sleep. god, he is so done for. understanding that you're not going to wake up, he carefully extracts himself from under you and gingerly moves out of the bed. your lips form into a small pout and inside of him little five years old girl is squealing of your cuteness - yeah, he's got it bad. with his stiff body from sleeping in the same position, he moves to the guest bathroom, not wanting to disrupt your sleep. he tiptoes around the house even though he knows not even the loudest storm will wake you up right now. this thought crosses his mind and then he feels incredibly blessed and lucky to know you that well, to know this kind of information about you that is not in the open, the one you can learn only if you are close. when it comes to you mingyu is so greedy - he wants to know it all, more than anyone else. he wants to be close, so close, the closest to you, wants to embody himself so deep into your heart that it will take a shape of his name. sometimes the intensity of his desire scares him, but he reminds himself that it's okay to be greedy sometimes and he is greedy only when it comes to you.

quickly going through his morning routine, mingyu then moves to the kitchen, humming familiar tune under his breath. it's crazy how different he feels now from how he usually feels when he wakes up alone; usually his mind is filled with thousand and one thoughts and his mood is rather stagnant, while right now he wants to sing and jump and happiness fills his soul to the brim. his chest feels tight just thinking about how this is your first morning together, how there'll be many more mornings like that, when he'll get to wake up by your side, watch you sleep, get to cook a breakfast for you just like he's doing now. mingyu is a grateful guy, he knows a blessing when he sees one, and having you wake up with him is a blessing. he thinks of the way you adorably whined before going to sleep, how you two giggled in front of the mirror in the bathroom while brushing your teeth - his most sacred, intimate fantasies of domestic life came true in just one evening with you. smiling from ear to ear, he doesn't even notice how he goes from cooking one dish to another, head in the cloud with thoughts about you. you, you, you. how you cuddle to him while sleeping even if it's too hot, how you frown when he moves his arm away, how your body molds into his and fits perfectly like you two were made for each other - and you were, mingyu is sure of it. so lost in his head, he doesn't hear approaching footsteps and gets frightened when you clear your throat, calling his name softly.

'god, you scared me babe-' he stops, turning around and seeing you. mingyu blinks, taking your appereance in again and then whines loudly: 'how can you stand there looking like that?'

your adorable confusion at this only makes him whine more. 'babyyy,' he lets out, sounding like he's in physical pain.

the t-shirt in question, that's oversized even on him, swallows you up whole and hangs off your one shoulder; coupled with your sleepy look and pouty lips, it's the image that has his knees growing weak. you blink at him, smiling lightly as you approach for the cuddles. which he immediately gives, because there's nothing in this world that he won't give to you willingly without you having to even ask. basking in his attention and soft kisses on top of your head, you turn your head a little, huffing a small laugh: 'what's all of this?'

mingyu blushes, hiding his face in your hair. 'i made breakfast, but i didn't know what you will feel like eating now, so-'

'so you made enough to feed a small tribe.' you finish for him, looking over everything on the table. lifting your head to make eye contact, you mumble: 'baby, that's too much.'

cradling your face in his hands and holding it like a precious jewel, mingyu leans in, pecking your forehead, eyelids, nose and then lips. 'nothing is too much when it comes to you.'

he sees the way your eyes light up at this, how you try so hard not to blush but still avert your eyes, smiling shyly. this soft happiness that radiates from you is enough to send his heart hammering away and it takes everything in his willpower not to scoop you up in his arms and carry you back to the bedroom, breakfast be damned. 'go wash up, i'll make tea,' he whispers, planting one kiss on your temple.

'let me go then,' you chuckle, pointing at his arms that hold you like a vice.

'only for you to wash up,' mingyu grumbles fakely, earning a giggle from you. 'be quick!'

'don't eat anything before me!' you shout, rushing to the bathroom. 'wait for me!'

mingyu bites his tongue in order not to shout the 'i'll always wait for you' answer. he still whispers it to himself though, because it feels godo to say it out loud and because it's true. he'll always wait for you.

a/n: what a better way to come back from hiatus than with mingyu fluff? hope you liked this one! check out my other works here - nini

tag list (hi, hello, i am back): @smalliechelle @jaetaimjadore @yeow6n @a-wandering-stay (let me know if you want to be added!)

also this blog is mainly for seventeen, but i'm thinking of adding other groups here (like ateez), so if you don't want to be tagged in works for them - let me know!

[libertyybellls]

honeymoon w finnick HNNNNNNGGGGJJJHH😫😫😫

OOOOOOH BABYYY YES.

-

your ‘wedding’ is small, almost unofficial. he proposed to you on one of your typical mornings. waking up- wrapped up in your sheets. he insisted you go to the shore with him during sunrise. much to your groggy dismay you go and you are more than pleased.

for rings he 100% thought about this, maybe something small, simple from a little store in town- something he knows you’d love to have on your finger 24/7.

your honeymoon- on the other hand…. he will persistently call you his wife, without a doubt. “how is mrs odair this morning?” when he’s cooking breakfast. or he’s ontop of you, your hands in his hair, his lips on your neck. “am i making my wife feel good?” this no doubt fuels his possession over you.

every morning you wake up, he’s kissing you- and then your eating, going to the beach, reading in silence, the days go by so fast with him. and he is, by no means, leaving your side. he says you make him feel like he’s breathing again. his hand always around your waist, or your fingers are interlocked and he brings your ring finger to his lips.

and in what world is he going to let you do anything? he’s carrying you to bed, he’s carrying you to the shower, making you breakfast, washing your hair, picking out your clothes.

and don’t let me get too rowdy about the nights of your honeymoon… insane.

[soupandsimple]

Pretty, Like… (with James Potter)

[ little Harry meeting his new baby sister after you come home from the hospital ]

* f l u f f 🥰

** includes godfather Sirius Black; indirect mention of Lily (and it’s not positive sooo..)

This was requested: see the ask here

…………….

“Watch your step dove,” James said as he held the car door open for you with one hand and the baby carrier in the other.

You had just arrived home from the hospital after the birth of your baby girl but that had nothing to do with your husband being so cautious with you- that was just an all the time James thing.

You smiled at him once you were out of the car and stepped aside so he could close the door.

“Ahhhh!”

“Well, I think I hear Haz” James chuckled at the sound of a muffled shriek.

Looking to the living room window you see little Harry’s hands and excited face smushed up against the glass.

Harry was five years old but he wasn’t your biological son; the story with his real mother is one you don’t care to tell. It involves her, her past lover and death and that’s where you liked to leave it at.

“My babyyy, I missed him so much!” you said with your hands at your heart. As it almost always goes, he wasn’t your biological son but you loved that boy more than anything. The little girl in the carrier might be your first birthed child but she was not what you considered your first child.

Having made your way to the front door, you heard all three of your locks rattle undone and braced yourself for Harry’s high volume welcome.

“Mummy! Daddy! Can I see her?! Can I see her?!” Harry exclaimed, jumping up and down at the sight of you both.

His godfather Sirius stood behind him and shook his head in disbelief. “Those sugary breakfast cereals are tasty and he eats them without complaints but you tell me, is it worth it?” he joked, pointing to the bouncing boy with a faux pensive look.

You giggled at the comment and looked down at Harry. “Yes you can see her but let’s get inside first, okay?” you said with a boop to his nose.

Harry nodded and ran to the living room couch sitting himself nice and straight on the cushion, legs drumming excitedly as he waited for James to bring the carrier over with his new sister.

“Okay Haz, you ready?” James asked, setting the carrier down on the coffee table after Sirius removed two cereal-less, milk filled bowls and took them to the kitchen.

“Yes! Yes!”

“I present to you….Hazel Potter!” James enthused, swiping the blanket away from the front of the carrier like a magician.

Hazel squinted her eyes upon the feel of the newfound light, took one glance at Harry, yawned then closed her eyes again and slightly squirmed back to sleep.

Harry squealed and his hands instantly shot out to, what you assume, grab Hazel’s tiny fisted ones but James stopped him before he got the chance to. “Whoa buddy, gentle, gentle. She’s trying to sleep. We can look at her but let’s let her rest for now.”

Harry groaned a little but smiled when he looked down at Hazel again.

“Mama, she’s so tiny but so big also! I can’t believe she was in your tummy” he commented, voice full of wonder and astonishment.

“Your mum is a real life superwoman, don’t you ever forget that” James told Harry with a gentle ruffle to his hair.

“I won’t!” Harry replied, biting down on his lip to admire Hazel some more.

You gifted James a smile of appreciation as he put his arm around you and kissed your temple.

Although it had been a healthy birth, it still hadn’t been an easy thing for you. You’d always been afraid of pregnancy and all it entailed and James knew that. You braved through a lot these past nine months and he’d never take that for granted for as long as he’d live. But truthfully, fear aside, being able to give your little Harry a sibling and James a second child had without a doubt been one of the greatest pleasures you’ve had in life (along with being James Potter’s wife and the person who Harry called mama of course).

“Hey hey, what do you think of the new sister Haz?” Sirius asked Harry, drying his hands against his pants as he came back into the living room, bending little ways over to take a peek at the little bundle of a baby in the carrier.

Harry smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. I barely know her...but she is very pretty, like a bakery bread.”

A bakery bread. He was talking about the loaves of bread you and James purchased at the bakery every Saturday morning. Yes … bread.

Sirius cackled and clapped his hands at Harry’s comparison while James failed to suppress a smile as he nodded and squinted his eyes at his son.

“Well that’s very nice of you to say. She is really pretty huh, like a bakery bread” you repeated lovingly, with one hand laying flat against James’s chest.

Harry nodded and giggled at how his words sounded coming from someone else.

“Can we go put her in the crib so she can be better?” Harry then asked.

“That’s a great idea baby, she’ll be a lot more comfortable there won’t she” you praised, understanding exactly what he meant by better.

James removed himself from your side and grabbed the handle of the carrier to pick it up. “C’mon then, let’s go show baby bread her bread box” James joked for his son’s amusement.

Harry of course instantly laughed with joy and ‘helped’ James by placing his small hands at the back of the carrier on the walk up the stairs, meanwhile Sirius thoughtfully stayed behind to accompany you at your slower pace; ever since you’d first met him, he had always acted like such a big brother to you and you loved it.

“You know, I’ve watched those two dote on you endlessly these past three years but by the looks of it, you’re going to have to start sharing them with little Ms. Hazel Potter now” Sirius teased. “She’s beautiful by the way.”

“Well thank you…. and as for the sharing, I’m not going to mind one bit” you replied blissfully. <3

[archangeldyke-all]

RAHHHH ITS MAH BIRTHDAYYY

Sev waking reader up with head for her birthday?? Goodness😩

-🥨

happy birthday baby!!!!! i hope you're loving your day <3

men and minors dni

"babyyy." a voice singsongs.

you're having a lovely dream in which you and sevika are soaring through the clouds, hand in hand. you have no intention of waking up, no matter how inciting the voice singing happy birthday to you sounds. so, you just huff, reach out to push your wife away from you, and return to your dream.

sevika laughs as your steady snores fill the room again.

it's your birthday, and sevika wants to start celebrating with you. clearly, though, you want to spend your birthday morning sleeping in. that's fine. sevika can work with that.

she lets you sleep, preparing your favorite breakfast in the kitchen and arranging all the little gifts she's collected for you over the past few months on the dining room table.

sevika's not big on birthdays, never has been, but when it comes to you sevika's always looking for an excuse to celebrate.

so, is it a little over the top for her to be blowing up dozens of balloons? sure. but is it worth it for the way you'll get all flustered and try to hide your face in her chest? absolutely.

now though, it's been an hour and a half, and sevika's getting antsy.

she wants to wake you up and celebrate with you, shower you in affection and gifts and love, hand feed you bites of your birthday breakfast, kiss you a million times.

you're still snoring.

sevika pinches your foot under the covers. you don't move. she huffs.

"babe."

no response.

"baby, wake up. it's your birthday, i made your favorite for breakfast."

you just snore.

sevika rolls her eyes, flings her shirt off, and crawls under the covers. it takes a little bit of maneuvering, but in a few moments she's got her face between your legs.

she sighs happily as she inhales the scent of you. you're always so impatient when she's between your thighs, she takes advantage of your current sleeping state to just... soak you up. the sight of your cunt, the smell of you, the warmth of your inner thigh where she rests her head. she could probably die happily like this.

you shift in your sleep, your legs clenching a bit around her head before relaxing again. it shakes her out of her stupor, and she launches forward with the single minded intention of making you cum so hard you're too aroused to go back to bed.

she succeeds.

incredibly quickly.

you're having a strange but pleasant dream where you and sevika are attending a wedding-- the bride being jinx, the groom being a giant toad she's trained to speak english.

and right when the toad starts to say his vows, you gasp awake to the feeling of your wife's tongue buried inside of you.

"se-vika!" you gasp, throwing the blankets back and gawking down at her. she hums happily, winking at you as she sloppily makes out with your cunt. "wha- oh fuck!" you whine, collapsing against the bed again as she sucks your clit into her mouth.

"mmm... happy birthday." sevika mumbles against you.

you groan, your brain fuzzy from sleep and pleasure, your eyes heavy but snapping open with her movements. "sev." you moan. she chuckles.

"made you breakfast 'n everything." she whispers.

you thread your fingers through her hair and pull her mouth back against you. she chuckles, kisses your cunt sweetly, and then gets back to eating you like a ripe peach.

"'m gonna cum." you groan. your voice is still gravely from sleep, and sevika shudders at the sound of it. "fuck, sev, shit!" you whine as you fall apart on her tongue.

her fingers claw against your hips, keeping you pinned to her lips as you shake and shiver through your orgasm. when you push her away, she groans in disappointment.

you burst into laughter. sevika kisses a path up your body until she's hovering over you, smiling down at you.

"what's so funny?" she asks. you smirk up at her and shrug.

"happy fuckin' birthday to me i guess." you laugh.

she snorts, then swoops down to kiss you.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie @k3n-dyll

@sevsdollette @ellieslob @xayn-xd

[watermelonlovershigh]

"You've been a real, bad, boy." {part. 12} (housemate!harry series) (SMUT)

Drunk Fighting and Forgiveness {part. 11} (housemate!harry series)

AN: we're getting into more of the smuttier chapters, yay. hope you enjoy this part. reblog and let me know what you think!!!

This story contains: more apologizing, sub/dom play, female receiving oral, handjob, blowjob, mentions of anal play, mentions of sex toys

{ housemate!harry - boyfriendrry - soft!harry - subrry - dom!reader }

word count- 2,140

Harry's been a bad boy and Y/n wants to punish him, but for now, they take it easy with some oral sex in the shower.

The morning after your drunken argument, you have returned to being the affectionate couple that you are. Harry is the first to wake up and decides to go in the kitchen to prepare breakfast for you, aware that you'll need something to ease your hangover. After finishing, he quietly returns to the bedroom and gently wakes you up.

You wake up reluctantly, and Harry promptly hands you a pain reliever for your headache. He has already taken something for his headache, being no stranger to hangovers, and knowing how to prevent them from escalating. After taking the medicine and visiting the bathroom, you enter the kitchen to find two plated dishes on the small dining room table.

In complete awe, you say, "Harry, you didn't have to cook all of this. I told you I forgave you last night."

Tiredly giggling, Harry replies, "I know, wasn't meant to be part of my apology. Just wanted us to have a good breakfast to help with our hangovers."

You both sit down and begin eating the pancakes and turkey bacon that Harry has prepared, along with a glass of orange juice. About halfway through your meal, the thoughts that were on your mind as you fell asleep last night come back to you, causing you to speak, "You know Harry, you've been a real, bad, boy."

Without perceiving anything unusual in your words, he begins, "Baby, I know. I am genuinely sorry for my behavior last night. I shouldn't have brought you to that bar with my history there. Please forgive me, again."

As you look across the table, you see Harry getting distressed again, thinking that you're upset with him once more. It's almost funny to witness, though a small part of you feels bad for getting him so worked up. "Harry, I've forgiven you. But you're not off the hook so easily."

Swallowing a piece of turkey bacon, he looks over at you with confusion written on his face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You burst into laughter, immediately regretting it as it causes your headache to return. "Like I just mentioned, you've been a naughty boy, my love. This means I have to punish you. Bad boys get punished."

Ohhh, now Harry's catching your drift. He's not use to your kinky side but he's loving it. "Yeah, and how 'r you gonna punish me, Y/n?"

In a seductive voice, you answer, "First, I'll need to spank your lovely round bottom, leaving it all red and tender. Next, I'll use a strap-on to fuck that pretty mouth of yours, causing you to choke on my cock. If you've behaved well up until that point, I'll then position you on your hands and knees and fuck you from behind, making your ass feel so amazing and full. Does that sound good, baby?"

"Uh-hu," is his only response as he sits there with his mouth hung open, nearly drooling on the table. Although he typically prefers to be dominant, he's a switch and is willing to be submissive for you any day of the week. Your dominant side really turns him on.

"Great, how about we go take a shower and then sit on the couch to do some online shopping for some special toys?" Harry clears his throat and agrees, shifting uncomfortably in his seat because your dirty words have made his cock hard in his pants.

After finishing your meal, you clear the table and head to the bathroom. Inside, you both undress, and it's then that you notice Harry's hard dick. "Babyyy, did my dirty words make you hard at the table?"

He gives a shy nod while you chuckle. The two of you enter the shower, but before you can start washing off, Harry pleads, "Please baby, touch me, it hurts." This is where you find it difficult to maintain dominance. Despite enjoying control every once in a while, you quickly give in when your partner whines, cries, or begs. However, it's important to stick to your role and not give away your power.

"Dunno if you deserve it..."

"Please, please. I'll do anythin'." Harry down right begs. "I'll eat you out first or finger you. Whatever you want. Just touch me, please."

Liking his way of thinking, you compromise, "Okay, get on your knees and eat my pussy. Then I'll touch your cock, baby boy"

Without hesitation, Harry gets on his knees in the shower and pulls you closer to his mouth with his hands on the back of your thighs. He's never ate you out in the shower before so this is new, and you're loving it so far. His lips wrap around your clit and his tongue flicks you up and down, back and forth.

Gasping, you grab his damp locks and push his face closer to you for added pleasure. His hands leave imprints on your ass as he grips it firmly to maintain your position. Harry alternates between flicking his tongue against your small clit and sucking on it intensely, bringing you to the brink of orgasm quickly.

"Oh my God, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna fucking come." you moan aloud, it echoing in the confinements of the shower. Harry doesn't dare lift you off of him, only eating your pussy with more determination. What pushes you overboard is when he sucks just a little bit harder, but also allows one of his hands to wander between your cheeks and his thumb grazes your tight hole. He never enters, just caresses it, and it feels surprisingly amazing.

You fall apart in the steamy shower, your body twitching and convulsing on top of your boyfriend. He strains to hold you up, afraid you might collapse. After a few final licks, Harry begins to pull away slowly, looking up at you with glossy eyes that nearly make you feel guilty for keeping him hard for so long.

Harry rose to his feet, paying no mind to the puddle of precome he had left on the shower floor. He was about to plead for your touch once more when you suddenly grabbed his cock. His back collided with the tile wall, and his abdominal muscles tensed as your delicate hand skillfully stroked him.

"Fuck." Harry whispers a curse as he feels the touch of your hand. You stroke his cock a few more times before kneeling down and taking him into your mouth. You push forward until the trimmed hair around his base touches your lips, maintaining that position until you have to pull away due to a harsh gag. Despite being in a state of pleasure, Harry looks down and asks, "You alright, m'love?", wanting to make sure you're alright and didn't push yourself too hard for the sake of pleasuring him.

You glance up at Harry with teary eyes and willingly take him back into your mouth, this time being more gentle with yourself. You suck and stroke with determination until Harry senses his climax nearing, which happens rather quickly thanks to you teasing and basically edging him for most of the morning.

Harry grips your hair in his hands, not forcing you down on him but more so for stability. When he feels seconds away from exploding, he warns, "M' gonna come, m'love. Feels so fuckin' good!"

Instead of pulling away, you keep Harry's cock in your mouth until you feel his shaft throb and hot spurts of his warm, milky cum fill your mouth. When your mouth is full to the brim, that's when you detach yourself from him. You swallow what you can, but some of his cum trickles down your chin and hits the shower floor, getting washed down the drain.

Glancing upwards, you see Harry leaning against the wall, gasping for air. His eyes are closed, and his hands hang loosely by his sides. Rising up on your tiptoes, you lean in for a kiss. Harry eagerly returns the kiss, despite the taste of his own cum on your lips. Eventually, you both break away to catch your breath.

"Okay, now for that online shopping we need to do."

--------------------------------

After your shower, you both take a seat on the sofa and start browsing the internet for some special toys. You have your laptop on your lap, and Harry's cat Pixie on his. With his head resting on your shoulder, you ask, "So, what should we search for first?"

"Um, I guess a strap-on for you to fuck me with."

You clap in agreement. "Great, but I could use some help deciding on the size and shape I should go for. I don't know much about strap-ons and your personal preferences." You search for strap-ons on Amazon and scroll until one catches your eye. "Hold on, what about this one? Do you think it'll work? I know it doesn't technically have a strap but I think this part is meant to be inserted inside me and as long as I grip it securely, it should function like one, right?"

Harry examines the screen closely and confirms, "I believe this'll work. It'll also bring you pleasure, which is an added bonus." He recalls the last time someone used a strap-on with him and how they complained the whole time about the strap part that went around their waist was super uncomfortable. So this should be a better option.

Thinking for a moment, you hesitantly question, "So like, what size do you want? And should I find it in a blue or black? You know, more manly colors."

Harry can't help but giggle when he hears the nervousness in your voice. He finds it amusing that you are contemplating such matters. "I think five to six inches would be just right for me. And baby, when you're fuckin' me in the ass, I won't be too concerned about how manly the dildo looks. Pink will do just fine."

"Understood," you say with a hint of awkwardness. After specifying the desired length and ensuring the original pink color is selected, you proceed to finalize the purchase. As your card details are already saved on Amazon, the transaction is swiftly processed, and you receive confirmation that the item is expected to arrive in three to five business days. "What else should we buy?"

Harry is aware of something else he desires but feels a bit hesitant to share. It's puzzling, considering you literally just purchased a dildo to fuck his ass with. What that desire is, is some butt plugs. His last set of butt plugs was stolen by a short fling he had a few months ago and he's eager to replace them. He began using butt plugs a few years ago and found them quite enjoyable, mainly for the pleasure they provided rather than for stretching purposes.

Inhaling a deep breath, Harry shyly asks you, "Can I get a butt plug?"

You turn your head, causing his head to lift off your shoulder, and smile at him warmly. Noticing Harry's shyness, you want to reassure him that there's no need for it. No judgement at all. "Of course, baby. No need to get shy on me now. Go ahead and find the ones you like." You hand him your laptop, knowing absolutely nothing about butt plugs. He takes it and starts searching for the perfect one for himself.

Harry selects two plugs; one that's a silver metal plug ,and the other crafted from black silicone with a diamond heart at the end. He explains that the heart is there to provide a pleasant visual for you, making you laugh. The reason for having two different textures is for varying purposes. The metal plug is reserved for when he is feeling particularly aroused and seeks intense pleasure. On the other hand, the silicone plug is more flexible and suitable for wearing outside or even while sleeping, offering a softer option to maintain a feeling of fullness without discomfort.

After Harry purchases the butt plugs of his choice, you take your laptop back and pick out two vibrators for yourself. You already have a couple in your nightstand drawer, but want to get a few new additions and upgrades. You chose the rose vibrator everyone has been raving about and the vibrator that's wearable in your panties. There's a part that inserts inside of you for g-spot stimulation and an outer part that stimulates your clit. And, to give Harry some control, it can be operated by an app on a phone. Meaning, if he wanted to, he could control when it turned on and off, teasing you and making you edge for hours.

You finish buying the last of your sex toys and shut your laptop, snuggling with each other on the couch. Now you're counting down the days until they all arrive and you can try them out on one another.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )

tag list: @one-sweet-gubler // @harryscherrysugar // @hsfanficsrecss // @lollypopsx // @harrycanyonmoonn // @allthelovehes // @damnasstyles // @mrsstylesharry // @softmullet // @meetmyblondemuffins // @thegirlnextdoorssister // @stanleystyles // @haarrrys // @michellekstyles // @skyangel57 // @the-gardener-31 // @lhharrylilpumpkin // @yousunshine-youtemptress // @clairestylessss // @kissmyaxe140 // @goldenmelonsugar-hi // @kaitieskidmore97 // @florencepughily // @alienorknight // @dancearoundthelivingroom // @swiftmendeshoran

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______________

My Masterlist Masterpost

Not So Patient After All {part. 13}

[totaly-obsessed]

Suprise Party

Katie McCabe x reader fic

-> It is Katie's Birthday but reader isn't one to party

➳ Masterlist

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The 21st of September 2023, otherwise known as your girlfriend's 28th Birthday. In your relationship Katie was the outgoing one, which was not really a surprise to anyone – she liked to refer to you as her ‘better half’ because she liked the differences between you.

While she was always up to party, you would much rather stay at home and read a book or catch up on your TV shows. Meeting new people? No problem for Katie, always making quick acquaintances and friends, introducing you straight after: “Hi, I’m Katie, this is my amazing girlfriend Y/N – Nice to meet you!” By now it was well well-rehearsed sentence, always coming out when you were her date to a function she had to attend.

The Irishwoman had no problem with not throwing a big party for her birthday, after all, it would only be a year till the next one, but you knew that her friends liked to celebrate with her. So in secret, you had contacted Leah and Steph, the two footballers helping you set up a little something in one of Katie's favorite restaurants for the evening.

The morning, however, was all yours. It was a weird situation for Katie, coming back from the World Cup and into the new season, not having much of a preseason, and already having played two Champions League games, which resulted in Arsenal not going further. So today, you had planned a cozy morning, before Katie could party all she wanted, safe with her arsenal teammates – knowing you were waiting for her at home.

So here you were, at seven in the morning, making breakfast – in the form of a cake. It was covered in vanilla buttercream, and decorated with red hearts – the inside being red velvet. You were in a hurry, Katie’s normal schedule did not allow her to sleep past eight o clock, and even though she did not have training today, you knew she would be up – and it would be even earlier, when she could not feel you, next to her.

But with a cake in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other, you made your way to your shared bedroom. The soft morning sun was trying to get in through the window – after setting the cake down on your desk, you allowed it in, pulling the curtain aside, slowly.

Unhappy groans can be heard from somewhere on the bed. With a quiet giggle, you made quick work of jumping onto the bed, straddling the older woman. “Happy birthday to you!” A broad smile made its way onto your girlfriend's scrunched-up face.

After laying a gentle kiss between her eyebrows, Katie's face relaxed. “Happy Birthday to you!” Kiss on the left cheek.

“Happy Birthday dear best girlfriend I could have in the world.” Kiss on the right cheek, which was a little shaky, as she was laughing at how you had sped through your new name for her. “Happy birthday to you!”

She made kissie-noises at you, expectingly holding her face up – but upon not receiving a proper kiss, she started to pout. “Babyyy!” The pout intensified, when you hovered above her, a teasing smile on your face. “Not faiiir!” Her voice was deep and gravelly, having just woken up, sleep still deep in her eyes, so it was safe to say, that you were surprised when she promptly rolled you over, easily overpowering you (I mean, have you seen those arms).

“My turn.” Kissing your face all over.

“Hey! It’s your birthday!” By now the Irishwoman was wide awake

“Yeah it is – I want breakfast in bed”, and with that she pulled you closer, diving in for a kiss.

“I made cake!” an excited hand stopped her advances, leaving her shoulders to slump. Laughing she got off of you – with hurried steps you set the cake down between you, handing her a spoon.

Stuffing yourself full of cake at eight-thirty in the morning was a nice start to the day, but it didn’t stop there. After a lot of cuddling and staying in bed, you finally convinced your girlfriend to get out of bed and get ready. You had to compromise though; you would join her in the shower so that she would “allow” you to take her out. Would you have kept the pout on your face for just a second longer Katie would have broken, and both of you knew it.

Pottery painting.

That was your chosen activity – and even though the brunette looked and acted incredibly tough, you knew that she would like this. Katie had been dropping hints, always showing you TikToks of people doing it and cooing “Look how pretty their mugs are! They would be perfect for my breakfast, don’t you think?”

They turned out pretty nice, Katie having gone for flower designs, had been much faster and had done two mugs, while you had decorated one with mushrooms, flowers, and many more things. Now they just needed to be fired and you could pick them up.

Your afternoon was spent relaxing together until you told her to get ready. “But for what?” And back was the whining.

“You will see it then, baby.” And after a lot of moaning and you hurrying her, she was done. As an alibi for eating out together, you had gotten dressed as well.

“Why is it so empty?” Her confusion was evident when she only saw two parked cars at the location. “It’s the middle of the week baby, people are probably working.” She seemed to be happy enough with it, not questioning it, when you littered soft kisses on the back of her hands.

With quick steps, you held the door open for her, which got you a swat to the bum “Oy! That’s my job!” But it was quickly forgotten when she saw the decorations and her friends jumping out “Happy Birthday Katie!”

The brunette stood there for a second, not knowing how to react, before turning to you, her comfort person, and pulling you into a hug. Teary eyes pressed into the nape of your neck. “Thank you, baby.” With a soft smile, you pushed her into Leah’s awaiting arms.

“You’re ours now McCabe! You’ll see ya missus later. Say byeee!”

And with that, your girlfriend was pulled away by her friends. You waved her goodbye, earning you just another pout, Katie being sad that you were leaving her.

It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that Katie called you, slurring slightly, asking if you could pick her up.

She was already outside of the establishment, together with Steph, who you dropped off at home.

An hour later you were cuddled up in bed, Katie pulling you as close to her as she possibly could. “Thank you – I know you don’t like things like that. I appreciate what you did for me.”

She could practically feel your face heating up on her chest “Well I didn’t do it alone Steph and-“ A kiss interrupted you, Katie shushing you. “Just take the compliment, baby.” 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

liked by stephcatley and 44.331 others

katie_mccabe11: All my love to my incredible girlfriend. And thanks to all of you for the Birthday Wishes!

[skipper1331]

One Day // Vivianne Miedema

a/n: based off this and this request - thought i could combine them.

"Good morning, my love" you whispered as your alarm ringed, the dutch never one to wake up by just an alarm. "We have to get up" your pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, knowing she loved it when she woke up to kisses, "No" said person grumbled while she tightened her arms around you, pulling you closer in her embrace. "We have to" you entangled your body out of her arms, one leg already out of bed as Viv suddenly sat up, "Need kissies" she pulled you back in, your legs resting at either side of her waist, "so needy" you giggled before you littered pecks all over her face, her nose scrunching in responds.

"Now i‘m ready to start the day!"

-

"Liefje" the tall woman called as you were in bathroom, ready to start your morning routine, "what do want for breakfast?" her head chipped in, her eyes roaming over your body as you were in nothing but her too big clothes. A slight blush covered cheeks while her heart fluttered, you never failed to amaze her by you just being you. "Smoothie? Maybe?"

"Smoothie it is" the striker left you alone, making her way down to the kitchen as you continued or rather started your routine. The smoothie was on the counter, already in a cup (your favorite) as you patted to the kitchen, Viv nowhere to be seen. Sipping from the straw, the delicious taste of your favorite fruits hit your mouth - Viv made the best smoothies. "Hm, you like it?" said person asked. "Shit!" you jumped, hand over your chest as you tried to control your breathing, "babyyy" you whined, "I almost dropped my smoothie" grumbling at her, the tall woman poked your cheeks, making you laugh, "i love your laughter" she muttered, eyes full of love as her arms looped around your midsection, "the smoothie?"

"was perfect" you gave her a peck or two, "like you" pecking all over her face. The dutch giggled, her nose scrunching as a big smile broke out on her face.

"Ik houd van jou"

"I love you too"

-

"Liefje, hurry up!" Viv yelled as she stood at the front door, your kit bag as well as her own in her hand. "I can‘t find my bag" your eyes scanned through your bedroom, then the living room - every room. Walking up to Viv you gave up, you had no idea where your bag was, the striker chuckled at your helpless expression. You gave her a glare, how can this be funny to her? With an ease she lifted your bag, waving it in front of your eyes. In reaction you snatched it away, "you let me search for it for 15 minutes, knowing you had it in your hand!" you growled, frowning like a child.

"You’re cute" the dutchie slung her arm around your shoulder as she pressed a kiss to your head, "now let‘s go"

Viv took a seat in the drivers seat while you sat next to her, even though you had the passenger princess privileges Taylor Swift music was playing the whole time on the way to the stadium. You just had to look at the shy girl and you would crumble and do anything for her. So meanwhile she sang to herself yet audible for you (something only you had the privilege to hear) her hand was resting on the bare skin of your thigh, absently drawing circles on it.

-

Derby day.

The blues.

Always a strong opponent.

The stands were filled with red and blue, fans were singing chants, both teams in the tunnel. Viv was behind you, you could feel her eyes on you, like always. Every match the dutch would stand behind you, it calmed her. Her eyes would roam over your figure, always stopping at your jersey. One day her surname will be on the back of it. That was a promise. A promise she made ages ago.

At half time the score was 1-1. Sam Kerr scoring the opening goal while Kim Little scored the penatly. The game was rough, Emma Hayes looked like she was about kill someone and a certain defender was targeting you, Maren Mjelde. Each time you had the ball you hadn‘t had it for long - your body hitting the grass every time. A little push or her leg in your way would cause you to fall. For sure, your body will have bruises tomorrow. Viv was the first by your side, asking If you‘re okay or what hurts. Slowly but surely the dutch was getting angry, how could Mjelde get away with it? No card - no foul. After the 8th time of your body hitting the ground Viv had enough - you didn‘t get up. Lia at your side while Viv was by the Chelsea defender shoving her as she cursed in her mother tongue. Most of the time, the tall woman was calm and collected but not when it came to you. Her patience was very short when it came to you.

Katie had her arms around the dutch trying to pull her away while Kim stood in front of her, pushing her away. Captain duties. As the ref showed Viv a yellow card, the same card Maren Mjelde finally got, Viv was by your side. Her hand wiped the sweaty hair out of your face while the medics examined your ankle, "is it bad?" you whispered, tears running down your cheeks. "I don‘t know, my girl"

Your ankle hurt and you were subbed off but in a few days, everything would be fine. With an ice pack around your ankle you watched the rest of the game, your lover not scoring once but twice. Her reply to your substitution - her statement: do not mess with her girl.

When the final whistle blew, the dutch shook every opponents hand, Maren being the last, "I‘m sorry" she apologized, "i didn‘t mean to shove you" It was simply out of the situation - out of her emotional state. She couldn’t harm a fly, even If she tried. At the end of the day it was just an intense game where no one had any evil intention.

It was important for Vivianne to have apologized. It wasn't like her not to.

Viv was one of the best strikers in the world but she also had her values ​​and morals. If things got more intense on the field, it was important for her to clear the air after.

As it should be.

At the end of the day, every player was only human.

-

You were glad when the match was finally called to an end, ready to go home with your lover. Both of you decided to shower at home, it was already in the evening - you wouldn‘t leave your home anymore. Again the striker behind the steering wheel, this time with her hand in yours as she drove the two of you home. At a red light, she occasionally would press a kiss to your lips as she had not felt them against her own the whole time. Even though every one knew you were a couple, you would act professionally, only in private showing the lovey-dovey side you shared. Yet there were always loving glances and sneaky touches, you couldn't do it completely without - the love you shared was way to powerful and present to hide it.

The tall woman carried your bag inside as you patted after her, your ankle still covered in ice. "Take out, baby?" you asked while you snuggled your arms around her from behind - the dutch being too tall for you to rest your head on her shoulder "sure, your usual?" she asked turning around, her arms going around your shoulders as she craned her neck down, pressing a loving kiss to your head. In agreement you hummed in to her chest, tightening your grip around the striker. "Missed you" you mumbled as an exhausted sigh left your throat. Viv squeezed you, knowing what you meant.

You had missed her kisses.

You had missed her hugs.

You had missed her shy smile and blushing cheeks.

You had missed her.

"Lets take a shower" the taller girl lifted you up, your legs going around her waist as she carried you to the bathroom. She placed you on the counter, "is it okay if i take your clothes off?" she asked. In respond you muttered a tired yes - the dutch made sure everything she did was with consent. She took your shirt off, she asked If it was okay. She took your pants off, she asked If it was okay. That just who she was.

After showering and dressed up in some comfy clothes, the two of you found yourselves sitting on the couch. You had your back leaned against Vivs front as your limbs were tangled together. With your hair and body freshly washed you felt clean again, the striker behind you, ordering the take out while you searched for a series. As you decided which series you wanted to watched you nestled back in Vivs embrace as she silently massaged your shoulders. "Thank you, baby" you muttered contently, eyes closed as the voice of Phil Dunphy filled the background noices. Though, the dutch was sitting behind you, you knew that her cheeks were covered in a blush, her shy smile across her face. No matter how long the two of you had been a couple If you called her any kind of pet name, the girl would squeal inside, skin tingle, heart race, love burst.

When the food arrived, both of you took a seat at the kitchen table and while you enjoyed your meals, you talked about everything and nothing, loving glances and touches being shared.

-

Back on the couch, your head rested in the crook of her neck, legs tangled as her fingers combed through your hair in a manner to help you fall asleep. Pressing featherlight kisses to her neck, you mumbled inaudible words - the taller girl pulling you close(r). The series in the background long forgotten as your breathing evened out, soft snores hitting Vivs neck. Vivianne continued to watch the episode of modern family before she carried you to bed. She tugged you under the blanket like a burrito, herself laying next to you as she pulled you in her arms - she could only sleep with you in her touch, knowing you were safe.

"Good night, liefje, Ik houd van jou" she mumbled, pressing a long and final kiss for the day to your head before she settled in to the pillow. It didn‘t take long for the striker to fall asleep - dreaming about you.

Mrs. Miedema, one day.

———————

[pyssball]

beaching for life .ᐟ f1 d!lfs

masterlist

a/n: beach trip w the gang bc who’s gonna stop me 😼 also a bit of a time skip btw abt a week or so after the trip with seb. i was going to write a smut cut of this chapter between mark and chloe but i scratched it bc i realised idk how to write smut 😭 also sorry this took so long, my job is kicking my ass 😞

word count: 1.4k

no warnings for this chapter 💌

February 7, 2023

She wasn’t supposed to be at his house until tomorrow but a little surprise never hurt anyone.

She turned off her headlights as she turned onto his road and pulled into his driveway, giggling to herself as she did so. Mark was always the one to show up and surprise her at one of her shows so she just wanted to return the favour.

As she sat in her car she pulled out her phone to call Mark, to which he answered almost immediately with a stern, “What are you doing up this late?”

“Who are you? My dad?” she giggled, ”I just missed your voice.” she spoke softly, that part was true, she really did miss him, which is partially why she chose to come over a bit earlier than planned.

“That’s very sweet, honey, but I think you should get some sleep.” As soon as he finished his sentence he heard a car door shut on the other side of the phone. “Was that a car door?”

“Maybe.” she giggles, “I took a drive.”

“At 11:32 at night?”

“I got bored.” she walked up to the front of the house, “Plus I have someone to see.” and with that she hung up, leaving Mark completely confused. She shoved her phone back into her pocket while she knocked on the door.

It took him a couple seconds to get to the door, but as soon as he opened it he just froze. He looked mortified but she knew that was far from the truth, he was just trying to process the whole ordeal. She smirked at his reaction, “Surprise.” she sang, holding her arms out for a hug.

“Chloe!” Mark immediately picked her up and spun her around, wrapping her in his arms. “What the fuck are you doing here?!” he places her back on her feet, resting his hands on her hips as he awaited a response

“I wanted to surprise you!”

“Well this is certainly a surprise sweetheart.” he pressed a kiss to her forehead before guiding her into the living as he went to retrieve her bags from her car. After he was done he sat down next her her on the couch, putting his arm around her and pulled her closer to his side, she snuggled against him, humming softly as she got comfortable.

The pair ended up falling asleep on the couch while watching a re-run of Grown Ups, legs and arms tangled up together. Chloe’s head resting on his chest and his arms firmly wrapped around her waist, insuring no escape.

February 8, 2023 (10:02 a.m.)

Mark woke up before she did (surprise, surprise) and decided to make her breakfast, he wasn’t much of a cook but he figured it was the thought that counted.

He admits, he may have gone a bit over board but in his mind she deserved every bit of it. He makes his way to the living room to wake her up, something he really didn’t enjoy doing. His hands also slowly ran up and down her back, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade, “Babyyy..” he sang softly.

Her eyes fluttered open as she felt him press another kiss to her skin, this time to her crook of her neck and she hummed in response.

“Time to get up, darling.” he says warmly, “I made you breakfast.”

“Bacon?” she all but mumbles.

He chuckles, “Yes, there’s bacon, hun. Now come on before it gets cold.”

She sits up, wiping her eyes as she yawns obnoxiously loud. Mark helps walk her to the dining room, pulling her chair out for her. “Such a gentleman.” she giggles as she sits.

“Only for you.” he winks before he walks to the kitchen to grab the plates he had made for the two of them, “Hope you’re hungry.” he said as he placed one of the plates in front of her and the other on front of his seat, “You want apple juice, love?”

She nodded quickly in response and she began eating her food. He had made everything she liked, just the way she liked it, eggs fried with no yolk, bacon a bit crispy and toast the perfect golden brown. He placed a cup near her plate as he finally sat down to eat with her, “I have the car all packed and ready, Jenson and Nando are getting there together, Seb said he’d be a bit late but he’ll be there.”

Her brows furrowed, “Seb? Late? Impossible.”

“Apparently he woke up late.” he shrugged, “Knowing him he’ll probably find some way of getting there quicker.”

(11:24 a.m.)

Mark was right.

Sebastian managed to get there before everyone, sitting under a tree as he waited for the others to arrive.

He made his way to Mark’s car to help upload as Chloe searched for the perfect spot. Jenson and Fernando weren’t too far behind, pulling up a couple minutes after Mark set up the umbrella Chloe insisted he bring.

Chloe was in the middle of unpacking all the snacks and laying them out in a nice spread for everyone when Jenson put his hands around her eyes, “Guess who.” he sang.

She’d smile, “Judging by that stupid British accent I assume Jenson.” she’d spin around to be greeted by not only the Brit but also Fernando. She hugged them both before going back to sorting the snacks.

“So what’s the plan?” Jenson asked, sitting on one of the blankets laid out on the sand.

“Well I don’t know about you guys but I’m drawing for a bit.” Chloe spoke, sitting in one of the deck chairs Mark had packed, gathering her sketchbook and art supplies from her backpack.

Fernando chuckled as he sat next to Jenson, “You’re always drawing, cariño.”

She shrugged, “And you guys are always racing so what’s the problem?”

Jenson laughed, “Cheeky little thing today, are we?”

Chloe smiled widely, “Always.”

Mark and Seb had just got done unpacking everything, walking back over to the group, sitting on the other blanket next to the deck chair. “Glad you guys are enjoying yourselves.” Mark grumbled, laying down on the blanket, attempting to stretch his back.

(1:43 p.m.)

The sun hung high in the clear blue sky, casting golden rays on the pale sand below. Waves crashing against the shore, creating soothing sounds for the group’s adventures. Birds flying overhead, cawing at each other.

Jenson was closest to the water’s edge, engrossed in an intense game of beach volleyball with Mark, diving to save the ball, sending it soaring back over the net with triumphant smile as it smacked the sand, causing Mark to yell out a string of curses.

Chloe stayed in the deck chair under the shade of the umbrella, her sketchbook balanced on her knees as she captured the scene before her in swift, confident pencil strokes, the page slowly filling with a lively depiction of their beach day.

Fernando had moved to sit on the blanket closest to Chloe, intently watching the volleyball game, occasionally stealing glances at Chloe’s work.

A little further down the beach was Sebastian, crouched down peering into a pool crowded with tiny crabs and colourful sea anemones. He called out to the others, excitement in his voice as he discovered a vibrant starfish clinging to a rock.

As the day wore on, the friends came together for a break. Mark and Jenson collapsing onto the sand, breathless from their game. Fernando moving up to sit behind Chloe on the deck chair, Chloe putting her sketchbook back into her bag. Seb joined them, cradling his starfish discovery in a small bucket of water.

“Look what I found.” She said, holding the bucket up for everyone to see.

Chloe leaned in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Woahhh, it’s so pretty, Seb. You always find the coolest stuff.”

Jenson grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Anyone up for a swim?”

Mark nodded, already getting up his feet, “You know it!”

Chloe beamed, “Can we play mermaids?”

Mark, Seb and Fernando all yelled ‘yes!’ in sync and the group erupted with laughter.

thank you for reading, darlings ! remember to like and reblog ! i’ll give u a smooch if u do, luv u all !

[mikachacha]

𝚂𝚎𝚡 𝚁𝚘𝚘𝚖 (𝙱𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝙻𝚎𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

Synopsis: After not seeing each other for so long, you and Bada got creative with making up for the lost time.

Warnings: this is just pure filth 🤧

(A/N: this is for the filthy h0es that keeps suggesting songs like this 😫😫 love y'all even tho you guys are always thirsty 🫶)

🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸

Breaths mingling with each other, sounds of skin slapping and soft moans are the only sounds that can be heard in yours and Bada's bedroom. When both of you found out that you had the same day to rest, Bada didn't waste time to let you know just how much she missed you. She woke you up with kisses down the side of your neck and her hands roaming under your shirt.

"Good morning to you, too.." you said, yawning and turning to face her. She smiles at you and places a kiss on your lips that gets you feeling giddy. You always loved being kissed by her in the morning. It just makes your day much better. After making out for a few minutes in bed, you decided to get up and make breakfast for you and Bada. Wearing only her shirt and your underwear, you made your way to the kitchen and started making breakfast. You were humming along to the song playing from your phone. You were lost in your own little world when you suddenly felt Bada's arms wrapped around your waist and her lips kissing the crook of your neck. You giggled and just let her be, knowing that she's been looking forward to a day like this when both your schedules are clear.

"Babyyy I missed you so much." Bada whined and you chuckled at your very whiny girlfriend though you didn't mind. You find it adorable that she's this cool girl that everyone wants but she's actually this whiny baby that wants your love and attention every single time.

"I missed you too, baby but let's eat first yeah? Then we can do whatever we want right after." you told her and she perked up immediately, even helping you set the table up that got you cracking up. When you were about to sit down, Bada pulled you to sit on her lap instead making you blush like crazy.

Breakfast was filled with fun and flirty moments. Bada just kept you sitting down her lap the whole time, sneaking in some kisses here and there, just being touchy all in all. When both of you are finished, Bada doesn't even let you clean up, promising that she'll clean that up later and just carry you straight back to the bedroom. She lay down on the bed before pulling you on top of her, hands resting on your butt.

"God, Y/N.. You're my favorite view.." Bada smiles before pulling you in for a kiss. Those kisses turned needy after a few minutes and the next thing you know, you and Bada are completely naked, grinding and just leaving marks on each other's skin. Her fingers are preparing you for what's about to come.

Your body felt hot as bolts of pleasure course through you as Bada used her fingers. Her kisses were hot against your skin yet it's making you shiver. You felt your breath hitch as her kisses went lower until her head was between your legs. You looked at her and she gave you a sly smile before you could feel her lick your folds. You were seeing stars behind your eyelids as she continued eating you out while working her fingers inside you. Your hands had gripped the sheets to the point where your knuckles turned white from how hard you were gripping them and you were grinding against Bada's fingers and mouth until you finally reached your climax. It was so intense that it got your whole body trembling and shaking yet still craving for more.

When you finally came down from your high, it was then your turn to pleasure her. You began by kissing down her neck, nipping on some spots that you knew she loved. You worked your way down until your face was between her legs and began licking. Just some small kitten licks to tease her which earned a groan of disapproval from your girlfriend.

"Y/N.. You're such a little tease, aren't you?" Bada says and you smirked before doing what she just did to you, effectively shutting her up. You could feel yourself get turned on again as you heard her moaning out your name. She pushed your head away when she felt like she was about to climax that got you pouting but she only kissed your lips before getting up to get the strap on she recently brought. You still blush at the sight of it, especially when Bada wears it.

As soon as Bada was done preparing everything, she had you on your stomach, a hand pushing the back of your neck down while the other was guiding the tip of the strap on to your hole. When it was fully inside, you let out a rather lewd moan as it was perfectly nestled against your spot. Your knees felt like jello so Bada held you by the hips as she fucked you from behind. You're a moaning mess beneath her, clawing and gripping the sheets like your life depended on it. Bada really made sure that you know that she misses you by fucking you until you couldn't even stand properly as your legs are all trembly from how hard Bada was doing you.

[raspberrybesitos]

birthday girl | frankie morales x plus size latina reader

Main masterlist

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~3.5k

Summary: It’s your birthday, and Frankie celebrates his favorite girl.

Warnings: established relationship, unprotected PIV (wrap it up y’all!!!), oral (f receiving), fluff, pet names (princesa, bebita, querida, hermosa, baby, etc), Frankie being in love, slightest hint of insecure reader, reader is female, reader is plus sized, reader is Latina, but no mention of hair type/skin color/height, reader understands Spanish, NO USE OF Y/N, translations available at the end.

A/N: it’s my birthday meaning this is completely 100% self-indulgent lol no other reason behind this. i wrote it with me (a plus size latina) in mind, but i hope you can still find relatability in it! y’all know Frankie is one of my favorite P boys, and i’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. shoutout to @mandoisapunk for hyping me up to post this one ilysm <333 anyway, happy frankie friday!! i hope y’all enjoy!! i’m off to pamper myself, then get plastered at the club 🪩💃 this was written very quickly. not beta’d, all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Daylight peeks through the blinds, bleeding through the curtains. A gloomy morning, typical around this time of year. Stirring in the sheets, you feel around for your boyfriend. Instead, you’re met with cold sheets on his unmade side of the bed.

He must’ve been up a while ago.

You swipe your phone from your nightstand, catching a glimpse at the time while unlocking it.

10am. He’s definitely been up for a while.

Frankie is an early riser, waking with the sun. While you prefer to sleep in as much as you can, being a night owl and borderline insomniac.

Rubbing your eyes, you scroll and respond to the birthday texts you received throughout your sleep. A few missed calls, you make note to call them back later.

Sitting up, you stretch and let out a yawn. The urge to crawl back under the covers grows strong as the chilly air hits your skin. Just as you’re about to get out of bed, you hear those unmistakable footsteps.

The door gently swings open, there stands your Frankie - beaming with a tray in hand.

“Happy birthday, hermosa,” he says through his dopey grin as he walks towards the bed, balancing your breakfast. You let out a soft hum, touched by the sweet gesture.

“Babyyy, you didn’t.”

“But I did. And I don’t want to hear any complaints, it’s your day, let me spoil you.”

“But you always sp-,”

“Ah ah! Let me spoil you, bebita. It’s what you deserve. I even made your favorite,” he says, setting the tray down in front of you. A tiny gasp bubbles over your lips.

“Frankieeee,” you whine, bottom lip jutted out as tears well in your eyes.

It’s a simple meal, nothing extravagant, but not one you make too often with how time consuming it can be. Your favorite childhood breakfast - chorizo con huevo y frijoles and homemade tortillas - one your abuelita would cook on the mornings you went to her house as a little girl.

You’d told him about it one morning when he found you downstairs making tortillas from scratch to go with breakfast. A labor of love from both of you, as you taught him the same way your abuelita had shown you - a way to honor her legacy.

He remembered.

“You remembered,” you whisper, voice wobbly as you’re overwhelmed with the simple, sweet gesture. Glossy eyes meeting his soft gaze.

“Of course, baby. I remember everything you tell me,” he says, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on your head.

“How did you make the tortillas?” you ask.

He chuckles, sitting down beside you.

“I told you, I remember everything you tell me,” he says while fishing out a crumpled up index card and placing it in your hands. It’s got all your abuelita’s instructions, measurements, and ingredients scribbled on it in his chicken scratch.

He’d written everything down.

“Wrote it all down after that morning. It took some trial and error, and they’re nowhere near as perfect as yours and your abuelita’s, but…”

“I- Frankie…” you sigh, tears pricking your eyes as you’re nearly rendered speechless. Cupping his face softly in one hand.

“This is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you,” you sniff, a stray tear cascading down your cheek as you smile at him through watery eyes.

He swipes his thumb on your cheek, wiping away your tear.

“Of course, baby.”

You capture his lips in a languid, sweet kiss. Sighing into each other as you wrap a hand around his neck, carding your fingers through his hair. Frankie cupping the back of your head, deepening the kiss.

Parting for air, he rests his forehead against yours - toothy grins adorning your faces.

“Come on, princesa. Eat before it gets cold.”

The two of you share breakfast in bed before getting ready for the day.

Frankie spends the rest of the day spoiling you - taking you to a surprise nail appointment he’d booked. He’d headed home unbeknownst to you, setting up something else.

He picked you up, and the two of you landed in Barnes & Noble. Letting you go rampant, Frankie bought every book you wanted. He’d tucked them away safely in his trunk, reminding himself to take them out in the morning. You’d both decided to grab some dinner before heading out to the bars with some friends.

The bars are loud, particularly this karaoke bar. Although he despises karaoke, his love for you trumps his disdain. Seeing you sing your heart out on stage with your friends - the people who always show up for you - makes his heart swell. Your happiness is his.

Frankie nurses a glass of whiskey the entire night, allowing you to have your fun with everyone. He can sense your exhaustion, your telltale yawn is his silent cue that it’s time to call it a night.

Bidding everyone good night, you and Frankie walk hand-in-hand to his truck. Heading home after a day well spent. Giddiness radiating from both of you on the drive home, excited to finally have some privacy.

You two could barely keep your hands off each other the second you stepped out of the truck. Both of you stumble into the house, giggling through the tender kisses. Frankie tosses the truck keys onto the table in the foyer and flicks on the lamp before cupping your face again. Both of you refuse to part for air as he attempts to stealthily guide you into the living room.

Something brushes against your head, making you break away and whip your head around. A soft gasp is punched from your lungs, your eyes glimmering at the sight in front of you.

Balloons hang throughout the living room leading into the kitchen as a bouquet of flowers sits on the coffee table. Frankie grabs your hand, pulling you out of your trance, weaving through the trail of balloons as he leads you into the kitchen. Tears well in your eyes at the gesture. A small cake in your favorite color sits on the table, next to a card and another vase of flowers - tulips specifically, your favorite flowers.

He fishes for a lighter in his pocket, showing you how prepared he was for this moment. Lighting the candles, he pulls you into his embrace, your back flushed against his chest.

“Surprise, princesa,” he whispers. A watery chuckle bubbles from within your chest, sniffling while he softly sings his own rendition of ‘happy birthday’ in your ear as he sways you side to side. The glow from the candles illuminating the blinding smile on your face.

“Make a wish, birthday girl,” he whispers, placing a tender kiss to the shell of your ear.

You close your eyes, wishing for this love, this life with him for eternity. Leaning forward slightly, you blow out the candles before falling back into Frankie’s arms. He gives you a gentle squeeze before turning you around to face him.

Gently kissing you, you yelp in surprise when he swipes frosting on your nose.

“Couldn’t resist, sorry, bebita. Que le muerda,” he says with a wink. Playfully scolding him, you reach behind you to scoop frosting on your fingers and smear it on his cheek.

Frankie smirks, “Oh you think that’s funny?” You nod, snickering as you lick your fingers. He reaches for the cake, gathering more frosting on his fingers. Smearing it all along your lips and chin, you burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Normally, you hate the tradition of taking a bite of the cake - it usually leads to having your whole face smashed into it, makeup ruined. But with Frankie, it’s not done with malice, not done to embarass you. It’s playful, fun - like the life you’ve built with each other.

Before you can retaliate, Frankie swoops in and slots your lips together. The sugar from the frosting combined with the glass of whiskey he had at the bar makes for a full-bodied kiss. Giggling like a pair of school kids, you and Frankie clean each other up with some paper towels.

"You missed a spot, bebita," he says, gesturing to the bottom of your lip.

"Oh!" You swipe your lip. "Did I get it?"

He grins. "Almost. Let me help you, hermosa," he says before crashing his lips onto yours.

Shared laughter resumes as he guides you into the living room, never letting your lips part. He accidentally bumps into the coffee table as he moves onto the couch. He smiles into the kiss as you laugh at his clumsiness. He plops down, grabbing your hips and tugging you onto his lap.

His large, rough hands squeezing your plush thighs before giving your ass a firm squeeze. Eliciting a surprised hum from you, you part from him with heavy eyes and a dopey smile. Frankie mirroring your expression.

“You have a good day today, baby?” He asks softly, timidly awaiting your answer.

You fervently nod. “The best. Thank you so much, baby - for this, for everything.” You say, gesturing to his hard work.

“Of course, bebita. Least I could do,” he rasps against your skin, littering kisses along your neck. A content sigh leaves your lips, basking in the love he showers you in daily.

“Baby?”

He hums in response.

“When did you find the time to even do all this?” You ask, carding your fingers through his hair as you straddle him, his lips still connected to your throat. He lifts his head, locking eyes with you.

“Did it all this afternoon while you got your nails done. I bought all the balloons and blew ‘em up on my lunch break yesterday and just kept ‘em all at work. The flowers, I went right after I dropped you off at your appointment to get them before I went to pick up the balloons and your cake from my fridge at work. Knew I could surprise you one day,” he explains with a wink.

You feel your heart grow 10 sizes bigger, a swarm of butterflies flutter throughout your tummy.

He’d done all this for you.

Tears sting your eyes again, a soft smile on your face - one only reserved for him.

“Frankie,” you whine in protest, your gaze shifting to the side as guilt floods you.

As if he can read your mind, Frankie grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Uh uh. I don’t want to hear it. I wanted to do this for you. It’s your special day. Now I know this day isn’t the easiest for you, but I want to make it easy. I want to make everyday easy, the same way you make loving easy. You deserve the whole world and more. And I’ll work everyday to give it to you. Let me celebrate my favorite day, my perfect girl. Because on this day those years ago, the world got brighter. And 2 years ago, my world did too.”

Overwhelmed by his devotion, you shamelessly let your tears fall. Love seeping from your eyes and onto your cheeks, Frankie draws you in gently. Kissing you with such tenderness, cradling your face as if you were the most delicate diamond in the universe, your cheeks wetting his. He pulls back, swiping those tears, mirroring each other's small smiles.

“I love you, bebita,” he says, his voice hushed and husky.

“I love you too, Frankie. Thank you for today, for all of this, baby. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had, all thanks to you. You always make me feel so loved, and I hope you know just how much I love you. Eres el amor de mi vida,” you choke out.

“Of course, baby. I’d do anything and everything for you, princesa. Loving you is the easiest thing in the world. I do know how much you love me, you show me everyday, bebita. I’ve got you, baby. Always. Eres mi amor, mi luz, mi vida, mi luna y todas mis estrellas. Eres mi todo. Te amo mucho, con todo mi corazón, bebita,” he whispers against your lips.

Melding your lips together, your combined hums ring in the air as you vehemently consume one another.

He shifts his grip to your thighs, tightening his hold on you as he rises to his feet.

“Frankie, stop! I’m too heavy, you’re gonna hurt your back!” You yelp as he carries you up the stairs, the whispers of insecurity creep into your head.

“Hush, bebita. My back is fine. I’ve never thrown it out any of those other times I carried you before, and I’m not about to start now. You’re never too heavy. ‘Sides, how many times have I tossed your sexy ass around in bed? Hm?” He asks as he turns the corner, leading you to your shared room.

He immediately rids your mind of any insecurities as he’s met with your silence. Bashfulness coursing through your veins as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck..

“Exactly. That's what I thought,” he says as he kicks the door open, tossing you onto the bed. You yelp as you bounce in the air, Frankie’s pupils dilate - blown black and wide.

Your head resting on a pillow with dress ridden up your thighs, exposing your panties to him as your breasts nearly spill over the low neckline.

He pulls your shoes off, his following suit as tosses them off to the side. Snaking his hands up your thighs, he grabs the hem of your tights.

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” he warns before yanking them down, tearing them in the process. It’s unbelievably feral, how swiftly he ripped the tights in two. You gasp as another wave of arousal pools in between your thighs.

He hovers over you, hands trailing up your tummy and cupping your breasts. He captures your lips in his, patience thrown to the wind as his tongue invades your mouth. Sucking in your bottom lip between his teeth, you moan as he bites down. The slight sting only sending more slick to seep from your weeping cunt.

You eagerly fumble with the hem of his shirt as you moan into his mouth. His chest rumbles with a small chuckle, before parting from your lips. He quickly yanks it over his head and tosses it to the floor, refocusing on your lips.

He snakes his hands down to your waist where your dress is bunched up. Slowly raking it up your body, you lift yourself up so he can pull it off you. Frankie licks his lips. He knew you’d been wearing one of his favorite lacy bras, but it’s such a sight for him every time.

Sloppy kisses are exchanged while he slickly maneuvers to unhook your bra, lifting you slightly and discarding it on the floor. He kisses down your bare breasts, sucking a nipple in his mouth while he fiddles with his belt. Frankie releases your nipple with a lewd pop and shucks off his jeans and briefs, his hard cock throbbing.

Both of you bared naked, on display for each other.

“So fucking beautiful, baby. The most beautiful woman on Earth,” he rasps, nearly to himself.

Heat radiates throughout your body, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears and a fire simmering in your belly as he slides down to position himself in front of your bare sex.

Frankie insatiably licks his lips, feasting his eyes on your glistening folds. As if he’s about to devour the finest meal. He peppers kisses along your soft thighs, making you twitch under his grasp.

Your clit throbs, aching for attention. Whining, your hips buck up into his face as he presses a tender kiss to your mound.

“I got you, bebita,” he whispers against your core. He dives in, tongue licking languid stripes up your folds. Frankie groans at the taste, something he’ll never get enough of.

Flicking your clit combined with the vibrations of his groans draws out a high-pitched moan from you, your head sinking further into the pillow. His tongue prods your entrance, slurping up your slick.

“S-so fucking good, Frankie. A-always so f-fucking good to me,” you keen as the flames in your belly fan into a fully-fledged fire. Panting and whimpering, you squirm beneath his hold as he relentlessly flicks your pearl.

He grips your thighs tighter as he suckles your clit between his lips, humming into you. Stars burst behind your eyes as you're engulfed by your orgasm.

“I’m gonna cum, Frankie! I’m gonna-,”

You're cut off by a never-ending stream of moans, babbling incoherently about how good Frankie is. Tugging on his hair as you fall over the edge.

He lets out an animalistic groan as he laps at your slick, slurping up every last drop. Savoring the tangy sweetness seeping from your aching cunt, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at the taste. He takes great pleasure in getting you off.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your body, glistening in the warm glow of the room. Frankie presses a chaste kiss to your thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze before towering over you.

Your eyes heavy and glossed over with bliss. Whimpering into him as he presses his lips to yours, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Sweeter than any fucking cake, bebita,” he jokes, getting a giggle out of you. You bring him down to meet your lips again. Humming as you feel his hard length graze against your bare sex.

Precum weeps from his tip, lightly smearing on your mound. A soft moan slips from you as Frankie lines his cock up with your pussy. He swirls the tip around your mound, gathering your slick on his cock as he teasingly prods your entrance.

“Frankieee, please. Need you inside me,” you whine, rutting your hips seeking relief.

“Relax, hermosa. Like I said, I got you.”

He slowly slips inside, your dripping pussy welcoming him in with ease. Your walls flutter around him, adjusting to his size. Moaning in tandem as he slides home, bottoming out. He’s so big, he’s already kissing your cervix.

You clench around him, panting as the sting from the stretch of his cock morphs into pleasure. Frankie lets out a moan, huffing as he tries to keep his composure.

“Don’t do that, baby. Or else it’ll be over before it even started,” he grunts above you.

“Then how about you fuck me, Morales? ‘S my birthday, I want you - need you, baby,” you whine.

“Oh I’m gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna have you fucking stumbling all over the place after this,” he slurs, nearly drunk on just being inside your warm walls.

Without preamble, he swiftly draws his hips back before slamming into you. You unabashedly scream, not caring that your neighbors will probably hear you.

Your noises drive Frankie wild, spurring him on to bring you to your orgasm. His pace picks up, unrelenting as he cants his hips into yours - pushing himself deeper and deeper with each thrust as he hovers above you.

His chest brushes against yours as his thrusts grow sloppy.

“Feel good, bebita? Huh? Feel me here, in your stomach?” He taunts, pressing down on your stomach as he punches your g-spot. The added pressure makes the coil in your belly tighten, burning white hot as he fucks in and out of you.

“Answer me, baby,” he growls against your lips, the angle he’s at hitting that spot just right.

“Y-Yes, Frankie! Feels s-sooo fucking g-good! Gonna feel you for d-days,” you shriek, hiccupping as tears prick the corners of your eyes. Squeezing around him as your second orgasm rapidly approaches.

“That’s right, baby. Your pussy feels so fucking good, so fucking tight. I could live between these fucking thighs. Like you were made for me,” he babbles, moaning as you clench around him.

“Made for you, Frankie. Only you,” you whisper, the air being punched from your lungs with every thrust.

“Cum for me, bebita. Dámelo, wanna see your gorgeous face when you soak my cock. Come on, baby,” he grunts, holding out on his orgasm - set on making you cum first.

His words toss you over the edge. The coil snapping in your belly as you writhe beneath him, riding out your orgasm, gushing all over his cock.

“Fuck yes, bebita. Good girl, good fucking girl,” Frankie grits as he continues to fuck you through your high. His own orgasm not far behind.

“Cum, Frankie, f-fill me up, baby, please!” You beg breathlessly as you come down from your high.

He moans, chasing his high as he ruts into you. Moaning in tandem as he fills you with his load. Both of you sticky and clammy, covered in sweat and cum. He topples over you, caging you in between his broad biceps.

Small lingering kisses trail along your neck as you bask in each other's proximity and warmth. The post-coital bliss sinking in. You wrap your arms around his taut back, running your fingers through his disheveled curls.

“Love you so much, Frankie," you whisper into his ear.

“Love you so much more, princesa."

Translations:

Que le muerda - bite it

Eres el amor de mi vida - you are the love of my life

Eres mi amor, mi luz, mi vida, mi luna y todas mis estrellas. - you are my love, my light, my light, my moon and all my stars. You are my everything

Eres mi todo - you are my everything

Te amo mucho, con todo mi corazón, bebita - I love you so much, with all my heart, baby girl.

Dámelo - give it to me

hehehehe can you tell Frankie is rotting my brain?

this was definitely my most vulnerable piece yet, as it contains aspects authentic to me so i was very nervy to post. like i said, i hope you found some relatability, and enjoyed!

anyway, happy frankie friday!! thank you so much for reading!! 🩷

tag list: @nostalxgic @sweetercalypso @undrthelights @gracieheartspedro @sapphic-gardn @bastardmandennis @party-hearses @tinygarbage @mandoisapunk @pedrostories @harriedandharassed

[luvaaiko]

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊ 𝙘𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙡𝙤 𝙭 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙖 𝙜𝙛

𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘷𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

𝗧𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆 11:38 am

chris babyyy

eating breakfast rn text me when u wake up

🧸🧸

Good morning pretty

You slept okay?

like a fucking baby😂

they gotta slip nyquils in the daiquiris bc the way i

knocked out was crazy

🧸🧸

😭😭😭

It might be the sun too

You know it makes you tired ma

yeahh

🧸🧸

Falling asleep in the pool headass

okay relax

that happened like 2 times

anywaysss what u doingggg?

🧸🧸

just brushed my teeth😁

read 12:11 pm

look what madison bought

🧸🧸

aww cute

I miss you so much rn

😕😕baby i miss u too

nick texted me last night saying u looked so sad

like your dog died

🧸🧸

of course he did Lmfao

I love all the pictures you've been sending me though

Making me feel like i'm there with you

i wish u were

come out to prrrr

🧸🧸

when I actually pull up don't act suprised😭

i'm being so serious

🧸🧸

just bought my ticket mama

:))))🥰🥰🥰

i'm sending u so so many besos omgg

that just made me so happy

🧸🧸

And that's what i'm always gonna do

you know this

see you in 2 days🙂

© luvaaiko

pt 2 coming soon