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norikuna · 2 months ago

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SALVATORE — jujutsu kaisen x reader minors dni

prologue. → going on summer vacations with the jjk men and things get a little...hotter?

pairings. satoru gojo x afab!reader / suguru geto x afab!reader / nanami kento x afab!reader / choso kamo x afab!reader / ryomen sukuna x afab!reader / toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings+. non-sorcerer/jujutsu au, from the back, exhíbitíonism, mild food play, ríding, máting press, creámpíe, against the wall, oral (f. receiving), fíngeríng, hey even in a cave! reader is called good girl, princess, baby, darling, my love.

word count. 4.1k! song inspiration. salvatore — lana del rey

a/n. update #1 writing this fic had me looking up shit on wikipedia pages abt cities around the world, had me checking meteorology maps...tried to choose cities i've been to but i was still racking my brains. update #2 btw whenever i write smut like this i'm filled with outstanding self awareness and minor shame but thats the fun of it 😭 this is day no.3 of me trying to rewrite this all from scratch update #3 day 4! fawkkkk i wanna go on holiday too now. lmao if i was in the sukuna one, i would have been mad as hell, istanbul is stunning <3

mp3. everything looks better from above my king, like aqua marine, ocean's blue

TOJI FUSHIGURO — all the lights in miami begin to gleam 📍 miami, america

"o-oh, fuck. think she's really tellin' me to keep going like this, don'tcha think?"

your boyfriend is mean when he's like this. sharp, jade eyes narrowed as they take in the sight of your puffy folds swallowing him up over and over as he's stuffing himself into your sticky walls. and if you turn your head away, from where you're smashed against the pillow, you can see the floor-to-wall ceilings of the high-rise penthouse that offers an uninterrupted view of miami's glittering skyline.

"how - how, did you even get this place, hah, toji?" it's a wonder you can even get a coherent sentence out right now, your guts are practically being stuffed with inches of your boyfriend's veiny cock, and it's leaving you, well, delirious.

but with humble credit and thanks to what you can assume is your own nasty grip, toji's not faring much better either. his brawny frame is practically shuddering, and while you can't see his face in this position, you're certain that a sharp canine has sunk into his lip, and his breath is coming out in hulking groans.

"heh, you're n-not meant to ask questions like that, princess? gotta, ohhh, gotta keep some business s-secrets up my sleeve, huh?" and he's practically a beast right now, handling you on all fours of this king-sized bed, draped in silk sheets the colour of red wine, "just a reward for a-, haah, a job well done."

any job well done from toji was most likely something illegal, but you can't even bring yourself to care, not when there's a bucket of chilled champagne on the glass table to your left, and certainly not when his fat cock is smearing right through you, leaving a coil in your abdomen that only he can unravel.

you whine, feeling the fat tip of his cock practically rummage and make a home in your cunt, "toji, wan' more," and you're pushing the plush of your ass against his pumping hips, and you hear his sharp intake of breath.

a rough hand has snaked underneath you, creating a small gap between you and the bunched-up fabric on the bed, and his callous fingertips are now circling sloppy, messy circles over your clit, leaving you bucking in his hold.

"n-now, stay still, princess. not done with you yet."

SUGURU GETO — ciao, amore. soft ice-creams. 📍 amalfi coast, italy

you're not sure how long you've been trembling under suguru's mouth, but it must have been an eternity under the ministrations of his tongue.

the sun has been blazing high, casting a golden glow over this part of the private beach, hidden away from the towns bustling with tourists like yourselves who had descended upon the coast for the summer.

soft waves lapped in ebbing waves, the rhythm breaking the perfect stillness of the afternoon, in this wooden cabana, separated from the terracotta villas.

and no, your mind was nowhere near admiring the turquoise waters of the ocean, but rather your lover's mouth practically exploring every inch of your cunt like this.

the tapered tip of his tongue had long been probing around your fluttering pussy, taking in every last drop of your pearlescent luster that was practically dripping over his chin.

not to mention the absolutely sticky and languid trails of melting ice-cream, each biting cream drop that fell on your hot swollen folds getting promptly cleaned up by the one who was enjoying this sweet game.

"shhh! don't wanna get kicked off this beach, do ya, pretty?"

and suguru looks positively devious, his violet eyes gleaming with crude intent. his black hair is a tangled mess, long locks falling victim to your clawing nails that tumble carelessly over his bare back, kissed by the sun and glowing with a soft, rosy pink hue.

and when he smiles, the sunlight catches onto his lips, making the slick on his mouth sparkle and wink up at you.

"been - it's been an entire hour by now, can't you just let me cum," you huff, closing the plush of your thighs around his ears, boxing him in.

geto flashes you a mischievous grin, running a slow finger through your sopping folds, and lightly brushing over your entrance as you mewl again.

"where would the fun in that be, pretty?" he murmurs, "love seeing how wet this cunt gets for me, need to let me have my fun."

what a devil. clearly, getting under your skin is a sport for him.

you're hardly given a moment to breathe before he's jostling two thick digits right into the thick of it once more, in and out, in and then out, as his thumb find its home on the slope of your bare mound again.

"besides, we can take it slow for 'nother hour, can't we?" and now suguru's toying with your clit, and his teeth lean down to graze the swollen, throbbing bud, "gotta see just how much you can beg for me."

NANAMI KENTO — catch me if you can, working on my tan 📍 gold coast, australia

"w-wait, darling," nanami shudders under your touch, under your fresh set of nails raking small patterns over his neck, "anyone could just walk past here, y'know."

you curl your lip, before pressing your mouth in an open mouthed kiss to his stretched neck, warm and flushed.

you can feel the galloping thrum of his pulse beneath your lips, the heat almost intoxicating, mingling with the faint tang of the pool water's chlorine, and the scent of banksia and frangipanis in the air.

you can also feel his thick cock dragging through your walls, as you ram the weight of your hips over and over again. it seems like the shimmering skyline of surfer's paradise was just what nanami needed, after months of work, and you're determined to make the most of your time here.

he's got you bouncing practically like a ragdoll, heavy balls swinging up and smacking your skin in what little space remains between the two of you, and he's panting into your chest, "whatd'ya gonna do if someone sees?"

"mhm, don' care, no-one's here, nanami."

his broad arms loop around you in the pool chair, as you straddle the sizeable bulge that's making a tent in his briefs, "nasty, sometimes, aren'tcha?"

you smile, as your husband's large hands roam over your back, making you arch your back into his touch — as he deftly pulls at the tight knot holding your damp bikini top together.

"ah, don't get shy now. let me see these," and you can only nod hazily as he lets your tits spill out, and press up against his bare, chiselled torso, "wanted this so bad, just a minute ago, yeah?"

"s-still want this," and for good measure, you grind your hips down over his cock with even more pressure, feeling him jolt with a quiet 'fuck!' underneath you.

"haah, that's not fair, darling," and he's crashing his weeping, curved tip so far into you, that you're certain you're seeing stars on the saltwater horizon, "what happened to playing nice?"

you know you should be weary of the flicker of challenge that glints in his stern brown eyes, softened by the haze of your squelching cunt, "do y-your worst, otherwise what? can't keep up?"

a cocky smile curves over his mouth, and that's the wave of satisfaction you were looking for, hoping that he'd take the bait.

he leans further back in the pool chair, now with an arm wrapped lazily around your gyrating hips, but you can feel his grip tighten, stealing the humid air right out from under you, "we'll see who can't play nice when you're begging for my cock to fill you up."

CHOSO KAMO — all the lights are sparkling for you, it seems 📍santorini, greece

"hey, shh, shhh..."

choso's voice is a low rumble as he glides his thick, leaking tip down your slick core, and you shiver as the cool ocean breeze mixes with the warm slick gathering between your bodies, "w-wow, you're doing so good, handling it so well, my love."

you must have made a good choice, choosing this suite. one carved seamlessly into the tan-rock of one of the island's famous caves. and well, your sweet boyfriend has been fucking you so incredibly that you feel your eyes start to water, blear away from the pretty blue and terracotta accents on the mantelpiece.

his girthy cock sinking into you send shivers to your pussy that leave you fluttering and squeezing around him tighter, clenching around the veins as he sinks even deeper, so the thickened head is practically kissing your cervix, and filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

"d-does it feel good for you too, cho?” you gasp, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, fingers playing with the soft choppy strands that fall around his shoulders, "this...this is what you wanted, right, baby?"

the pale mauve of his lips curves into a faint smile, and despite the sharpness of his thrusts making a home in your gummy walls, there's a tenderness in his shadowed, hazel eyes as his palm glides down your torso, cupping your tits gently, "w-would go anywhere in the world, if it was with you."

and he's looking at you with such love that you just cannot help but believe him when he says, no, shudders out a "you're so beautiful."

the sound of the water lapping against the rocks below fills the room, mixing with your soft whimpers, as the slow roll of choso's hips leave your puffy folds weeping. the thick, throbbing head of his cock brushes against your g-spot, right there, and you moan, lost in the sensation.

"god, y-you’re so good at this," he breathes into your ear, his voice hoarse and strained, and suddenly far more shaky, "ah - could do this forever."

"w-will you?" you whisper, eyes fluttering as you lose yourself in what is surely ropes of stringy white cum painting you lovingly inside, "wan' feel you all the time, cho."

choso's misty, flushed gaze locks onto yours, filled with a heat that makes your heart race, and fireworks shoot through your abdomen, "think you're g-gonna be my wife someday, yeah?"

you bite your lip, a shy smile painting your face despite the way that he's practically jostling inch after inch into your pussy, pressing into you like a vice, "really mean t-that, cho?"

"ahh, 'course i do," he shudders, brushing a thumb down the swan-arch of your neck, "now, hold onto me."

RYOMEN SUKUNA — dying by the hand of a foreign man, happily 📍istanbul, turkey

"huhh, oh my god! you're an animal," you huff at your fiancé, who's currently sprawled on the plush bed underneath your straddling thighs, under the sheer curtains that billow softly in the warm breeze from the open latticework windows.

and right now, sukuna looks like a mess.

and it brings you a great deal of satisfaction to see your usually composed and aloof fiancé so undone and disheveled, as he grins up at you — the black markings on his face creasing with the movement.

his rosy-pink hair is a tangled heap, but you can't resist running your fingers through the short, tousled spikes.

and his lips, which have been marking you up consistently for the past ten minutes, gleam glossy and full, as his crimson eyes lock onto yours with the smug satisfaction of a cat who's gotten its way.

he'd barely waited a mere minute after the two of you had arrived back to your hostel's room, from a whirlwind tour of the sultanahmet district, before he had pounced on you, and had practically tore your long skirt off.

you don't quite think it's worth mentioning that you've been pawing equally at your boyfriend in the same time as well, pulling his thick and lengthy shaft out of the confines of his boxers, and swiping a thumb over the angrily-gleaming tip.

"d-didn't even take a second to think about all the places we just saw? the history lessons, and - sukuna, were you even listening?"

by now, you're fighting back heaving shivers at the way the pads of his calloused fingers run under your top.

"hah! yeah, yeah. history and all that," he murmurs, low and amused, but his focus is clearly elsewhere, his lips now resuming their previous task of snapping at your torso, letting pretty berry-red marks beam.

you roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at the corners of your own glossy mouth, "y-you're impossible," and you try not to squirm as his forefinger and thumb on each hand pinch at a nipple under your top, "don' even know why i bothered bring this...this camera around. the guide said that these sights were o-once, oh fuck, sukuna, get a grip, said the sights were once-in-a-lifetime b-breathtaking."

"breathtaking, huh?" sukuna shifts closer to you, scooting you further over his wide lap, and his voice has dropped to a low and sultry whisper that sends a shiver down your spine, and leaves you aching, "i think you're breathtaking. wan' explore this," and here, he snaps at the elastic band of your lace panties, "instead."

"and besides, i was listening," and now, he's patting his sculpted, exposed thighs behind the plush of your ass on him, "the guide said that this city straddles two continents."

he's emphasising his words with a deliberate tap, clearly hoping you'd catch the awful word-play.

"say something like that again, and i'm booking the next flight home."

"hah, so now you hate it when i am cultured."

by now, his two rough hands kneading at you has left you...airless. thick heat has been pooling in your core, and you just can't help but let out a soft whimper, "sukuna…only wanted y-you to focus."

he shakes his messy head, laughter rumbling deep in his chest, under thick pectoral muscles, "no can do, brat. you’re my focus now. done enough sightseeing outside today, wanna do something inside."

"you’re impossible!" but you gasp as he skims a thumb over your cloying, dewy clit, making you jolt.

you know he must be in a rare, mellowed mood because he breathes, "impossibly in love with you," and it's quiet, teasing as the heat of his breath ghosts over your skin, "now tell me how much you want this, and maybe i'll think about giving you a different type of lesson."

franky, by now you want nothing more than to be filled with heavy, hot inches that curl into you, sloshing their way to the most sensitive spot of all, and sukuna must see that on your face.

"i -," you begin, but the words falter as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, and the weeping tip of his cock taps against the wet pool staining your underwear darkly translucent.

"just say it, brat. tell me how bad you want it, i'll even be nice this time," he urges, his voice a sultry purr, "just gon' give it to you as you ask, yeah?"

"wan' you in me, 'kuna," you finally admit, breathless, "i want you so much it hurts."

"good girl," he mutters, his eyes darkening with desire. "now you're getting the right idea."

you sigh, content, but then still your rocking hips suddenly, "but after this, we're still going out to the bazaar for dinner."

"for fuck's sake."

GOJO SATORU — like a boss, you sang jazz and blues 📍paris, france

you're not quite sure where exactly you should be training your ears, whether you should be listening to the sultry notes of a saxophone that wrap around the plush velvet booth where you and gojo are seated.

or the thick, clingy swish of his fingers practically bullying themselves in and out of your pussy. the air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars that make you wrinkle your nose, and fine whiskey (that makes gojo wrinkle his nose) and the sweet tang of your own slick, privately, just for the two of you.

your boyfriend sits close to you, his left hand tight on your waist, and the other working a fine instrument, bunching up underneath your ysl silk dress.

"baby, look at how your perfect cunt's talkin' to me," he's whispering, and you can hear the sheer glee in his voice, his breath hot against your ear.

meanwhile, your jaw is slack and you're doing your best to not meet his touch with a sultry, rhythmic grind of your own hips, but the knot is quickening and tightening within you.

but gojo just smiles, and you can see the blue in his eyes darken underneath his sunglasses that have slipped slightly down the slope of his nose, "but can't have everyone hearing this melody, can we? might think you were the main fuckin' attraction for the night and not -" he cocks his head to the quartet serenading the paris night sky, and the other patrons of this filthy wealthy club.

you just sink your teeth into your painted lip, suppressing a whine as he curls three fingers within you, reeling you entirely pliant and having you lean against his broad chest under his jacket, "b-but satoru, 'm getting close."

he's being awful, you think. and when he had pulled his hand out earlier, it had been entirely coated in a ribbon of your arousal, the slow syrup beginning to run down his slender digit, but he had parted his lips and let not a drop go to waste on his tongue.

the music is swelling, it's a jazzy crescendo that fills the air, and your gaze hazes and wonders, focusing on the open window where the eiffel tower stands ablaze in lights. soft gasps are escaping your lips, when gojo starts slamming his fingers up and up further, right up to his glossy knuckle, clearly searching for your g-spot.

and you are so glad that this booth is turned away from the rest of the club's patrons, for if they saw you, it would be no secret as to what exactly was going on underneath your gown.

"focus on me, love. just focus on how you're soaking me."

he's pressing his fingers impossibly deeper, stroking your walls in a way that make it impossible to think of anything else but him.

"gojo, please…" you breathed, struggling to keep your voice low, "what if someone sees?"

he laughs, pressing his mouth to your neck, and you know he's inhaling the new scent that you had picked up at the luxury flagship stores earlier, his treat.

"let them. paid good enough money to get in here," and now he's getting more insistent, practically ravishing your aching pussy now, "besides, they wanna say anything about it? i'll cut out their tongue."

"p-pretty sure that's, mmph, i'm sure that's i-illegal, 'toru."

"don't want your pretty head thinking about anything else right now, 'kay?" and god, it's one of life's greatest works, how he just knows how to work his magic like this, and the way that he's pinching, rolling and twirling his fingers has you convinced that the holy six-eyes technique, passed down in the sacred tradition of the gojo clan, is being put to nasty work.

sure enough, a little spark! there, and a bigger zap! against your clit practically confirms your suspicions, as does the unearthly glow you catch in gojo's wide eyes, and you can feel yourself hurtling towards a precipice, panting open-mouthed against him.

"dirty girl, you don’t want to make a scene, do you?" he says this like he was not the one who pulled you into this booth, and palmed his way up your slip-dress. like he's not the one who tore into your lace panties, and shoved them into his pocket.

"it feels so good, satoru,” you babble, barely able to contain yourself, as he scissors his fingers wide, nudging your walls apart, "i can’t — "

"then don't," he interrupted, his voice low and commanding, "just let it happen. i want to hear you, i wanna hear her too, but only if you can keep it down."

you nodded, breathless, watching as waiters in impeccable black-and-white attire glide between the tables, carrying trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres and glasses of dom pérignon.

"good girl," he murmured, his fingers curling just right, pushing you closer to that exquisite precipice, "now, be quiet and enjoy the moment."

just as he pinches your clit, you feel everything around fall away in shattering starfall. bolts of lightning shoot and splash through your lungs, stilling your heart, leaving your cunt pulsing with a life of its own, fluttering against satoru's fingers which still haven't stopped.

it's only then you realise that the band has stopped playing, and the other patrons of the clubs are leaning out of their seats, slapping their hands together in fervount applause.

but you can only stare, dazed and boneless from the remnants of an excellent fucking orgasm, as gojo leans in, just over the shell of your ear.

"how about we go back to the hotel room? wanna see an encore?"

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rqnarok · 2 months ago

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old man!logan as an older boyfriend!!!

cws/tags: smut, mdni! fem!reader. virginity kink.

Logan’s got his eyes on you for a while now. How can he not? You’re always dolled up and looking so pretty every time he meets you. And when you show an interest in him? Oh, he’s gone.

He first thought of how much of a sick fuck he is. Basically preening over someone far too young for his 200-year-old age. Someone who doesn’t know the shit he has done, the blood he’s got in his bare hands.

But when you purposely tease him—telling him that he looks so handsome with the blue flannels he’s got on whilst seductively draping your legs over his—Logan lets the chains loose.

However, everything turned out to not be that easy. Old man Logan managed to recite his younger self and be a huge tease. You soon find out that he loves taunting you, watching his girl turn into a desperate thing in just a matter of minutes.

“Ya’ already dripping f’me, sweet girl?”

Oh, and he refuses to take your virginity despite anything. Of course, you’re his everything but he’s still unsure of himself…he’s an old man with all those past traumas bundled up, y’know ;(

Sat on one of his thighs, you’d rub your clothed pussy back and forth against his pants, whining out into his neck and beard due to the overstimulation of your sensitive clit. One of his hands rested on your back—guiding you through it—while another hand held one of his cigars. Puffing the smoke cloud into another side as his eyes are fixed on you.

“Needy little thing, huh? Can’t pop your cherry yet, dolly.” He coos at you, tightly gripping your sides after he feels the heat of your pussy on him.

You have done everything to lure him—moaning and panting; calling out his name; presenting yourself by spreading your wet folds; letting him admire your bare form as you stroke his girthy length—whining for just an inch, ‘just the tip’ you’d say.

And Logan finally did it. All that pent-up desire is released while he ruts and pounds at you relentlessly, slamming inside you at a steady cruel pace, his reading glasses still resting on the tip of his nose.

“Tis what ya’ wanted, hm, baby?” Logan groans out a deep growl after seeing how well you take his seed, how well you take him for the first time.

“Need’a cum, pleaseplease—Ah!” Your hair is a mess all over, your cheeks are flushed, and your body shudders in a euphoric state. Logan would reach out and circle around your needy button—making you cream around him and gripping his scarred arm for support.

“Wha’s that? Feels good? Too good?”

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett smut #old man logan x reader #old man logan #wolverine smut #logan by nina <3

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ohbueckers · 4 months ago

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EXTRA POINTS. blurb!

pairing, paige bueckers x fem!reader. notes, glasses p fic per request of a few queens… MAMA WORKED AS FAST AS SHE COULD! @thaatdigitaldiary @absolutelydreadful & credits to @justliketoreadsowhat ‘s anon for the detail. warnings, none just fluff? sexual jokes as well because who am i without them, like…

the night air is still pretty warm, the scent of freshly cut grass still tingling your nostrils after the soccer game you attended with paige and her teammates. it had been a long night—filled with cheering, concessions, and paige’s arm constantly draped around your shoulder as she proudly showed you off. she somehow convinced you to tag along, but watching her light up during the game made it worth it.

now, you’re walking back to the dorms, the sound of sneakers and laughter being the only thing heard off the empty sidewalks as the team stalks a few yards in front of the two of you. paige has her hair slicked back into a messy low bun, a few strands falling loose, and her purple glasses perched perfectly on the bridge of her nose. the lenses catch a subtle blue tint from the streetlights, a little detail you can’t stop staring at—honestly, she looks so good, it’s borderline unfair. you never thought purple glasses could be your weakness, but here you are.

“you enjoying the ice cream, or are you too busy staring at me?” paige teases, glancing over with that signature smirk. she knows exactly what she’s doing, making it impossible to look away from her.

“shut up, paige,” you reply with a scoff, although there’s no ruthless intent as you nudge her with your elbow. “i’m just enjoying the quiet now that your fan club’s calmed down.”

“oh, you love it!” she laughs out, throwing an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer. “don’t act like you don’t love watching me be all famous and stuff. plus, you looked cute taking all those pics with me. so i ain’t complainin.’”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile creeping up on your face. paige had been asked for a picture more times than you could count on your hands, and obviously the tiktoks came with that. she’d dragged you into most of it, keeping you close the whole time, making sure everyone knew you were hers. it was chaotic and you were used to it at this point, and you could admit there was something fun about watching her be in her element.

“alright, maybe it was kinda fun,” you say, taking a bite of the spoonful of ice cream she’d held out for you so casually. the cold hits your tongue, and you savor the flavor for a second before narrowing your eyes at her. “but you still owe me.”

paige jerks her head back, grinning and clearly enjoying herself. “owe you? i’m literally spoon-feeding you right now. how do i still owe you?”

you quirk an eyebrow up at her, leaning in a little as you held her gaze, and it was the kind of look that said enough.

she chuckles, leaning back slightly, still holding the spoon in front of you like she’s ready for round two. “aight, fine, i’ll give you that. but let me get you back at home, baby—i got some ideas.” her voice drops a little lower, clearly playing but also half-serious. she may be all jokes, but she definitely knows how to back them up.

before you can even respond, she takes her own spoonful of your ice cream, the nerve, flashing a cheeky grin before planting a wet, playful kiss right on your lips. the cold of the treat and the warmth of her mouth clash, leaving you squealing and half-laughing, trying to push her away. “paige!” you protest, wiping the ice cream from your lips, but there’s no hiding the wide smile breaking out across your face. she’s such a menace sometimes.

as if one cue, everyone seemed to have glanced back at the right time, catching sight of something straight out of a rom-com.

“yo! they really can’t keep their hands off each other.” kk’s voice cuts through.

“really can’t take them nowhere…” aubrey quips.

sarah laughs, chiming in. “oh, we see you, paige! real smooth,” and morgan practically doubles over in laughter beside her.

paige smirks, and you swore she would’ve thrown up those rizz hands if her hands weren’t full. “what can i say?” you smile yourself, shaking your head at her and leaning into the blonde’s side as the banter from behind fades into the background. as much as paige plays around, the way she’s been with you tonight—keeping you close, showing you off, feeding you ice cream like it’s the most natural thing in the world—it’s those little moments that make it so easy to fall for her. every laugh, every teasing smile, even the way she annoys you, it’s like she knows exactly how to keep your guard down. and honestly, you don’t mind one bit.

“you know, you didn’t have to buy me ice cream,” you say softly, looking up at her.

“nah, i did,” paige replies, her voice gentle. “had to make sure my girl knows i take care of her. plus,” she smirks again, looking away like she’s cooking up some mischievous ass reply. “i’m tryna’ score some extra points for later.”

you laugh, shoving her off of you yet she barely flinches. “yeah, okay, keep dreaming.”

paige pulls you even closer, kissing the side of your head as your arms fall to your sides. she murmurs, “dreaming? nah, i’m ms. make it happen.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers fanfiction #paige bueckers uconn #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #uconn #uconn huskies #uconn wbb #uconn women’s basketball #uconn x reader #paige bueckers headcannons #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige x reader

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fastandcarlos · 5 months ago

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Papa Is The Best : ̗̀➛ Daniel Ricciardo

summary: pregnancy is pretty tough for you, but luckily for you you've got the best man in the world there to always help you out when you need him

The little things that you used to find so easy suddenly became the hardest jobs in the world. Whilst you loved the fact that you were growing your own little human, it sure came with its moments when you wanted to give it all up. Luckily for you, Daniel was right by your side, always on hand with his wide smile.

“I’ve got these,” he told you, nudging you gently out the way as you went to pick out the grocery bags from the boot of the car, refusing to let you pick them up.

“I can carry one, they’re not that heavy.”

“No,” Daniel simply smiled back at you, struggling to hold onto all of the bags, but doing it anyway, not even giving you the chance to try and take one of them from him.

It was all the little things that Daniel did that took you by surprise, although you always knew that he was bound to be the most amazing father, you never expected him to prove himself so early. He had done plenty of research, constantly had his eyes on you, he was on it with everything.

At times it felt like you barely even had a second to breathe with Daniel watching over you. Any little thing that needed doing, he was there, if a task even looked as if it might be too tricky for you with your bump, he wouldn’t even let you try it, he’d just step in straight away and be there.

“What are you looking for?” He asked as he noticed you on your tiptoes, trying to look up into the cupboard for your favourite mug.

Before you even had chance to respond Daniel was there, arm draped over your shoulders as he followed your gaze. “Just that mug there,” you told him, pointing to the blue one that hid at the back of the shelf.

Daniel hummed, rising with ease and swiping the mug from the cupboard. “Are you wanting a cup of tea?”

“I can make it myself.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffed, putting the plug down on the kettle, “you go, relax, grow our child, I’ll make the cup of tea for you.”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

It was when you really started to suffer though that Daniel became your own little hero. In the blink of an eye, you found yourself huffing when you tried to stand up, or sighing because you couldn’t find the strength to turn yourself over in the middle of the night when your baby was unsettled.

“Oh no,” you muttered one afternoon, immediately capturing Daniel’s attention.

He rushed up from his seat and over to your side. “What? What is it?”

“It’s finally happened.”

Daniel looked to you with urgency and panic, trying his best to figure out what the problem was. Nothing seemed to be the matter, but he could never quite be sure with all the changes your body was going through.

“I’ve finally reached the stage in pregnancy when I can’t tie my own shoelaces anymore,” you cried out, throwing your head back in disbelief.

Daniel did the same as you, but his in relief, glad that it wasn’t something more serious. “You can’t scare me like that love, I thought you were about to go into labour or something.”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

The moment when your bump really started to show that made Daniel’s heart swell however. He knew you were struggling for confidence as your stretch marks began to get more prominent, but he had never found himself more in love in his life. He laid back on the bed as you grabbed your cream to try and minimise the effects of the marks.

It hurt him to see you when you had those darker days, how you twirled around in the mirror and looked at the changes your body had gone through. Most of the time you knew how much of a beautiful thing it was, but there were those days sometimes when you weren’t quite so convinced. Today was one of those days, where you were frantic, desperate almost, to make sure that you took the best care of yourself.

His eyes watched intently as you squeezed some out into your hand, massaging it all over your bump to make sure you covered it all. You were just about to finish when Daniel’s tall figure appeared behind you, taking the cream from out of your hand.

“You missed a bit,” he told you, squeezing some into his own hand. He knelt down so that he could get underneath your bump, his fingers gently running along the bottom to cover the marks that you’d missed.

“How are you so attentive?” You chuckled, watching Daniel closely.

“Because I can’t get enough of you, especially whilst you’re pregnant.”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

His favourite time of the day was after you had finished your routine however, the time when you’d tuck yourself into bed and feel Daniel snuggle up behind you. His hands would dance over the top of your bump in search of any sort of movement from your little one.

Every time there was a little kick or a wriggle, laughter would come from behind you. It was something that Daniel just couldn’t get used to, no matter how hard he tried. Each kick hit him with disbelief, still stunned that the small human that was making those movements was weeks away from meeting him, weeks away from making him a father.

There were no words spoken between you both at night, as Daniel knew just how tired you were. He didn’t need to say anything though, just having him hold you was enough, and for him, being able to cuddle up to you and your bump was an indescribable feeling that he’d never get used to.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

With just a handful of weeks remaining, Daniel withdrew himself from work for a while. After a couple of near misses between you and a few accidents, he decided that he couldn’t let you out of his sight any longer.

“Where are you going?” He asked every single time you stood up from the sofa, refusing to let you out of his sight.

“I’m going to the toilet, if that’s alright with you?”

“Maybe,” he jokingly replied, “are you sure you can get there without any help?”

“I reckon I might just be alright.”

Although Daniel let you go, he still muted the television and hovered by the door to the living room, listening out just in case. He much preferred to be safe than sorry, even if some people did think he was a little too overprotective of you.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

That protectiveness came to the forefront when Daniel noticed you hunched over in the kitchen one afternoon. He almost smiled as he saw you, not that you were in pain, but that his latest bit of research could finally be used. As quietly as he could, Daniel came up behind you and placed your hands underneath your bump, lifting it gently.

A sigh of relief came from you as soon as the weight of your bump disappeared, tilting your head back so that you rested against Daniel’s chest. It was the most comfortable you had felt in your eight months of pregnancy, unable to believe the difference that Daniel had made.

“Where did you learn to do that?” You whispered, your voice much brighter than Daniel had heard it in a while. “It’s heavenly.”

“I read about it on a website, they said that it makes you feel like you’re not carrying your bump for a while,” he smiled down at you, pressing a kiss against the top of your head.

A hum came from you, not wanting Daniel to ever move from the position that he was in. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this right now Daniel.”

Seeing you so content was all that he ever wanted, at times during your pregnancy he felt pretty helpless, but right now he felt as if he was doing the best job in the world. The weight of it was nothing to Daniel, but he couldn’t imagine carrying it around all day like you did.

Your hands rested on top of your bump, keeping your eyes glancing up at Daniel. “I hope our baby knows that their papa is the best,” you whispered.

“He’s only the best because he’s got such an amazing woman whose about to be their mummy,” Daniel softly smiled in reply.

“I don’t say it enough, but thank you for everything you do for me. It turns out being pregnant is pretty tough.”

“You don’t ever have to thank me,” Daniel chuckled, “I love being here for you, sometimes I wish I could do more.”

“What you do now is perfect, you’re perfect.”

“I’m only perfect thanks to you my love.”

˗ˏˋ ��𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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munsonsmixtapes · 6 months ago

Note

I have a request for Tyler owens. Can the reader give him a little bit of body worship like she licks his abs and makes him insane with need until she sucks his cock and gives him the ride of his life

Tyler Owens x fem!reader

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) oral (m receiving) nipple play, mention of pregnancy

The hotel room was dim when you and Tyler entered it, your lips connected as you backed him up to the bed. He had been nothing but a gentleman during your date and you had every intention of worshiping him in return.

You pushed him down onto the bed and straddled his waist before unbuttoning his shirt, so slowly, wanting him to beg for it. And feeling his rock hard cock underneath you. He was right where you wanted him.

You looked down at him, his hair an absolute mess from your make out session just moments earlier in the elevator, his pupils blown, looking so hot underneath you.

As soon as you got his shirt unbuttoned, you pressed a kiss to his lips, moving over to his cheek, his jaw, then dropping an to his neck. You trailed kisses down to his collarbone, leaving behind multiple pecks.

“This is supposed to be about you,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s your birthday.” That was the whole reason why you had even gone out of town. He had taken you to New York since it was somewhere you always wanted to go and was fully intending on ravishing you after dinner. Why was he the one being pleasured?

“I’m trying to thank you, Ty,” you told him. “Will you please let me continue?” With the way you were begging, how could he not?

“Alright, hon, do whatever you want.” He laid back down on the bed and closed his eyes as you continued. Your lips moved further down his chest and he let out a gasp as your tongue swiped along his nipple. You then took it into your mouth and his hand grabbed at your dress, his nails digging into your back.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “You really know what you’re doing.”

“I learned from the best,” you winked before continuing to lick and suck on the sensitive skin, Tyler’s hands moving up your dress to scratch up and down your back. You then brought the thing between your teeth and gave it a soft bite, causing him to lose his absolute shit.

“Fuck,” he whined and you took that as an invitation to continue, loving that you could drive the man wild just like he always did to you.

You then moved onto the other nipple, giving it the same attention and now Tyler was scratching your back so hard that you could have sworn that he was going to draw blood. Once you had practically made him cream his pants, you kissed all the way down to where his pants started, unbuckling his belt then pulling then and his underwear down to the tops of his boots.

“Look at you, honey, already dripping for me. Need me to take care of you, hm?” You asked, taking his cock in your hand, slowly dragging it down to the base, hearing the most desperate whines climb up his throat.

“If you want it, you have to beg.” Tyler loved when you took control, absolutely eating up being told what to do.

“Please, honey,” he whined. “Need something.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” you batted your eyelashes at him then began to pump your hand, moving it up and down his dick slowly as you heard the most delicious moans fall from his lips.

Your pumps got faster and you could see his back arching as a scream ripped through him. That had to be a record of some sort, but you supposed that was only because you had been teasing him all night. You were eating your meal in such a sensual way and he was so close to dragging you to the bathroom to have his way with you.

Not only that, but you had looked so hot in the sparkly blue dress that he has bought for you, that there was no way he was going to last during dinner. And he didn’t. He had gotten so hard that he had to take off his suit jacket and drape it over his lap. You knew what you were doing and he was staring to realize that he had created a monster.

Once he had reached his orgasm, you let him take a break before you helped him sit up, spreading his legs so you could fit between them. You then took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the base and he was so close just from watching you.

He leaned back and gripped the bedding tight, his knuckles turning white as you worked on him. One of your hands rested on his knee while the other fisted his balls giving them such a tight squeeze that Tyler could have sworn that he was seeing stars.

You continued to lick and suck, slowly taking more of him into one mouth until you had fit all of him inside. Your eyes were watering and you felt like you were going to choke, but that hardly mattered. You were just so focused on pleasing your man.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, another scream fell from his lips and you felt his cum leak out onto your tongue. You pulled him from your mouth and swallowed before standing. You then reached to the back of your dress and slowly unzipped it, letting it pool at your feel before removing your heels.

Tyler was beyond overstimulated, but he didn’t care. He wanted you to ride him until the early morning. He looked up at you as you undressed, his mouth falling open as he thought again about how lucky he was to have you.

He kicked off his pants and shoes and moved further up the bed as he watched you strip, his eyes filling up with nothing but lust. Now he really needed you to fuck him.

You were standing fully naked in front of him and for a second, it felt like his birthday. You pushed him down on the bed, pinning him there with your hands on his shoulder. You then straddled his waist, your cunt hovering over his cock.

“I don’t want to use to a condom,” you told him.

“We don’t have to. We’re both clear, right?”

“Right, but Tyler, I-I want to have a baby.” His eye widened at your confession, but quickly melted into love as he thought about it. You both had discussed it on multiple occasions and had agreed that you eventually wanted to start a family. He just thought he had more time.

“Hon, I’d love to have a baby with you,” he said with a bright smile as he pushed some of your hair behind your ears.

“So you’re not mad?” You asked, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I could never be mad at you,” he shook his head and pulled you in for a kiss, your teeth clinking together as you could help but smile into it. He then helped you settle onto his cock, his arms wrapping around your waist as yours went to your neck, burying your face into it as you rode him.

It started out slow and sweet, but quickly picked up as you rode him fast and hard, labored breaths and moans fall from your lips as you gave him the ride of his life. It was what he deserved for being the most perfect man you had ever come across.

His lips found yours in a messy kiss as you bounced on his dick, the nastiest moans come from your mouths as your tongues tangled together. You went limp in his arms, but you kept going, determined to make him cum for the third and final time that night.

Your hips bucked against his as you tried to keep up, but you were feeling tired as an orgasm ripped through you, your head falling backwards. Tyler was quick to catch you, deciding that you needed to call it a night because of how fucked out you both were.

And he reached his orgasm not long after, your name falling from him lips as he did so. You then climbed off of him and he cleaned you up before giving you one of his t-shirts and the two of you crawling into bed together.

You fell asleep in each other’s arms, discussing baby names and dreamed of your future as you took the next step together, hoping that your future children could find love like the two of you did.

#tyler owens #tyler owens x y/n #tyler owens fluff #tyler owens x fem!reader #tyler owens smut #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you

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slowd1ving · 2 months ago

Text

INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW

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

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or two.

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

Of course he does.

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

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

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

But all is not well.

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

Moze.

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

. *࿐

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

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

Humans and their machinations.

This is truly a special version of hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

You’re a demon.

You think you can afford to be uncivil.

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

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

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

What a strange world the human world is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s unnerving.

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

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something?”

Quit staring.

Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet.

You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all.

Well, opposite and a seat away.

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

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

You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has.

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

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

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

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

. *࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a pickle.

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

What a pickle indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s dark.

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

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

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

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

. *࿐.

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

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

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

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

*࿐.

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

It does not work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine.

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

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

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

Oh shit.

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile.

Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little.

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

Really, you should be a gourmet.

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

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

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

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

You don’t want your time here to end.

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

There are contingencies for times like these.

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

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

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

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

There.

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

You think you’re delirious.

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

Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust. What a strange woman she is.

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

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

*࿐.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell is filled with humans like these.

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

Your tongue is leaden.

There is nothing you can say to save yourself.

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

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

An Archangel.

You pray your end is quick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

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

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

You can’t even beg for your life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust.

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

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

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

He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He notices.

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver.

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

Why not entertain me?

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

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

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

Angels, too, can be deceptive.

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

Damn it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think that makes it worse.

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

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

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

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

His gaze meets your despairing one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

He’s not your lover.

He’s not even his own person.

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

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

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

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

In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…

Well.

Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido.

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl. “Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver.

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

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

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

He looks like sin itself.

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

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

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

You wonder what they taste like.

Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?

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

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

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

You’ve never kissed an angel before.

You may not even be alive right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you enjoy the show?”

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

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

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

Moze is human.

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

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfect,” he breathes.

The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.

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

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

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

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

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

Snap.

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

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

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

More.

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

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

Snap.

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

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

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

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

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

What will you do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t help it. He really can’t.

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

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

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

That’s all his brain is clinging to.

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

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

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

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

They do not know better.

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

Angels cannot lie to others.

It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves.

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

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

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

Good job, Sunday.

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Catching of the Incubus.

*********

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

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

In any case, nobody’s home.

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

Moze’s room it is.

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

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

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

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

Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—

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

Oh.

*࿐.

319 notes · View notes

tadpolesonalgae · 3 months ago

Text

Dizzying Kisses

Feysand x reader

a/n: this started out so wholesome idk what happened 😭

warning: love at first sight trope; smut; f/f/m threesome; facesitting; oral (everyone); overstim; cumplay—Rhys using reader’s mouth like a shot glass

word count: 5,491

——————————————————————————————————————————————

It takes a bit of effort to unstick your eyelids from your lash line, but you eventually manage, rubbing at the sleep that’s crusted itself into an abrasive adhesive.

The sheets beneath you are soft and smooth, fragranced with something like vanilla and jasmine, a faint citrusy scent clinging to its edge and you wearily peer about, vision slightly blurred by a sleep addled brain.

Early morning sunlight has painted itself across the floorboards in a watery shade of cool-toned yellow, the diamond shaped panes of the glass windows casting thin, zigzagging shadows. The duvet itself seems to be cream covered, nestled beneath a rouge-rimmed quilt, stitched together with patches of dawn-pink, aquamarine-blue, dusky-orange, and tyrian-purple. Four wooden beams uphold the fabric draped overtop the bed, the curtains a shade of burnt orange on the interior, with a dark-red outside that has panels of maroon gossamer thinly veiling the material. A slight frill of burnished gold accents the hem.

A latch clicks from the far right side of the chamber, and you glance away from the window, blinking rapidly to clear away the fog as a female peers her lovely head around the door.

Not just any female, though.

You stiffen, hastily scrambling to sit straighter in the bed as you dip your head in a swift bow. “High Lady…”

She smiles, entering the room, her slipper-clad feet softly scuffing as she approaches. “You’re awake,” she notes, and you flush when she lays her palm across your forehead. “And better, by the looks of it.”

You blink, looking up at her quietly. “My Lady…?”

“Feyre,” she corrects, blue-grey eyes twinkling with life. “Please call me Feyre.”

You watch her silently for a second, attention flitting across her features for a clue to your circumstances—are you in her home? But you dip your head again, obeying her request.

Her eyes soften, and she pulls her hand away, your brow feeling faintly cool in its wake. “Do you remember last night?” She questions, and you shake your head, unease building in your gut as you worry your lower lip. Tuck your teeth away again.

Feyre hums to herself, her attention briefly skating over you, having not given herself the chance to beforehand. Skimming over your shoulders, the rumpled fabric of your night-gown, the soft roundness of your fingertips. How they’re dipping into the folds of the duvet. “You kissed me,” she says, glancing down at you, lips still curved gently. Mortification sets your skin ablaze, a delicate flame igniting in your flesh. “I— I kissed you?” You stammer, clutching the sheets as your fingers lock.

“Well, you kissed both of us, actually,” she corrects.

Your lips part with a sharp inhale, looking aghast. Deeply apologetic. “I— I’m so sorry, my Lady. I don’t know what must have come over me. Please, forgive—”

“We aren’t angry,” she interjects, holding you gaze firmly. She pries your left hand from the quilt, fingers warm and delicate beneath your own. “I believe it was a mistake on your part—the first time at least. Shall I show you? It may jog your memory.”

There’s nothing much for you to do besides nod, vaguely relaxing back into the padded headboard as she plies open your mind, slipping inside with ease.

The music is up-beat, strings playing a merry tune while the faelights shift in colour over head, panels of stained glass being slotted over them to give the illusion of the lights themselves changing.

I turn my head when I feel weakened fingertips seek out my wrist, gripping gently, only to be met with soft, faintly trembling lips being pressed to my own. I recognise the hint of the illegal drug almost immediately, and my eyes widen in time to watch as the female flinches, recoiling sharply.

At my back, my mate is swiftly approaching, a sure and familiar presence sweeping across the floor. It seems the female has enough sense left in her to recognise the thrumming power of the High Lord that’s already begun seeping across the floor in warning, other fae bodies instinctively making way so as not to catch his brewing mood.

Instead of cowering though, the female before me seems to panic briefly, before unsteadily tottering forward, making it just close enough to push onto her tiptoes and press a kiss to the High Lord’s jaw, before her legs give out and I’m catching her as she falls back, body limp.

Surprised violet eyes meet my own, brows raised as he glances down at the female passed out in my arms, head tipped to the side, laying across my breast.

Your lips are parted wider than they were last, but you don’t shut them. Instead panicking as the memories filter back into your mind, along with a faint pound of a growing headache. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, words tumbling in a frantic wash. “I— I remember seeing what had happened, and I had worried he might think I was trying to— So I wanted to kiss him to show I didn’t mean— Gods I’m so sorry.” An embarrassed flush heats your skin, simmering wickedly just below the surface of your flesh, head dipped in misery and shame.

“It’s perfectly okay,” the High Lady assures, squeezing your fingers. “I want you to know the male who drugged you has been found and dealt with—he will not be repeating his actions. We also had our healer check the concentration in your blood to make sure you were okay, and thankfully all you needed was a good night’s sleep to get everything out of your system.”

You flush, glancing to where she’s cupping your fingers, then looking at her again. “I’m still sorry for kissing you—both of you—even if there were external pressures…”

Feyre blinks slowly, her smile losing an ounce of its warmth. Barely noticeable, really, but you feel it. “Do you regret it?”

“I regret causing you discomfort, my L—” Her eyes harden, and you flush. “…Feyre. And your— and for kissing your mate…”

“And what about on your end?” She asks, tone softened only a little. You look at her questioningly but are unable to read the emotion in her blue-grey eyes. Cunning but deliberately blank. “Do you regret kissing either of us for your own discomfort?”

“No!” You speak hurriedly. “It’s an honour. I mean, hopefully that doesn’t make you upset to hear. I simply mean, to have been so close with either of you. I’m just so sorry I did what I did… How I did it…”

“You would have done differently had you been sober?” She asks, her hold tightening on your fingers, pulling your hand closer into her body.

You hesitate, fumbling. Glancing where her digits have begun twining with your own.

Feyre follows your gaze, and sighs, hands settling to the bed.

“My mate and I are divided on the matter,” she tells you, voice lowering to a hushed murmur. A guilty tug on her pretty pink lips. “He would rather give you space and time to warm up to us, since this meeting has happened so fast.” Fingers again squeeze your own, and she looks up at you with a glimmer in her heavy gaze. “But I’ve been on the end of that before, and hadn’t been pleased with his choices.”

You scan her features, trying to fit together the pieces but have the distinct feeling you’re missing something crucial. A fragment of memory that perhaps hasn’t yet allowed itself to resurface. Eyes flit to the curl of her digits between your own.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand?”

Feyre pauses in thought, then she presses her hand to your cheek, unlacing it from your fingers. Breath flutters in your chest as your High Lady leans in, her head tilted enough so her lips might slant diagonally across your mouth, and a faintly wavy lock of hair slides from her shoulder, tickling against your collar bones. You can feel each faint exhale. Mark how her pupils dilate, lashes flickering as she glances down at your mouth.

Your breath catches as something tugs at your rib, a small, tender thread wrapped around the delicate bone.

“Did you feel that?” Feyre questions, thumb stoking the curve beneath your lip, eyes following with each swipe. “What…what was…?”

It happens again, and your lungs stutter, mouth parting in awe as you stare at her.

You worry over voicing your thoughts for fear of reaching the wrong conclusion and only worsening your predicament. To be as brazen as to suggest a possibility that would defy logic and reason, when it’s likely fuelled by your own desires…

Feyre lays her mouth over your own, the flavour of her lips slightly musky with a hint of berry, and you wonder if she delighted in fruits for breakfast. Perhaps would like to swipe your tongue across the seam of her mouth to taste more of her. To sample more of this delicacy you’ll surely never have the chance of trying again.

A heady sound echoes in your Lady’s throat when you follow through with your fantasy. Her fingers dig into the soft underside of your jaw, both hands cupping your face to leverage her mouth closer, capturing your lower lip between her teeth and tugging on it gently. She’s close enough you can feel the faint flutter of air that her lashes bat your way.

Blue-grey eyes simmer with heat as she watches you, thumb stroking across the crest of your cheek before falling to the side of your neck, fingers sifting through strands of hair. With great attentiveness, she strokes her tongue across your own, her heart jumping when your body jolts lightly from the intimate touch, a lovely soft sound captured in your throat.

Her hands begin to wander.

At first it’s her thumb skimming across your throat, then she’s grazing her fingertips along the ridge of your collarbone, and then before you know it she’s trailed those nimble digits further, tracing the curve of your breast, knuckles skimming beneath the soft, feminine weight. Your lashes flutter against her cheek, before you’re pulling away to gaze down at where she’s touching you.

Feyre watches intently to see what you make of the touch. Heat warms your cheeks and your lips part on a trembling inhale, spine curving in an offer—one she’ll contentedly accept. The soft pad of her second finger teasingly circles your covered nipple, before clasping it between the sides of her index and middle finger, rolling. Your breathing deepens, sinking down into the pillows, subtly urging her to lay herself over you.

It’s when Feyre’s knee is pressing between your thighs, her faintly wavy hair ticklishly brushing your exposed skin—where she’s unbuttoned your night gown to bare your breasts to her—that a firm set of knocks are delivered to the door, a warning rather than a request. Your eyes fly open, arms instinctively slapping across your chest to conceal your breasts, nipples sensitive, and freshly-licked.

Violet eyes calmly take in your own, and the night comes rushing back, how you’d kissed his mate—accidentally, but it had happened nonetheless—then pressed your lips to his own skin, too.

You open your mouth to apologise, but Feyre’s talented fingers have linked around your wrists, and you squirm when she pushes them aside, so they sink into the pillows you’re lying on. Expelling a gasp from your lips.

“Looks like the two of your are becoming well acquainted,” the High Lord muses, stepping into the room, pausing beside the bed, gazing down at you with interest. “Do you mind my being here?” He asks, and you realise he’s bothering to question you. It makes sense, you suppose, you just hadn’t considered it. You flush, but shake your head, lungs stuttering when Feyre returns to your breasts, circling the hardened tip of her tongue over the peak of your right nipple, allowing a small amount of saliva to build before letting it unspool onto you, before repeating the circles.

“You look to be enjoying her mouth,” Rhysand muses, raising the backs of his fingers to gently skim your cheek, thumb idly swiping the corner of your mouth, dipping to the hollow beneath your lower lip. “Are you?”

Your flush deepens, thighs squeezing together against Feyre’s knee at the softly intimate touch, something fluttering beneath your ribs from the gentleness of the High Lord’s caress. Teeth pull at the interior of your lip, struggling to get a hold of the wild heat they’re igniting in your lower belly, a tingling feeling spreading between your thighs.

“Getting shy now?” Feyre coos, unlatching from your nipple much to your dismay. “You were perfectly talkative before… He’s not as scary as he looks.”

“Scary?” Rhys parrots under his breath, a note of incredulity to be found. Feyre raises an eyebrow as she glances over him, as if challenging him to disagree. But his lips fashion themselves into a mischievous, feline grin, capturing your chin with his fingers, directing your gaze upward to face him. “Would I be less scary without all these clothes on?”

Your face burns, lips parting on a softly stunned inhale, staring up at him in slight bewilderment, his words alone giving rise to a series of involuntary images careening through your mind before you can stop from conjuring them.

“Rhys,” Feyre scolds, “you’re overwhelming her. She doesn’t know what to do with all that.”

“We can show her.”

“Rhysand,” Feyre warns, but you can tell it’s playful. You want her attention back on you, sliding a little further down in the pillows so her knee is pressed closer between your legs. Blue-grey eyes mark the shift immediately, and you flush at having been caught, grip tightening in the sheets as you find elsewhere to look. Her rosey lips curve, leaning closer until they’re barely brushing your own, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “Something you want, birdie?”

You inhale at her proximity, spine stiffening from how close she is, how bare you are beneath her. How exposed.

You incline your chin almost imperceptibly.

Feyre smirks, and leans in, once again sealing her lips over yours, and you think she must be a slice of heaven. Your hands depart from the sheets, travelling up her thighs to her hips, spanning her delicate waist. Her hair tickles your shoulder, trailing away when Rhys’s fingers shift the curtain of silky hair, pushing the locks gently out of the way so he can see how his wife is kissing his…

A small noise is captured between your mouths when something tugs at one of your ribs, a delicate thread being plucked that has you jolting. Pulling away.

“A second mate is unheard of,” Feyre murmurs, looking at you with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “And yet here she is,” Rhys finishes, making you blink, glancing between the two.

“You said you were honoured,” Feyre continues, drawing your attention back to her. “Are you still of the same mindset?” You stare at her, comprehension dawning as you accept your belief as truth, fantasy merging with reality. “What she’s asking,” Rhysand clarifies, allowing his fingers to fall from Feyre to graze across you collar bone, tracing upward to your jaw, brushing your cheek, “is will you have us.”

“Yes.” It’s softer than a whisper, shorter than a breath, but they feel it. Feel the acceptance without reluctance or hesitation. Falling into their arms.

Feyre’s eyes go briefly hazy as it clicks into place inside of her, a flush of colour rising to her cheeks with biological satisfaction. “Good,” she breathes, “perfect.”

Her scent has shifted, floating over to you, and instinct tells you exactly what it means. When her blue-grey eyes return to yours, they’re dilated; hungry. Information you should have no access to flowing into your body, innately understanding their states of being.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asks, voice huskier than before, dragging with arousal. A heat has begun sprouting in your body, beginning to simmer and bubble, more prominently than before, abruptly taking off. You swallow. Nod your head.

“What you’re feeling,” Rhysand supplies smoothly, the only one able to grapple with the biological instincts urging you together as the one who understands it the most, “is the effects of the mating bond clicking into place. Since our bond,”—he gestures between him and Feyre— “is already set in place, the symptoms will make themselves known much more swiftly, while yours may take a few hours or even a day to reveal themselves.”

Right. The frenzy.

You flush.

“Do you—” Feyre swallows, cutting herself off before trying again, having to wet her lips, “do you want to join us?”

“Join you?” You’re breathless.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to manage between us, if you would like to rest,” Rhysand supplies, though you have the impression it strains on him to give that safety net. As if reminded of the option, Feyre’s eyes flick to him, hungrily tracing the cut of his figure, watching with a heavy-lidded gaze. You shift your hips against her knee, and they return to you.

In your periphery Rhysand readjusts his trousers.

“Will you?” She breathes, her hand rising from the mattress, shifting her weight to her other arm to allow her fingers to coast upward between your breasts, playing with the dip of your collarbone, tracing the outline. “We’ll be careful,” she assures, fingers now tracing across your lower lip, transfixed as her instincts call for her to strip you bare, explore the flavour of your mouth and skin; the taste between your legs.

“We could start with just one of us?” She tells you, your heart fluttering wildly as her words drip over your skin. “You and me first…”

“Greedy,” Rhys mutters.

“Rhys can watch,” she amends. “We can play in my and his bed—it’s much larger than this one—and I could start with these…” You gasp when she lowers her hand to your breast, circling your nipple with a feather-light touch, tugging on it gently. “Then we could move further…” Feyre takes your wrist in hand, moving to straddle your hips as she brings your palm to her chest, watching you intently as her spine curves into your touch. “And you could try touching me, if you like…? Would you like that? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“She needs a chance to respond, Feyre,” Rhys chuckles, leaning against one poster of the large bed. She peers at you intently, rocking her hips almost subconsciously. “You’ll feel so good,” she whispers, bringing your other hand to cup her breast so you have both palms over her. “What do you think?”

Your flush deepens, looking away, and you can feel Feyre’s grip loosening, crestfallen.

“I…” You swallow, finding her gaze again, her expression attentive, then glancing briefly over Rhys, nerves wriggling beneath your skin before you look away again, peering at the floor. “I don’t want Rhys to feel left out…”

You inhale sharply at the stark arousal that blares down the bond, your thighs squeezing together in response, Rhys shifting as he takes down a steadying breath. A noise escapes your throat with the staggering awareness the bond is affording you, able to feel their hunger in your bones, perhaps also affording you a little more confidence than usual.

“We’re all mates, aren’t we?” You ask, glancing skittishly between them both. When they nod, you continue. “So I’d like…I think it would mean more to be with both of you…all together.”

————

They make you so dizzy.

The soft press of Feyre’s narrow lips dragging up the length of your throat, nipping at spaces below your jaw, licking over the bite marks they’ve each put into your skin, forgetting which ones belong to who; the heavy drag of Rhys’ fingers as they dip along the interior of your thighs, palms cupping the round curve of your knees only to slip beneath and delicately raise both legs to your chest; the heat of watching clothes fall to the ground, buttons coming free and ties being loosened, hair pushed back over delicate shoulders and sterling silver bands removed from scar-flecked fingers, flexing before they settle into the rhythm of touch.

You crawl after Feyre as she pulls away, pushing her second and middle finger to your lips to still you, her own mouth curving with feminine satisfaction. And now the question she’ll ask: “Who do you want next?”

How many times have they taken turns making you answer that question. How many times have you shamelessly given an answer. How many times have they satisfied your desire only to ask again, “Who do you want next?”

Always a next; never an end.

You whimper, clit puffy and sensitive from relentless stimulation, pleasure budding through your body, liquid gold buzzing beneath your skin. How many more touches can you take?

“Answer me,” Feyre coos, fingers slipping beneath your chin to incline your lips, leaning forward to almost meet you. “Who do you want next?”

“Feyre…” You’re nearly crying, so turned around, so dizzy. So desperate for movement and friction. “Please…” The High Lady beams, cupping your cheeks between her palms and pulling you close enough your noses touch, “mhmm? You want me?”

“Please…”

“How do you want me?” Feyre crawls closer, her knees touching your own, “Tell me how you want me.” Your lips part, cheeks flushing. Tongue shifting against your teeth. You’re too embarrassed to tell her.

Tender claws scratch at your mind, and your walls give a few moments later, tentatively lowering enough for her to slip inside and nestle with you. Watching the image you present her with.

Blue-grey eyes glitter with hunger, her mouth popping open, blinking away her surprise before grinning. “I didn’t think you’d be so dirty,” Feyre purrs, palms wrapping around your waist to pull you with her as she falls back into the bed, walking you up her body.

“Are my girls done scheming?” Rhys asks from behind you, effortlessly sending a hot shiver up your spine. His voice alone contains enough power to make your knees buckle. And, my girls. You and Feyre. He’s seeing the two of you together.

You rest your hands on the headboard, leaning forward enough that Feyre can grin at her mate from beneath you, “We’ll always be scheming, High Lord.” Her legs open, and your mouth waters. “Think you can keep up, Rhys?”

“Always, for you.” Feyre’s hands begin to loop over your hips to pull you down but Rhysand reaches forward and you gasp when you feel his thick fingers skating up the line of your spine, hairs prickling as you shiver. “You, too,” the High Lord purrs, pushing your hair to one side so he can reach the top of your spine. Your throat closes up, heart fluttering as those deft digits descend down the knots of your back. Stiffening in anticipation when he pauses at the base. “Turn around,” he instructs, clearly. “I should be able to see you, too.”

The hot breath of Feyre’s moan caresses your inner thigh, and you tighten around nothing. With flushed cheeks you slowly turn, careful of the female lying beneath you.

Violet eyes glimmer with starlight, and millions of tiny, fluttery wings erupt into motion between your thighs.

“Better,” he says, quietly. A faint smile on his soft mouth. “Now sit.”

You part your legs, shakily sinking down onto Feyre’s mouth, Rhysand keeping your eyes locked with him—watching as you settle, watching as your hands find placement on her breasts, watching as Feyre licks up through your centre and you shudder. An adoring smile half-lifts one edge of Rhysand’s lips, his irises softening at their edges as he marks the pleasure unfolding within you. Only then do his thumbs press into the meat of Feyre’s thighs, finding the divot at the interior of her knees to hold them apart, aligning himself, and sliding in.

You can’t help the way your mouth waters.

Rhys catches you staring and leans himself forward, grinning as you flush with embarrassment, “Wishing that was you?”

Your lips part, eyes darting away but he grips your chin lightly, forcefully guiding your gaze back to his. He leans closer and you shudder as Feyre’s lips wrap around your clit, suckling tenderly. Rhysand’s hand cups the nape of your neck, and wild heat fills your skin as he slowly licks over your bottom lip, the tip of his tongue dragging over the bitten area to drag lightly over your top one. You’re frozen stiff, completely at his mercy. He chuckles, like he finds your awe amusing. Lightly appreciative of your reverence.

But then he kisses you once on the lips and pulls back, both palms falling to Feyre’s waist, his thumb grazing over the beauty mark that lies a little to the left of her belly button. His hips draw back and slide in, Feyre’s back arching when he meets her all the way, hips held tight to her own. You can’t help the way your fingers fall to graze over her abdomen, able to see the prominent outline of the High Lord nestled within his mate.

He’s been inside you the same way he’s inside her.

You have to lick your lips.

“Move,” you whisper, circling your hips over Feyre’s mouth, almost certainly smearing arousal across her lips; the tip of her rosey nose; her chin. The High Lady moans her agreement, inclining her hips from the bed and you watch as the muscles in her thighs and stomach flex. Feline grace contained within her flesh. You want to taste every part of her you can.

Rhys begins slowly, languidly moving inside of her, rolling his hips so he slides all the way in to his base. Soon enough he sets their pace, and your eyes nearly roll with the pleasurable warmth that’s being delivered to your body, fizzling and fluttering throughout. Heat is prominent on the High Lord’s cheeks, tan skin flushed with colour and you’re all so sensitive but needing of more that release is swift and fulfilling. Bright flashes of pleasure zipping down your thighs, bursts of heat fluttering in your lower belly, warm-pink flame heating and heating until you’re boiling and bubbling over.

Rhys grits his teeth, likely trying to cope with the pleasure of Feyre’s orgasm, and you can’t help yourself.

You lean forward, cunt still seated on the High Lady’s mouth, your palms sloping up his well-muscled chest to wrap over his shoulder to push your lips together, tongue licking against him, tasting him, devouring him. The High Lord’s control splinters, then fractures entirely, a groan of pure, male pleasure delivered to your mouth as he releases deep inside his mate. You want it to be as drawn out as possible, for him to fill her up as much as he can, until she’s dripping.

It’s only when he’s panting, breathless and with his head lowered that you know he’s finished.

Teeth prod into your lower lip, fresh arousal dripping from your cunt, cleaned away by Feyre’s tongue. Her fingers drum ticklishly over your thighs, knowing what you’ve been waiting for. You can practically see the smug, satisfied grin on her rosey lips.

The combined effort of the both of you has you taking her place on the bed in mere seconds, lying on your back with a blinking Rhys now positioned between your thighs. Feyre mounts your mouth like she’s descending onto her throne, thighs parted and facing you so she can run her fingers through your hair.

Rhysand freezes when he understands what’s going on. Then his warrior’s hands have shackled your ankles and you’re roughly dragged down the bed, swept out from under your mate and you whine, crying out and reaching for her. But there’s heat in his eyes, a wicked smile on his mouth, mischief and hunger twinkling between the starlight. “I did all the work, darling,” he rumbles, the words rough and gravelly from his chest. “The least you can do is let me watch.”

You flush as you’re repositioned: half-way up the bed with Feyre hovering over your face, your mouth open and her legs spread; further up the bed is Rhys, gazing down at you so he can watch every stroke of your tongue, every drip of his cum that’s mixed with Feyre’s own orgasm that you collect on your lips, tasting in your mouth.

“I should have known what you two were planning,” Rhys drawls, cock hard against his stomach from watching the show. He’s eaten his release out of Feyre before but it’s different watching someone else do it. It’s different having a mate to watch do it. “So dirty indeed.”

“And it was all her idea,” Feyre muses proudly from atop her perch. “You were so shy to show it to me,” she coos.

“Looks like she’s a wicked one.” Violet eyes flick to Feyre. “She’ll rival you for your mischief.”

“I think you mean she’ll rival you. You’re the dirty one.”

Their eyes simultaneously drop, and you flush beneath their attention, hair spread out messily across the mattress, licking Feyre’s cunt whenever you please. Rhys’ fingers trail across your forehead, playing with a few stray strands of hair. “You like that? Tasting us together?”

You moan softly, licking up and circling Feyre’s clit, causing her to moan.

Butterflies start fluttering anew when Rhys wraps his hand around his cock, still achingly hard, cum beginning to drizzle down his tip. Your temperature spikes, mouth watering further. Rhys’ eyes twinkle, his mouth curving before he’s shifting onto his knees. “You know,” he muses, looming so comparatively high above you while Feyre keeps you pinned to the mattress, “let’s find out how dirty she is.”

Your thighs have to squeeze together at the blatant lust in his voice, clit pulsing as you rub your legs together.

Violet eyes meet your own, and you shiver. Rhys grins. “You look pretty happy, down there.” You moan, licking at her hungrily, wanting her to stop hovering and to finally just sit. His hand continues stroking himself to the sign, up and down, slowly building his pleasure again. There isn’t much time you need to wait—you’re all so stimulated, so sensitive to touch. Rhys has to grit his teeth through the first series of strokes before the tension is being released and he’s panting again, muscles flexing in his stomach and forearms.

“Think you can take some more?” Rhys groans, and you watch with desperate eyes as a bead of cum slips over his head. “Answer me.”

You nod your head. “More,” you pant, watching him intently. Rhys’ eyes nearly roll, but then yours nearly cross as he shifts his hips, the tip of his cock nearly bumping into Feyre’s clit. He’s intending to finish straight into your mouth.

You can’t help it, then. Your hand lifts from the bed and trails down your body, fingers slipping between your thighs. It’s a mix between painful and perfectly oversensitive, clit hard and puffy beneath your digits that slide right down your centre, two fingers sinking inside yourself and curling.

It doesn’t take long from there.

“Gods, you’re such a good girl,” Feyre praises, biting her lip as she palms her breasts, cupping them and thumbing across her nipples. “Isn’t she perfect, Rhys?”

“So perfect.” He agrees. “So dirty.”

You whimper in protest but Rhys cocks a brow and you shut up. He smirks. “So good, and so obedient, isn’t she?”

“Perfect for us,” Feyre agrees, moaning as she circles her hips faintly, seeking the attention of your tongue which swiftly returns to attend to her, flicking over her clit and licking up her centre. “A perfect little mate to play with.”

Rhys groans, the noise rumbling in his chest as his orgasm finds him at last, release pouring from his tip, shooting down between your lips and filling you up. His hip buck, his fingers flexing around his cock as pleasure pulses through his body, his eyes shutting tight as his muscles tremble.

The tip of your finger drags back up over your clit and you come undone.

Feyre watches, utterly content, as her two mates reach completion around her. She can just make out your eyes, half-rolled as your own high filters through your blood. Then there’s Rhys, whose hand is shaking as he pumps himself, hips seemingly moving of their own accord as he tries to keep himself going for as long as possible, throwing himself into overstimulation for the sake of your pleasure.

She sits happily on your mouth when he’s done, his blue-black hair falling against her shoulder as hot breath fans down her front.

How lucky they are to have found such a sweet, mischievous little mate to match them.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

feysand taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza08

#feysand x reader #feysand x reader smut #dizzying kisses #feysand x you #feysand #feysand x you smut

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maya1525 · 6 months ago

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🌶️ Would You Rather??? (Sashisu Request)

18+MDNI

Pairing ✩࿐ Fem!Reader X Shoko Ieiri X Suguru Geto X Satoru Gojo

WARNINGS ✩࿐ Group sex with every possible pairing between you 4. Eating train, tit fucking, giving oral, receiving oral, oral during penetration, two people giving oral to one person, face sitting, face fucking, cream pie, and vaginal sex.

Word count ✩࿐10.4K

Summary ✩࿐ Fem!Reader accidentally buys the spicy version of Would You Rather for her friend’s drinking party, and let’s just say… things end up getting a little spicy.

BONUS ✩࿐ Slow lead-up! I felt like it’d be fun to go through some questions before things intensified. Plus, I wanted the fic to feel gradual and not forced. So you can feel like you’re there at the party, just hanging out. Also the reader is also a lightweight when it comes to drinking. Her friends also view her as a little shy and innocent.

A/N ✩࿐ I originally was writing this fic as a one-shot with Suguru and Satoru, but then someone requested a Sashisu Fic! So I of course had Shoko join in on the fun! I had fun with this four-way and I prioritized that everyone was involved with each other at all times! Also, I have a crush on Shoko now. 🥰 Sorry for taking forever to post this, I know it’s a cliche thing to say: but life is very busy for me. Today I got ALL four of my wisdom teeth removed. 🥲 I was given this day off work, and I saw it as a prime opportunity to polish this fic up and post it! Thanks for reading and I appreciate all of you so much! 💗

“I’m glad you found a game for us to play.” Satoru hummed smoothly while he invited you into his semi-lit dorm room. “Cause what’s the point to drinking, when there isn’t anything fun to do.”

That earned a scoff from Geto who lounged on the couch. “Uh, we could just hang out.”

“Psh. Where’s your sense of entertainment? Are you saying you don’t want to play the game Y/n just got?” Gojo retorted in a fake shocked tone.

“I’m not saying that.” Suguru rolled his eyes toward his white-haired friend. “I’m just saying-“

“Enough of that, show us the game you got Y/n!” Shoko’s comforting voice rang from behind you, causing you to whirl around and give her a sweet hug. In return, she held you close with her arm draped around your waist. A lazy grin plastered on her face and a burning cigarette between her lips.

“Shoko! I’m so happy you made it, for a second I thought I’d be stuck with those two.” You teased, playfully glancing at Gojo and Geto. Suguru smirked at your words, while Gojo made a fist on his heart as if he was stabbed.

“Yeah, sorry for not letting you know I was coming. I got held up with something back at the lab.” She explained while moving her bangs from her face.

“Enough talk, let’s start this night off with a shot! That means you Suguru.” Satoru announced clapping his hands. He led you and Shoko to the island, where he got the glasses ready. All the lights were off except for the ones above the island. The rest of his living room and kitchen were lit up by blue LED strips. Giving his living space an electric feel.

“When was the last time you got drunk Y/n?” Suguru asked curiously while approaching the counter, his dark gaze resting on you.

You flushed, “The last time I got drunk was with you guys.”

“What?! That was like two months ago!” Gojo exasperated while pouring vodka into the small glasses. Judging from how fancy the vodka bottle looked, you had a feeling he bought the expensive stuff. Which didn’t surprise you.

“Yeah, it's been a while. So let the send begin.” You explained excitedly, taking one of the shot glasses for yourself.

“Fuck yeah! Let’s full fucking send baby!” Satoru cheered while raising his shot glass. “This is for a good night!”

“A good night!” Everyone said while they clinked their glasses. Then they tapped the bottom of their shot glasses to the counter and proceeded to take it to their lips.

You held your breath as you quickly forced yourself to swallow the harsh poison. Your mouth watered tremendously and it went down like liquid fire. Your eyes teared up a bit as you set your glass down.

“Shit, that woke me up.” Suguru chuckled while setting his glass next to yours.

“Same here *cough* let’s play that game you got, Y/n!” Shoko croaked out while squeezing your arm gently.

You quickly dug in your purse to grab the deck of cards while your friends went to the living room. They situated themselves on the floor, so you guys could sit in a circle. You sat between Suguru and Satoru with Shoko across from you. Geto was busy finding some good background music to play on the TV to set the mood.

“What did you end up getting?” Gojo asked while leaning back on his hands comfortably. You handed him the box.

“I got us Would You Rather! There were so many versions to choose from! I thought we’d have a fun time playing it, so I got the generic box of questions.” You sighed eagerly, leaning over to Satoru to look at the cards.

Gojo chuckled. “This isn’t the original one… You got us the spicy version.” He peeled off the price tag to reveal the small red word ‘spicy’ underneath it.

Mortification washed over you like a massive wave, “No, no! I swear I got the plain one! I’m so sorry you guys. If you want I can run to the store and get the other version.”

“Let’s give it a try. And if it’s no good, I’ll be the one who runs to the store.” Satoru hummed while giving you a gentle elbow jab.

“But don’t you think it would be too embarrassing to talk about spicy topics…” You mumbled shyly, trying to avert your gaze from his.

“Hell no! If you’re feeling shy, just drink some more liquid courage!” Satoru announced while handing you a red solo cup with fruity alcoholic juice. He clinked his plastic cup against yours and the both of you drank to that.

You couldn’t help but turn your lips upward, “Okay, let’s see how this goes.”

“Since Y/n bought the game she can go first, then we’ll just go around in a circle,” Shoko stated, handing you a card from the top of the deck. You were already feeling that shot in your system. Your face felt warm and you felt more outgoing. You leaned against the base of the couch comfortably.

You quickly read over your card. “Okay Shoko, this one’s for you! Would you rather receive a sexy message or a love note?”

Shoko took a swig of her drink and then answered, “Message. I’d receive it faster and then answer right away. What about you?” She nodded her head in your direction.

“Hmm… I’d say love note! Cause when you write something down you want to leave a lasting impression. Making notes more… special.” You exclaimed dreamily, then you felt hot with embarrassment because you realized everyone’s eyes were on you.

“Aww, that’s cute. I didn’t know you were such a romantic.” Shoko’s soft brown eyes sparkled at you.

“I’d say I’m the same way Y/n, letters seem more sentimental.” Geto agreed with you, his gaze held on you briefly.

“Nah, I’d want a hot text message. Right here. Right now.” Satoru slurred, “Then we could act on those feelings asap.” Gojo grabbed a card from the top of the deck and read it over briskly. “Y/n, would you rather show affection in public or in private?” Satoru asked with a cheeky grin while taking a drink from his cup.

You tilted your head toward Gojo. “What type of affection is it? Cause if it’s innocent then I don’t mind doing it in public.”

Satoru chuckled. “What do you mean innocent stuff?” He arched a brow at you over his glasses.

“Like hugs, kisses, and hand-holding. Not doing the nasty!” You explained while taking a drink, you felt another wave of the alcohol wash over you. Damn, you’re getting drunk faster than expected.

“Makes sense, to be honest, I don’t care if it’s done in public. Let’s make a scene, who cares if people watch.” Gojo murmured while subtly resting his hand on yours. This small action made your heart skip a beat.

“I’m the opposite, I’d want to be the only one to see my partner unraveled. No one else should deserve to see them in such an intimate way.” Suguru stated with his arms crossed.

“What about you Shoko?” You asked her curiously.

The corner of her mouth tilted upward, “I’m the same as you. I’m okay with public affection if it’s mild.” She then leaned forward to grab herself a card. Her eyes quickly darted from left to right as she read it. “Ooo, okay this one’s a little dirty… I want Suguru to answer this. When it comes to oral, would you rather give or receive?”

Geto stiffened with surprise. “Even though receiving is delightful, I’d say give.”

This earned a girlish squeal to come from you and Shoko, “Really?! How come?” She pried with a hazy smile.

“It brings me satisfaction to please someone who I care about,” Geto admitted while adjusting his position so his left arm was now resting on his bent knee.

“Same here, it’s like your way to show them how much you admire them.” You agreed wistfully, the alcohol in your system had taken a deeper root and you were feeling pretty good.

“I like being on the receiving end of the stick. Nothing’s hotter than the view of your sweetheart worshiping you with their mouth.” Satoru explained while his fingers trailed up your wrist playfully, and then he rested his hand back on yours.

Geto chuckled. “Of course you would.”

“Yeah, why doesn’t that surprise me,” Shoko added with a little laugh.

Suguru then leaned forward and grabbed a card. “Would you rather only have sex in bed for the rest of your life or never be able to have sex in a bed again? I want Y/n to answer this.”

“I’d say, never in the bed. Cause doing it in the bed all the time could get boring.” You expressed and everyone murmured in agreement. “Ok, my turn.” You swiftly grabbed yourself a card. “Suguru, would you rather have sex in the car or the shower?

Geto brought his veiny hand up to his mouth in deep thought. “Shower.”

You giggled at his blunt answer. “And why?”

His sharp eyes darted toward you humorously. “Because when you’re done you’re nice and clean. Also, the steam and being all wet is hot. Doing it in a car sounds a little restrictive.”

You nodded in agreement. “Those are some good points, I’d say the same.”

“You guys are weird, doing it in the car is way hotter!” Satoru interrupted.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking!” Shoko chimed in to aid Gojo. “Doing it in the car is restrictive, but that shouldn’t be a problem if you’re flexible.”

“Plus the whole car steams up and it shakes while you do it. Making it a public scene which is even better.” Satoru explained while waving his drink around. Then he grabbed his card, “Shoko, would you rather only be able to be on the bottom during sex or only on the top?”

Shoko took a slurp of her beverage, “Hmm, it depends. If I’m with a guy, then bottom. But if I’m with a girl then top.” She explained with a cute smile, her gaze drifted towards you. “What about you?”

You flushed because of how intimate the question was. “Me? Oh… umm, I’d say bottom for men. But it depends on women. If she’s more assertive I’ll let her be top. But if she’s more on the submissive side then I’ll take the lead.”

“That’s hot.” Satoru blurted with a flirtatious expression. You felt his hand give yours a small squeeze, causing you to look down bashfully.

You reached for your cup only to realize that you finished it off a couple of minutes ago.

“Gimme your cup, I’ll get you some more babe.” Satoru purred over to you.

“Thank you.” You smiled up at him sweetly as he removed the red cup from your hand. His gaze had the perfect view down your shirt at this angle, which made him enjoy the noticeable height difference between you too.

“Anyone else need a refresher.” Gojo glanced at his other two friends, while he stood to his feet. Both Suguru and Shoko handed him their empty cups and with two cups in each hand, he departed to the kitchen.

“So on a level of one to ten, how drunk are you Y/n? One being barely and ten being black-out wasted.” Shoko asked the beauty mark beneath her eye raised upward when she smiled at you.

“Hmm, I’d say I’m like a four-point seven.” You sighed cutely. Your response caused both Geto and Shoko to laugh.

“That’s oddly specific, why a four-point seven of all numbers?” Geto eyed you with amusement.

“I couldn’t just say four, 'cause I’m feeling five coming on!”

“If someone said four-point seven, that must mean they’re actually like a six.” Shoko snickered. “I think our little friend’s a lightweight Suguru!”

You paid no mind to their teasing, it only made you laugh in response. It’s been a while since the four of you kicked back like this.

Gojo returned with the refilled beverages, he of course handed you your drink first with a sly grin. He sat down next to you, closer than he was before and he draped his muscular arm around your narrow shoulders. “So whose turn is it now?”

“Mine!” Shoko announced as she reached for a card. “And this one’s for you Gojo, would you rather have morning sex or late-night sex?”

“Morning sex, what else would be a better way to start my day!” Satoru admitted seductively while pulling you a little bit closer to him. His warm body next to yours was comforting, since his living room window was open, letting in a fresh cold night breeze.

“True, I’ll have to agree with you on that one,” Shoko admitted while sipping on her drink.

“What about you Y/n?” Satoru asked nonchalantly while throwing his card in the discard pile.

“I’m more of a nighttime person. Cause then after we can just cuddle and fall asleep.” You confessed while taking a drink from your cup. Its fruity flavor was quite delectable, making it a dangerous drink.

“You’re such a sweetheart Y/n, truly girlfriend material.” Gojo laughed and complimented at the same time.

His honest reaction made you feel pretty good about yourself - or was it the alcohol? Maybe both.

“Don’t fall for his flattery Y/n,” Geto warned, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Gojo doesn’t deserve a girl like you. You’re too good for him.”

“Psh! As if you’re any better than me?” Satoru hissed over at his friend. “Answer me this Y/n, would you rather date me or Geto?”

You flushed at his bold question and nervously looked down. You couldn’t choose between both of them! You wouldn’t want to hurt either of their feelings. “I-I…” You stammered.

Shoko came to the rescue. “Cut that shit out Gojo! Besides, it’s not your turn to ask a question.”

“Yeah, it’s my turn.” Suguru leaned forward to grab his card with a devilish grin. “Y/n, would you rather I show you or tell you about my desires?”

You took another drink from the red cup, feeling the liquid courage run rampant through your veins. “Show me.”

Suguru set his drink aside and pried you from Satoru’s grasp. He guided you onto his lap so you were straddling him. His lips turned upward to form a sly grin.

“First… I’d gently caress your body, like this.” His smooth voice hummed softly, while his large veiny hands ghosted from your waist down to your juicy thighs. His hot hands trailed from your knees to the inner sensitive parts between them. “And while I do that, I’ll kiss you, like this.” His lips pressed against yours and his sneaky tongue tangled itself with yours. Meanwhile, you could hear Shoko and Gojo protesting in the background.

Your heart was pounding a million miles per minute. You’ve never kissed Suguru before, he was your friend! The most you two have ever done was cuddle when you were cold. Yes; he’d flirt with you, but so did Shoko and Gojo (he was relentless, to say the least). Of course, you fed in and would smooth talk your friends. You never would’ve thought those innocent remarks could progress into something so much more. Was he kissing you just for fun? Or was it simply to take part in the game? You wanted to test the waters and cautiously reached up to grab the back of his neck to deepen the kiss. His mouth moved against yours passionately, while his hands glided from your thighs to your lower back in the most tantalizing way.

He then removed his mouth from yours and whispered lowly in your ear. “Then once things get a little more desperate between us, I’d like to worship you with my mouth.” With that being said, he lowered his hot mouth down to the crook of your neck. He sucked on your flawless skin as if he was savoring a delectable dish. While he marked you, his sultry gaze met Gojo’s. Who had his arms crossed defiantly. Satoru wanted to be the one to unravel cute little Y/n.

An adorable sigh of pleasure escaped your lips when you felt Geto mark your skin with a bit more pressure. The room around you seemed to spin and your vision wasn’t clear anymore. The alcohol has clouded your senses and now you are in a drunk stupor. You couldn’t care less though, you were having fun, and you were feeling yourself too. You’ve never felt so wanted and so hot before.

“Let’s not get carried away, darling.” Suguru cooed while he pulled off your neck, leaving a notable red mark. By the way your breath hitched, Geto could sense how ready you were. He turned your body effortlessly and draped you across his lap. His strong arms held you securely, and you felt quite comfortable in his lap like this.

“I didn’t realize that you’d be such a needy little girl Y/n,” Gojo smirked down at you while he handed you your drink. You took it graciously and took a generous swig.

“Hmm? Is that a bad thing or a good thing?” You questioned with a hazed look on your pretty face. It was pretty evident how drunk you were.

“To put it bluntly, your eagerness is a fucking turn-on,” Satoru murmured while blatantly checking your tits out.

You simply smiled and took another drink from your cup. Your ego was higher than ever and it was mostly because of the liquor in your system. You were heavily intoxicated at this point and the room was swirling around you. You rested your head on Suguru’s shoulder for stability while you sipped on the last of your drink.

“Looks like you’re running out.” Geto purred above you, he poured his drink into your cup with a killer smirk as his bangs fell in front of his face. You greedily took another drink of the alcoholic beverage.

“Suguru, I’m drunk…” You whined quietly, looking into his hazy amber eyes, your vision was doubled and it looked as if Geto had a twin brother.

“Oh really?” He teased while finishing off his drink.

“Damn, Y/n is so fucking cute when she’s drunk,” Satoru murmured over to Geto. Gojo’s flirtatious gaze held on you briefly. His voice sounded as if it was underwater, you couldn’t help but smile at his compliment and burrow your face in the crook of Suguru’s neck. Damn, he smelt so attractive, like a dark and sweet candle.

“Y/n… I think it’s your turn to go.” Shoko called from across you. “Here’s your card.” You turned your attention over to her while she was on all fours on the floor to hand you your card. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked at you with a hint of desire.

You smiled at her sweetly and took it, you found it a little difficult to read what the card said. The words looked as if they were waving around. “I can’t read it…” You pouted adorably.

“Here, hand it to me sugar.” Geto’s voice rumbled in his chest. “Okay it says; would you rather have long, slow sex every time or always have a quickie?”

“I’d want to have quickies 'cause I like it rough.” You admitted with no shame. Your words caused Geto to grip onto you a bit tighter.

“You don’t say?” Gojo’s seductive voice rang out while he eyed you hungrily.

Shoko giggled, her laugh sounded like music to your ears. “No sweetie, who do you want to answer the question? That’s your card.”

Realization hit you and you laughed carelessly. “Oh, whoopsies… how bout you answer this Gojo?”

“I’m the same as you, 'cause fucking rough is so much fun. Would you care to try it sometime?”

You bit your lower lip and batted your eyelashes up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah babe, we’ve been friends for about a year now and I’m just trying to get to know you a bit better.” He whispered huskily, knowing damn well Suguru and Shoko could hear the both of you. He brought his face close to yours while you shifted in Geto’s lap to get closer to Gojo. He brushed his lips against yours in a teasing manner and then pulled away.

“Fucking hell, don’t get me riled up. I might just have to take you up to my bedroom after this.” He grazed his tongue over his top row of teeth. Satoru reached over to the pile of cards and grabbed one for himself. “Y/n, would you rather lick me here…or here?” He pointed to his abs and then to his neck.

“Why those places?” Shoko giggled over at her white-haired friend.

“The card specifically says not on the lips or privates.” Satoru flung his card in her direction. He then cast his flirtatious gaze toward you. “So which is it?”

“Both!” You sighed excitedly. “Shit, what were the options again?” You slurred with a hiccup.

“Abs or neck?” Gojo repeated himself while beckoning you to come to him.

“Okay.” You giggled while crawling from Geto’s lap over to Gojo. You lifted Satoru’s shirt to reveal his mouthwatering abs, he was so fit and muscular. You eagerly settled yourself between his legs comfortably and dragged your molten tongue up his stomach.

“Mmh, fuck.” Gojo groaned quietly, fully enjoying how hot this was. Your tongue tickled him, but he paid no mind to it and loved your cute little mouth making love to his strong abs.

Everything around you didn’t matter and you solely focused on licking Gojo like a treat. Your intrusive thoughts got the best of you and you latched down and began to suck on his skin instead. You then left a small trail of hickeys down his taught skin and continued to work your way southward. You rested your hand on his thigh, and in return, you felt his large hand rest on your shoulder.

Your thoughts quickly became dirty and you tentatively reached up to rest your hand on Satoru’s crotch. You were pleasantly surprised to find him fully erect. “You dirty girl. Ahh…” Gojo hissed out in pleasure when you stroked his length in an appetizing way.

Your sinful mouth sucked on his pale skin hungrily. You knew that some red marks would be left behind. Being the one responsible made you feel needy between your legs. Your mouth continued to make its way lower and lower. Soon enough your lips brushed against the hem of his black pants.

“Have you ever been to Paris?” Gojo murmured huskily above you.

“Huh?” You looked up with a dazed expression on your pretty face.

“Cause I can show you the eye-full tower.” He rumbled with a flirty expression.

Your busy mouth came to a halt and a smile crept on your face, followed by uncontrollable giggles. “That was the corniest shit I’ve ever heard! You’re drunk Satoru!”

“What? I thought that was the right thing to say at the moment.” Gojo smiled cheekily with a faint blush forming across his cheeks.

Even Shoko and Geto joined in on the laughter. You pulled off his hickey-ridden abs and took a greedy drink from your cup.

“Please don’t tell me you used that pickup line before.” Suguru chided through hearty chuckles.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve used it twice. And each time-“

“Ouch! I can’t believe you’d try to pull the same shallow trick on me! You gotta try harder than that.” You panted between fits of laughter.

“I bet he’s the type to be all talk and then finishes in three minutes,” Shoko added while rolling onto the floor snickering.

“Nah, he’s more like. That has never happened before, must be because you’re so hot.” Geto snarked while imitating Gojo’s seductive voice.

“Hey, guys enough with the mean jokes!” You defended. “He’s just a squirrel trying to find his nut.” The three of you were wheezing at this point, while Satoru just crossed his arms with an amused smile.

“You guys seem to be more drunk than me.” He mumbled with an arched brow, while he pulled his shirt back down and quenched his thirst for his alcohol.

Eventually, the three of you settled down and there was a moment of silence. Which was short-lived.

“My turn!” Shoko sighed excitedly, she grabbed a card, and her face lit up as she read it. “Ooh! Okay, Y/n, would you rather make out with me right now or in the bathroom where we can have some privacy?” Her smooth voice echoed in your mind while her amber eyes seemed to glow towards you in the dimly lit room.

You felt immense desire well up inside you, you’ve always found Shoko to be alluring. You never would’ve thought that she’d view you in a romantic way. You’ve never kissed a girl before and the liquor in your system sent your confidence soaring. You crawled over to her instead of answering the question. She leaned across the circle toward you and met you halfway. Her beautiful face inched closer to yours, and being so close to her made you realize how good she smelt. Her scent was sweet like vanilla mixed with a faint flowery smell. You smiled at her with anticipation and she smirked at you in return. You admired her cute little beauty mark below her right eye. While you were taking in her pretty looks she greedily pressed her lips against yours.

She tasted like cherries, her soft lips moved against yours hypnotically. You gasped in her mouth when she tangled her l fingers in your hair to pull you in deeper. It felt as if your body was lit on fire with passion, and you succumbed quickly to her viper-like tongue.

Suguru and Satoru watched with starved looks on their faces while you feverishly made out with each other. Shoko grabbed you by your shoulder and pulled you even closer. You tentatively reached up and rested your hand on her slim waist. Things were heating up faster than you intended and you felt her sneaky fingers grip your thigh hotly. Her nimble hand snaked its way between your legs, causing excitement to burn through your veins. The both of you were completely enthralled with each other and forgot that the guys were still watching you. She kissed her way off your mouth and across your jaw. Her heated kiss trailed down to your neck while her hand gravitated closer to your core between your legs.

“Mmh, Shoko…” A slutty little whimper rang from your lips, stirring an insatiable hunger within the men watching.

You felt her slick lips form into a sultry smile against your neck. “Have you ever been pleased by another girl before?”

Your cheeks flushed and you shook your head negatively. “N-no. But I want to be.” You admitted in a breathy whisper.

“Perfect. Let me do the honors then.” Shoko’s smooth voice mumbled against the crook of your neck. Her hand that was between your legs brushed against your clothed pussy in your pants. A combination of delight and excitement washed over you.

Suddenly, you felt another pair of hands resting on the back of your hips and the presence of someone sitting behind you.

“I hope you sexy ladies don’t mind if we join in on the fun.” Satoru’s low voice mumbled out from behind you. Your body immediately rested back against his chest in acceptance. He hoisted you up on his lap as if you were weightless. His body pressed against your back brought a comforting warmth.

Gojo feverishly snacked on the right side of your neck while Shoko left hickeys on your left side. Her dainty fingers ghosted over your clothed cunt. You felt her smile slyly against the crook of your neck. Shoko began to unbutton your pants.

The room around you was spinning and it felt as if someone had hexed the liquor you consumed. For some reason in your drunk state of consciousness, you craved this sexual pleasure with the utmost urgency. There was no rhyme or reason to your actions and your body succumbed to those wanton urges.

You lifted your hips to help Shoko remove your pants when you felt her tug them downward. Gojo took the opportunity to rest both of his large veiny hands on your soft and squishy thighs. You glanced over to see that Geto had positioned himself behind Shoko and began to caress her body while she shimmied your pants off of you. Once she flung your pants away she settled herself between your thighs and pushed your sexy underwear off to the side. Her hands pried your thighs open a bit wider and now your exposed core was on display for her and Suguru to see. Meanwhile, Satoru nibbled at the back of your neck hungrily. You felt his hands firmly pull your top off now revealing your juicy breasts to Suguru.

Her alluring face dipped between your legs and you felt her hot breath waft over your desperate little cunt. She placed a feather-light kiss against your pussy. Her silky soft lips glided over your dampening folds, she teasingly dipped her tongue into your entrance for a quick taste. Suguru made his way over to you to study your flushed face. He smiled at the needy look on your face and pressed his lips against yours. He gently groped your plump breasts with admiration. But his fondling was cut short when Satoru pushed his hands away so he could have a turn.

Shoko’s sneaky tongue slid up your pussy and against your clit deliciously. She lapped her tongue in your folds expertly, she’s done this before. Shoko then focused her mouth on your sensitive bundle of nerves. She even went as far as latching down and sucking on it viciously. Your body squirmed under her promiscuous mouth and small whimpers of pleasure escaped your lips and into Suguru’s mouth.

Suguru’s lips moved against yours feverishly, he nibbled your bottom lip in a teasing manner while his tongue begged to enter. You obliged and your tongues twisted and slithered against each other hotly.

Satoru had a perfect view of Shoko going down on you and that fucking riled him up. The way Satoru had you on his lap, caused you to feel something hard press against your ass cheeks. The thought of Gojo popping a boner from Shoko eating you out made you extra horny.

Gojo couldn’t take it anymore and unzipped his pants from underneath you and began to rub his aching rod along the inside parts of your thighs. His dick felt hot and firm against your soft skin. You glanced down to admire the way his cock looked. You never would have thought that you’d be fortunate enough to witness his large vein-covered rod. The tip of his dick was a soft rosy color and it leaned a little to the left. Despite how heavy it looked, it surprised you how it stood up erect on its own.

Shoko’s mouth on your desperate cunt made you incredibly wet. Your pussy was practically begging for penetration. Satoru was able to feel the mix of Shoko’s saliva and your arousal drip down onto his raging shaft.

Shoko couldn’t help but give Satoru’s dick a little love. Her pert mouth welcomed him into her wet cavern with great enthusiasm.

“Fucking shit.” Gojo hissed under his breath, Shoko’s mouth felt so inviting. She dragged her tongue all over his length to coat him up in her saliva. Shoko pulled away and guided the head of his cock to your slick entrance. She wore a captivated expression as she helped his thick tip squeeze into your pretty little pussy. Gojo stretched you out almost painfully. He was barely inside you and a small cry of discomfort and surprise fell from your lips.

“It’s okay baby, you’re doing so good. Just a little more and then he’s in.” Shoko cooed with an empathetic smile. She picked up on your slight discomfort and placed juicy kisses on your clit. Her tongue swirled around your clitoris. Her skilled mouth helped you relax onto Gojo’s shaft and soon enough, he slid all the way into you. Enthralling pleasure began to buzz through you and you were ready to move.

Satoru placed one hand on your hip and the other on your breast, teasing your nipple between his index and thumb. He set into a slow pace of pumping his rod into you. He was trying to savor the way your walls gripped him tightly. But the greedier side of his personality was taking over, and he simply wanted to rail you here and now. His thrusts became wild with an incredible amount of force. You’ve never been fucked this rough before, and you were certainly enjoying it.

Suguru’s hot lips kissed yours passionately while his friend claimed your pussy. However, Geto felt a small sting of jealousy toward his white-haired friend. To feel like he wasn’t missing out he positioned his face between Shoko’s legs. He lifted her skirt to reveal her toned thighs and plump ass, wrapped in a sexy red thong. He slid his sneaky fingers down to her snatch, to find her pleasantly wet and ready. Suguru didn’t waste any time and ravishingly kissed her cunt.

Shoko slurped your clit as if it was her favorite candy. Her tongue teased and tickled you, which made you even more saturated. Gojo has never experienced a pussy as wet as yours, which enticed the idea that this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing. That’s for damn sure.

The overstimulation of Shoko’s hot mouth and Satoru’s penetrating length turned you into a bubbling mess. Since you weren’t sober, this made the situation much more riveting. You flung your head back and onto Gojo’s broad shoulder. Which inspired him to plunge into you with more force than before, with each thrust you were able to feel his massive dick stretch you out almost sinfully.

“Damn it.” Gojo gritted through his teeth, he was about to bust due to your perfect pussy. He wanted to last longer and pushed the thought of release aside. You felt him abruptly pull out of you. “Shoko, Y/n. I want you to make out on my dick.” Satoru commanded breathlessly.

This grabbed Suguru’s attention and he removed his mouth from Shoko’s pussy with a wet kiss. “Can you ladies do the same to me?”

Shoko popped her head out from between your thighs and rolled her eyes. “Who made you the boss, Satoru?”

“It’s okay.” Shoko’s expression softened when your mousy voice spoke up. “I think it’d be hot, we should give it a try. Then after can I suggest something?” You smiled almost innocently. Your natural beauty mesmerized your friends.

“Y-yeah, anything for you babe.” Shoko flushed, her upper cheeks tinted with a faint shade of pink.

You flashed her a sugary grin and repositioned yourself on the floor near Gojo’s crotch. His pants were messily undone and his slippery raging dick stood up, ready for action. You laid on Satoru’s right leg and Shoko placed herself over his left. Gojo was able to feel your wet and desperate pussies through his pant legs. Geto went ahead and sat on Gojo’s right side, next to you. Geto had a large and noticeable tent in his pants, his cock was aching for attention. Without hesitation, you reached over and softly stroked his meaty package.

With no words being exchanged, you and Shoko began to kiss the tip of Satoru’s dick together. The sweet taste of your juices was the first thing you noticed. You lapped your tongue over the head of his rod and Shoko did the same. Your tongues tangled with each other passionately, while they slid over Gojo’s pink tip.

Geto looked down longingly at the way you and Shoko swapped saliva on Satoru’s length. Gojo caught him staring and guided Geto’s face to his. Satoru kissed Suguru with immense desire, he didn’t want his friend to feel left out of all the fun. You felt Gojo’s hand envelope yours on Geto’s dick. He promptly pumped your hand on Suguru’s shaft, which caused his dick to get even more excited. Geto’s pants looked uncomfortably tight and you felt Gojo’s hand move off of yours and yanked his waistband down, freeing Suguru’s sprung friend.

You and Shoko took turns sucking off Gojo’s rod. She would briefly deep-throat him, kiss you on the lips, and then it would be your turn. You beckoned him down your throat, pulled off, and kissed her with your slick lips. You then placed petal soft kisses on the right side of his cock, while Shoko copied your actions and kissed his left side. Your mouth lowered down to balls and you engulfed his right nut in your mouth, sucking it softly and lapping your tongue on his heavy sack. Shoko followed your actions and sucked on his other nut, you felt Gojo tangle his fingers in your hair, lost in delight. Your tongue grazed against Shoko’s while you two made love to Satoru’s nuts. Shoko then brought her heated mouth upward and to the tip of his dick and greedily forced him down her throat. You switched to his right ball and sucked him off softly, while Shoko let him throat fuck her.

Muted moans of pleasure came from Gojo’s mouth but were quickly swallowed up by Geto. Their mouths moved against each other with intense passion. You felt Satoru’s hand speed yours up while the both of you jacked off Geto. You heard a small groan rumble from Suguru in response. You moved your mouth back to the tip of Gojo’s veiny length, you were greeted by a sloppy kiss from Shoko. The both of you sucked and licked his sensitive tip.

“Mmh, I’m about to cum, get ready to be fed,” Satoru murmured into Suguru’s lips.

You and Shoko obediently opened your mouths and stuck out your tongues, anticipating his release. Soon enough, he sprayed his hot clear treat on both of your tongues. You eagerly drank it up, loving his delectable taste. You and Shoko took turns sucking his tip lovingly as he shot his liquid down your throats.

Once Satoru finished, he guided your face down to Geto’s exposed dick. You removed your hand from his girthy shaft and placed a sweet kiss on his tip. Shoko crawled over to Suguru’s other side and began to run her tongue all over his cock. You welcomed the head of his hot and ready dick into your mouth. You fluttered your tongue around him expertly, while Shoko began to make love to his heavy balls. You were able to hear Geto and Gojo swap saliva intensely. Satoru tangled his hand into Suguru’s tied-up black hair, he knew just how to tug it to make Geto unravel.

You worked your mouth further down Suguru’s shaft and he quickly hit the back of your throat, you calmed your breath and let him pump his dick in and out of you. Your wet and tight throat felt immaculate to him, he could just stay there forever. Shoko teased and suckled each of his nuts, she loved the way his velvety skin felt under her swift tongue. While Suguru throat fucked you, Shoko began to touch and tease your body. Her sneaky hands caressed your breasts and hardened nipples. Her other hand found its way down to your wet snatch and hastily rubbed on your sensitive slit.

You eventually had to come up for air from Suguru’s thick cock lodged in your throat. You popped off him with a loud wet sound, and once you did, Shoko’s hot lips were on yours. As if she was craving your attention. She guided your bare boobs down to Geto’s slick rod with a little sparkle in her eye. She placed his dick in between your plump breasts, causing him to groan in delight. Your soft and squishy tits wrapped around his dick in the most comfortable way.

Shoko placed another passionate kiss on your lips and dove between your breasts. She sucked off Suguru eagerly while she fondled both of your boobs. As a bisexual girl, Shoko was in heaven.

She’d briefly slurp Geto’s rod, then she’d leave feverish kisses all over your tits. She made sure not to miss a single spot on your breasts. Shoko especially loved how responsive you were when she’d give your boobs attention, your little moans and gasps of delight sounded like music to her ears.

Geto instinctively began to thrust his length between your soft breasts, Shoko helped by bouncing them on his crotch. The sight before you was incredibly hot, the way his large veiny dick was surrounded by your tits caused a primal desire in your empty pussy. You could practically feel your arousal dripping down your thighs. You couldn’t help but bring one of your hands down to your needy little snatch, as for your other hand, that one was for Shoko’s cunt. Your dainty fingers snuck underneath her skirt and traced her slippery outer lips, this caused a desperate whimper to come from her busy lip. Shoko sucked on Geto’s tip like a lollipop, while you rubbed both of your clits in little circles.

Gojo was already fired up again and his dick stood up proudly from his undone pants. The sight of Geto tit fucking you while Shoko sucked him off was more than enough for him to handle. Suguru noticed his friend’s predicament and whispered something in his ear that caused the white-haired man to hastily get out of his spot. Satoru swiftly stood above you and Shoko. Geto helped Gojo wrap his legs over his broad shoulders. Satoru made himself weightless, to save Suguru the trouble of holding him up in this position. Now with Gojo’s impressive length in front of Geto’s lips, he immediately got to work.

This was one of Satoru’s fantasies. Ever since he saw Suguru consume the large orb of cursed energy down his throat, he had a strong feeling that Geto would be amazing at the head. Suguru swirled his tongue around Gojo’s tip while he inched himself further into his mouth. Once Satoru was in his throat, he was able to feel intense cursed energy tingle the tip of his dick.

“Mmh, fuck…” He groaned out in surprise. Was Suguru using his technique on him? Regardless, the foreign feeling was quite erotic. Gojo wanted to hump his dick into Geto’s mouth, but the sensation of his cursed energy sent waves of pleasure all over him, Gojo did not need to move. It was as if he stuck his dick into a wet and warm vacuum, Satoru’s jaw went slack from this intensity. Out of curiosity, he tried to pull his dick out a little, but he was unable to, he was getting pulled down Suguru’s throat! That certainly didn’t bother him though, as a matter of fact, it made him hold Geto’s face even closer to his crotch. “Keep me in your throat,” Gojo muttered breathlessly. “Yeah, just like that. Ohh.”

Both Suguru and Satoru were lost in pleasure. For Satoru, it was having his hips flush against Suguru’s mouth. As for Suguru, it was the dirty acts his throat did to his friend, along with the way Shoko fucked your tits against his dick while she sucked his tip. This was all too much for Geto to handle and he released himself all over you and Shoko’s doll-like faces. His cum came out like strands of milk and it dripped from her face down onto your fleshy boobs. Shoko licked her lips clean and then began to clean his seed off your perfect boobs. Her hot tongue lapped up Geto’s juices in a fluttering manner. She then brought her face to yours and removed his cum off your face with her slutty mouth, as you did the same to hers.

Gojo wasn’t close to finishing yet, but at least he was slick and ready for fucking. He reluctantly removed himself from Suguru’s throat and sat down beside him.

“So, what was your suggestion?” Satoru’s blue eyes grazed over your wet breasts.

You stared him down as if he was a piece of meat. “I want to sit on your face.”

Gojo’s expression switched into a more flirtatious one. “Oh? I didn’t think a shy girl like you would be that bold.”

“I guess it’s cause I’m drunk.” You smiled lazily. “Also I want Shoko to sit on Geto’s face while we make out.”

That earned a small giggle from the girl beside you. “Man, drunk Y/n is secretly a freak. I like it!” She grinned over at you with approval and wrapped her arm around your waist snuggly.

Geto cleared his throat. “That sounds like a great idea, but halfway through I want us to switch partners, just to keep things interesting.”

“That’s fine, switching sounds good.” You agreed while resting your head on Shoko’s narrow shoulder. Sleep was calling your name, but your desire to find out how the rest of this night would play out kept you wide awake.

“Mmkay, let’s get on with this. I’m hungry for your pussy Y/n.” Satoru snarked while grabbing a pillow from the couch and lying down on the floor. Geto followed his lead and put his pillow next to Gojo’s, so their heads were across from each other.

You stood up and began to remove your soaked panties, they dropped to the living room floor soon forgotten. Shoko also undressed herself, her skirt pooled to the floor along with the rest of her undergarments.

You carefully mounted Gojo’s face so both of your knees rested on each side of his head onto the squishy pillow. He eyed your pretty pussy with a starved look on his face. He rapidly gripped your thighs and forced your cunt onto his mouth. You worried about the lack of air he had, but those thoughts soon vanished because of the way he ate you. His tongue swiped over your folds repeatedly, his nose was burrowed against your puffy clit.

Now that Shoko was sitting on Geto’s face across from you, she immediately brought your body close to hers. Her comforting scent of sweet vanilla filled your senses and you pressed your soft lips against hers. Her warm supple body against yours felt so right. The both of you kissed each other with intense yearning, her tongue intertwined itself with yours. Your left hand tangled itself in her straight brown hair, while your right hand messaged her plump breast.

Satoru and Suguru eyed the both of you friskily, certainly enjoying the view going on above them. Gojo’s wicked tongue flickered against your sensitive bundle of nerves, causing you to grind your cunt against his face desperately. His hands were still holding you down on his face, he knew if he let go you’d be a squirming mess.

Shoko was also becoming more unraveled due to Suguru’s teasing tongue in her pussy, her small gasps and moans of pleasure had become more frequent. Shoko pulled away from your face to admire the adorable flushed expression you wore. “You’re just so breathtaking.” She gasped out in felicity and pressed her lips against yours.

“Mmm, thank you. You’re so fucking fine... Ahh, Satoru!” You whimpered out shamelessly while you felt Gojo tongue fuck you. He shoved it in you aggressively and pumped it in and out repeatedly.

“What about me?” Satoru gurgled into your pussy, with a playful look in his blazing blue eyes.

“You’re hot too!” You moaned while trying to clench your thighs closer together, his hot mouth on your dampening pussy was sending you over the edge.

“What else do you like about me?” Gojo teased, then he swiveled his tongue around deep inside you.

You flashed him an annoyed look. “Quit being jealous-ahh!” His tongue flickered over that special spot inside of you.

“Just eat my pussy.” You hissed out in ecstasy while you gyrated your cunt on his face. Satoru’s hair fell messily in front of his eyes, but you were still able to make out the flirtatious expression he had.

“Yes, mama,” Gojo mumbled into your slippery cunt, while he ate you like a starved animal.

Shoko gave your boobs a little squeeze. “Let’s switch, I’m getting close.” She murmured against your lips, with a little smirk.

You nodded in agreement and pried yourself from Gojo’s grip. You and Shoko swiftly switched spots. Geto’s dark brown eyes greeted you ravenously, once you settled yourself on his face. He didn’t waste any time eating you as if you were his last meal. He slurped on your clit while simultaneously fluttering his tongue over it, making you a mewling mess.

“Oh, Suguru!” You cried out while smashing your lips on Shoko’s. The two of you exchanged breathless sighs while clinging to each other’s breasts.

Suddenly, you felt Geto stick his thumb up your ass. A surprised moan left your lips, while he pumped his thumb in and out of your tight puckered hole. Suguru’s hot lips kissed and enveloped your pussy while he sucked on your cunt. His tongue brushed your clit rapidly, you had no idea that he was capable of moving his tongue that fast.

The combination of his intruding thumb and slick mouth was riveting. White hot pleasure overcame your senses aggressively and your legs shook as you came into his eager mouth. Geto drank your juices as if it were the elixir of life. To him, you tasted, heavenly.

“Mmh, good boy, fucking drink my cum.” Shoko hissed while releasing herself on Gojo’s face with a sexy little moan, which you swallowed up while your lips moved against hers seductively. Satoru expertly lapped her cum up with his tongue.

Geto helped you off his face, and now you were sitting on his large lap, face-to-face with him. You noticed that the lower part of his face was slick with your release. He brought his lips down to yours for a tantalizing kiss, you could taste yourself in his mouth.

“Turn around, beautiful.” He whispered while guiding you to body the other way. You lowered your torso so that your ass stuck up in the air. Now you were face to face with Shoko, who was also on all fours.

You and Shoko brought your faces together and began to kiss each other zestfully. Her supple lips moved against yours with the utmost enthusiasm. The sensation of abruptly being filled with Geto’s hefty dick rocked your world. “Ahh!” You moaned out in delight. In this position, he could get extra deep in your wet cunt. You instinctively clamped your thighs together from the intense waves of pleasure going through you.

You felt Suguru’s large hands grip your waist securely as he set into a steady rhythm. Each thrust you and Shoko received, caused your bodies to jolt forward. This caused your kisses to become more sloppy and inexact. You’d try to kiss her on the lips, but a rough thrust from the man behind you, caused you to kiss her cheek instead. Shoko was also having trouble landing her smooches and decided to focus on worshiping your right shoulder instead. You followed her lead and began to leave heated love bites along Shoko’s narrow shoulder.

Gojo unexpectedly flipped Shoko over on her back, all while staying lodged inside her. He slid her body underneath yours, so her face was below your boobs.

“There, now you keep each other busy while Suguru and I do some rearranging,” Satoru grunted huskily, this was something he defiantly wanted to see.

He didn’t have to tell the both of you twice. You leaned down to engulf Shoko’s perky nipple in your mouth. You felt her do the same to you, she even reached up to softly grope your other breast. Her warm wet tongue felt amazing on your sensitive bud. She then began to switch between the two, licking and kissing your soft squishy skin. You copied her swift technique of swapping between her breasts. She smelt ravishing, you could just eat her up, literally!

Gojo and Geto watched in awe while the both of you sucked on each other’s tits as if your lives depended on it. They felt incredibly lucky to whiteness such sultry acts between you two. Satoru couldn’t help but break the distance between him and Suguru and kissed him roughly, while he fucked himself into Shoko.

Suguru gripped the crease where your hips met your thighs and began to ram himself deep inside you with powerful thrusts. His toned pelvis met your bubbly ass cheeks with loud claps.

You felt Geto’s large hand sneak off your waist and down between your legs. His fingers roughly rubbed fast circles across your swollen clit. Your breath hitched and small gasps of approval fell from your lips.

“You feel, mmh, so sacred Y/n,” Geto grunted from behind your bouncing body. Your slick cunt gladly welcomed Suguru with each powerful thrust. “But I think it’s time we switch, I know Satoru would like to have a go at you.”

“Mmh-Kay.” You hummed in understanding.

Geto was right, as soon as he pulled out of you, Gojo was already on his knees beside him. Ready to finish the deed, Shoko was back on all fours and Satoru hastily maneuvered your body so you were on your back now.

“There, good girl. Wrap your legs around my waist.” Gojo purred lowly, his handsome face looked down at your willing body with a sly smirk. You obediently trapped him in between your legs and pulled his toned waist close to your desperate cunt, slick with anticipation.

Satoru rubbed the head of his massive dick against your wet clit. “Ready?”

“Yea-yes!” You whimpered, mid-word because Gojo shoved himself into you balls deep. His lengthy rod filled you up completely. Shoko’s juices made Gojo’s dick nice and slippery, so he could fuck your pussy almost immediately. He set into a viscous rhythm of pounding his dick into you.

Gojo looked down at you with a wicked smile and a wild look in his eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

He then shoved your body underneath Shoko’s, you knew what to do and began to suckle on her bouncing boobs. Shoko also returned the favor and bent down to latch onto yours. Geto was fucking her rather roughly and her whole body shook vigorously. Satoru was picking up pace as well, with each thrust from his pounding length, your pussy welcomed him with a wet and tight squeeze.

You felt Satoru’s grip on your waist grow a bit more firm, but he removed both of his hands and hoisted your legs over his shoulders. He shoved your body further down below Shoko’s. From this angle, you could see Geto’s girthy dick penetrating her pretty pussy perfectly. Your intrusive thoughts got the best of you and you swiped your tongue over her sensitive clit.

A moan of approval fell from her lips as you zigzagged your tongue over her nub. You could taste her sweet arousal, she was incredibly wet. Shoko lowered her head down to your cunt and returned the oral favor. She sucked on your clit while fluttering her tongue on it at the same time.

Geto abruptly pulled out of her and pointed his rod towards your lips. You welcomed him down your tight throat. “Yeah babe, just like that.” Suguru hummed in delight. He then removed himself from your throat and continued to plow into Shoko.

Satoru also took advantage of having Shoko’s face near your crotches and fed his dick to her. “Good girl.” He groaned out while Shoko deep-throated him. Gojo humped her face a bit too roughly which caused her to cough in response.

“Fuck y-” Shoko hissed but was cut off when Satoru shoved himself back into her mouth. All she could do was shoot him a spiteful glare.

Gojo abruptly pulled out from her damp mouth and plunged back into you with a pleasured sigh. He slid into you effortlessly thanks to Shoko lubricating his rod with her saliva. As his dick stretched your little wet cunt, you could feel your orgasm bubbling to the surface. He filled you up in just the right way. His hips rammed into yours powerfully, while his speed increased. Breathy moans came out from you that sounded like music to everyone’s ears. Shoko’s teasing tongue on your clit made your release rise even faster to the surface.

You didn’t have to say that you were close, Gojo could feel how close you were. Your walls began to twitch around his plunging dick, beckoning him even deeper inside of you. You could tell that Shoko was on the edge as well, her moans became more frequent and her saturated pussy was dripping onto your lips like raindrops.

Shoko made an adorable little moan when Suguru began to hit that spot in her just right. Her warm honey brown eyes rolled into the back of her head as she released herself all over his dick. This caused Geto to lose himself rather quickly and shot his cum inside of her with a godly hiss of pleasure. You couldn’t hold back any longer either, your pussy clamped down on Satoru’s rod as he relentlessly plowed you. Your orgasm shook you to your core and you drenched his cock with your divine juices. Gojo was sent over the edge when he felt your hot waterfall of cum envelope him, he shot his copious amount of seed deep inside you. He made sure to empty himself in you completely, claiming your cunt as his.

Once everyone regained their senses after experiencing each of their climaxes, Satoru slowly removed himself from you. Suguru pulled out of Shoko’s cunt from above you, and droplets of a mixture of their cum fell onto your face. The hot liquid fell onto your cheek and rolled down to your lips. A dirty thought popped into your mind and you reached up to grab Shoko’s thighs.

“Turn around so I can’t clean you up.” You purred seductively while eyeing her glistening lips with an insatiable hunger.

Shoko did as she was told and swiftly repositioned herself onto your awaiting mouth. She looked down at you with her signature grin, her beauty mark raised closer to her chestnut brown eye. She lowered her slippery pussy down to your hungry mouth. You wrapped your lips around her slick folds, you could immediately taste her sweet arousal and Geto’s salty cum. The combination of their flavors was like a special and unique flavor that you had the pleasure of eating.

With Shoko on her knees, Satoru quickly adjusted her body so she could lean down clean off his dick. Gojo laid on the floor at an angle, so Geto could join in on the fun. Suguru saw his opening and lowered his face to your cream-filled cunt. He made sure to bring his long-spent cock over to Satoru’s lips in the process. Gojo welcomed his dick into his mouth and sucked him off graciously. He was able to taste your sweet and subtle flavor on his rod along with the mixture of Suguru’s cum.

The four of you licked, sucked, and cleaned each other privates with great enthusiasm. A beautiful symphony of moans and groans filled the room while each of you enjoyed your special snacks.

You scooped your tongue into Shoko’s pussy, earning a burst of Suguru’s cum to fall on your awaiting mouth. You slurped up his cream, enjoying the taste. Shoko loved how your fluttering tongue felt while you cleaned her cunt out. Shoko gave Satoru’s rod loving licks, she made sure to even clean off his balls with her mouth. She enjoyed the way Satoru’s cock stood up proudly while she licked off the sticky liquid that coated him. She loved that she could even taste you on him, which made her eager to clean him off.

Gojo had Geto’s dick lodged down his throat, his mouth salivating uncontrollably around his thick rod. Suguru groaned quietly at the welcoming wet squeeze of Gojo’s throat. Satoru felt that he should be the one to clean off Geto since he let Gojo throat fuck him earlier.

Suguru ate the juice from your pussy ravenously, he swiveled his tongue deep inside you in order to get to Gojo’s cum in your sweet center. Suguru enjoyed your cunt as if he was eating a cream pie. Some of Satoru’s cum had dribbled down your thighs, and Geto made sure to lick and kiss that trail away.

Soon enough, everyone’s genitals were free of slick cum. Your clean privates were shiny from wet saliva. Shoko gingerly removed herself from your face, while Geto got up as well. Suguru helped you up with a kind smile.

“I’m thinking we should head to the bedroom for some rest,” Geto murmured, pressing his lips onto your forehead fondly.

“Good idea, I call cuddling with Y/n!” Shoko raised her hand in the air adorably, her boobs jiggled in the air.

“Then I call cuddling Y/n from her other side!” Gojo announced playfully, raising his hand just like Shoko did.

“If that’s the case, then I call cuddling her too,” Suguru added with a dashing smirk.

Moments later you found yourself in Gojo’s king-sized bed. Satoru held you possessively on the right side of your body, while Suguru caressed you lovingly from your left. Shoko nestled herself on top of you, her face burrowed into your supple breasts.

Everyone was spent, and the effects of the alcohol were gradually wearing off. Suguru’s strong bicep made an excellent neck rest for you, while Satoru's arms wrapped around your waist were quite soothing. Shoko’s slender legs were tangled with yours and her breath became more relaxed. Sleep was going to overtake everyone shortly.

As you were about to drift off into sweet slumber, you overheard Satoru whisper. “We should play would you rather, more often.”

Which earned a sleepy chuckle from Suguru.

“Agreed.”

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yandere-wishes · 6 months ago

Text

⋆.˚ 𝔻𝕒𝕣𝕜 𝕍𝕒𝕔𝕒𝕪 ⋆.˚

𐙚Yandere! Qimir X Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He steals you in summer. Castaway on a planet with no name. But the way his eyes shine under the hot sun has your heart beating out of your chest.

⁀➷ Does this count as "That's that me, espresso"?

🪐 Yandere behavior, obsessive tendencies, Stockholm syndrome, blood, and gore.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ Espresso by Sabrina Carpender

Dark Vacay by CAS

The heat licks at your neck dangerously. The scathing red glow cleaves through flesh, through bone.

Warm, warm, warm.

The sort of swelter befitting rampant volcanos and rebirthing suns.

The man, no, the Sith has you pinned to his chest. His force,a dark pulsating thing, coiling through your body, keeping you rooted.

Sol's voice echoes through the canopy. Sending ripples through the blood-matted forest floor. "Release her." His saber is drawn, pointed.

Blue vs red.

Hot vs cold.

"Give me the relic." The voice lacks emotion, empathy. It demands, it takes. There is no room for formalities here, no chivalry you've long believed in. This monster deals only in dark. Taking and taking. "And I won't hurt her".

You try to push him away, to fight. Your force against his, clawing at the dark ether around you, hunting for an aperture, a splinter anything to infiltrate. But he is resilient, strong the way most volcanos are.

Impenetrable.

You moan against the tightening noose. He demands and you must obey. Such a dark thing can even make your master bow, make him give up the ancient blood-red relic. "You have your relic, now release my pupil." Behind you the monster chuckles, an airy noise overflowing with malice, "I said I wouldn't hurt her, not that I'd give her back."

The lights dull. Neon fading into a fuzzy mess of colors too tangled to decipher. Voices weave bending to the blaring buzz echoing from within. The world grows darker, you try to clutch onto something, anything. The cool colors of saber light, the soothing tone of your master's voice. The monster's dark cadence. But it's no use, the darkness prevails, pulling you under its crushing waves, burying you in a sea of nihil.

The world is dim upon resurgence. The air tastes of salt, fresh and dry upon the throat. The earth you lay in is warm, not like the smoldering heat of a bloodborne saber, but the warmth you imagine a mother's embrace to hold. Soft in every way that counts.

The place is alien and abandoned. No family, no monsters. Just rock upon rock and makeshift furniture to further the illusion of a makeshift home. The pounding upon your temples has yet to cease, you wonder if the outlines of a bruise have yet to bloom.

Slowly, you emerge from the cocoon of worn blankets. Bare feet scraping across the jagged floor. You feel the monster's presence linger, his essence strong within this place. You remember the dragon dens you used to read about in fairy tales. The gold-adorned caves where little princesses were forced to dwell.

It's funny you should feel like one now.

There are clothes sprawled across the floor. Vanilla ice cream in shade and shape, they feel too pure to have been chosen by a man like him. Too pure to have been tainted by the darkness of his fingertips. It's only now that the dress glares back that you notice your bareness, Jedi robes stripped and discarded.

That fiend...

You feel skinned, alone. No saber to grasp, no golden drapes. Nothing to paint you as Jedi. It's with reluctance that you lace yourself into the sweet dress, with utter reluctance that you step out onto the beach of rocks awaiting outside.

You spot the man,

the sith.

Qimir

His name reverberates within your head. You lick each letter, rolling them across your tongue and drinking in their condensation. "Qi-mi-rr" the name shouldn't taste of exotic fruits blended and bled. It shouldn't taste like fruit cocktails and coconut cubes but it does.

It does and it's disgustingly delicious.

He walks with the steady strout of a man who knows he is the most dangerous thing on this beach, on this island, on this entire planet. A volcano among mountains.

You follow behind bare feet on smooth rocks. Fumbling across the beach.

Chasing shadows. Chasing monsters.

He sheds his robes like skin, peeling away sabbath vestments to reveal cutis. Tanned and scarred, marred flesh risen like volcano veins cascading across his spine.

You shouldn't admit how desperately your fingers ache to trace the tragic thing. You glid your nails across the notched igneous rocks. Dreaming its soft flesh, his soft flesh beneath your touch. He would shutter under your fingertips as you pull apart his secrets. Nibbling on them like picnic cookies.

He's stripped bare, soft skin caught in the dim sun. His open wounds glisten under soft gold rays. You skate away from the sight, that forbidden sun-drenched sight. Eyes averted and hidden behind the rocks, twice locked, to avoid a rogue glance.

He is nothing if not haunting, forbidden in every way.

Odd how the memory of his bare ankles is what lingers. Carved too steep and too deep in a way that looks too marble. They merge into long robust legs. You can't help but imagine the sculpture of his thighs after, the thing at the end of those perplexing ankles. They too must be strong, carved to define each muscle. You imagine being trapped between them, their forceful push against your meaker body as his ankles intertwine with yours.

"You can open your eyes now."

You taste his darkness in your mouth again. Potent tropical fruits laced with sea salt. He couldn't have known you were trailing after him, you'd been quiet, silent like a whisper.

"It's improper to strip out in the open. What would you have done if someone should have come upon you?"

He treads in the water like a pearl unearthed. Shimmering alongside the blue-green of the lagoon. "You came upon me and nothing happened."

"That's because I had the good graces to avert my gaze from such a sight."

"I'd prefer if you'd look."

He pours water over his face, sparkly droplets cascading down sharp cheekbones. Eyes wide with an odd groggy wonder. The sky and the sea and him ethereally in between. He shouldn't look so magical. Some water nymph playing spike ball with the sun. Drinking in the clouds and blue. Before diving back down into his aquatic galaxy.

"Join me"

"I'd rather impale myself"

he's treading closer, water shielding his body like liquid lapis lazuli. "I wonder what your lips will taste like blue?" and it's the first time you've ever thought of your order's regalia as something so macabre.

His eyes are half-lidded, licking over your body like a melting Sunday. Or maybe he actually is, you can feel something wet and sinister sliding across your body. Slipping over and under the dress, sucking at pulse points. Anticipating soft vanilla.

You want to rip out his tongue and harbor in your mouth. You want to devour him as if he were ice cream on a summer day. Butterscotch cone with drizzled caramel and star sprinkles. Your teeth ache desperately for just one small bite.

He's standing, growing into a full man, no longer just a boy nymph memorized by soft whites and bright blues. The water droplet clutch greedy to taut muscles, refusing to leave such a Promethean thing.

The wet thing freezes. Running water to ice cube. His force evaporates from you, you bask in the mist of him. Before the shadow roots behind you impenetrable all over again. Qimir steps closer and you close your eyes on instinct. Stepping back, following the flow of sand in breeze.

Such sights are not for us to love.

It tips you off balance, You can't see Qimir but you can feel him. He's closer and closer. That's why you're stalking back. But the plasmic thing behind you nicks your ankle. Lurching you back. In the blink of an eye and the start of a scream, you're suspended in mid-air. Floating above the sands, save in the gossamer of his black mist.

"Careful" Qimir jests

And you crack your eye open just enough to see his outstretched hand.

"I want to take a shower"

"The lagoone is over there" he throws over his shoulder all so causally. like spelling out sea cemetary.

the warmth of the cave is suffocating. Lacing through your body making it breakout into little pearls of hidrosis. You roll over, watching Qimir, solder the cracks of his helmet. The rampant sparks cast him in a galactic white halo. Some intangible creature from the far reaches of the universe.

You wonder back to the incident by the lagoon.

You wonder if his tongue, his real tongue, would feel cool against your flaring skin. Muscle-bound ice cube rolling across your arms, your chest, drinking in your essence in half kisses and open-lipped moans. Sucking tenderly on the veins of your neck.

But shouldn't the tongues of monsters be spiked? cutting deep in search of blood?

Qimir swats the sweat from his temples. Pulling up the back of his shirt in an effort to fight the humidity. His scars transcend so low. Rivers weaving through him, overflowing with treasured secrets. You suck in the force through your lips drinking in its cold confidence. Marching up to stand behind him, only half admiring the rugged skin below the sandy shirt.

"Ahem" Spine straight, head held high. Your stance is practiced, sculpted in the confidence that the order demands. Lightside in every way.

Jedi, Jedi, Jedi

"I know it is futile to ask a treasonous sith like you to abide by the laws of common decency. But I'd ask that you do not come to spy on me while I bathe" Your hands ball into firsts. Glaring death and shark teeth at his blemished back.

He leaves the workbench with all the grace of a crushing tide. Elegance carved from salt rocks and years of walking through stars and shadows. But this time you refuse to step back. There is no dishabille to fear, no sand lines that may be passed.

But he doesn't confront you. He doesn't bask in his rage and stands proudly in front of you. No, instead he paces, or rather almost floats. He's in front of you one minute and behind you the next. The eerieness of it all only comes from the feeling of entombment. He is your cage, your coffin. Burying you under the sand with his precious secrets and red relics. Your nerve beats out of you in little droplets.

Qimir's fingers lace with your own, his hot breath fans the shell of your ear, "How can I make such promises when you act so cute" his voice is coconut shavings upon white sand. You aren't even sure he spoke. " I thought Sith only dealt in absolutes?" his laughter cuts like fractured seashells. Cutting through heartstrings. You want to hear it again and again until you've memorized its melody. "That's what we want the Jedi to believe."

His teeth graze the nape of your neck. That's the last straw, gravity crushes your nerve, and you take off running.

The pearls that shine within his sockets are entirely too dark. You shouldn't be thinking such this as you disrode. But the glimmer of pure drown isn't a worldly sight, it's something unplaceable.

Sith can not be trusted, even if, until mere days ago they had been things of fairytales like dragons and sea monsters. Mystical monsters used to frighten little padwans into finishing their plates. But the stories are true now, they've ripped open the holobooks and sprouted from the screen. Your fingers flex, feeling the weight of his hand in yours.

The monsters are real...

You keep your undergarments on as you descend with the sparkling tides. Qimir may appear at any moment. And you wish to confront a Sith in a Jedi's skin, or what little is left of it.

You're sinking into the watermelon greens and crystal blues, sinking into him... because even so far from the grotto his presence haunts your thoughts still.

"You wouldn't mind if I invite myself in?" The water laps at his feet, he's standing over the liquid threshold.

"What are you doing here?! I told you not to come."

he shrugs and you can't help but notice the definition of his muscles. "It's hot in the cave. Plus you don't own the beach."

He pulls the shirt over his head.

You scream for him to stop.

But this time as he pulls the waistband down you notice something underneath.

Swim trunks.

Bell-bottomed and shaped like a nebula, but only midnight in hue. The cuffs glimmer with red intricacies, patterns from a different time, a different solar system. Each stitch tells some tale of horror or history. Sith things that you'd rather not know. But why engrave them into a swimsuit? Why paint a tapestry on something so jejune?

He treads through the water, deadset on you. And again in every step, you notice a mettle valor that can only come from having killed and kissed your greatest fears.

The rocks are slippery beneath your feet, running, swimming, gliding whatever gets you further from him. But the rocks form barricades of their own. Igneous confines housing prey and beast.

"I meant it when I said you were cute." He has you pinned to the mineral mountains, eyes prying you open, studying your inner workings like a gutted bot. "So fragile so malleable..." You feel his power rolled over your neck.

You didn't expect the kiss. The taste of coconut shavings and caramel. Your heart hammers as he tugs on your hips, pulling you closer. Your lungs burn, filled with salt water and dark force energy.

But suffocating is a small price to pay when he parts your lips and pushes iced star fruits in your mouth.

That night Qimir had tried to feed you soup. Boiled fish and herbs in a cauldron that looks, entirely witch. But the refusal comes not from the perturbation of poison or the primal mistrust shared between star-crossed enemies.

No the refusal comes because you simply do not like fish.

"Just try a spoonful, it's from a rare breed. Considered a luxury on most planets". His entreaties fall on deaf ears, outvoiced by the stubbornness of a crashing tide. You retire hungry, and maybe it's hunger that stirs you in the dead of night.

Or maybe it's the heartbeat echoing from his mask.

He called it cortosis. But it looks more terror than diamond.

You sink to your knees in front of the haunted heirloom, cradling it gently within your palms. The iron flavor upon lips makes you part them, tongue fleshed tracing every welded scar. Sucking in the solder and crystal and every other poison.

You want to be a part of it, to pry open your ribcage and shove the empyrean taj within.

Let its darkness mingle with your blood. You want to feel it's royalty in the marrow of your bones.

In the morning you do not speak about the pulsating thing within. But the mask stares at you as you eat mint and bread from Qimir's hand.

It knows...

It knows things you can never admit.

You'd been planning on narrowly avoiding him. Tiptoeing across the cave to evade stirring him. But the plans die when first light breeches the aperture.

Qimir's gone.

And in his place, he's left yet another raiment.

The dress is summer and doll. Bowed in the back and studded.

Bar'biee in every way.

The hysterically placed designs parody the crisscross of twilight roses and all their thrones. Checkered in shades of obsidian and ink.

But the black of your dress doesn't quite match the ebony of his robes.

It simply plays testament to your ripeness. You're starting to feel like his little doll.

He lies on a beach towel overlooking the sea. So ordinary it makes you choke. Beach ball in the corner by his feet, waiting to be played with.

Fearless.

You wonder just who he had to kill to reach this hubris?

You float down the little exclaves toes barely touching the ground.

He's adorned the rocky beach with a comically large parasol too dark to even have a name. Another towel, a picnic basket, and little coconut cups with straws. Despite his black tainted sunglasses, he knows you're watching him. Caught in the bosom of this haunted shore. Awaiting your capturer's orders.

"You can sit if you want." again he's saying words without realizing how crushing they truly are. Their full weight pulling your bones until they slip from skin.

Might as well have said shark attack and death at sea.

But you obey because despite everything, the towel looks nice and so does the drink.

"The sun doesn't come out very often. But I figured we could at least enjoy it today."

"Thanks," you mutter chewing on the pink straw. You shift your limbs rigidly. Plastic doll coming to life. Pushing tense bones straight as you rest your uneasy head. The waves hum in your ear and you swear you hear the rocks buzze like star songs.

"Why did you bring me here? Why not kill me."

"Well, you're not really any use to me dead" He offers you a melon slice.

"So I'm bait." Qimir sighs, your query exhausting. He simply sips from his own drink. You notice the jounce of his throat with each gulp. How you'd love to ring to those bones, feel them crack between your fingers.

He turns to you, lips a breath away. He hasn't kissed you since that day in the lagoon. But you wish him too so very much.

This isn't the Jedi way...

What?

Qimir's fingers trace over your thighs and hips. Finally, they land heavily on your shoulders, pushing you into the rocks with zeal. He blocks the sun and you can't help but think he's lovelier than any red goliath in the macrocosm.

Qimir's teeth gnaw at your throat, kissing the blood and smearing it with his tongue. Traling open-mouth kisses to the plinth of your neck.

Your nails, rasp curiously at his back, tracing scars, tracing cortosis veins.

His fingers dig into your ribs, painting it in seastars. Kissing starlights and pearls in your bones. His body is hot, scolding. And you wonder if the minerals he surrounds himself with were all nursed in the womb of a violent volcano.

The result of destructive habits is knife bites called kisses and a heart that's finally exploded.

When he pulls off, he poises himself on his knees before falling back to his side, searching for something in the basket. You stare, dress distorted, and breath hitched. You taste the exotic fruit blend again. Burning, caramel, and coconut that linger across your body.

"Hey, can you put this on me?" reality blurs back in, he's dangling a yellow bottle in front of you. "What" he shouldn't have this ease with you. He shouldn't be playing make-believe lovers on the beach with the girl he kidnapped.

But he does.

And you play along too.

"it's sunscreen, believe it or not, I burn easily."

"No"

"please"

"N-"

You don't control your hand as it pours the cream onto his chest. He touches you with such familiarity, the force on this planet is just an extension of him. But you shy away at the thought of running your fingers across his muscle bound chest. What is the force if not a child's toy? If not another doll.

He notices the shyness. Or rather reads it from the air. His force pokes at your arms, laughing at the discomfort. Before you know it he's harbored between your thighs. Large hands holding your wrist.

Firm yet delicate.

He moves your hand over his chest, charting every bump and muscle. Coating the blocker over his skin. It feels like piecing together armor. Preparing him for a battle you've never been invited to.

You don't want this.

Well not quite.

You want to feel his body jolt under your touch and hear the sweet little quips he offers to lighten the mood. You want to capture the fleeting moment where he bites his lip and preserve it for eternity.

But more than anything you want to peel away his armor, his flesh, and bury yourself beneath. Become another one of his secrets and staying inside him. Safe and warm forever.

"Qimir"

He makes pomegranate soup that night. As he nestles your body over his lap. Kissing the half-healed bruise on your forehead. He brings the spoon to your lips and gently nudges your mind to let him in. You part your lips, welcoming him in with the shyness you've been raised on. Blushing little bride-doll.

Legacy. You realize when the seeds erupt inside your mouth.

He's feeding you his secrets, his bequest. Boiling you like the fish and the fruit. And birthing you anew.

You sleep with your head buried in the crux of his neck. Listening to the lullaby of his tattered heart, singing psalms of conquest.

That night you dream of a river red. You blame it on Qimir, the pomegranate seeds were too maroon in color and flavor.

From the crimson water the helmet surfaces. Bobbing in the waves, beckoning you. You cup your hands inside the river, guzzling down the water and licking your fingers after. You let the red kiss your lips and fill your lungs choking you by essence alone. You want to die drinking from the bloodlust. Die in front of his helmet.

So maybe he can call it love.

Or Devotion.

Or anything else equally sweet.

The river doesn't taste like pomegranates, or fruit cocktails, or iced coconut.

It tastes of salty iron, volcanic diamonds and Qimir's lips.

You plunge into the red...

He's thinking about you again. You know it from the moment you awake. His voice is loud inside your head. Reverberating from wall to wall until it is the only thing you hear.

This time the garments are waterproof. Swimwear. Two pieces in black, just black. And adorned with red trees on the seams.

Right, because you beat me in the forest.

Clever.

He has left bangles too, jagged and bruised purple with veins of white. cortosis. Accompanied by a golden necklace that looks like a beating heart, ripped freshly from someone's chest.

"You look beautiful," he remarks after you've dressed in his colors. When did he come in? You need to get better at hearing the man born from shadows. The man who's walking between worlds unseen, unheard his entire life.

He pulls you close, nails picking at the soft flesh of your tummy. Scratching skin and leaving red crescents. He kneels and licks and bites, claiming this new chart of unmarked skin.

This has always been about possession, domination, damnation. "Qimir" you moan and it feels so wrong and so right. Like saber to the heart.

Oh force, how far you've fallen.

Qimir laces his fingers with yours pulling you outside the cave. The sun shimmers off his lopsided smile and he really does glow brighter than every star in the known cosmos.

The lagoon is red.

It shouldn't be red.

"You killed them" Since when have such dire words spilled so easily from your lips? Sol, Jacki, Yord. Are they in this pool? shimmering translucent awaiting a vengeance you do not think you can deliver?

"Yes...But not your Jedi, not yet. These were just some self-pious knights who got in my way."

He brings his arm up showing you a fresh saber cut, before pulling you into the water. It's so warm boiling, lava meets water. You think your skin will peel off.

But you stand your ground. Force directing your every breath. Spine straight head high. Darkside in every way

Sith, sith, sith

You grasp at his forearm, pulling it to your lips. Your tongue finds the slit in the skin and dives it. Mapping out the muscles and drinking in the red.

Exotic fruits bled and blended.

"I think I'm finally getting through to you," Qimir says, brown pearls glazed over with pride. "My sweet little acolyte."

You giggle at the term. It tastes so bitter, like a raw espresso before dawn.

"Oh, master" you moan. As you pull him under the red waters. Lips and legs entwined.

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